Big Name Death Eater

By Shiv

Severus was in pain. He was fairly certain that, in a long life filled with nothing but pain – good god, he’d had too much to drink if he was already in self-pitying mode – he had only once before suffered more pain. He’d changed to a button fly after that incident; there was no point risking a repeat performance.

Yet another summons to meet Voldemort; yet another evening listen to him rant about world domination; yet another evening trying to avoid notice, whilst trying to gain useful information for the Order.

Which would be followed by the inevitable invitation to the after-meeting drinks at Malfoy Manor, which involved making exceedingly dull and exceedingly polite conversation with the rest of the Inner Circle and their exceedingly dull and polite wives, before he could throw off the shackles and head off for some decent fun.

He’d joined the Death Eaters to make friends and influence people, and got it half right.

Once he managed to escape Malfoy Manor, with the excuse that he had school in the morning, he’d headed off to find his comrades in the seedy Muggle boozer near Diagon Alley that they always went to. As regulars, the landlord didn’t ask too many questions, and even supplied them with free nibbles provided they kept the noise down, and kept Smudger from playing darts.

They would sit and complain about their bosses, and he’d complain about Dumbledore, and then they’d whine about the Inner Circle and how they got all the perks – they conveniently ignored that he was one of the Inner Circle for these purposes – and then they would have some more to drink and play darts (apart from Smudger).

He even allowed them to call him Snapey.

Consequently, by the time he left the pub he was so pissed he couldn’t say the word, and he’d absent-mindedly put the darts in his back pocket. That this was a stupid thing to do was demonstrated when he slipped in a puddle of something he didn’t wish to identify and landed splat on his arse.

He managed, with some difficulty, to extract the darts from his arse; fortunately they weren’t damaged at all, or he’d have to replace them, which would have been a real bugger. They were Muggle darts; magical darts were no longer allowed after the Unfortunate Incident with Smudger.

He’d patted them happily and then carefully put them in his cloak pocket. He hadn’t noticed the shooting pains at first, but as he had to walk further, and as the alcohol had worn off, they’d progressed from merely uncomfortable to sodding unbearable.

He’d managed to Apparate to Hogwarts successfully, relying solely on the usual miracle afforded by the God of Drunks - he’s the little green cherub you see with the pouting cheeks at the back of many an oil painting – to his followers to be able to get home even though the brain wasn’t functioning. He’d made it halfway up the path, before tripping over his own feet, falling to the floor, and deciding it was too much effort to get up.

He patted the ground in a friendly manner and decided to go to sleep.

Hermione was bored. She’d been talked into returning to Hogwarts as a teacher ‘for the Good of the Order’. To date, her duties had consisted of nothing more onerous than forcing knowledge into the heads of some truly stupid children.

Surely they’d never been so monumentally fuckwitted?

She was bloody certain she hadn’t been; and she was very definite that she hadn’t spent her teenage years swotting to throw her career away in a dump like this.

Working here had seen the gilt wear off the gingerbread with a vengeance. Dumbledore was clearly using her as slave labour and paying her half the usual miserable pittance afforded to Hogwarts staff. Minerva was convinced that Hermione was her new best friend, and spent equal amounts of time trying to persuade her that she was destined for a career as a teacher and that the sun shone out of Dumbledore’s arse. Hooch clearly had a drink problem - any more of this and she would have one too.

The only person she had any empathy with was Professor Snape. His was the only voice of sanity in what was rapidly turning into an outpost of St Mungo’s.

Six months of teaching was enough to persuade her that children were stupid and annoying, and that her colleagues were stupid and annoying, and to add insult to injury she wasn’t allowed to deduct points from them.

If Harry didn’t kill Voldemort within the next couple of weeks, she was going to do it herself.

Or join him, if he let her kill Dumbledore.

She reminded herself firmly that she was only joking about that and looked at the clock. Midnight. Time to scour the school for miscreants. About the only pleasure left to her was a savage orgy of points deduction. Woe betide anyone found out after curfew tonight. She decided to begin her patrol with the Quidditch Pitch – favourite haunt of amorous students, particularly the more lazy ones who couldn’t be bothered with the climb to the Astronomy Tower.

When she spotted the dark form slumped in the middle of the Pitch, she thought it was one of the seventh years returning from a drinking binge in Hogsmeade. She was running through a list of the offences he would have committed – it was always a boy, the girls had more sense and sent the boys off to the village to get their alcohol in return for vague promises of sexual satisfaction – and had reached an impressive total for the prospective points deduction, when she realised who it was.

She knew that Voldemort frequently summoned Professor Snape, and she had heard the rumours about the cruelties visited on him by his Master. Poppy refused to talk about his injuries, citing medical confidence, which only added to the air of mystery and danger surrounding him

She only hoped that she was prepared to deal with the battered and wounded Professor.

Severus decided that the floor was his friend. He didn’t want to be parted from it. He’d reached that stage of being drunk best referred to as maudlin, and the ground was a sympathetic listener. He’d been running through a long list of injustices, and had reached the age of fourteen and a coruscating description of the hardships he had faced at Hogwarts, when his finely honed senses detected the presence of another.

“Hello,” he said, looking up into Hermione’s worried face.

Hermione was shocked when she saw the state he was in. He was covered in dirt, there was blood oozing from some unseen wound, and he seemed unable to talk. What hardships had he had to endure for the sake of the Order?

“Don’t worry,” she said softly, patting him on the back. “I’ll get Poppy and she’ll sort you out.”

Severus clutched at her ankle in panic, and refused to let go. The last thing he needed was Poppy to see him in this condition. She’d tell Dumbledore, and that would be the end of his boys’ nights out; he’d be stuck at Malfoy Manor for the cocktail parties from then on in.

“No,” he mumbled. “If you’ll just help me back to my quarters, I have the necessary potions to hand. I wouldn’t want to worry Poppy.”

She couldn’t make out all he was saying  - perhaps a mouth injury – but it was clear that he didn’t want to go to the Infirmary. She didn’t know whether this was because he preferred to work alone, or whether there was some risk to being seen there, so she decided to err on the side of caution.  She would take him back to his quarters and tend to him there. If she still wasn’t happy once she’d had a look at his injuries then she could summon Poppy. That seemed like a reasonable compromise.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll look after you.” With that she levitated him, and headed off to his quarters with his body bobbing gently along behind.

Snape was mystified when the ground left him – just like everyone else – and quickly found that the movement was making him feel queasy. He was so busy concentrating on not heaving up his dinner – ten pints of bitter and two packets of crisps, and a couple of canapés courtesy of the Malfoys – that he barely noticed their entry to Hogwarts, or that their destination was his rooms.

Hermione was gritting her teeth by the time they got there; the spell was difficult to hold for such a length of time, particularly when you were trying to prevent Snape’s head from bumping into the walls. She greeted the sight of his door with a sigh of relief, and carefully rotated him until he was leaning against it.

Snape recognised his door. It was his friend in a way the shallow floor had never been, and he leaned into it, stroking its pock-marked surface with affection. He’d set the wards to recognise him without a password on the basis that he was barely able to remember his own name after a night out with the boys, let alone a password, and being found slumped asleep against his own door was undignified. He wasn’t getting any younger either, and that sort of thing tended to play merry hob with his joints.

Hermione followed him in; she was reluctant to leave him alone without checking that he was going to be all right. He stumbled across the living room, bumping into the sofa, swearing under his breath and disappeared into his bedroom. She followed cautiously; he wasn’t likely to welcome this intrusion into his life, no matter how good her intentions were.

He lurched to the bed, collapsed onto it face down, wriggled a bit, extended a hand to snag a blue vial, downed it, and then started to snore.

Hermione looked at him in bewilderment, until her practical side asserted itself. He couldn’t sleep in his boots, and he shouldn’t sleep clutching that vial. She carefully removed his boots without disturbing him, then moved to take the bottle. She had to remove his fingers from the bottle one by one, and she was moved to think how important to him the contents of that little bottle were. He truly must be in a lot of pain, she thought.

Seized by an unexpected impulse she bent down to press a kiss to the forehead of a brave man, only to be greeted with the stench of beer.

He was drunk.

She sniffed at the bottle. Not pain reliever, not some obscure potion to deal with the after-effects of cruciatus, oh no: it was hangover relief.

Hermione looked at Severus coolly. Of course, it might be that he’d been forced into a drinking session as part of his spying duties, but then again, maybe it was something more sinister.

It was something she felt should be investigated further, especially if the sod was off having fun when she couldn’t.

When Severus woke the next morning he felt very smug. He’d obviously managed to get himself home and into bed, and he’d remembered to take the Hangover Potion, which had alleviated the worst of the symptoms. Despite this, he was strongly tempted to stay in bed for the rest of the day, but he knew that Albus would be waiting to see him.

His first, tentative movements reminded him that he had fallen on his darts. An investigating finger found the sore spots, and he winced. That would need seeing to before he made his report. Wriggling around on his seat could only lead to unwelcome speculation as to the nature of his injuries, or give the impression that he was being evasive. Neither would be very helpful.

He stripped, and shuffled into the bathroom, trying to see the extent of the damage over his shoulder. At first glance the damage seemed extensive, although the view was somewhat restricted. He decided to have a shower and then assess the situation; hopefully some of those streaks were mud not blood.

He was feeling a lot better by the time he’d washed himself down; the colour of the water suggested that most of the discolouration was indeed mud. He realised that it was silly to try and work out what was wrong by peering at himself over his shoulder; what he needed to do was find a mirror. The mirror in the bathroom was misted over so he couldn’t get a decent view. He could cast a spell to clear it, but his wand was still in his bedroom. He padded into his bedroom to fetch it, realised that he might as well use the mirror in there, and dropped the towel for a better look.

Hermione woke, and for a second wondered why her bed was so uncomfortable, why her neck ached, and who had redecorated her room in the night.

Oh. She was on Snape’s sofa, determined to find out what on earth he’d been up to the night before, which explained why her neck felt as stiff as a board. She levered herself off the couch, and stretched, cautiously working out all the kinks.

Now for Snape.

The door to the bedroom was still open, and she couldn’t hear any noise, so she assumed he was still asleep. She realised her mistake almost immediately. Snape was naked. Snape was very naked. Snape was extremely naked. Snape had a very nice bum, which he seemed to be admiring in the mirror. Which was odd. Obviously it was a bottom worth admiring, but surely it was only people like Gilderoy who would spend time admiring their own bottom in the mirror.

She was so busy wondering why he was looking at his bottom, and so busy admiring it herself, that her only thought when Snape began to turn in her direction was disappointment that the bottom was going away, followed by the immediate realisation that … good grief he was enormous! … rather than the more sensible decision to disappear back into the living room and cough very loudly.

It took several seconds for the fact that he could see her to filter through her preoccupation, and several seconds further to raise her eyes to his face. She was relieved to see that he wasn’t angry, and then confused. Shouldn’t he be grabbing his towel and covering himself up, shouldn’t he be flustered or blushing or something, instead of advancing on her with a very funny look in his eyes.

Hermione did what any sensible girl would do under the circumstances and bolted.

Severus, for his part, was also confused. He’d been quietly pondering his injuries, when he’d become aware of his audience. An admiring audience, no less, and, whilst he was obviously interested to find out quite what the hell she was doing in his private quarters, he rather thought that there were more interesting questions to be asked. Such as: why on earth did she run off?

She was obviously interested in what he had to offer; she just needed a little encouragement. He turned his mind to what sort of encouragement he could offer, whilst dressing himself. His interesting reverie, which had reached some fairly advanced methods of persuasion, was suddenly brought to a clattering halt.

He had vague memories of last night, and the more he sifted through them, the more he realised that he was in trouble. He hadn’t precisely told Albus that he came back from these Revels in a bad way, but he’d certainly hadn’t corrected the impression that they could be difficult. And if Hermione spoke to Dumbledore it could all go seriously pear-shaped; he might never have another boys’ night out again.

Barely taking time to button his shirt, let alone put on his waistcoat and jacket, he headed off in search of Hermione.

Hermione had fled for the safety of her room. Once there she’d taken one look at her rumpled clothes and flyaway hair and flinched. Snape would want an explanation of why she’d been in his rooms, and he’d never been a patient man. She could therefore expect a visitation in fairly short order, and it was vital that she should look her best for it. To boost her confidence, obviously, and make sure she looked neat and tidy and as grown-up as possible. Which would mean putting on her nice maroon robes with the slightly daring neckline, and getting her hair sorted out, and maybe those nice shoes…..

She managed to tidy her hair, perform cleaning spells and slip on the fresh robe in less than ten minutes, all the while blessing fate for making her a witch.

She arranged herself artistically on the sofa, and picked up a book to be read with ostentatious indifference when he finally arrived.

He took four and a half minutes longer to get there than she expected, but his entrance was all she could have hoped for. The door slammed open, and he came stalking into her room. She was a little disappointed that he hadn’t taken the time to dress properly, because he wasn’t able to swirl seductively, but it did mean she got to see him looking all rumpled and sexy.

Swings and roundabouts really.

Having arrived so dramatically, he seemed uncertain where to begin, which wasn’t surprising. There weren’t many easy ways of enquiring why someone was in your bedroom, not if you actually wanted them to visit again anyway, and Severus was clearly unused to conducting a conversation that didn’t involve a simple demand for a explanation coupled with sneering at the reply. 

“I …I’m afraid that my memory of last night isn’t very clear; I presume you helped me back to my quarters.” There, he thought, that was nice and vague, and should allow for maximum fishing for information whilst giving as little away as possible.

“Yes, I found you semi-conscious out on the Quidditch Pitch; you didn’t want to go to Madam Pomfrey, so I took you back to your rooms.” Hermione’s tone was a little snippy, obviously because she was dealing with a man who had a lot of explaining to do. It was not, she assured herself, because he hadn’t asked why she had run away or even what she was doing in his room in the first place, but rather opened the discussion on the topic of what had happened that night.

“Oh.” He inspected the mantelpiece with interest. “I suppose I should thank you for your help.”

“I’m sure you would have managed to find your way back to your own rooms eventually. When the drink wore off,” she said with some asperity.

Severus turned to look at her. He didn’t look shamefaced or guilty, as she had half-expected, but merely exasperated. “Do you like working here?”

“Are you threatening me?” she asked indignantly.

“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “It’s a serious question.”

 “Not much,” she sighed. “Not much at all. I hate the children, I hate most of my colleagues, I hate the weather and I hate the way Albus is using me as a skivvy under the cover of working for the Order.”

Severus sat in the armchair by the side of the fire, without being asked, and said, “I hate it too.”

Their eyes met in a long moment of common feeling.

Hermione worked through the implications of his half-confession; he wasn’t going to admit more than was strictly necessary, but if she could put the pieces together for herself, that was a different matter. The answer seemed reasonably clear; she was impressed, and envious, that he’d been pulling the wool over their eyes for so long. Poor Severus and the terrible effects of bouts of Crucio was nothing more than a foul hangover and alcohol withdrawal. “So, you nip off every once in a while for a night out and tell Albus you’re on Order business,” she asked, relatively sympathetically whilst wondering if there was any way she could put the same tactics to good use.

He smiled faintly; he could hear the note of envy in her voice. “Something like that; I did go to a meeting last night. I just didn’t … hurry back, shall we say. You can imagine how Albus would have reacted if I’d said, oh, by the way, it’s been a hell of a week, I’d like to nip off and see my mates for a swift half after risking life and limb for you spying.”

“Not well.” Not after he’d recovered from the shock of finding out that Snape actually had friends, anyway. “He kicked up an awful fuss when I wanted to see my parents during the holidays. Kept making all sorts of dire warnings about Death Eater attacks. He just couldn’t find anyone to cover for Minerva, so he could go for two weeks in Spain. He backed down quickly enough when I pointed out that if there was a risk of attack on my parents I really ought to be there to protect them, unless he was going to arrange round-the-clock Auror protection for them. The Bastard.”

Severus nodded. “He tried that same trick on me last year, only that time it was a fortnight in Italy whilst he did important research for the Order. The only research he was doing was whether Minerva liked it better on top.”

They both faltered at that mental image, and tried very hard not to think about it.

“So,” continued Severus, “I don’t have much of a conscience about letting Albus think that my job as a spy is more physically demanding than it is.”

“And Albus doesn’t ask too many questions about what goes on at these meetings, because he’s a bit squeamish and doesn’t want to hear about unpleasantness, particularly if it’s unpleasantness he’s responsible for.”

“It’s not my fault Albus is an idiot; I mean, how long do you think any evil overlord would last if he were regularly submitting his followers to Crucio? Not bloody long, I can tell you. Particularly when the followers in question are Slytherins: we joined up for world conquest and unlimited power, not personal discomfort. If You-know-who was as daft as all that, we wouldn’t be still waiting for Potter to do his duty; Malfoy would have stabbed him in the back long before this.” Severus looked a little wistful at this thought, though he supposed that Malfoy as evil overlord wasn’t much of an improvement on You-know-who.

Six months ago, before she started working at Hogwarts, she would have been horrified by his duplicity. Having sat through nearly twenty staff-meetings, and watched as the teachers lied and cheated to get out of doing any extra-curricular duties, she was impressed. “So, you keep quiet, and he thinks you’ve been up to something dreadfully dangerous, but you’re being terribly stiff-upper lipped about it all. Bloody brilliant.”

“Well that’s not a lie; it is dangerous, bloody dangerous. I walk into a meeting of Death Eaters and spy on them. If they ever suspected what I was doing, I don’t think they’re going to say, never mind, no hard feelings, off you go to Dumbledore, are they? It’ll be a long bout with Madam Crucio, Avada Kedavra and returned to Hogwarts in several pieces. And that’s if I’m lucky. I may just have exaggerated the level of difficulty I’ve faced on a practical level, but that doesn’t mean that it’s bloody easy.”

Hermione nodded. He had a point.

“Not to mention that I have to listen to Lucius Malfoy witter on about the state of the Ministry and the pernicious influence of Mudbloods – no offence – and the sanctity of the cause, just in case he says anything important. Though that is still an improvement on the vacuous conversation of Narcissa which seems to revolve around shoes, interior design, and trying to identify Lucius’s latest mistress. After all that I need a bloody drink!”

“It sounds like hell,” said Hermione.

She wasn’t being entirely sympathetic, but Severus was so absorbed in contemplating the injustices in his life that he took the words at face value. He examined his fingernails, and spent a couple of seconds worrying at a fingernail. “I was just … wondering though, what do you intend to tell Dumbledore?”

Hermione considered the point. His story was so bizarre that she believed him much more than if he had constructed a tale of being overcome with remorse at the actions forced on him in his role as spy and having to drink himself into a stupor to deal with the mental torture. He was bored and he had a chance of a bit of fun. For one second she contemplated asking to go with him on his next trip, but common sense, coupled with the fact that she rather thought he ought to ask her out, restrained her.

“Don’t worry. If I didn’t tell on Harry and Ron, I won’t tell on you. If he asks, I’ll tell him I found you semi-conscious on the Quidditch pitch and I helped you back to your rooms. It has all the advantages of being True, and none of the disadvantages of being The Truth.”

She was rewarded with the first genuine smile she had even seen grace his features, which caused an unfortunate lurching sensation in her stomach, and a powerful sense of anti-climax when he left without raising the matter of her perving at his arse.

Really, the man was most annoying.

Her opinion didn’t change much over the coming weeks. The subject of his arse wasn’t raised at all, nor indeed was any mention made of a glass of wine in his quarters to ‘thank her properly for her help’ or even ‘to discuss the arrangements for the Hallowe’en Ball’. Occasionally she found him looking at her a little wistfully, and more than occasionally she found her eyes following him along a corridor and imagining that those billowing robes were a little more form-fitting. Or even absent.

She supposed it would be difficult to bring up the matter of a … a date after the way she had fled from his rooms. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t interested? After all, someone who was keen on furthering an intimate relationship with another someone didn’t turn tail and run when that other someone advanced on them with a funny look in his eye. Prolonged speculation had resulted in the conclusion that if Severus had been offended by her presence, he would have said so. Very loudly. Therefore the only logical conclusion was that he was also keen on furthering a relationship and had been dissuaded from doing so by her precipitate exit.

After waking for the fourth morning running in the middle of an interesting dream involving Severus, she decided that the only solution to their impasse was for her to make a move and thus convince him that her disappearance had been due to embarrassment rather than revulsion.

So she did. Admittedly breakfast wasn’t an ideal time to ask someone out, but it was the ideal time to ask someone out so that you could pretend that you weren’t asking them out just in case they said no.

“I was wondering whether you’d be available this evening to discuss …” she couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted to discuss with him. Other then the removal of his clothes, and perhaps issuing the odd instruction here and there.

Fortunately, he interrupted before she could complete the sentence. “I’m afraid I have another engagement this evening.” He tapped his left arm meaningfully.

“Oh. Erm.” she floundered.

“Some other time perhaps?” he continued softly.

She felt a sharp spike of relief, which faded when she thought about where he was going this evening. “Business or pleasure?” She hoped that was vague enough to confuse Dumbledore who was sitting to her left.

“A little of both, I think.”

“Just… just be careful,” she said, covering her anxiety in the same way she would with the boys – bossiness. “And for heaven’s sake, try and make it back to your rooms without falling face down on the Quidditch Pitch.”

She felt Dumbledore twitch beside her and continued in a slightly louder voice. “And next time, I won’t hear any arguments; it’ll be straight off to Madam Pomfrey whether you want to or not. I’m not a Mediwitch and you can’t expect me to look after injuries like that.”

“No, Hermione,” he said with a chastened air, and a sideways glance at the Headmaster to see how her comments had gone down. As he left he could hear Albus begin digging for more information, and Hermione replying in stifled tones that she didn’t want to talk about it, it was too painful, whilst she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

Maybe all that time spent breaking the rules with the boys had made her more devious than he expected, and, of course, as a Gryffindor no one would expect her of being anything less than honest.

Hmmm. That gave him an idea.

The meeting was packed, which was ominous; usually they were restricted to the Inner Circle for high-powered planning, with nibbles at Malfoy Manor afterwards. A larger audience meant raiding, and some poor sod was going to be in trouble tonight.

Severus devoutly hoped it wouldn’t be him.

He tugged awkwardly at his mask. The damned thing was uncomfortable and bloody silly. As far as he was concerned, their identities could be kept secret by a concealing charm or even polyjuice at a pinch, rather than a silver mask that cut off peripheral vision and kept slipping down his nose.

It didn’t even work as a disguise, for god’s sake; they’d all joined at the same time. He was sure that His Lordship – he didn’t call him anything more polite in the privacy of his own head – fondly imagined that they’d all stood round in a circle at their initiation and wondered who the others were, feeling sure that they couldn’t betray each other in case the person they spoke to at the Ministry was One of Them.

Instead, he’d simply looked round the Circle on that first evening and mentally ticked off the boys from his year and the years above. Malfoy, in particular, stood out like a sore thumb. His robes weren’t basic Death Eater black but had little skulls embroidered on the hems and cuffs, and his hair was white-blond and even then was long enough to hang him with.

Nearly twenty years later the daft sod was still wearing them – or ones very much like them – which provided The Lads with hours of post-raid entertainment. Smudger’s impression of Lucius at his most haughty was legendary. At least the mask did hide your face when you were wearing a wholly inappropriate smirk, because otherwise Lucius was likely to take offence, and would offer to wipe it off.

Severus composed his features into a more suitable remote expression – no point getting sloppy just because you were wearing your mask – as Lucius approached him with the evening’s orders.

“Severus.” Lucius’s voice was clipped; he was clearly annoyed about something.

“Lucius,” he acknowledged, equally curtly. “What’s the plan of action then?”

“His Lordship wants us to go and teach these Muggles a lesson or two. He wants something big, something dramatic, something that will be on the front page of the Daily Prophet tomorrow morning.” Of late, there had been an increasing undertone of contempt to that title – His Lordship – Lucius wasn’t happy with what he called the strategic approach to the War. Much as he hated Muggles, even Lucius was beginning to think that they should be concentrating their energies on the elimination of Potter rather than the torturing of innocent people.

It was fun, he would say at the cocktail parties, but what is it achieving?

Not a lot, was the answer. An answer that was becoming increasingly clear to even the meanest intelligence – Crabbe and Goyle Senior – and was even being discussed openly.

“You don’t seem very pleased,” Severus commented.

“Indeed not. I had plans for this evening involving a certain young lady, some flimsy scraps of silk, fine wine and good food. I just hope we can get this all finished before midnight, so I can rescue something from this debacle.”

“You’ve told Narcissa you’ll be out all night then?” asked Severus.

Lucius nodded. “It’s so hard to find time away from her; she’s so suspicious. These little outings provide me with my only chance for a bit of fun.”

Severus could sympathise with that. “Tell you what. Why don’t you slip off to see the young lady in question, and I’ll look after this little lot for you?” ventured Severus, after checking that there were no young and keen Death Eaters within earshot who would probably be only too happy to tell tales in the hope of securing a better position in the pecking order.

Lucius did a similar check before replying, “Would you? That’s damned decent of you.”

“Any particular instructions, you know, about targets?”

“No. It’s entirely up to you, Severus, and thank you again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Lucius shook his hand fervently, and then apparated away with a pop.

“I hope he remembers to take the mask off before he goes to see his young lady,” said a voice from behind him.

Severus spun round with his wand out. “For god’s sake, Smudger, don’t go creeping up on people like that. You know I get twitchy when the rest of the Inner Circle’s around.”

“Hex first and ask questions later, that’s their motto.” Smudger nodded. “Where we off to then?”

“The usual place,” Severus replied. “Tell The Lads. Then we’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Right-o.” Sumdger turned and began tapping people on the shoulder and attempting to whisper in their ear, which is tricky when you’re wearing a silver mask; there was a very audible clink as Smudger’s mask clipped another and very nearly jostled it off.

Severus watched as his team apparated away one by one, then cast one last look round the clearing to make sure no one had been left behind, before heading off himself.

Barely ten minutes later he and The Lads were lined up along the bar in their usual pub, looking into their beers and searching for inspiration. Smudger smoothed the Evening Standard on the bar, and scanned the paper for bad news. “There’s been a Tube crash,” he offered.

“Nah,” said Bloodnok. “Look it happened this afternoon, he’ll never buy that.”

“Not to mention no one was killed,” added Severus.

Smudger grunted and carried on reading. “It’s a bit of a slow day for disasters, lads. We may actually have to do something.”

“Let’s not do anything rash,” said Bloodnok. “We haven’t looked at the early editions yet. Maybe something happened later today we can use. Whose turn is it to go?”

The Lads all looked shifty. “Come on,” said Severus wearily. “It’s either a quick apparate to the printing presses and half-inching tomorrow’s paper, or one of you having to explain to Lucius and then His Lordship why we didn’t manage to kill a single muggle tonight.”

The Lads still looked shifty, but some complicated process of running through the calendar to see who went last time, and the time before that, was taking place, coupled with the trading of favours to get out of doing it until the answer was reached – Seagoon.

“Oh, bugger,” said Bloodnok. “We can’t send him; he always gets The Times.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Seagoon replied frostily. “At least it has a little news in it, unlike your chosen periodical which seems to be composed entirely of breasts.”

The Lads murmured amongst themselves, clearly torn. Whilst they needed a paper with news in it, they couldn’t help but remember with fondness the day that Smudger brought back a News of the World. There had been scandal enough to satisfy their most biased views about the ways Muggles conducted their lives, and pictures of half-naked ladies.

The pictures didn’t move but, as Smudger said, you couldn’t have everything.

“Why not see if you can pick up one of those Peerreally Calendays as well then,” suggested Severus. “As well as a proper paper: that way we can divvy it up between us, and still find some disaster to pass off as our own handiwork.”

Even Seagoon had to admit that was a reasonable compromise  - provided he got first pick of the months – and apparated away on his errand.

While he was away The Lads ordered another round and put it on his tab.

Seagoon popped back into existence barely fifteen minutes later, clutching two papers and a Calendar.

A round of sniggering broke out in response to his anguished cry. “You bastards.”

“What’s your problem?” asked Smudger. “We got you a pint in.”

“But Bloodnok is drinking bloody brandy again. You know we agreed that he wasn’t allowed to,” Seagoon complained. “It’s not fair.”

“Nothing in life is,” said Severus, heavily.

They all nodded; that’s true.

“Anyway,” he continued, “show us what you got.”

Seagoon spread out The Times on a table, and The Lads gathered round and cast an expert eye over the litany of gloom, doom and despondency.

“There!” said Severus, stabbing down with a long finger. “That’s perfect.”

8 people killed in a mystery gas explosion, the paper stated. Blah blah blah at 9.30 pm tonight blah blah causes unknown. The timescale fitted, the devastation caused was sufficient to satisfy His Lordship for an evening’s mayhem; all that was needed was for someone to nip out and cast the Dark Mark over the building in question.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Severus, watching The Lads attempt to select a candidate. “We are not playing scissors, paper, stone to decide who goes. Can we at least try to look like dangerous Death Eaters instead of bloody schoolchildren?”

“Well, what do you suggest: spin the bottle?” sneered Bloodnok.

“No. You just volunteered,” Severus smirked. “That’s what comes of asking stupid questions and really getting on my wick. I get enough of that at school, and you really ought to know better by now. Now off you go.”

Bloodnok left muttering under his breath, and was still grumbling about the unfairness of it all by the time he returned five minutes later. He at least didn’t return to a round of drinks on his tab – they were still finishing the first round  - but they had begun dividing the calendar amongst themselves, and he was in danger of receiving Miss March who was generally reckoned to be a bit past it at 30.

“Oh, come off it lads,” he whined. “Don’t be bastards about this…..”

“I thought being a bastard was part of the job description,” Smudger said with a wide grin.

“We weren’t supposed to be bastards to each other,” Bloodnok replied, “just to the rest of the world.”

“No one told Malfoy that then,” put in Severus.

“Or His Lordship,” added Smudger.

There was a certain nervous sniggering, and then they budged up so Bloodnok could get a better look at the Calendar.

There was a respectful hush as the pages were turned, punctuated only by occasional soft murmurs of appreciation, and a long sigh when the Calendar was closed.

“I wish,” said Seagoon slowly, “I wish we got to meet girls like that.”

“Or, in fact, any girls at all,” added Bloodnok.

“They say that Lucius Malfoy has a Pet Mudblood of his own,” said Smudger, with a strong air of grievance. “And you know what they say about Mudbloods.”

Severus looked faintly surprised; as far as he knew the only thing they said about Mudbloods was that they were inferior and clearly should be erased from the face of the earth. He didn’t remember anyone saying anything about them making good Pets. “What do they say about Mudbloods?” he asked.

The Lads all sniggered.

“You mean you don’t know?” Smudger asked incredulously. “They’re supposed to be … you know… friskier.”

“Mind you, we wouldn’t expect you to know about that,” sneered Grytpype-Thynne. “You’ve never had a girlfriend have you?”

Severus eyed The Lads, and The Lads eyed Severus with either pity or sympathy. He looked down his long nose at them all and said grandly, “Not only have I had a girlfriend, but I have one at the moment, and a Mudblood to boot.” He nearly added ‘so there’ but remembered just in time that he was over 40, supposed to be a heartless killer, and the buggers would never let him hear the end of it.

“I don’t believe you,” said Grytpype-Thynne. He’d always been an irritating little shit, even when they’d been younger.

Severus shrugged elegantly, conveying in that gesture his complete indifference to the opinion of a mere Minion, and that he was so confident of the truth of what he was saying that he had no need to discuss it further. It was a very eloquent shrug.

The shrug was apparently wasted on Grytpype-Thynne, who continued triumphantly, “Why haven’t you told us about her before then?”

“Oh yes, I can see that going down well,” butted in Smudger. “What’s he going to do, introduce her to His Lordship or maybe start boasting of his conquests round the Inner Circle. It’d go down like a cup of cold sick; even Malfoy doesn’t boast about his Mudblood and he can pretty much do what he wants.”

“Well, he can’t take her to an Inner Circle meeting, that’s for sure, but I don’t see why he couldn’t introduce her to us. We’re harmless, well as long as Smudger doesn’t pick up the darts we are,” said Bloodnok. “I want to meet her.”

“True,” said Smudger. “We need to make sure that she’s good enough for Severus. I mean, we’re men of the world, we can tell whether she’s a conniving little golddigger just after him for his money.”

Severus snorted at the idea of anyone being interested in him for his money.

“I don’t believe he’s got a girlfriend,” sneered Grytpype-Thynne. “How on earth did you get her to agree to go out with you?”

“I didn’t,” said Severus smugly. “I played hard to get and she asked me out.”

The rest of The Lads exchanged impressed glances; that sounded like Advanced Seduction to them, rather than Romance for Beginners as applied by them. Grytpype-Thynne, however remained unconvinced. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “I don’t believe you, and nothing you can say is going to make me believe you.”

“All right, all right, I’ll bring her along to meet you after the next meeting,” Severus snapped, and then realised with a sinking feeling just how far up the proverbial creek he was. He had to ask Hermione out, which was going to be difficult enough, and that was before mentioning to her that he wanted their first date to be with all his Death Eater mates.

It wasn’t going to go well, was it?

Bugger.

Sheverus wash pished again. He’d only intended to have a couple, but The Lads had been insistent, and when he thought about asking Hermione out he took another drink for Dutch Courage. He’d intended to stop before he got completely arseholed but had overshot by about four pints. And a couple of Firewhiskies.

He did, however, remember not to put the darts in his back pocket this time.

That would lead the detached observer to think that things were going Sheverus’ way, an impression that was reinforced by the fact that Hermione was waiting for him on the Quidditch Pitch in order to make sure that he didn’t fall flat on his face.

And if she was also trying to put herself in a situation where she would be treated to a view of more naked Severus, well then, that would be perfectly acceptable from his point of view. More than perfectly acceptable.

Somehow in his drunken mind this assessment was transformed from ‘I wouldn’t mind if she did want to look at my bottom again’ to ‘I bet she does want to see my arse’. This was unfortunate. Because no matter if there were an element of truth in this, in fact, especially if there were an element of truth in this, it was still unwise to announce that he knew what she was after, the naughty minx, and if she played her cards right she could have it.

The God of Drunks was watching over him that night and fortunately what Hermione heard was ‘iewwaurafer…inx… ifew…ayurcahsrite…hsyucnavit’. She didn’t speak Drunk, so she had no idea what he actually said, and merely levitated him off to his rooms.

So far so good. The God of Drunks was so busy patting himself on the back at having successfully averted another disaster that he took his eye off the ball, and tragedy occurred.

Hermione successfully wrestled Severus into bed, a process he would have enjoyed much more if he had been sober, and given him his hangover potion. Then he opened his mouth and said something that would rank in the annals of lovers everywhere as the most tactless and least romantic thing to say ever. It topped ‘By Jove, Helen, you’ve aged badly in twenty years’, and that was saying something.

“Hermione,” he said, now that his tongue had shrunk back to its normal size and was working properly again, “I was wondering if you would do me a favour.”

At last, she thought. She’d soothed the fevered brow of the wounded warrior, and now she was going to reap her reward. “Yes, Severus,” she said, a little breathless.

“I was wondering whether you were free next Thursday…”

“….yes….yes…yes….” she thought.

“…because I need someone to accompany me to a party with some old friends.”

“…yes….er…wait a minute….old friends….” Her brain screeched to a halt. He couldn’t mean taking her out to meet his Death Eater friends, could he? Could he?

“I… er…I may have dropped myself in it by saying that I had a Mudblood of my own, and I really need someone to go with me so I don’t look a total idiot.”

There was the kind of silence that usually greets someone had admitted to supporting The Toon whilst standing on the banks of the Weir (sound of a fart in a lift, for our American friends, sorry elevator.)

At this point the God of Drunks took one look at the situation and decided to bugger off and help someone who wasn’t so determined to commit relationship suicide. Or, indeed, just suicide, because Hermione was Not Pleased. Not Pleased At All.

“I beg your pardon,” Hermione began, in tones that would freeze a desert, but she was interrupted by Severus before she had a chance to build up into her peroration.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he said, smiled sweetly, and laid back on the bed. “I’m ve’ tired.”

“Bastard,” Hermione said bitterly.

She made sure he was tucked in properly, that there was a convenient cauldron by the side of the bed in case of Urgent Need, and turned out the lights.

Sheverus had become Severus by the time he woke the next morning. His head wasn’t pounding, his mouth didn’t feel like a small, furry animal had taken up residence there, and he felt a bit peckish. All in all, he felt better than he had any right to do. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something terribly wrong.

A quick mental survey of the night before, conducted whilst performing his ablutions, brought nothing ominous to mind. He’d survived the meeting, which was always a positive. He’d managed to wriggle his way out of actually getting his hands dirty, whilst making Malfoy think he was doing him a favour. He hadn’t bought a round of drinks all night and he’d nicely stuck one over on that bastard Grytpype-Thynne…

Ah.

Yes, well.

There was something nagging at the back of his mind now. He’d been worried about asking Hermione out, but he wasn’t any more because he had and … oh shit.

Severus looked at the rubber duck and the rubber duck looked at Severus.

He was history.

Severus nearly shied off from breakfast, but in the end couldn’t come up with a sufficiently reasonable excuse to get out of it. He also thought that, whilst he was in many ways lucky to have escaped the full Wrath of Hermione last night, the longer she was left to stew over the issues, the longer she would have to think up really nasty things to say to him.

Prudence therefore dictated that steps were taken to make the necessary apologies as soon as possible, in the hope of lancing the boil of anger before it had a chance to fester.

Judging by her mutinous face and icy greeting over the kippers, it was already too late. The least he could hope to get away with was a face-slapping after several weeks of the Cold Shoulder. Which would mean that he would be dateless come the next meeting, and have to put up with the gloating of Grytpype-Thynne.

So, whilst an apology was called for, a back-up plan was called for……………

Hermione, for her part, was bristling with indignation when the lousy bastard merely nodded at her and took his usual seat by her side and commenced battle on the kippers. Kippers are indeed tricky bastards to eat, but she felt that some recognition of the egregious wrong he had done her was called for.

And she didn’t like the way he was smiling. No man who was so firmly In The Wrong, deserved to be smiling like that at all, let alone a bastard as miserable as Snape. She was suddenly struck by a wave of misery. Maybe he didn’t like her at all. Maybe that funny look in his eye hadn’t been appreciation at all; maybe it was disapproval. Perhaps she should be simply grateful that he hadn’t told Dumbledore and tried to get her dismissed. Well actually that would be doing her a favour, so something else, something evil.

Like taking her to a Death Eaters’ meeting.

There was a furious five minute interval during which Hermione’s brain was racing with thoughts of intricate plots, double-dealing and her coming to a Very Sticky End indeed. Harry had always had his doubts about Snape’s reliability, and her argument that Dumbledore trusted him so they should too, was rather undermined by the fact that she no longer thought that his opinion on anything was worth a farthing.

Then she caught sight of Severus’ hands, slightly shaking, as he reached for the coffee pot, and her sensible side pointed out very firmly that Severus Snape may be a bit of a prat, but he wasn’t a dyed in the wool villain. Harry was an idiot, who couldn’t tie his shoelaces without instructions, and whose judgement on things was pretty reliable, if you reversed it 180 degrees.

Which didn’t mean that he could be allowed to get away with using the M-word, but once proper apologies had been offered and penance suffered, he could be forgiven.

And then shagged senseless.

Repeatedly.

And in as many positions as possible.

So, given that she was rather keen on moving to that stage as quickly as possible, it seemed to her that a simple apology and five minutes grovelling would be sufficient. If he was really bright he might give her an opening along the lines of ‘however can I make it up to you’ and she could make some fairly advanced suggestions. Not that she’d been planning ahead, with diagrams and lists; no, not at all.

Severus, fortified by kipper, toast and coffee, felt that he was now in a position to be able to offer an apology. It was also the sensible course to do so at the breakfast table where, presumably, Hermione would feel inhibited from face-slapping and hexing in front of an audience. 

“Erm,” he offered, by way of opening.

“Yes,” she said coolly.

“I …erm…gather that I may have …said something …inappropriate, wholly inappropriate, last night, and I wanted to apologise to you for saying it.”

Hermione was pondering what response she should make, when fate, in the form of Dumbledore, pre-empted her. “Ah, Severus, I would be grateful if we could have a little discussion this morning. I believe your first class isn’t until ten?”

“Indeed, Headmaster.” Severus dabbed his lips with the napkin, and then followed the Irritating Old Sod out of the Hall.

“Bugger,” she said. “Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.”

From Severus’ point of view the meeting with the Headmaster went well. He dropped the little snippet of gossip that Lucius had a mistress into the conversation quite early, and allowed him to draw his own conclusions about the need for Severus also to have his own Status Symbol.

“I don’t know who we can find to act the part,” Albus said in a worried tone of voice. “I mean, there’s always Nymphadora Tonks. We could get her to scrub up….”

Severus shook his head. “I’m sorry Headmaster. Whilst I can see that it would be useful to have a fellow Order member involved – “ take the hint when it’s dropped on you from a great height you bearded twit  - “I do think that most of my confreres will have met Tonks in her professional capacity at some time or another.” Some of them were even related to her, though they wouldn’t admit to it in public.

Albus looked wise, and nodded his agreement. “I can see your point, Severus.” There were several minutes of prolonged beard stroking and cogitation before he added, “I have a suggestion to make, Severus. And I want you to hear me out, before you jump down my throat and start criticising me. How about Hermione Granger?”

Severus pursed his lips in apparent dissatisfaction, and gave the matter serious consideration. “If you insist, Headmaster,” he said, with evident reluctance. “But I must insist that it is made clear to her, that she is to follow my instructions to the letter. I don’t want her going off on a frolic of her own, and putting her, and my, life in danger.”

“Fair enough.” Albus’ self-congratulatory smile faded when he realised that, whilst he may have won over Severus with little or no argument, the matter still had to be broached with Miss Granger. “I don’t suppose you’d care to ask her yourself…”

Albus’ faint hope of getting away with it faded in the face of Severus’ regretful, “I think it would come better from you Headmaster. After all, she respects your judgement.”

Albus interrupted his preening to summon a house elf and despatch it with a request for Miss Granger to join them. It was barely ten minutes later, which Severus occupied with wondering what the latest Pet Mudblood wore on these occasions, and shifting uncomfortably in his chair, before they were joined by Hermione.

She was feeling relatively cross. Her chance at propositioning Severus had been snatched away from her, and now the Old Goat was going to ask her to do Something Annoying. She felt fairly sure that it would be Annoying, on the basis that everything else he had ever asked her to do had been Annoying, and Inconvenient, if not damned Uncomfortable. And if he was looking for someone to stick with the arrangements for the Hallowe’en Ball, he could damned well shove them.

“Hermione,” began the Headmaster portentously.

Bugger, she thought. This time it’s something really serious, like overseeing the Hogsmeade weekend. She still had nightmares about the last trip, even though Young Pemberton’s nose had been successfully re-attached; she felt the little Incident was a reflection on her abilities as a teacher. Largely because her colleagues had been very quick to assure her that this was the case.

“Hermione,” Albus said. “I have to ask you to undertake a dangerous and onerous task…”

Bugger. It is the Hogsmeade weekend. I can’t. I’ve got a note from my Mum excusing me. The dog ate my permission slip and I can’t leave the castle.

“It appears that Severus needs a Girlfriend.”

“Whilst it may be true that getting Professor Snape shagged on a regular basis might be good for him,” she said frostily. “I fail to see what this has to do with me.” The sneaky little sod had gone behind her back to make sure she had to go out with him. It was sweet in a deranged, underhanded, sneaky sort of way.

“For his spying work,” continued Dumbledore, as if she hadn’t said anything.

“Me? You must be daft,” she scoffed. No point making it easy for him.

“Of course, if you’re not brave enough,” sneered Severus. “I can always find someone else.”

And there he’d got her; she had a choice of looking like a coward or spending the evening down the pub with his mates.

“Very well,” she sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

Hermione had, like any girl getting ready for a date, fretted about what to wear. Should she wear robes, or, since she was supposed to be a Pet Mudblood, should she wear a Muggle outfit. Would the occasion be formal and require a skirt, or could she get away with a pair of trousers?

Questions. Questions.

Hermione looked at the heap of clothes piled on her bed and decided there was only one thing for it. The ‘date’ was scheduled for tomorrow, and she needed to know what to wear. She would have to go and talk to Severus.

She hadn’t been keen at first; she had been very pointedly Not Talking to Severus in the intervening period, but the more she thought about it, the more advantages she could see. Frankly, the silent treatment wasn’t working; it was time to see what putting him on the spot could achieve.

Although that did mean she had moved from considering what to wear on the ‘date’ to what to wear to go to see Severus in his rooms. There was a horrid moment when the whole bloody process started again, until she pulled herself together and plumped for the maroon robes with the plunging neckline again.

Severus certainly seemed to appreciate her choice when he opened his door to her. His, “What the hell do you mean by …”, obviously intended for the student he expected to find knocking on his door, died on his lips.

She took advantage of his absorption with her neckline to slip into his rooms uninvited, and say briskly, “I thought we ought to have a little chat about what you wanted me to do tomorrow?”

His gulp was clearly audible. “Do?” he quavered, his mind obviously in the gutter. Then he recovered himself, and moved smoothly onto the offensive. “Why, Miss Granger, all you have to do is appear to be my suitably deferent girlfriend. All that is required is gazing at me in an adoring fashion, hanging on my every words, and agreeing with everything that I say.” He smirked.

“We are going to be there for more than five minutes,” she replied, acerbically. “They’ll never believe it.”

“True,” he sighed. “It would have been nice though; it would really have impressed The Lads… er …and obviously that’s important so I can get information from them.”

Hermione made herself comfortable on the sofa, and patted the seat next to her. “Well, if impressing The Lads is so important – for information gathering purposes – we could try something a little more realistic.”

Severus sat gingerly next to her. He felt uneasy; she was up to something. If she hadn’t forgiven him for the Mudblood comment, she could be up to something nasty. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, no one is going to believe subservient from me are they?” He shook his head. “But how about a stormy and tempestuous relationship, with lots of arguing, but even more Making Up?”

Severus was so busy turning this idea over in his mind that he failed to notice Hermione shuffling closer. Grytpype-Thynne would doubtless sneer that she seemed a bit uppity for a Mudblood, which would be particularly amusing if he was stupid enough to do it in Hermione’s hearing, and he could reply with a smirk and a nudge in the kidneys – just a little too hard – and a comment to the effect that she was a little Spitfire in bed.

He suddenly became aware that Hermione was a lot closer to him, her lips close to his ears and saying something about needing to practice.

“Practice?” he said plaintively.

“Oh, yes.” She ran a tongue round the rim of his ear. “I mean we need to look as if we have been shagging each other senseless, don’t we?”

“Er, yes?” Surely that was a trick question.

“So we wouldn’t want to look awkward or anything if we kissed…”

She had a point, and anyway he had no chance to voice an objection before Hermione very sensibly took matters into her own hands and kissed him.

Oh, Mudbloods were friskier, he thought faintly as Hermione explored his mouth with commendable thoroughness, and then he pulled her closer and showed her that Purebloods knew a thing or two, to her evident satisfaction.

Barely twenty minutes later, Hermione was plastered to his chest, and his hand was inching its way along the back of her leg, beneath her robes. His fingers moved in interesting patterns on the back of her knee, surprising a squeak out of Hermione, and then a shuddering sigh.

He was just on the point of progressing to more interesting and advanced territory, when she pulled herself free with a regretful sigh. “I think it’s time I was in bed.”

Severus smirked at her. “I couldn’t agree more.”  He was puzzled when she pulled herself free and started straightening her robes. “Erm, I thought we were…”

“We were just practising,” she said. Before he had a chance to register any disappointment, not to mention start some serious sulking, she added, “You know, for the main event, tomorrow.” And then, just in case he’d missed the point, which was likely because he didn’t appear to be exactly thinking straight at the moment she added, “After I’ve met all your disreputable friends and neither of us have to get up early in the morning.”

The moment the penny dropped was signalled by a broadening of his smirk, before he reminded himself that he was trying to be terribly enigmatic about the whole business. Severus watched Hermione depart with fond eyes that lingered on her form. Not only did he have a Girlfriend, but he was also On A Promise.

To his credit, he had absolutely no intention of sharing that with The Lads at all.

In the end Hermione elected to wear the maroon robes for her ‘date’; Severus certainly seemed to appreciate them and therefore it seemed logical that his friends would too. She had a horrible feeling that she was going to be treated to an evening reminiscent of the post-Quidditch match parties that Harry was so fond of, which involved lots of men standing around, talking nonsense, and trying to score points off each other. The presence of a woman would only exacerbate the natural tendencies of boys to show off. On the other hand, she had a working knowledge of Quidditch, so she should be able to hold her own in conversation, and she didn’t think she’d have to put her hand in her pocket to buy a drink all evening.

She strongly suspected Severus was a tight git, but the rest of them would be falling over themselves to be nice to her, either because they wanted to suck up to Severus or because they were looking for something they could use against him.

Severus had disappeared earlier in the evening to go to the main meeting, leaving her with strict instructions to be at the gates to Hogwarts at 11 pm. He was, of course, late, but she could hardly complain. He could scarcely put his hand up and ask for permission to be excused from a Death Eater meeting on the basis that he had a date.

Not and expect to live anyway.

She was cold, she was worried about Severus, and she didn’t like the way the bushes were rustling at her. It was bloody frightening out here on her own; she was a city girl, born and bred, and looked on the countryside with a degree of reservation that bordered on suspicion.

There was a pop behind – someone had apparated in – and whilst common sense indicated that it was most likely Severus, her instincts kicked in, she spun on her heel and drew her wand in one smooth movement ready to face whatever was behind her.

It was a Death Eater. That much was obvious from the robes and the bloody mask. She couldn’t help the atavistic chill of fear that ran up her spine, and her voice was slightly tremulous as she said, “For god’s sake Severus, if that’s you, take that mask off before I hex you.”

A muffled ‘oops, sorry’ came from behind the mask, which was removed to reveal a slightly sheepish Severus. “I forgot,” he said, “I don’t know why; it’s bloody uncomfortable.”

“You frightened the life out of me,” she said, still a bit flustered.

“Sorry. I was a bit pre-occupied.”

“Yes, well, I can imagine that tonight’s meeting would make anyone nervous.”

Severus nodded, relieved she was being so understanding. “I’ve never taken a girl to meet The Lads before.”

“I meant your earlier meeting.”

“Oh. That. It was annoying and dull by turns. His Lordship was particularly verbose tonight. Fortunately, Lucius owes me a favour so I was able to slip away from the interminable cocktail party.”

Severus looked tired, and pinched, and she felt a great surge of annoyance. This whole business was taking far too long. She didn’t know whether it was Albus or Harry that was at fault, but she was going to sort it out. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after, depending on how well tonight went.

“Right. Are you set then?” She plucked at an imaginary piece of lint on his robes. “Are there any last minute instructions for me?”

“Well Grytpype-Thynne is a bit of a bastard really, so I’d watch out for him. He’s been trying to get one up on me for years. Bloodnok is a tight bastard, so you have to keep an eye on him to make sure he’s going to stand his round. Seagoon is a bit of a berk, but Smudger’s ok, as long as you keep him away from the darts.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Severus was mildly surprised to find that Hermione seemed a little nervous. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Absolutely fine. And if someone insults or annoys you, I’ll hex their balls off. You can’t say fairer than that.”

Hermione snorted with laughter. “Is this some obscure Pureblood thing? Because I’m perfectly capable of hexing their balls off for myself.”

“It’s nothing less than good manners. It’s a gentleman’s duty to protect his guest.” Severus was perfectly serious. He was also perfectly serious about offering her his arm to apparate.

“Where are we going?” she asked. She needed a destination to apparate to. Double apparition was difficult, dangerous, and not the stuff of romance; she could well end up splinched or splattered over a large area.

“The entrance to Diagon Alley. The pub’s close by; we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“It’s a Muggle pub?” She was surprised to hear that a collection of diehard Purebloods would deign to cross the threshold of such an establishment, much less come back on a regular basis.

“Well we could hardly hang around in Diagon Alley could we? Someone would be bound to notice, and one of these young and eager Death Eaters would be telling tales faster than you can say ‘Salazar Slytherin’. Anyway, the landlord gives us free peanuts and crisps; we don’t get that in any Wizarding establishment.”

Hermione wasn’t surprised; she had the feeling that you wouldn’t want to encourage The Lads, and that was even if you didn’t know they were the local chapter of the Death Eaters.

They apparated on the count of three, and appeared in a poorly-lit side street which smelled faintly of rubbish. Hermione had to admit there was something almost exciting about all this sneaking around; certainly more exciting than another night sat in front of the fire reading a book and contemplating the best way to get one over on the other teachers.

It was a short walk, and then they were at the door, so shabby she nearly missed it. Severus courteously held the door open for her, and she crossed the threshold into the Pub. The Lads doubtless thought that the Pub was cosy; they’d be wrong. It was dirty, it was dingy, and it was apparently full of people in dark robes. How did they manage to explain that to the landlord? Freemasonry? Trainspotting? Dungeons and Dragons?

“Good grief, it looks like word has spread.” Severus was taken aback to see a full complement of The Lads; usually one or other of them would sneak off somewhere else and then turn up for the next meeting with wild tales of assignations and evildoing. Usually, it was because the missus wouldn’t let them out that night, or there might be something particularly good on the Wizarding Wireless that they didn’t want to miss. There was a tacit agreement that no one would pry too deeply into anyone’s reason for absence; they all had far too much to lose for that. Once someone’s reputation as heartless monster was destroyed it took several months of concentrated sneering before he was allowed to rebuild it.

A second glance showed that there were no more than fifteen people there, and the impression of crowding was simply due to the fact that it was a very small room. Nonetheless Hermione couldn’t help clutching at Severus in alarm when a tall, thin shape approached her and said, “Are you a Mudblood then?”

There was that same cold finger of fear on her spine again. These may be Severus’ friends and she may well suspect that they were about as dangerous as a herd of sheep, but that didn’t prevent an ingrained reaction to those damned robes. A Death Eater was asking her whether she was a Mudblood; she could only hope that the next words weren’t something along the lines of ‘cower at my feet, scum’. This wasn’t, she thought, the time for hexing, so she simply nodded.

“Great. Maybe you can explain the Offside Rule to me.”

“For Quidditch?” Hermione was surprised to be asked such an odd question. Perhaps it was a test to see if she was sufficiently assimilated into the Wizarding World.

“Nah, for football.”

Hermione could see that there was a television tucked away high in one corner. Doubtless the landlord turned it on whenever there was a match on, assuming that these were like any other Englishman and obsessed with the Footie. She could imagine what had happened. At first they would have gathered round to sneer at the silly Muggles and wonder why they bothered when they hadn’t got broomsticks, and then, gradually they’d been sucked in. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bloodnok, I don’t think Hermione takes that much of an interest in sport of any sort.” Severus was exasperated. He hadn’t expected Hermione to be badgered for information on Muggle culture. Still, there were more embarrassing questions they could be asking. Such as: how long had they been Going Out? And: How many times a night?

“Well I don’t,” said Hermione. “But I know a man who does. My Dad sometimes referees local Sunday League matches.”

“Has he got a whistle?” Bloodnok asked eagerly.

“A whistle, yellow and red cards and a little notebook to take down the names of the players when they transgress.”

The Lads were impressed. They were even more impressed when Hermione took out her Mobile phone and made a call. “Dad? Hello. I’m in a Pub. Some bloke wants to know about the offside rule. You wouldn’t mind running through it for him would you?”

Hermione kept making little ‘hmmm, hmmm’ noises into her phone, and then began assembling some empty pint glasses. “Right, now the end of the table is the goal, right?” Bloodnok nodded. “And these are the defenders…. Right so the attacking footballer comes along….”

Severus watched in amusement as The Lads gathered round to be lectured on the intricacies of Football. Hermione was definitely in her element instructing people; it was a surprise that she hated teaching so much. Maybe it was the lack of an appreciative audience when in the classroom that made the difference.

He felt so cheerful about the whole business that he slipped away to the Bar to get the first round in. 

“Bloody hell,” said Smudger, as he brushed past. “Is it Christmas and I didn’t notice?”

“You don’t have to have a drink if you don’t want one.” Severus was rummaging in his pockets for the Muggle money so carefully provided by Dumbledore for this evening after much grumbling.

“Don’t be daft. Mine’s a pint. Of Brandy, since you’re feeling so generous.”

“You’ll have bitter, like the rest of them, and like it.” He was hoping to skim some of it off and buy himself a copy of Even More Potente Potions. Pince had refused to order him a copy on the entirely accurate basis that it had nothing to do with the curriculum. Cow.

“You know what they say,” Smudger replied. “You are what you drink.”

“And I’m a bitter man.” It was an old joke, but it never failed to make them smirk.

Severus considered the crowd before him. They’d drink whatever was put before them, and not complain, but they were all very picky about their choice of crisps. Get them the wrong flavour and he’d never hear the end of it. “Fifteen pints of bitter, four cheese and onion, three plain, and two salt and vinegar please.”

“What are you going to get your young lady?” prompted Smudger, with a faint grin.

Bugger. He could hardly get her a pint of bitter, and shouting across a crowded pub to find out what she wanted would make The Lads suspicious. He really ought to know what she liked to drink if they’d been going out for simply ages, and he didn’t think they’d buy the excuse that they’d been spending so much time in bed the issue of drinks preferences had never arisen.

The Barman noticed his hesitation and assumed it was due to doubts about the ability of his establishment to provide the necessary refreshments. “We have a full wine list, Sir,” he said with a reproachful air. “We even have Cocktails. Perhaps Madam would like a long slow comfortable screw against the wall?” The man was only saved from the pointy end of a wand by the interposition of the Cocktail Menu between him and Severus, and pointing at the offending drink with his finger.

Severus read the list with increasing fascination. He couldn’t resist temptation. “Hermione, darling,” he called across the room. “Would you like a Slippery Nipple?”

“No thank you, but I wouldn’t say no to Sex on the Beach.”

The Lads were watching the exchange with bated breath. They were talking about Sex, and Sex was, probably, on balance, taking all things into consideration, more interesting than Football. Though Football was easier to come by, even for the married men; Football was on twice a week.

“I don’t know what you lot are all looking at. It’s a drink,” sneered Severus, with the advantage of five minutes further knowledge.

The Lads breathed a collective sigh of relief. They’d heard rumours about the kinky things that the Inner Circle got up to, and although it was pleasant to fantasise about frisky Mudbloods, they didn’t necessarily want to see that Sort of Thing, thank you very much.

Especially not with Severus.

Severus paid the enormous bill with bad grace, and a pained expression. “Drinks are on the bar,” he announced to the room, and then entered into a complicated juggling exercise to bring Hermione’s drink, his pint, and a packet of plain crisps over to where she was standing.

She plucked the crisps from his hands, and then took her drink and smiled up at him quite shyly. “I think it’s going quite well so far.”

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a call from the dartboard. “Oi, Severus, leave your bint alone, it’s your turn.”

Severus turned, ready to snarl at The Lad in question, but Hermione put her hand on his arm and said, “No, you go and have some fun. I’ll be alright here on my own.”

Severus looked a bit suspicious but he went anyway. There was one lone figure at the Bar, still supping his pint, and keeping an eye on The Lads. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye, whilst pretending to admire Severus. Not that there was a great deal of pretending involved in that. It was odd to see him so lively, so animated, and, well frankly, bickering. It was rather better-natured bickering than she was used to seeing from him, though she wouldn’t go so far as to say he actually liked any of them.

Boys were Odd, and that was all you could say on the matter; trying to understand them would only give you a Headache.

Another drink was called for. She moved to the Bar, and waited patiently to be served. The barman was busy in what was presumably the Saloon Bar – she’d hate to think that this was the Saloon Bar –  and it took several minutes for him to take her order.

When her vodka and coke came, the figure slouching against the bar fumbled for money in his pocket. “No, let me get this. A lady shouldn’t have to buy her own drink.” If he were a woman, he would be called jolie laide – he wasn’t handsome precisely, but he had an interesting face that invited you to be his friend.

“Erm, thank you.” The transaction completed, she waited until the anonymous Lad had secreted his change about his person before taking the bull by its horns, and holding her hand out to be shaken. “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

The man carefully wiped his hand on his robes, before grasping her hand firmly. “Smudger.”

“Pleased to meet you Smudger.” Hermione couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. She couldn’t ask the usual meaningless social questions, because it might lead to a very nasty impasse. She felt a moment of empathy for the Queen; always meeting new people, always asking the same daft questions, and probably bored rigid with it. ‘And how long have you been a Death Eater, Smudger. Good. Good. And what made you decide to join. How very interesting. And would you like to murder all Muggles or is that limited to Mudblood Witches. I see.’

“So you and old Severus, eh?” Smudger asked.

Hermione nodded.

“Fond of him are you?”

Hermione nodded again. “Very.”

The conversation lapsed for a little, both sides having run out of uncontroversial topics. Hermione, uncomfortable with silence, fell back into awful cliché. “So, do you come here often?”

She winced as soon as she said it, though it seemed that the phrase had none of the connotations it did in the Muggle world, or, if it did, Smudger was nice enough to ignore them. “Pretty much. There’s a big Inner Circle meeting about once a month, just for the high mucky-mucks, at Malfoy Manor and then the rest of us poor sods get hauled out from time to time whenever His Lordship fancies a bit of trouble.

“Not that we ever actually do anything,” he added hurriedly, suddenly realising who he was talking to. “Old Malfoy is too busy shagging his Pet Mudblood to give a shit, and he normally hands it over to Old Snapey here, and we come up with some sort of story to satisfy His Lordship.”

A look of consternation crossed Smudger’s face. “And not that Old Snapey thinks of you as his Pet Mudblood, no, indeed. That’s just Malfoy, and we know he’s a bastard.” Smudger faltered into silence, clearly determined to stop digging as the hole was already large enough.

Hermione took pity on him. “Malfoy is a bastard,” she agreed. “And a stuck up ponce to boot.”

Smudger brightened. “He is, isn’t he?” Clearly ‘Malfoy is a bastard’ was a bit of a recurrent theme with the boys, and the man was no more popular on his own side than he was with Order members. “Swanning around, like he owns the place, just because he bloody well does. It’s not on.”

“Yeah, but is he happy?” she asked.

Smudger blinked at her. “Of course he is,” he said, speaking slowly and carefully, “he’s filthy rich and he’s married to the best looking bird in our year. Of course he’s bleeding happy.”

Hermione didn’t fancy explaining existential angst to Smudger, so she contented herself with, “She looks like a right stuck-up cow though. I bet she nags him for putting his elbows on the table something chronic.”

“That’s true.” This was obviously a new thought for Smudger.

“And you wouldn’t want that would you. Not after a hard day’s trying to take over the world. You want someone to bring you a nice glass of Firewhiskey and your slippers: make you feel at home.”

Smudger was staring off into space now: his new thought had been joined by a friend, and the unaccustomed effort was making his eyes cross. “Do you bring Severus his slippers?”

She nodded. “Just between you and me,” she nudged him with her elbow, “sometimes I give him a foot rub as well. Makes him really relaxed.”

“No.” His disbelief made it sound like she’d admitted to performing kinky sexual acts involving a feather duster and a stick of celery. “You’re bloody wonderful you are,” he sobbed, brokenly. “Severus is a lucky, lucky sod. I wish I had a girlfriend like you.”

She patted his arm soothingly. “I’m sure your girlfriend is just as nice to you.”

There was a muffled mumbling from behind his sleeve as he wiped his eyes to the effect that he hadn’t got a girlfriend.

“What, a well set-up bloke like you? You must have.”

He peered at her with suspicious eyes, but was satisfied that she was being sincere. “Well, it’s the Death Eater thing, isn’t it? None of the nice girls want to go out with one, and it’s a bit hard to keep secret really.”

“So why do you still follow He-who-must-not-be-named then?” she asked, trying to sound offhand.

“We can’t all be spies like Severus,” Smudger replied.

“You know…” Hermione broke off her high-pitched squeal and continued, in a more normal voice, “I mean, you think Severus is a spy.”

Smudger patted her hand fondly. “Of course he is. Stands to reason doesn’t it. It’s the only reason he’d hang out with those bastards. He’d much rather be here with his old muckers, but he has to go to Malfoy’s cocktail parties- “ here Smudger stuck out his little finger – “and drink purple drinks with umbrellas in them off of trays with doilies. It’s inhumane what that man expects him to do.”

“What man?” asked Hermione, biting her lip.

“Dumbledore. He’s almost as much a bastard as His Lordship, isn’t he?”

“God, yes.” Hermione’s agreement was fervent even though she hadn’t got a proper basis for comparison, and never hoped to have.

They contemplated their drinks, united in feeling hard done to by the world. They sighed.

Hermione reminded herself that there was no point in feeling maudlin, that she was going to sort the problem of His Lordship out on Sunday, and that then she would be free of Dumbledore. Right. She stood up a little bit straighter. Though now she had the added complication of making sure that whatever plan she came up with wouldn’t get The Lads in any trouble. They were rather sweet, though they’d deny it to their dying breath.

“So, how long have you known Severus?” she asked.

“Since school. Hogwarts,” he added unnecessarily. “We were in the same year.”

“So did you … erm… join up together, so to speak?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” Smudger said suspiciously. “’Ere you’re not one of those reporters are you?”

Hermione sighed. “No, I’m a spy like Severus. I’m just not very good at it yet. You won’t tell anyone will you?”

He patted her hand again. “Don’t worry, dear, your secret is safe with me.” He seemed to think that more was called for because, after burping discreetly and begging her pardon, he added, “You’re not that bad either. It took me ages to work it out. With a bit of practice you’ll almost be as good as Severus. He’s a crafty sod you know, a very crafty sod indeed.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“I just wish he’d hurry up and get His Lordship sorted out, one way or another. The way I hear it even the Inner Circle are getting a bit twitchy about things.”

“Really?” she said, and then smiled broadly. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, and you can tell me all about it.”

Smudger looked at his empty glass, and back at Hermione’s friendly face, then uttered the words that would eventually see him earn an Order of Merlin (Second Class). “Aye, right oh.”

Hermione and Smudger were so deep in conversation that they barely noticed when Severus came to join them. She jumped when a heavy arm was placed round her shoulder, and a face was thrust between them, which said, “What are you two up to then?”

“Plotting,” she said sweetly. It was, after all, the truth.

“That’sh good.”

She realised, with a sense of disappointment, that Severus was pished again. Judging from the smirks of some of The Lads, they’d been either egging him on, or even spiking his drinks. She took his pint glass from him and sniffed at the contents. Nothing obvious. She took a swig and nearly choked. Brandy! The devious little sods had been slipping him brandy.

She gave them all a very hard glare, and they shuffled their feet and looked shamefaced, which was about as convincing from them as it was from Harry and Ron, and she didn’t have the luxury of grasping this lot by their ears and giving them a dressing down.

Give it a couple of evenings like this, and the temptation would be almost unbearable. They all, very clearly, needed Taking In Hand.

“Right, come on you. It’s time we were heading off,” she said to an increasingly affectionate Severus, who was now winding himself round her like honeysuckle round a trellis. Something that would have given him fits in a more sober frame of mind, but which she found oddly touching. If drink revealed the true nature of a person, Severus Snape was a bit of a soppy git.

He allowed himself to be hauled off with one last smirk at The Lads.

Severus was also an affectionate drunk. Hermione’s indignant protests that his breath stank were stifled as he kissed her in the alley. She wasn’t sure whether it was the brandy or his abilities, but when he finally raised his head she was feeling decidedly wobbly and very keen that they should apparate back to Hogwarts as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, the chill of the Scottish night air seemed to make him more drunk, if that was possible, and she found herself first steadying him, then half carrying him back to his rooms.

“You were getting on very well with Smudger. You didn’t like any of them better than me?” he asked anxiously as they crossed the threshold. “Because you’re my girlfriend, and you’re supposed to like me the best.”

“I didn’t like any of them better than you.” They’d reached the bed by now, and she was trying to get him to let go, but he was clinging on for grim death.

“They were all jealous of me, because I had a girlfriend. They said you were pretty. You are pretty.”

“Thank you Severus. That’s very nice. But don’t you think it was time you were in bed?”

“Oooh,” he leered. “You’re frisky tonight. Sounds fun though,” and with that he collapsed onto the bed taking her with him, then performed a complicated manoeuvre which ended up with her pinned to the bed under him. He then promptly fell asleep, leaving Hermione feeling more than a little cheated.

She couldn’t manage to free herself from the human octopus that was Severus Snape. She was his favourite teddy bear and his human hot water bottle all rolled into one package, and he wasn’t letting go. If she managed to remove an arm, then a leg would move over her; if she managed to remove a leg, then a hand would come up to pat her head and he would mumble something in his sleep.

In the end, she succumbed to the inevitable, wriggled around to get more comfortable, and disposed herself for sleep. Severus gave another contented mumble, and snuggled up to her. “Severus Snape,” she said softly, “I am going to make you pay for this.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek, closed her eyes, and drifted off.

Hermione was still clutched to a sleeping Severus when she woke the next day. Her arm had gone to sleep, and the air was filled with muttered cursing as she tried to massage some life back into it.

It didn’t disturb Severus.

Hermione poked him in the ribs. It was a rather forceful prod, all things considered, as she was still feeling rather aggrieved about the Night before, or rather the distinct lack of a Night before. Her prodding had the desired effect, and Severus began to stir.  First a hand twitched, and then tentatively explored its surroundings, until it had clearly established that Severus was not alone.

An eye opened and regarded her with surprise, and then softened into lazy contentment. Despite her determination to make him Suffer for his many and varied sins, she couldn’t help returning his smile, and of course one thing led to another and before she knew it she was returning his caresses.

It may not be conducive to Good Discipline to have given in so easily, but it would have been ill-mannered to attempt to discuss anything at a time like that.

And besides, he really was rather good.

Make that exceptionally good.

Afterwards they lay melted together in a boneless heap of contentment and Hermione simultaneously wondered how long an interval she had to wait before she could ask for a repeat performance, whether he might be might be agreeable to some of the more interesting ideas she had had, and could she have a cup of tea in the meantime, because she was parched.

She was a girl and therefore capable of thinking several, complex thoughts at once. Severus on the other hand, being a boy, wasn’t really thinking anything more complicated than Feel Good.

He’d found something that he liked doing more than a night out with The Lads.

Which made him think of Smudger, and how Hermione had spent an awfully long time talking to him last night.

“Hermione?” he said, semi-plaintively. “What were you talking about with Smudger last night?”

“I told you, plotting.”

“Oh.” He continued twining her hair round a finger. “What about?”

“The usual: ending the rule of evil and bringing about world peace. I’ll tell you about it this afternoon.”

“Will that include getting rid of Dumbledore?” he muttered darkly.

“Of course, dear. Have you known me be less than thorough?”

“Well, I do think you may have missed a bit earlier.” Severus raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

“I hardly think so,” Hermione said. “But if you need reminding…..” and she went to work with a will.

Several hectic hours later – she even managed to fit in a restorative cup of tea – Hermione was luxuriating in a hot bath in Severus’ quarters, whilst he dealt with the Annoyance that was Albus.

She took advantage of her time in the bath to ponder tactics, in between thinking fondly of that morning’s activities. Smudger had been obliging enough to give her a complete rundown on the Death Eater side of things, now all she needed was to know what on earth Dumbledore thought he was playing at. This meant she would have to make the ultimate sacrifice and have tea with Minerva, and listen to hours of gushing about how wonderful Albus was.

Then all she needed to do was get Harry and Ron on board – you couldn’t ignore the fact that one was the Instrument of Prophecy, and the other was the Best Friend of the Instrument of Prophecy – and then devise a plan. She would then have to let the boys think that they had thought of it first, and then it would be a simple matter of putting it into effect.

Satisfied that she was more than half way to solving the Wizarding World’s problems – the trick was to break each task down into little steps, and work out how to achieve each one – she dried herself off, wrapped herself in Severus’ second best dressing gown and prepared to sneak back to her rooms.

She was fortunate not to be seen by any children – doubtless all heading off to Hogsmeade and as many sweets as one small person could consume in a two hour period – before letting herself into her rooms and falling onto the bed in an untidy heap.

She spent fully half an hour smiling broadly idiotically at the ceiling before she managed to pull herself together. There was a Wizarding World to be saved, and it wouldn’t be sorted out by lolling around on the bed.

Clothes, that’s what she needed. Clothes, and then a note to Minerva.

Minerva, it seemed, was free for tea. Minerva was free for tea because Severus was still ensconced in a meeting with Albus. Minerva wasn’t really very happy with Albus, because he’d promised to take her out to Diagon Alley for lunch.

Normally, Hermione would only listen with one ear to the latest difficulties in their ongoing relationship. There was only a certain amount of wrinkly sex one could bear having outlined without wanting to run screaming from the room.  It wasn’t that she couldn’t see the attraction of an older man, but at least Severus was firm in all the right places. And the arse was undoubtedly as magnificent to the touch as it looked.

Oops. Drooling over the tea table wasn’t likely to encourage confidences. Mind back on the job.

Albus was a pig. Albus was inconsiderate. Albus was a two-faced lying bastard.

Well, that was all true, but what on earth had caused the scales to fall away from Minerva’s eyes. Rather worried that asking that question would lead to more revelations of a wrinkly sexual nature, Hermione took her courage in her hands, and asked.

Minerva huffed, and then prepared to unburden herself to a nominally sympathetic ear. “I don’t know Hermione, something seems to have changed. He spent years chasing me, and persuading me to go out with him, and he was wonderful and considerate and romantic. We’ve been going out for a couple of years now, and last Valentine’s day he proposed.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that; you’ve been keeping that very quiet.”

Minerva nodded, and took another sip of tea. “Yes, he didn’t want the news getting out before the little matter with He-who-must-not-be-named was dealt with. He said he didn’t want to make me a target. Now I’m wondering. He seems to have gone right off the idea.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“Of course.” Minerva sighed. “But you know how slippery he can be. There’s always a staff meeting, or an Order meeting, or a Severus meeting. I mean, how long can it take for Severus to tell Albus that nothing particularly exciting happened last night? Nothing did, did it?”

Hermione shrugged. “Not as far as I know. I didn’t go to the main meeting, but to what you might call a post-meeting party. I think we picked up some useful information though.”

“And they treated you well? I must say, I was very worried when Albus told me that you’d agreed to go with Severus.”

Hermione pondered quite how much to tell Minerva. The entire truth was out of the question, but if planning and plotting were to take place, Minerva may well have a useful part to play. It would be useful if they didn’t have to spend a couple of hours going through the ‘no, they weren’t as bad as all that’ arguments first. “I think there is a fair amount of dissatisfaction in the ranks of The Lads, one way or another. They weren’t going to open up to a strange Mudblood on my first visit, but I did get the feeling that there could be a chance to persuade them that there might be other opportunities available to them. Severus has managed to do a wonderful job of keeping them out of the trouble.”

“The Lads?”

“That’s what Severus calls them.”

Minerva gave her a curious glance. “Severus, eh?”

Hermione was carefully bland when she said, “Of course we’re on first name terms now. It’s difficult pretending to be someone’s Pet if you’re calling them Professor Snape.”

Minerva gave an undignified snort. “Come off it. No one goes around with that dopey expression if they haven’t been up to something a little more friendly than being on first name terms.” Her smile faded, and her tone became more serious. “Oh, my dear, he’s not pulling the same trick on you is he? Asking you to keep it secret, because if he is….”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think so. We haven’t really talked about it, we’ve barely had a chance to, but I doubt he wants to keep it a secret from anyone. Although it might be better if Albus didn’t find out, for various reasons.”

“Well he won’t hear it from me, Hermione. We’re barely talking as it is, and frankly I wouldn’t give him the steam off my piss at the moment.”

Hermione spat tea all down her front, and spent the next five minutes dabbing ineffectually at herself with an accio’d cloth, whilst bitterly complaining about Minerva’s inappropriate language. “For god’s sake, Minerva. You’re deputy Headmistress, the Head of Gryffindor, and should be setting me a good example. I don’t expect to hear language like that from you!”

Minerva was slightly repentant. “Well,” she said, a little sheepish, “he bloody deserves it.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t; just, can we keep announcements like that for occasions when my mouth isn’t full of scalding tea?”

“I wouldn’t have expected the girl who called Draco Malfoy a workshy little shit with the style of an alligator, and who would be vastly improved by being turned into a pair of shoes so you could have the pleasure of walking all over him every day, to be quite so mealy-mouthed,” sniffed Minerva. “And you can wipe that smirk off your face; you’ve clearly been spending far too much time with Severus.”

Hermione’s smirk broadened.

“That good?” Minerva asked, a little wistfully.

“Better, much better,” Hermione replied smugly.

“Do you know what? I think we deserve something a little stronger than tea. I can drown my sorrows and you can celebrate.”

“Bloody good idea Minerva.”

When Severus finally escaped from Albus and made his way to Hermione’s room he was surprised – and disappointed - to see Minerva was there. He was even more surprised to see that both of them were somewhat squiffy.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be drinking in the afternoon,” he said severely. “What if Albus were to find out?”

“Bugger Albus,” Minerva said firmly.

Hermione and Severus both winced at that mental picture.

“Do I take it that you two have had a falling out,” asked Severus, accepting a glass of firewhiskey with poor grace: if you couldn’t beat them, join them.

Minerva treated to Severus to a lengthy and scurrilous rundown of the failings of Albus Dumbledore.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Severus said, rolling his eyes.

Minerva took refuge in another glass of firewhiskey; she was hurt by his lack of sympathy, and said so.

“Apparently,” Hermione put in, “Albus promised to marry Minerva when this was all over, and is now trying to wriggle out of it.”

“The bastard. The absolute sodding bastard.” Severus rose from his chair in indignation and began pacing backwards and forwards in the admittedly limited space, swearing all the while.

“I notice you don’t tell him off for swearing,” Minerva said to Hermione.

“Well I expect it from him,” she replied. “Not to mention the fact he looks bloody sexy when he’s all excited like that.”

Minerva cast an assessing eye over Severus, then shrugged. “If you say so dear.  I can't see it myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Hermione firmly. “Because I’d hate to have to hex you.”

“When,” came Severus’ acerbic tones, “you two ladies have finished talking amongst yourselves, I would be grateful if I could have your attention. We have a serious problem here.”

“I’m touched that you’re so upset on my behalf,” said Minerva. “But really Severus, I think you’re over-reacting. I expect it’s just cold feet, and I’ll be able to get him sorted out once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is finally sorted out.”

Severus took several deep breaths, clearly hanging on to his temper by his fingernails. “I am talking about the fact that Albus has passed up several good chances to take out His Lordship, apparently because he has entered into a betrothal that he now regrets.”

There was horrified silence from Minerva as she put the final pieces into the jigsaw, and came up with an unattractive picture. “The bastard,” she hissed. “The absolute sodding bastard.”

“I’ve already said that,” snapped Severus.

“You can’t deny it’s worth saying twice,” Hermione pointed out. He grunted. “So the question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“Well what can we do about it?” asked Minerva reasonably. “It’s not like I’ve ever been to that many Order meetings – Albus always made me stay at Hogwarts in case of emergency. I don’t think they’d take me seriously if I tipped up to the next meeting and accused Albus of being a bastard.”

“And they’ve never liked me anyway, so they won’t listen to me,” sulked Severus. “Especially that precious Potter. It’s hopeless.”

“I agree that Albus has a stranglehold on the Order, but why do we need to use them anyway?” asked Hermione with great patience; the answer seemed so obvious to her. “Obviously we need to get Harry on side, but you can leave that to me. As for the rest I think The Lads may provide us with the help that we need.”

“The Lads?” Severus scoffed. “They wouldn’t help anyone unless there was something in it for them.”

“Exactly.” Hermione smiled. “All we need to do is come up with a plan that allows them to get rid of His Lordship safely, and lets them come out smelling of roses. Easy.”

“I propose a toast,” said Minerva, holding her glass up. “To defeating the Dark Lord, double-crossing Albus, and The Lads.”

“The Lads,” chorused Severus and Hermione.

It was easy to decide to bring an end to His Lordship’s reign of terror. The difficulty lay in finding somewhere to meet Smudger without being seen by Aurors, Death Eaters or anyone who was likely to tattle to Albus. Minerva had a cottage stuck in the middle of nowhere, and was happy to lend it to the cause, but it would take some serious planning to allow the three of them to be absent from Hogwarts at the same time.

She’d made sure that Albus wouldn’t come within a fifteen-mile radius of the place by issuing an invitation to him to meet her there to discuss wedding arrangements, as she wanted everything in place for when the War ended.

When Albus had – at the last moment – been completely unable to accompany her, he was more than amenable to the suggestion that Hermione should go instead and had actually thanked her for taking time out of her weekend to look after Minerva.

Severus merely told the truth: that he was meeting Smudger and sounding him out on the feelings of the other Death Eaters.

Hermione and Minerva had gone ahead with a house elf, to air the cottage, put a casserole in the oven and the beer – Smudger didn’t strike Hermione as a wine drinker - under a slight cooling charm. The house elf had been sent back to Hogwarts to give them all the privacy that they needed, and Hermione and Minerva had made a cup of tea and were sat round the table eyeing the chocolate cake that had been ostensibly brought for afters with longing eyes, when the sharp crack of apparition distracted them.

They took up positions on either side of the door, wands in hand; there was no point in taking risks. Albus could very well have taken it into his head to be awkward at the last minute and turn up. As Minerva said, that could be sorted out by a quick Obliviate and an Imperio, but it would be sensible to get the drop on the old goat.

Fortunately, it was just Severus and Smudger.

Smudger wasn’t happy about being there, not happy at all, and his unhappiness only increased when he was greeted by two witches at wandpoint. He appeared to feel marginally better once the wands were shoved back up sleeves and – in Minerva’s case – into a very daring thigh holster. Smudger certainly seemed to appreciate the glimpse of leg he was afforded, before he remembered his manners and averted his gaze.

Minerva advanced on him with outstretched hand. “Mr Smudger, how nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Smudger wiped his hand on his robes, before shaking hands. “Please, just Smudger.”

“Then you must call me Minerva.”

Hermione thought that whilst Minerva’s leg had gone some way to softening Smudger up, it would be best to complete the process by applying chocolate cake and tea, which meant, of course, that they would have to partake merely to demonstrate that there wasn’t anything untoward in the cake.

Slytherin manners.

They needn’t have worried; Smudger was only too pleased at the offer of Chocolate cake, and seemed to think that the risk of poisoning was worth it, especially since it had raspberry jam filling and melted chocolate on the top. “Ooh, my favourite,” he said. “I’d do almost anything for a piece of cake, up to an including assassination.” He tucked in with a will then, once half the slice had been eaten, added through the crumbs, “And I do wonder what exactly you want me to do in return.”

“Perhaps you should have asked that before you ate the cake,” smirked Severus.

“Nah, mate. You should know by now that there’s no way on earth to get Old Smudger to do anything I don’t want to, chocolate cake or not.”

“Well we do have a proposition to put to you, Smudger,” Minerva said. “How would you like to help us bring freedom to the Wizarding World?”

Smudger paused in the act of transferring more cake into his mouth, his hand hovering midway. “Not much,” he said frankly. “It sounds risky.”

“How would you like to be famous and successful and have lots of young witches hanging on your every word?” Severus asked, glaring at Minerva. Trust a Gryffindor to go about it in the wrong way.

Smudger brightened. “Now that sounds fun. That sounds much, much better.” He took a large bite of cake, whilst the other three exchanged glances of self-congratulation.  “Of course, I’d have to be stupid not to realise that you’re talking about the same thing really. And I’m not stupid.”

Hermione smiled and poured him another cup of tea. “Of course we know you’re not stupid Smudger, but it never hurts to point out that there are advantages to our suggestion, does it? After all, you’re not some daft Gryffindor who’s going to rush out to save the world without some sort of incentive.”

Smudger eyed them suspiciously, and then accepted a second piece of cake. “Alright, I can see the advantages of being the saviour of the Wizarding World. Potter seems to do well enough despite not actually doing anything for years. So, what’s your plan? And where do I fit into it?”

“Well,” said Hermione. “It’s not so much a plan as a Strategy. I mean, there’s no point going into details if you decide you don’t want to get involved, and you may well have some ideas yourself.”

“Makes sense.” Smudger wrinkled his nose. “Is that lunch I can smell?”

“Oops,” said Minerva, shooting out of her seat. “I hope it hasn’t burned.”

The casserole was cooked to perfection, to Smudger’s evident appreciation, though he looked askance at the short rations he was first offered. “That’s better,” he said, as Minerva heaped another couple of spoonfuls on his plate. “I’ve got to keep my strength up for plotting. First things first, why do you think this is the time to move, and why are you going round behind Dumbledore’s back?”

Hermione and Severus both looked at Minerva expectantly. It was for her to explain what was going on. “We feel that the Headmaster is overly cautious about the need to move onto the offensive, and that there is no reason to delay matters any further.”

Smudger, having been lied to by experts all his life, could tell that Minerva wasn’t telling him the truth and said so.

“Couldn’t you just accept that we have good reasons for thinking that Albus has got it wrong,” asked Hermione, with one eye on Minerva.

Smudger snorted. “You’re asking me to risk my life for you, and you’re asking me to trust you at the same time, but you won’t tell me what’s really going on. I don’t call those good odds.”

“But…” said Hermione.

“No dear, he has a right to know what’s going on.” Minerva flushed bright red. “Albus had promised to marry me after the War was over. It seems that he is now regretting that promise and is looking for ways to evade that prospect. This appears to have affected his judgement over what is the best course of action.”

Smudger sat there with his mouth open. “No, that can’t be right.”

“I can assure you it is,” Minerva said in a tight voice.

“Well he’s a bleeding idiot – pardon my language – for turning down a fine figure of a witch like yourself. An absolute bleeding idiot.”

Minerva flushed again, but for entirely different reasons.

“We think that Albus has turned down several good opportunities to bring matters to a head for that reason,” Severus said. “If you remember, a couple of months ago His Lordship took it into his head to have that meeting at Malfoy Manor. We could have surrounded the place and taken everyone down so easily.”

Smudger nodded his agreement. “That’s true. In fact I was shitting bricks the whole time we were there, expecting the Aurors to turn up at any minute.”

“I would have been conveniently ill, if that was the case. And so would the rest of The Lads. We would all have come down with something at the same time – a nasty case of Auroritis.”

Smudger looked gratified at the knowledge that Severus would actually tip them off. “Alright, so you’ve convinced me that now is the time to make a move, so what did you have in mind?”

“Right,” said Hermione, rather inelegantly with her mouth full. “Now we know that the Prophecy requires Harry to deal with His Lordship, so the basic idea is to get Harry into see him at a time when he’s on his own.”

Smudger nodded, swallowed his stew with an audible gulp, and said, “Makes sense. Which means you have to get past the Inner Circle, and they’re all evil bastards, aren’t they Severus? No offence.”

“None taken,” Severus said cheerfully, eating the stew with enthusiasm. “They are evil bastards, and Malfoy is the worst of them.”

Smudger nodded.

“So they’re all scared of him, right?” Hermione asked.

Smudger and Severus both nodded.

“So, if Lucius could be persuaded – say at wand point – to issue instructions to the rest of the Inner Circle, they’d probably obey?” Hermione continued. “Then the Aurors could pick them up one by one.”

“Yes,” Smudger replied, scratching his chin. “They would, but it’d be tricky to get the drop on old Lucius. He is a nasty piece of work. I don’t think there are many who are strong enough to Imperio the bastard. Severus here could do it; not many others.”

“And I don’t fancy doing something that could get me locked up by the Ministry,” Severus put in. “I don’t trust Dumbledore to keep me out of Azkaban, and I certainly don’t trust Fudge. Though I wouldn’t mind finding out how far I could throw him, purely in the interests of determining how little I should trust him.”

“You could try throwing him from a large cliff,” Hermione suggested. “I expect you could throw him a very long way then, which would be really misleading when it came to working out how much you could trust him, but would have the advantage of making the issue theoretical.”

Severus smirked. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Smudger held out his plate for seconds. “Well leaving aside the question of whether Fudge would bounce if you dropped him from a great height, how do we get round our little Lucius problem?”

“Polyjuice?” Minerva said.

“That’s not a bad idea. Old Snapey here can provide the potion, and all we need do is get hold of a bit of Luscious Lucy’s hair. Which won’t be tricky, because he sheds like a cat.”

Hermione flinched at the mention of cats in relation to polyjuice. Judging from the smirk on Severus’ face he was thinking of the same episode. “Yes, but it’s not just about looking like Lucius; you’ve got to sound like him too. The potion doesn’t manage that, or, so I’ve been told.”

“Lucius isn’t difficult. All you have to do is stick your nose in the air, like there’s a bad smell under it, and sneer about Mudbloods all the time.” Smudger demonstrated the proper angle for the nose. “Oh, Mudbloods are dirty and smelly and stupid, and we should kill them all,” Smudger sneered in a faultless impression of the Malfoy manner.

Hermione, Severus and Minerva just stared at him. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

“What?” What are you looking at me like that for? Smudger said uneasily. “Oh fuck, I’ve just broken the habit of a lifetime and volunteered, haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job, Smudger,” said Minerva firmly.

“It’s too late to back out now,” added Severus.

“Well but there’s got to be something in it for me,” Smudger wheedled. “Allow a man his Slytherin pride.”

“Something other than seeing the Wizarding World free from blight?” Minerva said in disbelief.

Smudger nodded, a calculating expression on his face. “A pet Mudblood of my own.”

There was a horrified silence, and Severus’ fingers clenched round his knife and fork until his knuckles were white.

“That isn’t really a term we use in polite society,” Minerva said gently.

“Ah,” said Smudger, busying himself with his meal for a moment. “I’m not really used to polite society.”

“Why do you want a Muggle girlfriend?” asked Hermione.

“Well,” Smudger said, grateful for the conversational ladder extended to him so he could get out of the hole. “They seem to be so much more fun than Pureblood girls. I mean, they know about football and darts, and they don’t turn their noses up at going out for the evening in a Pub… I dunno, they’re just more fun.” 

“So you haven’t got your heart set on a Muggleborn,” Hermione asked. “You just want a girl who likes the same sort of things that you like.”

“Yeah,” Smudger said. “I’m not getting any younger, and what with Old Snapey here settling down, well, it’s just got me to thinking.”

“I can’t promise you a Mudblood of your own, you know,” Hermione said. “But I’m sure that between us Minerva and I can introduce you to a couple of girls. And, of course, if we were to let drop just how brave you’d been, and how you’d been the one to help bring down His Lordship, well I’m sure that the young ladies would be flocking to your side.”

“I suppose,” said Smudger doubtfully. “I’ve never had much luck with Girls before now.”

“That was before you became a bona fide Hero,” said Minerva briskly. “Look at Old Snapey here. He wasn’t exactly a magnet for The Ladies until Hermione came along, but once she found out how Brave and how Clever he was, she was putty in his hands, weren’t you dear?”

Severus had looked irritated, soppy, then amused by turns during this peroration.

“Absolutely right,” said Hermione firmly. “Putty in his hands.”

She looked up, and found Severus was staring at her with a very affectionate gaze indeed which made her feel quite flushed, rather short of breath, and quite keen that the meeting should be brought to a climax as quickly as possible.

She meant conclusion, yes, that’s what she meant. Not climax. Conclusion.

Ahem.

 “Blimey,” said Smudger, bringing Hermione back down to earth with a bump. “It’s not that I believe you, like, but it’s nice to see someone prepared to lie for her man like that.” He wiped an imaginary tear away from his eye.

“But Smudger,” Hermione said, fluttering her eyelashes in a wholly artificial way. “I’m a Gryffindor, not a devious Slytherin; I don’t know how to lie.”

Smudger spent the next few minutes chortling to himself over that. “Good one,” he said, in between wheezing with laughter. “That’s a good one.”

He only stopped laughing when he inhaled a piece of casserole, and Severus had to pat him on the back. He may have been a little more forceful that was strictly necessary; the Mudblood comment was still rankling a little.

“Alright then,” Smudger said, when he finally regained his breath. “I’m in.”

"So," said Hermione, "now for the difficult bit."

"What, taking on His Lordship?" asked Smudger.

"No. Getting Harry and Ron to do as they are told."

Smudger smiled uncertainly, not sure whether Hermione was having a larff.

“Believe me,” Severus said fervently. “That isn’t a joke.”

Hermione smirked. “Mind you. I do think I’ve found the perfect way round it. It’s beautiful.”

Severus cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Simply tell them not to do it. It always worked for Albus, and they never seemed to learn their lesson.”

Severus smirked. “They didn’t, did they? Whatever you do, don’t do this Potter, he’d be told. And sure enough, by the end of the year, the three of you would be off doing precisely what you’d been told not to do.”

“Well, why not get Albus to tell them not to do it this time?” Minerva asked. “It seems to me that if you present this plot at the next Order meeting – without mentioning Smudger here – Albus is bound to poo poo the idea and that should start their minds running in the right direction.”

“I’d rather we kept Albus out of it,” Severus said. “He’s a bloody nuisance, and a pain in the arse.”

Hermione nodded. “I tell you what, I’ll ask them out for a drink to catch up and sound them out on the idea. There’s no point tipping Dumbledore off about our idea, unless we really have to. Then, if they’re up for it, the only thing after that is how to introduce them to Smudger without them being suspicious, because we haven’t got six years to persuade them of his bona fides.”

“Does that mean that you have finally managed to convince those two that I am not actually still on His Lordship’s side?” Snape’s tone was acid.

“Either that, or they’ve learned not to be stupid enough to repeat their suspicions to me,” Hermione replied. “I suspect that it has begun to dawn on them that if Severus were really up to no good that Harry would be pushing up daisies by now.”

“Bloody right,” said Smudger. “It’s not as if he doesn’t have a complete stockroom of nasty potions at his disposal. If he wanted to polish the little squirt off, he could have done easily.”

Severus smirked at the encomium; it was well deserved. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“Mind you,” said Minerva thoughtfully, “you can’t help but wonder why this hasn’t dawned on His Lordship. Why on earth hasn’t he ordered you to arrange Harry’s demise?”

“Ah, well, that’s easy,” said Smudger confidently. “He wants to do it himself, doesn’t he? It’s what you might call a personal grudge. Which is silly really. I’m a practical boy. If you want someone dead, what’s important is that he ends up dead, and not how you go about it, or even who you get to do it.”

Severus nodded his agreement. “Absolutely right.”

Hermione smirked. “You just keep telling yourself that when Harry is the hero of the Wizarding World…..”

Severus did not look happy at the thought. “Are you sure that we couldn’t Obliviate him afterwards, so that no one would ever know.”

Only Minerva smiled; Smudger and Hermione knew tha