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Chapter Text

The world of the fictionalised spy is ridiculous.

So-called spy novelists and filmmakers, and their characters, have so twisted the world of actual espionage that it’s completely unrecognizable.  The very idea that people, James Bond, if you will, flit about the surface of the world, fighting this bad guy, and playing in machines created by that lunatic scientist (who is always gifted in every discipline), is baffling.  Here’s a fact.  If anyone tries to do what a fictional spy does, there would be such international outrage and backlash… one would be so far buried under bureaucracy that they would never see the sun again.  Assuming they didn’t land in jail first for, oh, say, blowing up an entire hotel.  Or driving a public transit vehicle into a large body of water.  It’s lunacy, and it drives Severus crazy.

The difference between what is read on the page, or seen on the screen verses what is done in real life is enormous.  And he knows this because he’s seen and read them both.

To be quite honest, he thinks it’s all preposterous.  It’s so far-fetched and fantastical as to be absurd.

Then, there are the villains.

Trumped up mad scientists hell-bent on world domination, or psychopaths obsessed with turning brains into goop that runs out of people’s ears… it’s all a load of tripe.  If people want actual villains, they should turn to history, he thinks.

Similarly, real spies aren’t heroes walking around impeccably dressed simply because it’s a Tuesday, they don’t have an endless supply of witticisms at the ready, and a scantily clad blonde isn’t hanging on their arm each and every night.  They aren’t the sons and daughters of former spies, or government dignitaries who are given special licenses to kill in the name of patriotism.

Real espionage, quiet championing, is done by ordinary people who work and train extraordinarily hard.

And, who sometimes already have years of experience walking on thin, precariously suspended wires.

They’re not all Russian, either.

He takes a sip of champagne and scans the crowd before him from his darkened corner.

While the life of a real spy isn’t all explosions and daring rescue attempts, it still definitely has its perks.

There should be more stories about real spies.

Not that he ever wanted to return to that game.  And yet, he arches an ironic brow, here he is again.

However.

It has long been said that if one wants a thing done right, one must do it oneself.

A tall man dressed in impressive, expensive robes, surrounded by a crowd of tittering sycophants, including the Minister’s newest Undersecretary, floats by, and Snape follows them with dark eyes.

He hears whispers.

He notices shadows.

He’s been trained to, after all, and old habits die hard.  That’s not to say that Severus has been indulging any sort of habit.

This man he follows, whom he’d specifically come out this evening to see, has been bothering Severus for several months now.

Snape knows his type.  Worse, he knows the types who listen to him, too.  It is particularly this latter issue that makes him so ill at ease.

Tyrants are an interesting, only mildly varied, breed.

Alone, tyrannical sorts that are just starting out, budding psychopaths, will typically go one of two ways.  For the less determined, if they do not possess what they need to achieve the goals they want quickly enough, may end up quitting out of frustration, thus never really becoming an issue.  The more ambitious sorts, however, go after the ears of those who do have the means, and, well, then all sorts of issues arise.

It is Severus’ intent and charge to keep any such thing from happening again.  Issues grow into ‘bigger problems,’ and he’s just so very weary of ‘bigger problems.’  To be perfectly frank, ‘bigger problems’ can go straight to hell.  Along with the colour yellow, but he’s getting off topic.

The crowd moves toward the farthest wall from the entrance of the grand hall hosting this little soirée; a cavernous space on the ground floor of a private  Magical History museum near Trafalgar Square, with a large staircase leading to the upper levels, and a small side hall opposite the entrance.  Marble floors, talking portraits, and a few moving statues aside, it is otherwise nondescript.  Average.

They pass, but Severus remains where he is.  He notes how people around him watch the man at the centre of the crowd as they move.  He notes how they pretend to not pay attention, too.  There is tension, but more than that, there is suspension of belief.  No one dares to voice grim suppositions after such hard won peace.

Perhaps he truly is the cynical bastard everyone claims, but for the life of him, Severus cannot understand how so many can simply overlook the obvious.  Especially when their lives have just now begun to return to normal after the last incident.  That decades long plague upon the earth that even locusts would probably appreciate.

He grimaces at the thought.

The man he focuses on, a worrisome profligate with dyed, yellow-blond hair and a too-bright smile, the bastard, who goes by the name of Melanthus Orran, is jostled into the center of his admirers, and Severus briefly loses contact.

The once-lauded Potions master, retired, smoothly swerves past a chatting group of people, whom he vaguely recognizes, and he squints through the crowd to locate his target. Specifically, his target’s eyes.

For a brief moment, Orran’s face is turned just so that the gaze of his sparkling eyes (never trust sparkling eyes) is in line with his, and Severus mentally intones ‘Legilim—’

He shudders when a shrill voice calls Severus’ name, breaking his concentration.  He sighs the sigh of the truly apathetic, and turns to acknowledge whatever cretin has interrupted him.  It is a woman he only vaguely recalls from a conference last Fall.  Lovely.

She gets in two words before he dismisses her with practised ease and an indifferent redirection of his attention.  Mercifully, she takes the hint and leaves him be.  It’s never been said that he’s a social creature, and tonight is no exception.

Facing the far wall again, he finds that Orran has disappeared, and Severus finishes his second flute of champagne.  It is no matter; he can’t have gotten too far, and fortunately the man is in the company of a very recognizable companion.  A swift scan of the room, and a flash of red hair catches his eye, directing him to where he should be looking.  The woman Orran has been sporting with lately is, to be fair, stunning, and her fiery locks are easy to pick out in a crowd.

Like most tyrants, the man certainly knows how to pick an entourage.

Gaze redirected, he focuses again, and fiddles with the chain connected to his pocket watch.  A quick check and his brow furrows.  He is already behind schedule.

The yellow-blond man comes back into view between the wide shoulders of two men whose existence Severus could care less about, and he immediately intones, ‘Legilimen—’

Orran tosses his head back to roar with laughter at some unheard quip.

“Fuck,” Severus mutters.

His foot taps in annoyance.  Perhaps he simply needs to move?

New directive established, he edges closer.  In the interim, Severus casts a look about him for the only other person he’s agreed to meet with this night.  An unlikely partner of sorts, with whom, he’d rather not have engaged.  Nothing personal, just, again, best to do a thing oneself and keep those involved to a minimum.  More people means more issues.  

His left eye twitches at the thought.  Fucking issues.

Shifting through the masses, dodging women’s heels, and the tipsy swervings of young men over-indulging in free alcohol, he finally reaches the outer limits of Orran’s group.   Quietly, he arranges himself behind a wide witch with some kind of ridiculous feathered frippery in her hair, and takes a breath to compose himself.
Orran’s profile peeks out from beside the ever-present Undersecretary, and Severus’ eyes focus, waiting for the barest glimpse of sparkle.  His muscles tense.  His breath evens.  His entire being shrinks and centres to a spot somewhere near the bridge of his impressive nose (he likes to visualise that his mentally incanted spells gather there) and nary an unwanted nerve fires without permission.

Three seconds tick by.  Five.  There!  Sparkle is definitely detectable and the gathered thoughts near his nose erupt into a single word, ‘LEGI—’

The gorgeous redhead pulls Orran forward for a heated kiss, and Severus nearly falls backward with the force of this mental blue-balling of epic proportions.

“Goddamnitfuckbollocks and curse every creature under heaven!”

Beside him, a very scandalised pair of witches gasp at his outburst, and step a little further away.

For what may be the 394th time he curses his fate, runs a frustrated hand through disheveled hair, and turns on his heel.

He needs another drink.

It’s free after all.

He spots a young wizard in tails, with a tray, and Severus snaps his fingers.  The younger man stops with raised brows and turns towards the admittedly rude gesture.

“Would you like a glass of –”

“Yes,” he interrupts.  What else does he think he wants?  A chat?

He snatches a flute and takes a large, much needed swig, taking comfort in the acidic burn that creeps down his throat.  He gives the glass a wary glance; booze seems to be the only thing that soothes his tattered nerves these past couple of months.  For an alarming moment Severus wonders if he’s becoming an alcoholic.  Not even two days ago, his associate had even remarked on his excessive spirits consumption… In the hand, cheerful champagne bubbles slide harmlessly up the glass and fizz to the surface.  He shakes away the thought and takes another large gulp.

A polite cough sounds beside him, and he arches a brow towards the sound.  The waiter, for some stupid reason, has continued to hang around, and Severus eyes him nastily.

“Are you enjoying yourself, sir?”

Severus slowly swallows the fizzing liquid pooled atop his tongue and considers this.  No doubt before the guests had arrived, the help had been given a rousing inspirational speech by their superiors, instilling in them a willingness to make sure every guest has a grand time this evening.  At this all-important, reputation changing, formal charity event.

Snape runs a finger along the rim of the glass, not bothering to look up into the man’s eyes. “Bugger off.”

The young man stutters and Severus turns away.  His gaze instead falls upon a rowdy group of what looks to be Aurors showing off their badges in an attempt to impress women.

He rolls his eyes.

Orran, future terror of the world, is plotting, quite possibly, their demise not ten yards away and they – he cocks his head in disbelief, appear to be literally comparing dick sizes.

He shakes his head, wondering at the dim-wittedness of Aurors, when a riotous cloud of curls snags his attention.  Not just any riotous mane however; a familiar-ish one.  One that appears to be up and smoothed rather than frizzing higglety-pigglety over shoulders that are uncharacteristically bare.

A glance back to Orran shows his back now facing him, and with a muffled oath he abandons his fourth attempt at Legilimency for the moment.  Smoothly, he shoulders past a man in a top hat to better see the owner of the familiar tresses, and resists the urge to check his pocket watch.  He knows he’s behind schedule; no use agitating himself further with the particulars.

The face below the intriguing pile of curls emerges fully into view, and he smirks.  His guess had been correct for he knows that profile just as certainly as he recognises the false laughter floating on the air from her voice.

He sighs.

As if on cue, she turns and, as is his luck, unmistakably catches his eye.  She appears to startle at his presence, and tilts her head in surprise.  He bites his tongue to keep from rolling his own eyes at her theatrics.

With resignation, he acknowledges that a connection has been made and there is probably no avoiding it now.  Not that he would, really, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to be the one to make the first move.  He watches Hermione Granger, and for a brief moment Severus contemplates her appearance.

A flash of pale skin peeks out from a slit in her gown and he blinks.  Drastically different from the rumpled jeans and t-shirt he’s been accustomed to lately seeing.

Unintentionally, his gaze sweeps up from bare ankles and curving hip to quickly scan the length of her.   He reluctantly admits that time does slightly improve some things, and despite what his opinion of her was as a child, he finally supposes she’s not as irritating as she once was.

Then again.

He swallows an irritated groan as she contradicts him by convincing the elderly man with whom she’s conversing to join her in greeting him.

Severus unconsciously smoothes his robes.

“Professor Snape, my goodness, what a surprise to see you here,” she chirps breathlessly.

His expression remains even.

“Miss Granger, charming and tactful as usual I see.”

He admits to a certain delight in watching the irritated flush steal across her cheeks.

Alright, she is still a tad annoying, but rarely does he ever take such pleasure in humiliating a person as much as he does with her.

Her eyes rake over him.  “Speaking of tact,” she quietly clips, and pointedly looks at the glass in his hand.  “Champagne, I see.  Is this your fifth glass yet?”

That earlier worry about alcoholism pokes him in the eye and he lowers the flute.

Miss Granger directs her attention back to the gentleman at her side.

“Mr Ludden, may I introduce my former Potions professor from Hogwarts, Severus Snape.”

Severus manages a barely whispered, “Order of Merlin, First Class,” before manfully extending his hand to shake this anonymous old man’s.

Ludden mumbles something intended to be flattering, but quite frankly Severus couldn’t care less and he flicks his gaze once to check on the target, who is still near the wall.

“Mr Ludden is on the board of a wonderful new youth mentoring programme in London, and we were just discussing the merits of a decent education being available to all young witches and wizards in the wake of the destruction of so many institutions.”

“Mm.” Snape hums disinterestedly.  Orran, he notes, has been edging towards a dimly lit corner for the past five minutes where a group of men are gathered.  A group of men Severus knows to include former Death Eater sympathisers no matter what they’d pleaded in court.  Unconsciously, he lets his hair fall forward to shield his eyes.

At length, Miss Granger finally ceases rattling on, and gives up on his being polite in any capacity.  When he hears her bid the old man goodnight, Severus slides back into their rough conversation.

“Must you always be so rude?”

“Nonsense.  I’m acting as I always do.  You, on the other hand.”  He shakes his head.  “Don’t you think you’re overplaying it a bit?  Let’s bring it down a few notches, shall we?”

“Are you implying that I’m doing something not up to your impossible standards?” she sniffs and looks away.

He notices the way she fidgets with her too-tight dress and absently worries her plunging neckline.   It strikes him that she emits the air of a young girl wearing her mother’s ill-fitting evening gown, and he smirks.

“Have you had your fill of playing dress up, Miss Granger?  Perhaps you should go home.”

Her eyes flash, and she rounds on him.

“You should watch yourself, Professor.  I’ve been boning up on my Transfiguration skills of late, and I’d hate to have to turn you into the bat you were always meant to be.”

Severus’ pride takes a further blow at the sound of sniggering from an eavesdropper at his back.  He turns to tell whatever fool had been rudely listening in to bugger off, when the smug face of a very… handsome… woman with dirty blonde hair and an inappropriately revealing dress greets him.

He pauses for a moment, nearly horrified, before muttering, “Madame?”

At his side, Granger hisses a sharp, “I told you to blend in, Ron!” and suddenly everything becomes clear.

A deep, long-suffering sigh issues from between his lips, and he feels the first stirrings of a tension headache twinge in his forehead.

“Miss Granger.” he grinds out.

“I’m going, I’m going,” the awkward woman who is actually Ronald Weasley smirks.  She… he… twirls away and sways his hips a little too widely, bumping into a pair of men who had been lately admiring his arse.

To her credit, Granger is equally horrified.

“I told him not to wear that dress,” she frantically whispers, fingers knotting themselves in her own emerald gown, and Severus clucks his tongue.

He directs a pointed look to her nervous habit, and Miss Granger immediately stills.  She takes a breath and is again the perfect picture of calm.

Good.

“Why is he here?”

She groans and shakes her head.  “He refuses to let me do this without, as he says, ‘Some kind of protection.’”

“If he gets in the way, I will personally hex him.”

“He’s under strict instructions to observe only.”

“Do I want to know who he’s imitating?”

She rolls her eyes.  “His ex-girlfriend.  He insisted on going,” she pauses to whisper, “‘under cover’.”

“Did you brew his—”

“Yes, and he has plenty.”

Snape swallows a dozen venomous responses, and instead reminds himself of their impending task.  “Quantity over quality, Granger?”

“Harry sends his blessing,” she mutters with significance, unperturbed by his barb.

It shouldn’t matter, but he can’t help but feel somewhat appeased to hear these words.  It means Potter is paying attention, and he, or rather they, have been given the official go ahead to proceed.  It further meant that he’d not gotten dressed up and faffed about all evening for naught.

Though, to be honest, he would have continued whether Potter had said yes or no.  Less red tape now.

“As he should.”

“Have you any luck this evening?” she asks with affected charm.

Ignoring his sense of frustration at having not successfully invaded Orran’s mind, he takes a sip and shakes his head once.

She titters and frowns at his glass.

“I’m sorry, did you want one as well?” he asks, indicating his flute.

She glares at him.

He gestures to the man who has gotten ever closer to the darkened corner.  “I have been unsuccessful.”  He adds sardonically, “In many avenues of my life.”

She sighs, and he decides it is about time to be getting on with it.  Delicately, he dips one long finger into the bubbling liquid of his drink, and dabs a few drops on his pristine collar.

He considers Miss Granger, and then hastily does the same to the curve of her neck before he can convince himself otherwise.  Turnabout will be fair play and he might as well enjoy himself after all.  Her lips part in shock and he gives her an arched brow to ensure her silence.

“Scent,” he murmurs, and Granger cottons on.

Now that the pair of them smell as if they’d had one too many for the night, the champagne is finished in a trice and the glass banished.

“I did try,” he continues.  “There are too many people pulling him in too many directions for enough focus.”

Though, no doubt the man is utterly basking in the glow of his clambering public.  Prick.

She nods.  “Plan B then.”

Discreetly, Severus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a warmed phial.  He takes a step towards her, and casually reaches his hand down, sliding it into her palm.  Her fingers are warm and damp, and his eyes stray to where her teeth are worrying her lower lip.

If he’s told her once, he’s told her a hundred times to be aware of her tells.

“Miss Granger,” he warns.

She looks up at him with wide, concerned eyes, and he swallows another agitated sigh. She’s obviously been counting on his being successful with Legilimency.  For a moment, he feels the barest stirring of sympathy for her nerves.  It isn’t as if she does this sort of thing routinely after all.  Just, desperate times and whatnot.

The first sweetly chirping notes of “The Blue Danube” softly trill around them, and he figures now is as good a time as any, but before they start, it would behoove the both of them for her to be calm.

He leans forward, lightly inhaling near her shoulder before stepping back.

“Forgive me, you do look lovely this evening.”

She blinks, utterly taken aback.  He allows one corner of his lips to lightly lift in amusement.

“Gryffindor,” he says with purpose, and turns away to push through the throng before him.

She stares after, and he turns to see her stubborn bravery reassert itself at his none too subtle reminder.  Good.

With a final glance at Orran’s location, he extends a hand as the waltz swirls around them.

“Shall we?”

Resolutely, her chin lifts with determination, and she places her hand in his.  Thus, they begin.

They enter the dance with numerous other whirling couples and, while he dislikes dancing personally, he concedes she is at least an acceptable partner.  Not that he’s any grand example of form himself, but they are at least able to briefly hold their own on the floor.

She is warm and stiff beneath his hands and easily guidable.  Her eyes lock on his at every moment.

He dips his mouth towards her ear and murmurs, “Ms Red is still your target.”

She nods and her eyes flick towards the wall to locate the woman.  “So I noticed.”

He can feel the phial hidden in her hand against his shoulder, which reminds him.  “Remember, one strand will do, just in case.”

Her brows furrow on a twirl.  “Yes, I know,” she snaps.

Her quick temper amuses him and he cannot help himself a further barb.  “Please make sure it’s human,” he jests, recalling the unfortunate incident her second year involving a cat.

“Yes, thank you.”

His lips thin to suppress a grin.

One – two – three, one – two – three.

Gracefully, he spins her as they draw nearer to the far wall.  She begins to chew on her lip again and he pinches her waist, reclaiming her attention.

“Just as we practised,” he says in as soothing a tone he can manage.

She swallows, and glances once more to the outer edges of Orran’s entourage where the voluptuous redhead is watching the dancers with interest.

There will be only one shot at this, and if all goes well no one should be any the wiser.

One – two – three, one – two – three.

He counts his steps, keeping time, and soon they are ten feet away, eight feet, four feet.  Severus’ chest tightens and there is a whisper – Miss Granger stumbles and launches herself clumsily into the woman with ginger curls, and surrounding men lunge forward to offer assistance.

The woman exclaims in surprise, and Severus steps out of the dance, immediately striding forward, ready with apologies.

“Oh, my heavens, are you all right?”  His voice is tight with disgustingly practised worry, and brows appropriately furrowed.

“I’m so sorry!” Hermione gasps, reaching for her ankle where the strap of her right heel has snapped.  One hand braces against the woman, earning a sneer of discontent.

“What on earth?” Red shrieks, attempting to push the younger woman off, who is still struggling with her broken shoe.  The woman hisses as Granger’s hand next becomes entangled in her hair, and gets caught on the bracelet around her wrist.

Severus dances anxiously at their side, occasionally reaching forward to assist, but careful to allow Granger to do whatever it is she needs to do.

“Two left feet, I always say she’s got two left feet,” he comments to the nearest man beside him.

“I don’t know what happened, oh – this is so embarrassing,” Granger continues, cheeks pink with mortification.  

Severus leans to the side and elbows the man he’s been complaining to.  “Mightn’t it have something to do with your four glasses of bubbly, dear?”  He winks to the man, who is now visibly put-off by Snape’s overfamiliarity.

Hermione finally frees herself and waves his obnoxious comments away.  Her hair has partially escaped its once-lovely coiffure, and she attempts a half-hearted righting of it, while wobbling on a broken strap.  The effect is admittedly comical and serves its purpose in distracting the gathered onlookers.

A man with wide-set eyes gently helps Miss Granger to her feet, while Severus continues profusely offering his apologies to Red.   Orran is nowhere yet to be seen, or is simply not interested enough in what has become of his date to bother with the situation.  Regardless, it’s all the better for them.

Under the pretence of checking her for injury, Severus quickly manoeuvres Red so that she is directly beside him, while Hermione continues rattling off distracting nonsense and generally making a fuss.  He quickly reaches between the folds of his robes to his other pocket, and pulls out a small straight pin that has been dipped in a sedative he’d brewed that afternoon.  Spells may be noticed, and the Imperius Curse is obviously not an option.  Sedatives, while primitive, never fail to do the trick and are excellent resources for encouraging mild suggestibility.

He looks to Hermione, who is regaining her balance.  “Really, are you all right, my dear?”

Red frowns in affront, and looks to Hermione, and Severus quickly sticks her hip with the tainted pin amidst the confusion.

“I cannot tell you again how sorry I am, really,” Hermione simpers, and thanks the wide eyed man who continues offering his arm for support.  “These silly shoes!”

Beside Severus, the woman blinks and lightly sways.  That’s his cue.

“Please, allow me to get you a drink.  It’s the least I can do.”

She opens her painted lips to respond, but appears confused, and struggles to find words. Snape easily steers her away before anyone can stop them, and Miss Granger follows in a flurry of skirts and waving hands.

His arm wraps around Red’s waist, push-pulling her through the oblivious crowd while she is still able to walk.  They have very little time before someone objects to her disappearance, and behind him he can hear Hermione apologising for every person he impatiently shoves out of the way.  

“What,” Red begins to protest, but Severus pokes her jaw shut with a finger.

“Tut-tut now, no need for words,” he reassures.  If only that would work every time without drugs, he muses.

Red mumbles something incoherent, and when her feet stop shuffling of their own accord, he resorts to momentarily dragging the thoroughly woozy woman.  His eyes bulge when her dead weight takes him by surprise, and he briefly stumbles, and flashes a surprised look at the body in his arms.  Honestly, for someone who’s as thin as a stick, she’s deceptively dense.

A silently whispered Hover Charm later and Red is righted back to a standing position.  Sort of.  She’s leaning against him and her face presses against his shoulder, unconscious, and he’s certain there will be lipstick stains. He also takes advantage of slipping her arm around his waist.

“Someone shouldn’t drink so much so quickly, should they?” He falsely chastises the young thing at his side and continues unfazed.  “You see, alcohol affects one’s system due to a variety of factors, but typically, the equation is something along the lines of so many ounces consumed verses grams in the consumer, and you are probably hiding your grams with a well-placed cosmetic charm if my sore back in the morning will have anything to say about it.”

He feels a sharp flick against the nape of his neck, and twists around with a scowl.

“I feel it’s worth pointing out the irony of a borderline alcoholic lecturing anyone else on the effects of alcohol on the body,” Granger taunts.

Snape tosses her a glare and adjusts the passed out woman at his side.  “Will you stop with that?” He is not an alcoholic, damnit.

They duck around the nearest corner and he presses the lightly floating Red against the wall, and Severus takes a moment to gather his breath. Miss Granger is there a heartbeat later, plucking a hair from Red’s head, and downs the phial’s contents swiftly, wasting no time.

“Into the closet,” he says, opening a door near the woman’s shoulder and roughly thrusting her inside, heedless of how she may land in the dark. “Be quick about it,” he snaps as Hermione follows and closes it behind them with a click.

One task down, he turns and scans the room to make sure they haven’t yet been followed. Thus far, they seem to be in the clear, and he takes a moment to collect his thoughts and straighten his stained collar. All told, their stunt has gone off relatively easily. Their previous days’ worth of planning has paid off.

His self-congratulation is cut short, however, when a commotion stirs ahead. Three men push through the sea of people, searching for whom he supposes is the missing escort. Snape quickly raps on the door at his back.

It opens two seconds later, and Hermione, now sporting the other woman’s aspect emerges with nary a gorgeous red hair out of place. Her wide eyes stare up at him and he shakes his head at her expression.

“Try to look less human,” he clips. She sneers.

“Better. They’re looking for her. As we agreed, you have one hour.”

She departs without comment, and damn if he can’t help but admire the stunning figure she cuts in that dress.  In that borrowed body.

Pity.

Several seconds go by before he allows himself a peek around the corner. The three men appear visibly relaxed as Miss Granger approaches and allows them to escort her back. They are then then swallowed up by the glittering horde, and all that is left of the evening’s plan is for Granger to glean any amount of damning evidence from Orran, and for him to handle the unconscious woman in the closet.

Speaking of… He quirks a brow and slowly turns to face the closed door behind him.

What to do with a drugged knock-out hidden from the public? His raises his jaw. He is, of course, a man of honour. He would never. Couldn’t. Gods he needs to get laid.

“I can keep an eye on her.”

Severus spins at the irritating sound of Ron Weasley’s voice and narrows his eyes.  His trashy silver dress is slightly twisted, nearly revealing the left nipple, his lipstick is vaguely smeared and he’s sporting a wolfish grin looking for all the world as if the cat caught the canary.

“D’ you know how much easier it is to snog drunk women as a drunk woman?” he preens.

Snape shakes his head.  “Pride of the Ministry, you are.”

He flicks his wand to the door and the outline briefly glows orange.

Weasley eyes the internal ward and sulks.

“Do not let anyone in there, yourself especially, Weasley, do I make myself clear?”

His tone brooks no argument, and the sloppy mess of a female Ron nods and folds his arms.

“Good. I should be back within the hour.” He points to the door. “She shouldn’t be able to escape, but just in case I’m not back in time, handle it.”

Ron nods, and Severus starts to turn away, but then pauses in disgust and gestures to the indecent amount of exposed cleavage. “And for god’s sake, fix… that. You’re at a formal ball, not a brothel.”

He strides out of the side hall, and picks his way through several witches and wizards to stake out a vantage point from which to monitor Granger’s progress. Honestly, he has little doubt that she can ferret out enough information to bring Potter and his noble ilk raining down from the heavens to pre-empt Orran’s worrisome and meteoric ascent.  But, should anything happen to her, precious few would know where, or at whom, to look.

In the background, a stately polonaise begins, possibly Chopin, and Severus situates himself behind a large fern near the east staircase.  His eyes train on Granger and the man around whose arm she has looped hers. A vague smirk plays about her crimson lips while Orran rattles on to his nearest associates, and Severus quietly approves.  She’s effectively insinuated herself at his side, and he has likewise been successful in escaping his previous group of admirers.  is now engaged in animated conversation with the questionable group of men in the darkened corner, and is hopefully speaking of damning things.

Everything seems to be running smoothly. Miss Granger stands attentively and does not speak, men lean forward to whisper, and Orran nods and gestures theatrically. He clearly loves the attention. Then, something happens that causes Snape’s eyes to narrow to slits. It really is nothing, and were she actually Red, it would even be a normal exchange. , whose hand had been casually resting at her hip, slides up, and he leans to the side to whisper something in her ear.  He runs a suggestive finger up the inner crease of her elbow, and she demurs, appearing to enjoy the attention, but then playfully nips at his ear!  Severus’ eyebrows fly to his hairline. He is suddenly unreasonably incensed. There is acting and fitting in, but then… then there’s that! He grinds his teeth. He’d instructed her to play along but he hadn’t expected her to enjoy herself, for goodness sake. He plucks another flute of champagne from a passing tray and swallows half in one go.

With hooded eyes, he watches as the mood shifts from Orran’s playful flirting to something… perhaps more worrisome.  The other man’s hand slides from her arm, past her hip and lingers just below her waist, but he continues conversing with his fellows as if this public display of affection isn’t inappropriate at all. Miss Granger’s eyes widen at the action, and she instinctively bats his groping fingers aside. Severus’ grip nearly shatters his glass. , not missing a beat, suddenly grips her wrist, chastising her modesty.  He turns to address her, and she looks to the floor, wincing in pain.  releases her wrist, and turns back to his discussion.  

When Hermione discreetly rubs at the mark left by his hand, Severus is livid. If so much weren’t at stake on their finding something conclusive to pin on Orran, he would have hexed the bastard five ways from Sunday for that little stunt.

Both Snape and Hermione take a calming breath, and she carefully reassumes her vaguely disinterested mask.  Severus pockets his wand again and reassures himself that if Granger is calm, he should be as well.

The next several minutes are much less eventful, and he watches from the shadows, glass still intact, and in hand.  Though, eventually he does grow steadily more and more irritated with the pair he watches.  Granger, because of her continued, needlessly flirtatious advances with Orran; and Orran because of his alternating pretentious orations and public ravishings of the flighty woman beside him. The quick beneath his nail beds are white from the strain of his hold on the flute stem at this point, and he certainly hopes she’s putting her ears to as much use as her lips and fingers.

More time passes, the bouncy polonaise turns into a meandering minuet, and he begins to grow anxious. Miss Granger, when not whispering sweet nothings, uselessly hangs on his arm like a trained macaque, and at one point even twirls at his command, presumably to show her off– he won’t even think about it. She hasn’t yet given the signal that she’s gotten anything useful and she’s been there for at least forty minutes by now.  They had agreed on a single dose of Polyjuice to doubly ensure Granger gets in and out quickly.  The logic being that the longer she lingers, and the more often she has to ingest the potion, the likelihood of her being discovered increases. It isn’t as if Polyjuice in a crystal glass would just go unnoticed, of course.

Checking his pocket watch again, he grits his teeth; they have ten minutes left before Cinderella turns back into a kitchen maid.  His fingers drum absently along his thighs, and he contemplates attempting Legilimency on Granger on the off chance that she’d actually signaled him earlier, when the group suddenly huddles together more tightly, and Orran leans forward. The hairs on the back of Snape’s neck rise, and he focuses on Miss Granger’s eyes. Her previously calm expression of haughty superiority slips, and is replaced by a momentary look of horror before she regains her composure. He exhales sharply through his nose at her error, and watches as she checks to make sure she’s not been seen. No one else appears to be focused on any other person than Orran though, and she relaxes.

Snape lets a puff of air escape between his lips, and he sets the empty flute aside on the fern’s stand before him.  They have three minutes left.

Orran’s face is now hidden behind two men with their backs to Snape, and he can’t get a reading on his expression. Granger fidgets beside him, and in the next moment, the gathered men pull back and look at each other, nodding.  To his relief, Miss Granger excuses herself with a delicate blush.  Orran kisses her cheek before she departs, and Severus dashes from his spot to meet her back at the closet.

Winding through the masses, he loses sight of her in the crowd. The side hall is ahead, and dear Fates, he grouses, did she have to cut it so bloody close?  Red is no doubt awake at this point, as well. Won’t that be fun.

Ahead, Weasley is still manning the door, well, loosely, and Severus starts to ask if he’s seen Granger, but halts at his stricken countenance.

“What?” he snaps, nerves on edge. All he needs is one excuse to throttle a Weasley.  And at that, not even a very good one. Any will do, really.

“I’m sorry.  I panicked!”

Severus blinks, feeling apprehension creep up his spine. “What have you done?”

Heels clicking on the polished marble sound behind him, signaling Miss Granger’s return, and he mentally checks off another Issue.

Weasley continues with his oddly sounding man’s voice emanating from a woman’s mouth. “She woke up and started screaming, so, I stunned her.”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione sighs. “Now she’ll have to be Obliviated.”

Deciding that to be the least of their worries, Severus turns to look at her, and searches her eyes for further concerns. He takes in the red mark at her wrist. She ignores him and reaches for the doorknob, only to quickly pull it back with a hiss.

“Did you ward it from outside?” he snaps at the fool of an Auror, and releases the spell.

Miss Granger opens it just as her hair colour begins to fade back to its customary brown. She is immediately pounced upon by an enraged natural redhead who has apparently come to, post-stunning.

Hermione cries out, and Severus casts a hasty Muffliato and illuminates the space before them.  Weasley calmly closes the door behind and continues to keep watch.

Inside, the scene is almost comically dramatic. Snape looks down, surprised to find Red’s dress bunched up around her hips as she straddles a thrashing Hermione on the floor, and is desperately trying to claw at her face, hair, and anything else she can get her hands on. Feeling like he might as well join the party at this point, Severus stuns the woman a second time, and down she goes.

Panting heavily, Miss Granger looks up at him in shock as the weight of the woman atop her impedes her oxygen intake.

“A little help, please?” she gasps, and honestly? The out and out male in him has to take a moment to admire the surreal, if not wholly intriguing, sight before him.

“Professor!” Granger screeches after he hasn’t made a move to assist.

He shakes himself and bends down to pull the unconscious woman off of Miss Granger. He tries his very hardest not to grin at the situation, and when his hands slide under Red’s arms he pauses, remembering how heavy she’d been the last time.

“Won’t fall for that again,” he mumbles, and casts another Hover Charm to aid him in his support. He lets the unconscious woman float placidly behind him and turns his attentions back to the recumbent Miss Granger.

“Are you all right?” he manages, and offers her a hand to pull her to her feet.

She takes it a little too roughly, and is hefted up. As she struggles to her feet, a slight tearing sound is heard, followed by a quiet squeak.  Miss Granger freezes.

Snape cocks his head.  “Now what?”

Miss Granger looks down to her figure, which he’s just noticed is really very much filling out that dress now, and her hands fly to her chest where breasts are nearly popping free.

Awkwardly, she huddles in on herself and backs her derriere against the nearest wall.

“Are you—”

“Nothing!  Turn around!” she shrieks.

He coughs to cover the unexpected snicker at her predicament, but does as bid. In the closet, with a floating woman hovering near his shoulders, Severus listens to the sounds of quiet grunting, softly whispered curses, fabric sliding across skin, and the soft clicking of heels as a former student re-dresses herself in the dark.  He’s experienced many surreal events in his life, and this is ranking up there with the best of them.  

Red softly bumps into him where she is suspended in the air, and he nudges her away to lightly thud against the door.

“Bloody waif of a stick,” she mutters angrily and exhales. “You can turn back around now.”

Ever the gentlemen, he decides to keep his comments to himself and wonders if it is poor form to mention that her hair has come undone on one side. He decides it is.

Together, they look down to the poor bedraggled creature hovering near the exit. Miss Granger glares at her, back in her proper fitting gown.

“No,” he says at the vengeful gleam brightening in her eye in the wand light.

She sniffs and looks away.

Severus opens the door and checks to make sure the coast is clear before preparing to pull their unconscious victim out into the hall. A hand slides back into his pocket, and he reaches for a third potion he’s brought with him, and he spins Red so that she’s somewhat on her back. Ron, who should be keeping a lookout, has poked his head in and is taking a little too much delight on their goings on. Snape kicks his ankle, gesturing to the hall. Abashed, Weasley turns back around.

Severus carefully parts Red’s lips and pours the contents down her throat, mindful not to let her choke.  From the doorway, Miss Granger draws her wand, eagerly.

Despite his previous treatment of her, Severus gently eases her onto the floor, and releases the spell with a flick. Crouching, he sits the woman up against his knees as the potion sets to work, and lightly shakes her awake as she begins to stir.

“This will make her seem drunk, and once we’ve—”

 “Obliviate.”

He sighs and Hermione stows her wand once more. “Yes, once we’ve done that, our cover should remain intact.” One could then simply blame her wandering away on too many champagne spritzers.

Red mumbles something with a slur, and blearily blinks up at him.

“Madame, are you well?” he asks in an innocent tone.

Miss Granger exits fully now, and Snape pockets his wand. He props Red up against a wall in the side hall and stands to leave.

“Wha’s happened,” she breathes, confused.

“We’ll see if we can find some assistance for you,” he mutters having no real intention to do any such thing, and turns to withdraw. Granger follows.

From behind, they hear, “What, you’re just gonna leave her there?” from a bewildered lady Ron, who is scandalised.

“Ron.” Miss Granger snarls, and, properly heeled, he follows after them.

The three wind their way back through the guests, and do not stop to speak to anyone until they reach the edge of the foyer and are out in the warm night breeze.

“Well, did you get anything?” Ron asks, taking another sip from a flask of what Severus deduces must be his own store of polyjuice. Though why he would take more now that they’ve finished, he hasn’t the faintest.

Miss Granger nods and stares solemnly at Severus. He waits for her to go on.

“Orran is exactly as problematic as we had supposed.”

He nods.  “Details.”

Her anxious eyes flick to Ron since he’s, technically, the official with whom they are working. Heaven help them all.

“He’s got an event planned for tomorrow evening.”

Severus’ eyes widen the slightest.  So soon.

“It’s,” she pauses, brows furrowed. “He’s asked his supporters to join him tomorrow at a concert at Barbican Centre. They’re to meet during the programme’s interval, though for what, I’m not entirely sure.”

She chews her lower lip, and Severus just stops himself from reaching out and smacking her arm.

“I think he’s going to do something to the people gathered there tomorrow.” Her eyes darken. “There were a lot of jokes about torturing Muggle audience members as the post-show entertainment.”

“Something?” he presses.

She looks up at him.  “He said it was ‘time to put his theory into practise.’”

“Well, that could be anything,” Ron so helpfully adds.

Snape ignores him.

“What’s on the programme tomorrow evening?” He somehow knows that she knows. She seems like a season ticket type of person.

“The Leonore Overture, Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in G, and Mozart’s Requiem.”

He blinks, slightly impressed and amused at the same time. “Oh.  Popular works. I shouldn't be surprised if the concert is sold out.”

She nods and watches him.

“We should be there, of course.”

She nods again.

“Weasley.”

Ron stands up straighter in his high heels.

“Can you get Potter ready for—”

“A surprise raid?  Yes.”

Severus stares at him.  Astonished.

“A bit more subtle than that, Ron.”

“Well yeah,” he says sheepishly. “Course, Harry might need something more in order to call in backup. ‘Theory’s not exactly damning, is it?”

Severus looks back to Miss Granger.  “He said nothing else during that whole time we can use against him?”

She smirks and Severus relaxes.

“Well, someone did ask how his escort service was making out this summer.”  She shook her head and groaned.   “That would explain the random, disgusting twirl Orran made me do in front of everyone earlier.  Did you see that?”  She makes a face and scowls.

Ah. Red is not only a companion, she’s a ‘business’ model, then.

Ron tuts and shakes his head with false sympathy. “Pervert.”

Severus looks to Weasley and stares in wonderment. “Please tell me you haven’t bred yet.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Granger snaps. To Severus she says, “They are meeting tomorrow evening at eight o’clock.”

He tears his confounded gaze from Weasley. “We’ll meet before.”

Ron frowns and looks down at his tacky dress. “I’ve got to dress up again don’t I? I don’t know that I’ve got any formal tails.”

Hermione smiles and slowly turns to face him. “I’ve got one for you, Ron.”

“You do?”

Severus thinks under the right circumstances, he could grow to enjoy that devilish gleam in Miss Granger’s eye, and wonders what sort of Slytherin she would have made.

Granger fishes around in the bag at her wrist and hands Weasley a phial. “Here. This will reverse the Polyjuice.”

Instead of taking it gratefully, Weasley steps back, palms up and smiles politely. “Oh, that’s alright, Hermione.  I don’t much like the taste of it.  I’ll just uh, go home and let it wear off. Naturally.”

Severus feels a tang of vomit rise in his throat at the sudden image Weasley’s not very covert wink brings up, and he takes a steadying breath.

“Gross, Ron.”

He shrugs. “To each her own, eh? See you lot tomorrow.” And with that, Auror Weasley Disapparates. Not a moment too soon.

“Tell me again why Weasley was chosen for this?”

She sighs and rubs her temples. “Because, it’s Ron.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“Never mind then, are you finished?  Because I have to go.”

Severus eyes her suspiciously.  “Where?”

“Home,” she says with a faraway, slightly disturbed look in her eye. “I have to shower,” she finishes with a shudder.

He clucks his tongue and folds his arms. “I’d say so. Do you make it a habit of seducing and indulging everyone you want information from?”

She jerks back to attention and sets her jaw. “Absolutely not. I was behaving like a prostitute because I was disguised as one.  Would you rather have me not be in character around Orran?”

He almost retorts when a voice somewhere in the back of mind informs him that he’s acting as if her doing so means something to him, which it quite obviously doesn’t. Therefore, he decides to take the higher ground and not rise to her bait.

“Regardless, try to comport yourself more appropriately next time.”

She makes a groan of disgust. “There won’t be a next time.”

“Let us hope.”

An awkward silence befalls the pair and they each stare uncomfortably at the pavement.

“Tomorrow then,” she says suddenly.

“Seven.”

She nods.

“Precisely,” he adds.

“Obviously.”

He purses his lips.

In a quieter voice, she adds, “Thank you.”

Her tone throws him off guard for a moment, and he dips his chin. For some reason it feels as if his skin is prickling.

“Goodnight,” she says, and Disapparates with a quiet pop.

Severus stares after the spot she lately stood and clears his throat. Perhaps it’s the champagne or his falling adrenaline but… was there something…

He shakes himself with a roll of his eyes. Of course not. He tugs at his collar, feeling momentarily foolish.  Perhaps he does have a drinking problem after all.

“Goodnight.” he says to the air before him and leaves for his own home.

Tomorrow will be interesting.

~~~

Chapter Text

When she had been a teenager, Hermione Granger had made it her business to notice everything.

Despite what some might say, the reason for her attentiveness was not because she was a bossy, know-it-all bookworm who had a superiority complex. It wasn’t because she took an unreasonable amount of pride in knowing something about a great many things, if not knowing the things completely, just for the sake of being able to say she knew them.

It was more like, her life depended on her knowledge.

Her life, and the lives of her friends, depended on Hermione’s ability to know about every little thing that happened, to notice every little detail the others might not see, so that she could figure out a way to fix it. That is, should issues have needed resolving.

Consequently, Hermione was very good at logic, puzzles, and retaining snippets of information that others would forget, but which usually ended up being very important. Furthermore, if one were to believe in such things, it might be inferred that her resulting intuition was more than a little impressive.

She was also an avid crocheter.

In addition to her sharp eyes and nimble fingers, Hermione had developed keen ears that were all the better for catching whispers and stories. If the tale of the Deathly Hallows had taught her anything, it was to take stock in the grain of truth usually buried within legends and stories.

After leaving Hogwarts, Hermione had forced herself to put the events of her past behind her. She’d learned to stop expending energy looking for death and danger around every corner as she had done when she was younger. For the first time in ages, she’d allowed herself to relax. The tiniest little voice in the back of her head had been against this, and in fact, if she’d been perfectly honest with herself, Teenage Hermione would have been appalled by her level of complacency.

The threat was gone. It didn’t do to dwell. Life moves on.

Right?

But then, shadows moved. Whispers stirred. Rumors spread.

As a child who had been forever affected by events that had caused her to grow up too quickly, no amount of complacency could allow her latent skills for noticing things to completely miss the warning signs.

“Miss Granger, how lovely to see you.”

Hermione startles from her reverie to look up into the face of kindly old Mrs Harper, the House Manager of the Barbican. As a frequent patron of the theatre, Hermione has become friendly with a few members of its staff, and never fails to say hello and speak with the elderly woman.

“Mrs Harper, good to see you as well.”

The two women share a quick peck when Severus returns from a short scouting jaunt, and introductions are made over a freshly acquired glass of scotch. His freshly acquired glass of scotch. Never mind that the bar doesn’t serve scotch.

“How is your cat?” Hermione asks.

“Just fine,” Mrs Harper says, with a roll of her eyes. “Lazy as ever, the beast. He fell asleep in the concertmaster’s violin case last week.”

Mrs Harper wishes them a lovely evening and soon departs. Around them, people smile and make polite small talk in the foyer before being let in to the concert hall. Hermione’s eyes take in the various faces that pass by in case she recognises any of them.

Her gaze flicks to Severus, who is also skimming the crowd, though, perhaps, she muses, he sees more than she does.

This is the reason she had approached him when she could no longer ignore too many whispers. Hermione works in the Ministry’s International Magical Office of Law, and as such has been privy to sensitive information. Recently, several odd, supposedly separate instances have occurred that, when joined together, form a rather alarming picture. Disappearances of certain Ministry officials, suspicious pardons of Death Eaters and their sympathisers. There have even been claims of dark revels, and for some ridiculous reason, nobody seems to be doing a thing about it. She suspects fear plays a large part of this, combined with disbelief, but what is most alarming is that one person appears to be, in most cases, involved in some capacity. The Ministry’s newest rising star, Melanthus Orran.

When she had first voiced these concerns, Ron had accused her of looking for trouble that wasn’t there because denial is a powerful thing. Harry, bless him, had listened with an open mind and taken her seriously, but had decided to take a slow approach first.

To be fair, Harry was not wrong for doing this. He’d recently been promoted to full Auror, and they both agreed a light initial touch was best for the long run. It wouldn’t do to rush headlong into accusations that were based on what were still unsubstantiated rumours. Still, the frantic part of her no-longer dormant, danger-seeking, threat-minded brain had been engaged, and surged ahead into overtime.

So, she had gone to Snape. Who, to both her enormous relief and dismay, had reluctantly admitted he’d shared similar concerns. After composing herself, for it is never exactly good to have one’s worst suspicions confirmed, they’d begun to plan.

At first, every attempt at finding out the depth and breadth of Orran’s deceit was thwarted. Eventually, Severus deduced that Harry, their primary means of obtaining information, was being monitored, as were the rest of the Aurors, and quite closely at that. At times it felt as if Harry couldn’t even piss without Orran immediately remarking on its impressive arc, as Ron had once so eloquently put it.

As soon as this had become apparent, Harry’s attention had been unofficially, secretly, engaged, and he’d become much more involved, though from a distance, and with two and a half trusted insiders at the ready. Ron being the half, as Severus liked to say.

Covert was the order. Support had been harder in coming from those who were not Harry, and after a particularly embarrassing incident between Severus and the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Snape had thrown all remaining patience to the wind and set out on his own. Or, rather, on his own and with a frustrated Gryffindor trailing after.

“Miss Granger,” Snape says at her side, fingers at her elbow, “may I borrow you for a moment?”

She looks up at him now and nods.

The crowd around them surges forward when the doors open to receive the night’s patrons, and Severus and Hermione edge towards an unpopulated side hall.

“Is Potter at the ready?”

“Yes. He’ll wait for our signal.”

He nods. “Have you seen him yet?”

“No,” she answers. Orran and many of the wizards from the previous night were nowhere to be seen. “Although, there seem to be no short supply of Ministry guards milling about.” Security detail for Orran, no doubt.

“There is an unfortunate lack of Red as well.”

She purses her lips. “Is it really unfortunate though?” Her ribs are still sore from the previous night’s scuffle with that she-beast, and she’s perhaps just a slightly bit jealous. Unreasonable though it is. Whatever.

He nods and peers around, searching, as people filter through to find their seats.  “Let’s see if we can spot him from the balcony.”

“We’re not going in at all?”

He sighs. “Miss Granger, we’re not here for Mozart tonight.”

“I know that, I just, the conductor… of course. Never mind.”

He throws her an odd glance, but extends his arm and they once more wade through the thinned foyer. They pass the entrance to the hall and she’s able to see only a brief glimpse of the orchestra tuning their instruments, and releases a small sigh. She’d known that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the full concert, but a small part of her had hoped that they would be able to hear some of the Requiem.

Attention divided, she stumbles on the slick tile underfoot, and claws at Snape’s arm to steady herself, cursing the godforsaken pumps that get caught up on the hem of her dress. Two. That’s two dresses in as many days. She grits her teeth and swallows her embarrassment while Snape stares ahead.

“Did I miss a wine reception beforehand?”

“Not unless it was in your living room,” she counters smoothly.

He narrows his eyes. “I keep telling you, I am a social drinker.”

“If you say so.”

He looks like he really wants to say something more, but declines as they approach a sweeping staircase that is manned by another obvious wizard guard stationed at the base. She savours her slight victory, and politely smiles to the guard as they pass.

It is quiet in the stairwell, with the only sounds being the swish of her dress and an occasional note from the tuning orchestra floating in. Until a squeak develops in her left heel. She sets her jaw and tries to ignore it. She’s one those people who has “foot noises.” Shoes seem to squeak more often with her than with others she’s noticed, and it drives her insane. It has to be something about the way she walks – the squeak is getting louder. Her eyes dart up to check Severus’ expression. If he’s noticed, he’s not letting on.

In fact, he says nothing at all. His eyes are focused ahead. His steps are silent, his posture perfect. His arm is warm beneath hers.

She straightens in an unconscious mimicry, and is comforted by his cool façade.

At the top, a man in a red jacket lined with gold brocade, is flashing a torch over tickets, and directing patrons to their seats. A second man, another obvious wizard guard, stands beside him, apparently bored.

“Tickets, please,” the usher says in an overly helpful chirp.

As a moth is drawn to flame, so does Severus’ brow arch in disgust at unreasonable enthusiasm. Hermione fumbles around for the paper slips in the bag at her wrist. Technically, their seats are below in the dress circle, which could be problematic.

The guard passes them a fleeting glance before lazily turning back to study his shoes.
“Um,” she mumbles, pretending to get flustered in an effort to stall. A rude man behind them sighs loudly, and she feels Severus tense at her elbow.

“Tickets?” the usher asks again.

“She heard you,” Severus clips.

“I’m sure we can find our seats,” she sighs with a slight giggle and flutter of eyelashes.

The usher’s false smile belies the shake of his head. “Sorry, miss. I need to see your tickets.”

Hermione pauses and looks at him. She decides his attitude is just not worth it.

“Confundo,” she whispers.

Severus smirks beside her while she thanks the befuddled usher for his assistance. The usher nods with a vacant expression, and they walk right around.

“Well done,” Snape says and watches the oblivious guard from the corner of his eye.

At the balustrade, they peer over the edge, searching for Orran’s characteristic yellow hair. A few minutes of scanning the box seats and the pricey ones up front, yields no progress, though, and neither spots him.

“I don’t see him,” she says.

Severus nods and they turn back. He gives the clueless guard a terse nod as they pass, before leaving the balcony and filing passed the people queuing for their seats.

They move on to step two; searching the green and conference rooms.

Halfway down the stairwell, Snape makes an abrupt turn at a service door on the left. Ignoring the ‘Staff Only’ sign, he holds the door open, checking behind them to make sure no one sees their flagrant disregard.

She follows him into a long, gently descending utility hall. Cold lights buzz overhead, and their footfalls echo in the empty corridor. Severus follows the various service signs and instructions that dot the walls for several yards.

“You think he’s already meeting with the others?” she asks.

“It’s possible,” he says quietly. “The guards weren’t paying the least bit of attention to anyone, much less on people who should be in the audience below. It most likely he’s not out there.”

She flashes a peek at him out of the corner of her lashes, and can’t help but voice something that’s been bothering her. “Just to be clear,” she says, “we’re detaining Orran. For the Aurors to deal with. Right?”

He spares her half a glance. “Of course.” Then immediately follows up with, “But, should he fall while we are defending ourselves, it’s a risk I’m entirely willing to take.”

She looks up to him as they walk. He’s being completely serious and a small part of her can’t help but wonder if his mind has already been made up, regardless of what kind of defense they may have to employ.

The sounds of music faintly streams down the hall, signaling the beginning of the concert, and Hermione is pulled from her worries with a sigh. It feels like it’s been months since she’s been to a proper concert. At the end of the hall, they reach a door that leads to the backstage. Her hopes raise just the slightest.

“I saw that that the visiting conductor tonight is from Venezuela.” Severus casually mentions.

Hermione’s shoulders droop. “Gustavo Dudamel.” If she’s completely honest, that’s another reason why she’s upset at having to miss the performance. The famous young conductor is passion packaged in Venezuelan form, with flair and bouncy, dark curls on top. And a pretty face to boot.

“Really?” Snape seems genuinely interested. He glances over at her. “More’s the pity then.”

Severus Disillusions them, and they work their way through the backstage area, carefully searching for Orran. They aren’t completely sure what his plans are, but just in case he was planning to do something dramatic, it behooves them to make sure they check each area.

A glimpse of the stage is seen near a door that a few stage hands are lingering near, and Hermione is helplessly drawn towards it as the sounds of the first act drift in. She peers over the shoulder of a man in suspenders and smiles as the sweet notes of the Mendelssohn concerto wash over her edgy nerves.

“What are you doing?” Severus hisses behind her. She jumps and has the grace to appear abashed, even though he can’t see her clearly.

“I wanted to,” she swallows, “to make sure the front stage was clear. Orran is definitely not out there.”

He is silent, and she can only imagine the disparaging look upon his face.

“Shall we keep on then?” she asks, already moving towards the opposite end of backstage.

They exit through another door, deciding Orran isn’t lurking in the shadows (that they could tell, rather) and head up a short hallway that leads toward yet another staircase.

A separate door just before the stairs catches Hermione’s eye and she stops, jaw slightly hanging open.

“We really should be thorough, don’t you think?” she asks breathlessly.

Carefully, she enters the side room, still Disillusioned, and holds her breath. Inside is a small, but tastefully outfitted room with sprays of roses adorning counter tops and side tables. A formal jacket with tails hangs on a coat rack, but there appears to be no further sign of any occupants.

She lets out a small sigh of disappointment, and whirls at the sound of the creaking door behind her.

She can’t see him, but she can practically feel his disappointment.

“What are you doing?” his voice asks from near the doorway.

She raises her chin. “I told you. Being thorough.”

“And the sign that says, ‘Maestro Dudamel’ on the door has nothing to do with that?”

She feels her cheeks warm. “He’s a world class conductor, Severus. World class! He needs to be protected in the name of the arts!”

“Can we get on with it already?” he snaps. His footsteps echo in the hall, and she follows, feeling only slightly childish. Dudamel really is quite dishy, but that isn’t important. The man is very talented and, well, maybe Orran would want to somehow exploit that in his favour… Okay, she just really wants to meet the famous, young, gorgeous, visiting conductor.

Ascending the next set of stairs, she sees Severus, no longer Disillusioned, waiting impatiently ahead. He ends her charm, and directs the full fury of his glare at her.

“May we proceed?” he asks, sarcasm dripping in his voice.

She sweeps past him. “Of course.”

They reach the landing, wands out just in case, and tiptoe forward. Hermione’s shoe has started squeaking again, and after the fifth squeak, Severus shudders to a stop and closes his eyes as if pained. His words are barely audible, but she feels their impact as if he’d shouted.

“Granger, if you do not silence that squeak instantly, I’ll banish them.”

Her wand twitches towards the floor. “Sorry,” she whispers.

He takes a calming breath, and they continue on. The pair empty into an elegant, plushly carpeted hall with various works of modern art adorning muted walls, and suspect this is where the majority of offices and conference rooms are. If Orran is meeting with his fellows, it’s likely to be here rather than down in the much more public concert hall.

Several doors line the corridor. He slowly raises an arm, just before the first, stopping her. She waits, hardly daring to breath, and watches as he carefully peers around the doorjamb to peep inside. His wand arm extends and he quickly enters, disappearing from view, while she watches the hall. Hermione’s ears strain for the faintest hint of confrontation, and her heart beats its own symphony within her chest. Fingertips whiten at the fierce hold she maintains on her wand… but nothing appears to happen.

“No one,” she hears from inside. “Sort of,” he adds. Immediately, she follows, wand aimed.

“What do you mean, ‘sort of’?” she asks, voice slightly elevated.

The room is dimly lit from the light of a fading sun, and Severus is frowning, shaking his head at the window across the room where an orange tabby cat is sitting on the sill.

“Ohh!” Hermione coos, instantly abandoning all caution, and rushes towards the animal who is staring at a pair of blackbirds perched on a branch just beyond. Severus makes a sound of disgust and turns away.

“This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever agreed to,” he grumbles.

The beast paws at the glass and makes a sort of quiet chittering sound, and Hermione pats its head.

She smiles down at him. “You’re hungry again aren’t you? Honestly, Ron.” She can hear Snape’s exhalation of disapproval at her back.

“Mrs Harper keeps a cat onsite to help with the rodent problem backstage. He looks just like Tom Kitten.” She scritches behind his ear and the cat leans into her touch, purring deeply, pleased with the attention he’s getting.

The Transfigured feline Weasley bats at her hand and meows once more at the window.

She holds firm, and folds her arms across her chest with a shake of her head and a wry grin at her lips. “You’ll regret it when you change back, I promise.”

Ron the cat looks up at her with watery, yellow eyes and yowls piteously.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Severus snaps.

The cat casts a final longing look outside, and Hermione ignores him. “I’m not changing you back just so you can eat, Ronald. Now do your job and find Orran.”

“Yes,” Snape adds in dark tone, “or I’ll have your guts strung up to replace those on the school violins. Flitwick will be pleased with the donation.”

Ron hisses at him and jumps off the windowsill. His tail flicks in irritation, but he does as bid and saunters off down the hall and out of sight.

“I have never known anything so ravenous as a Weasley.” He goes to check the hall. “I’m still not convinced his presence here is necessary.”

“Maybe he’ll surprise us. Besides, he can get to places, unnoticed, and we can’t.”

Two further rooms are checked without incident, nor do they see any sign of Ron. Hermione hopes for their sake that he’s able to find Orran, get whatever final damning evidence they need and sends word to Harry before they end up having to face him. She won’t lie. Her skin crawls at the memory of last night’s encounter. His roaming fingers on her waist, those horrid lips at her ear. His beady little bird eyes snatching indulgent peaks at the overly exposed décolletage in Red’s dress. Then there had been the way he’d so casually spoken about death…

Halfway down the hall, the sounds of the swelling orchestra mid-programme are heard, and she has to force herself to ignore it. She’s going to be missing the Requiem. She worries her lower lip. It’s not like it won’t come back at some point, she reasons. It’s the Requiem.

Even still, she sighs something that sounds suspiciously like ‘Dudamel,’ and Snape flashes her a look and frowns at her nervous habit.

“Stop that.” He turns back to the task at hand, and whispers. “You’re not still whinging are you?”

She raises her chin. “Yes. I was looking forward to watching him.” She blushes. “I mean, it. The orchestra.”

He snorts softly. “I’m sure Muggles everywhere will thank you for choosing life over lust.”

“It isn’t about lust,” she replies with a touch of indignity. “The man is incredibly talented. I admire him for his skill.” Quietly she adds, “With a baton.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “And I admire Red for her obvious powers of deduction. Shall we move on?”

Hermione glares at his back. She edges up to his side and hisses. “You can’t seriously admire that woman.”

He brings a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

She huffs and turns away, moving towards the next office. Rather than waiting for him, she steps inside first.

“Oh, look. Empty.”

Her partner’s mood takes a turn and he scowls. “If you don’t be quiet it won’t matter who admires whom because we’ll both be dead.”

That’s fair.

One by one, they go through more empty offices, without speaking, and are increasingly running out of possible locations. And time. While she’s happy to not have had any problems yet, the rational part of her mind worries that they’ve already missed Orran. The ramifications of this are concerning, and judging by the rigidity of Snape’s shoulders ahead, he must agree. There are two rooms remaining and as they near the next, Snape’s arm again halts her at the door. As before, she waits while he looks around, to no avail. His sigh confirms her suspicion, and she follows, closing the door behind her.

“What do we do if he’s not here? I’m sure Orran said they were meeting tonight. Severus, it’s very important we find him.”

“Yes, Miss Granger, I understand the severity of the situation.”

She looks to the ground.

He exhales. “If he’s not here then we’ll simply have to–” he freezes as the sound of people coming up the hall. Perhaps they were simply too early.

Hermione’s eyes widen and she redoubles her grip on her wand. Snape raises his and silently strides to the door. Carefully, he pulls it open an inch, and dares a look around the edge, then quickly pulls back. Hermione joins him on the other side of the frame.

“Guards,” he mouths.

Muffled voices sound from outside, and Severus’ lips thin.

“… certain he heard someone muckin’ about out here a few minutes ago. Better make sure first.”

“Probably some kids sneakin’ off again for a snog. I always did durin’ these things.”

“Yeah, I could see that.”

Snape’s brows raise and he shoots Hermione a quick glance from where she stands opposite.

The two men move from room to room, just as she and Severus had done earlier. Her neck burns remembering Snape’s earlier admonishment about the noise. A little voice within comes to the rescue though, and she wonders if maybe Ron could have done something stupid enough to prompt investigation. Either way, trouble is now imminent.

She looks to Severus, heart thumping. The men’s footsteps draw nearer, and her mind jumps into overdrive as she starts thinking of ways to get out of this situation. Her eyes take in the room. No closets. No obvious hiding places, and they’d both agreed earlier that Apparition might not be the best idea. Assuming the popping sounds aren’t heard (thus signaling the fact that someone is around that shouldn’t be) they could risk detection when they return.

Right. Confrontation, then. There are two guards, but there are two them as well and they have the upper hand. They can easily disarm them, cast Obliviate, and send them on their way, or even a hastily cast Petrificus would work.

The handle on the door to their room turns, and Snape is suddenly directly before her. She barely has time for a single breath before one hand is at her waist, another is at her neck, and his lips are pressed firmly against hers.

She muffles a cry of astonishment against him, and he pinches her side again as he’d done the night before when she wasn’t focused. A flash of insight hits her, and she wraps her arms around his back, pushing down the shock, and pulling him closer. To her great surprise, his tongue snakes out to run along the seam of her lips, and to her even greater surprise – she allows him entrance.

The door flies open, and the two guards raise their wands, surprised.

“Hey, what the devil – oh! Beg pardon.” a guard says sheepishly, averting his eyes, while Snape continues to… kiss her. Vigorously.

“Oh, lookit that,” whines the other in a tone tinged with envy.

Severus pulls away from her with a visible smirk and nods to the guards as if he’s just noticed their presence. The hand at her neck is warm and does not move, while below a thumb runs circles against her hip. What’s left of Hermione’s mind goes completely fuzzy. In fact, a rhinoceros could come stampeding through the walls and she probably wouldn’t bat an eye. His chest presses against hers, pinning her to the wall behind, and she blinks over at the guards. If she had any sort of sense she should be horrified with exactly how, ah… she blinks, distracted. Tingly? With how tingly she feels? Oh, good lord.

The guards discreetly lower their wands and tut.

“Well,” says one to the other, “it ain’t kids, but you got the snoggin’ part right.”

“Sorry, gents,” Snape says, completely unrepentant. Actually, if she were to over-analyse it, she’d say it sounded downright boastful. “We couldn’t help ourselves.”

A sharp pain registers at her ribs where’s poking her, and she hisses, jerking back to the present. Oh! She whips her wand around his back and points.

“Petricifus totalis!”

Snape echoes her spell, and both men tumble to the ground with flabbergasted expressions upon their faces.

There is a tense moment of silence while staring down at the guards. Hermione is still a-tingle. Well. That was certainly one way to handle a situation.

They stand against each other and Severus slowly turns his chin to face her. His eyes are hooded, and a lump forms in her throat as she gazes up at him. With each breath her chest comes into contact with his, but he does not move away.

“That was,” she swallows, cursing the telling crack in her voice, “very devious and quite effective at the same time.”

She swears he smothers a grin, and reaches down to stow his wand, causing her to twitch at the unexpected movement.

“Merlin, Granger, relax and do try to get your head back in the game.”

His look of obvious delight at having rendered her so discombobulated, added with the jibe at her expense, is enough to pull her wits back to order.

“My apologies, but my head was more than a bit distracted by yours,” her eyes flick downward and then back, “which seems quite game, incidentally.”

Severus’ eyes widen in horror, and he jumps back, scowling for good measure.

“Hardly.” He breezes past her to manoeuvre the petrified guards out of the way.

She bites her lip to keep from grinning, and freezes when a familiar voice comes floating up the hallway. Severus’ head snaps up.

Hermione cocks her ear to listen through the sliver of space left open by the door, and figures out quickly who the voice belongs to.

“Orran.” she mouths silently.

He nods and they wait as he passes by, conversing with another who sounds vaguely familiar but she can’t quite place. Two black, indistinguishable shapes pass by, and Hermione does not move a muscle until they are several feet away. When she does, she is surprised to see what looks like a flash of orange fur.

Her hand moves towards the knob when the voices have all but disappeared, but Severus stills it with his own. His eyes dart to hers and he shakes his head once, listening. The sound of a door opens in the hall, there is a pause, then a final click.

They say nothing further and Severus places them back under a Disillusionment Charm, and Hermione sends the first Patronus off to alert Harry and his team. Snape does not ask her if she’s ready; he simply gives her a look before pulling open the door.

Step three begins.

Severus himself moves like a cat ahead of her along the wall, with nary a single swish of fabric or popping joint to be heard. She briefly wonders if it’s a charm or if he’s really just that good.

At the door, his lips wordlessly mouth an incantation, and then a frown line forms on his brow.

She sends him a questioning look, but he ignores her and looks at the floor in thought.

Her lips curve upward with a smirk, and she carefully rifles through her bag. Perhaps they need a less sophisticated means of reconnaissance? She pulls out two pairs of flesh coloured strings, and Severus watches with wary irritation when she bends to slide one Extendable Ear under the door.

“What?” he mouths.

She winks and holds up the other end for him, pointing at her ear.

He gives her a look that leaves no doubt as to exactly what he thinks of this, but relents after a particularly expressive slitting of her eyes.

Reluctantly, he holds the string up to his ear – and then marvels. He holds it closer, jaw falling slightly open and looks at her with moderate astonishment. She holds her own to her ear and imagines the look on George Weasley’s face when she tells him he and Fred’s product was used for real spying.

The sound of a chair groaning as its occupants settles within is heard on the other side, and the unknown voice speaks up first.

“Sir, when should we expect the others?”

“When I’m ready for them.”

The other man does not immediately reply. “I don’t quite understand.”

“It’s very simple, really. I cursed them all last night. When I am ready, they will come to me immediately.”

Snape looks at Hermione, and she blinks. She doesn’t recall any point when Orran had cast any sort of curse while she’d been around.

“C-cursed, sir?”

The other man laughs in a tone that contradicts the gravity of his implication. “Of course! Why, even you’ve been cursed, Darnley. How do you think you found me so quickly? I requested your presence, and you arrived.”

A memory from the previous night hits Hermione at the sound of the other man’s name. He’s the wide-eyed man that had assisted her when she’d “stumbled” at the benefit.

The man, Darnley, covers his stutter with a breathy, panicked kind of laugh. “Sir?”

“Imperius is a wonderful spell. People call it a curse; but really, it’s a miracle.”

Hermione freezes and a weight like a lead ball settles in her gut.

“There’s really only been one or two problems with it, in my opinion.” Orran doesn’t wait for Darnley to reply.  “Until recently, its use has been restricted to only one person at a time. That’s dreadfully time consuming, you see.”

“Ah. I hadn’t thought of that before.”

“The problem is that it’s so limiting, and the risk of getting caught is so much greater than if I could simply, Imperio numerous people in one go. I thought to myself, if I could only get an entire room of people to bend to my will at once, it would save so much trouble. So, I worked on being able to do just that, and do you know I’ve finally been successful!”

Hermione feels ill. A quick glance at Severus shows his skin to be paler than normal too. Sweet Merlin, had they already been cursed and not known it?

“But, I modified it. You know, the Dark Lord got excellent results from that nasty Dark Mark, but it’s so easily detectable on a person’s skin.”

Severus leans carefully against the wall before him for support.

Orran’s footsteps travel the circuit of the room. “Now, I had a stroke of genius involving an upgraded kind of Protean charm and people’s minds, but details are boring for one like you, aren’t they? Suffice to say, at my whim, a person will do exactly what I tell them to - no matter where either of us are. ” Orran laughs. “It’s brilliant! Go on, tell me it’s brilliant.”

Darnley gasps and weakly applauds while Orran giggles to himself, sounding quite pleased about the whole thing. “It’s… it’s brilliant, sir.” Darnley sounds as though he thinks otherwise.

Beads of perspiration well up on Hermione’s forehead and her limbs feel heavy as the implications of Orran’s work plays out before her. If he’s serious, that means he could order any cursed person, anywhere, to do anything at any time.

“Last night,” Orran continues, “was the largest group I’d yet tested it on, and in about, oh, ten minutes time, we’ll find out just how well it worked. My little minions will suddenly find themselves overcome at my command. They’ll know instantly where to go and what to do, even though I won’t physically be with them to give the command.” Orran chortles again. “My genius is staggering. Truly.”

Hermione is having trouble breathing and her mind desperately searches again for a time last night when she’d seen Orran do anything suspicious, like, for example, curse an entire room full of wizards and witches with a twisted new form of Imperius. But she wouldn’t know would she?

“Severus…”

He holds up a hand to shush her, and gives her a strained look.

Orran continues. “Now, what would you say if tonight, I placed the entire audience of one thousand under this spell, hm?” Orran cackles and slaps what sounds like a table. “And what if I had them do the same to a similar number of people, and so on and so on? Why, I could have the entire population of Britain under my thumb in less than a week. A week. Can’t you just imagine?” he ends with a wistful sigh.

Hermione’s jaw falls open and she has to strain to hear his next words which are hardly above a whisper. This man… Merlin it’s worse than either had thought.

“At my command all Muggles could be slaughtered by the following week’s end, and our lovely isles would be as pure as the shores of Eden.”

Chills creep along her spine. How many are there already inside the Ministry? Orran had risen so quickly to the top….

“Whereas Voldemort’s pride and love of flair got him into trouble, I have no such weaknesses.” Hermione has to bite back a groan. “One must be quick. You see?”

The other man in the room has no response.

“I have to be.” Orran says plainly. His voice changes direction again with the turn. “While I’ve fixed most of the curse’s limitations, there is still one pesky drawback I’ve not yet managed to resolve.”

Instantly, Severus points his wand at Hermione and whispers a quick, “Finite incantatum,” at her.

“All my work could be destroyed by just one individual with the counter-curse. The Protean aspect is still susceptible.”

A heartbeat later, she gratefully repeats the same for him. Just in case. It stands to reason that neither of them had yet been affected if they are actively trying to put a stop to him, but….

There is a heavy silence on the other side of the door. Hermione can feel Severus tense beside her.

“Have you nothing to say, Darnley?”

The other man still does not respond.

“Perhaps you need a demonstration to fully appreciate what I’ve shared with you.”

“No, that isn’t necessary, my—” he stops speaking abruptly, and a thud is heard slamming against the wall. Severus and Hermione jerk back in surprise.

“On your knees,” Orran demands, almost cheerfully.

Hermione and Severus hear a slight scuffling along the floor, which is followed by an awful choking sound. Hermione’s brows fly to her hairline and she looks at Snape. He presses his lips into a thin line and grips his wand.

Seconds later, Darnley cries out, prompting a laugh from Orran.

“Would you like to get a better view of the room?”

A double-pop is heard in quick succession, followed by a gasp from, presumably, Darnley. A third pop sounds, and then a violent bang is heard as Darnley re-Apparates and is slammed against a wall.

“Severus,” Hermione breaths. Her stomach clenches uncomfortably. Orran is toying with the other man as if he were a ragdoll to be easily tossed about, rather than a human with breakable limbs.

At her side, Severus holds up a finger, muscles tense, and wordlessly summons an anti-Apparition barrier.

A grunt is heard from Darnley and he stutters for mercy.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Orran says breezily. “Parlour tricks.”

“N-no, sir.”

“But the true test,” Orran continues, “is whether or not I can do the ultimate. I can make you step left,” Hermione and Severus hear the man jump helplessly, “or right.” Darnley gasps. “But what about the worst Unforgivable?”

Hermione’s hand convulsively clutches at Severus’ forearm.

A small, but heavy silence fills the space on both sides of the door. Snape slowly stands and brings his wand up close near his chin. Hermione rises with him, eyes wide.

“Say the spell,” Orran murmurs.

Darnley chokes on the other side of the door, groaning in an attempt to fight the command. Hermione’s eyes flash to Severus, who reaches for the handle between them. His dark eyes dart to hers, and she nods.

“Do it!” Orran yells.

“Avvv-vada Kedavra!” Darnley screams helplessly, and Hermione goes still as his guttural cry fills the air, and a flash of green bursts out from under the threshold below. The next moment, Orran’s laughter rings out in triumph, and the pair on the other side of the door stare in horror.

Her lips part, her heart pounds and her mind races. Orran had made someone consciously cast the Killing Curse upon themselves at his word…. Severus looks at her and nods.

“Enough of this,” Snape says and points his wand at the door, blasting it open. The time has come to officially shut Melanthus Orran down.

Severus wastes no time. Wand aloft, she follows Snape in, who is hurling spells left and right, but drops to the floor as a violent green flare blasts a chunk out of the door frame where she’s just been standing.

Severus throws a line of angry red light at Orran’s heart, followed by her own retaliatory spell.

Orran deflects. He looks between the two, vaguely surprised, and a flicker of recognition crosses his face.

Hermione, thoroughly miffed by the wayward Killing Curse she’s just dodged, casts a string of spells at Orran, and then glances down to the lifeless body of the other man on the floor.

“Drop your wand, now,” Severus bellows, never ceasing his assault against the other man.

Orran responds by sending a wide arc of purple sailing out towards them both. Hermione and Severus both repel this with a well-placed Shielding Charm, and Hermione follows up with a hex. Severus re-enters the duel with renewed vigor, and hurls a nasty return curse that shatters the bookcase behind his opponent. Curses, flashes and sparks fly across the room and smoke gathers. Hermione can hardly see Severus through the fog, but she hears him with each spell he delivers.

Orran duels very well, but to her mind, it seems as if he’s beginning to get overwhelmed by the constant barrage.

“It’s very rude to attack someone you’ve not been properly introduced to first.” Orran says between clenched teeth.

Snape laughs bitterly, keeping his wand trained ahead. “Do you follow your own rules of etiquette with others?”

Orran smiles and dips his chin as a spell ripples against an invisible shield before him. “I am a politician. Etiquette is mainly just for show.” He hurls a giant ball of blue flame at Severus. “You’re earlier than I’d imagined, Snape. I confess, I had expected Potter to be the one in your place.”

Snape’s wand slashes, sending a shower of golden sparks that fly at Orran like blades. “You’ve underestimated me.”

Hermione attempts another Disarming spell while Orran focuses on Snape. Her heart hammers inside her ribcage, and her gaze shifts back and forth between the two. She’s fairly certain Severus is distracting him, but for fuck’s sake, now is not the time to strike up a chat!

The Dark wizard brushes both spells aside, and flashes another cruel smile. “Underestimate?” He dodges another hex from Hermione. “I’d always pegged you as more of a follower. Is Potter your new Dumbledore these days?”

Severus directs a level stare at him and sneers; his voice is dark and cold. “I’m following my own agenda this time.”

Orran’s beady little bird eyes widen just the slightest, and her skin prickles. Across the room, Severus raises his arm, and his words reverberate in her mind from earlier. “…it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He inhales, and in that moment, she can see his intent clear as day across his face. Before Severus or Orran is able to spit out the first syllable of the Killing Curse, her own words fly out of her mouth faster than she can stop them.

A large plume of yellow smoke explodes where Orran has been standing, and Severus throws an arm up to block the blast of blinding light.

Hermione rises up to her knees, arm shaking, and stares at the spot where Orran had been standing. Severus winces through the smoke. There is silence for the space of a breath before he starts shouting.

“What did you do?” His wand points ahead, and he takes a hesitant step forward, peering closely.

“Grab it!” she yells frantically as a little figure on the ground emerges through the miasma, twitching and hobbling about in a daze.

Severus launches himself at the object, grabbing it between his hands and cupping it to his chest.

“What is it?” he chokes, and winces as the thing in his hands screeches shrilly.

Her wide eyes blink in surprise, and she coughs in an attempt to preempt a bout of hysterical laughter bubbling up from her throat.

Severus yelps and releases the shrieking little fury when it scratches his hands. A small, yellow canary falls to the ground. After failing to take flight, it stumbles around blindly, screeching at the top of its lungs. Severus looks up and sends her a deeply aggrieved look.

“I didn’t intend to,” she yells. She drops to her knees to try to capture the thing before it can escape. “We need something to put it in.”

The bird viciously pecks at her hands and she curses when it draws blood.

“For fuck’s sake,” Severus groans, and kicks the thing so that it goes flying against a wall, knocking it out cold.

Hermione, ever the animal enthusiast, cannot help but feel at least a small amount of sympathy, and admonishes her partner. “Severus!”

He points to the small bundle of yellow feathers on the ground. “It’s not a concern now.”

A gash on his left cheek is bleeding freely, and she stands up to get a closer look. “Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head and asks the same of her.

“No.”

They both turn to look back down at the dazed, unconscious creature.

“A canary? Really?”

“It’s just the first thing I thought of,” she says, defensive. “That horrid yellow hair. Those eyes.” She shudders again. “The way he never shuts up….”

Severus shrugs, conceding the point.

They both take a moment to catch their breath and let the adrenaline level out somewhat. She runs a nervous hand through her hair. “How many do you think he’s already cursed?”

He studies the bird for a moment and shakes his head. “Hard to say. He wouldn’t have too many or else he’d have already begun cursing everyone and we’d be none the wiser. Orran had to have just recently perfected it.”

She shudders again at the thought and then freezes.

“What time is it?”

He looks up. “What?”

“Time, what time? It must be nearly time for the others to arrive, right?”
Understanding dawns, and he goes to the door and releases the anti-Apparition charm from earlier. “Call Potter. They aren’t here yet, but they will be soon.”

She sends off another Patronus to tell Harry that Orran has committed murder but has been detained, and walks with hesitation towards the body of the unfortunate Mr Darnley.

“Poor guy. Even if he did have awful taste in overlords.”

Snape lets out a long exhalation and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I can already see an increase in my brewing schedule for Veritaserum. Merlin knows how many people are going to, again, use it as an excuse this time around.”

“What should we do with Orran?”

Severus slowly turns to her with a gleam in his eye that makes her slightly uncomfortable.

“I’ve been thinking about that. You see, the last time this sort of thing happened, it didn’t end well. Voldemort had his Horcruxes hidden all over. Then there were the imprisoned Death Eaters. Azkaban couldn’t hold them. If one has enough determination, say, to alter even a powerful curse such as Imperius – let’s just be rid of him.”

Her jaw drops open. “What?”

He takes a step forward, palms spread in supplication and nods. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve been through this, Hermione. These things… bars can’t always hold evil in. I’m tired.” He sighs and Hermione sees genuine weariness and fear reflected in his eyes. “Too many people die. Too many unforeseen accidents occur. Too many; it’s all just too much. I refuse. No, I absolutely refuse to go through it all again.”

She stares up at him, at a loss.

“But, we can’t murder someone, Severus. Harry is on his way—”

“He would have murdered me if you hadn’t stopped him,” he interrupts. “Then you. Then your family and countless others.”

“But he didn’t,” she says gently.

His shoulders slump and his fingers grip his wand at his side. “I won’t go through what I went through for over ten years again. I can’t.” He adds in a final whisper, “It will break me this time.”

He stands before her in a rare moment of raw vulnerability, and she understands a bit more why he’d been so anxious to get started on this mission. It isn’t that she doesn’t understand; truly she does.

She raises a hand to tentatively touch his shoulder, when they both jump as a triumphant yowl issues from behind them.

Severus whirls around, pushing her behind him in the process. Wands drawn and not seeing immediate danger, they rush to the corner where Orran had been left. The sight on the floor makes them both stop dead in their tracks, and horror dawns on Hermione’s face.

“RON! NO!”

Ron the cat crouches over a twitching canary that is squeaking frantically, trapped within feline paws and teeth. With a quick jerk of the cat’s head, the bird ceases all movement, allowing the contented animal to gnaw on its victorious spoils.

“Oh my God,” Hermione weakly mutters, lowering her wand in shock.

Severus stares in absolute wonder and then whispers a genuinely sincere, “Ten points to Gryffindor, Weasley.”

“Severus! Do something!”

He rolls his eyes, and a smile, an actual, real smile, turns his up his lips, and he saunters away, merrily even, to plop down into a chair.

“It’s your bloody spell, you do something about it. I wash my hands of this whole mess.” He cringes when the sound of crunching bones fills the room, and Hermione goes positively green.

“This is horrible…” she moans, and removes her cloak. She tosses it over the tabby and hurriedly aims her shaking wand at him. “Finite incantatum.”

Ron instantly morphs back into his human form, and an unsightly yellow feather pokes out over red-smeared lips.

He spits and scrubs at his mouth, gagging on the feather and looks down in confusion.

“What in Merlin’s pants?” He looks at the feathery mess on the floor, blinks, and then breaks out into laughter.

“Hermione! Did I just eat a bird?” Instead of being horrified, like a true Weasley male, he is amused.

He gestures to the cloak and slips it over his bare shoulders. “Thanks for that. Could’ve been completely starkers. That would’ve been awkward.” He glances up and pauses at her look of lingering revulsion.

“Oh, come on, Hermione. I was a cat. It was, like, this whole natural predator thing. I was a ravenous, killing machine. I couldn’t be stopped,” he winks, and looks over at the professor, who is, uncharacteristically, grinning. Mistaking it for equally shared amusement, he points down to the bird carcass on the floor. “Professor, did you see that?”

The gleam in Snape’s eye, which may have never been equaled by anyone with the exception of Albus Dumbledore himself, positively twinkled, and he nods.

“Oh, yes, Weasley, I certainly did.” He leans forward. “Well done.”

Ron puffs up his chest at the first ever compliment he’s received from his least favorite professor, and turns to Hermione to make sure she heard it, grinning like a loon.

“He said, ‘well done!’”

The strain is too much and she finally breaks.

“You ate Orran, Ron!”

His grin slips. He looks down to the bird. “No I didn’t. I ate a… whatever bird this is.”

She shakes her head, overwrought. “No. No, I Transfigured him! Just like I did to you! You… you ate a human, Ron!”

Ron’s lips part and he looks down at the feather in his hand. His tongue darts out and he licks his lips where traces of blood still linger. “What?”

“You ate a human, Ron!” she shrieks a final time as the sounds of Harry and his team’s arrival is heard inside the hall.

“Oh, my sweet Circe.” Ron whispers, aghast.

Harry rushes in, wand drawn, and breathes a sigh of relief to see his best friends alive and well. He’s brought backup, evident by the Aurors streaming in by the dozen.

“Are you all right? Where is Orran?”

Hermione, who is slightly numb, shakes her head and points to the floor.

Harry crosses to her, concerned, and takes in Ron’s troubled appearance contrasted against Snape’s weirdly cheerful one.

“What’s happened?”

Ron flips around on his knees and promptly begins vomiting on the floor.

“Ron, what the hell?” Harry yells.

Snape gets up and places a hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Mr Potter, suffice it to say that Orran has been taken care of. He’ll not be a problem any longer.”

Harry’s brows raise. “Did you get enough proof?”

Ron retches loudly in the background and Snape nods.

“Yes.”

“Harry! We’ve got company!” someone yells from the hall.

Harry turns at the commotion, but looks back to Hermione, concerned.

Snape takes a step forward, and Hermione is grateful to hear him take over.

“Why don’t you handle the confused group of people that are probably standing out in the hall wondering how and why they got there, and leave Miss Granger to me. We’ll follow up with an official Ministry report tomorrow.”

Torn, Harry begins to interject, but pauses at the sound of Ron gagging in the corner, and mumbling to himself.

“I thought it was a bird. I was a wild animal... just a wild animal!”

Hermione watches as Harry cocks his head, and turns to slowly regard her silent, shaken self. She stands beside both men, unsure of what to say. Admittedly, Harry has walked into an odd situation at best. In the end, after Ron retches a fourth time, she decides that words can wait, and she really wants Harry to listen to Snape’s suggestion.

She squeezes Harry’s hand and gives him the small grin he’s waiting for. “Severus is right. Tomorrow, Harry.”

He leans down and looks into his friend’s eyes. “Are you all right?”

She nods and rests a palm on his arm. “Yes. Physically, I’m fine. I’d just like to go home now.”

“I assure you I’ll get her home safely,” Snape says with a touch of sarcasm, and rests a hand at the small of her back. She twitches at the sensation and shoves back the memory of what had happened the last time he’d touched her so familiarly. Not that it was unpleasant. By any means.

They start to leave, and at the doorway, Harry calls out to them one final time. “Are you sure Orran is,” he lowers his voice, “handled?”

Snape looks over his shoulder with a wicked smirk. “All is well, Potter.”

He turns to face her then, and she’s surprised to see him give her a small smile. His voice is gentle and soothing. “Would you like me to see you home, Miss Granger?”

She nods, and when he slides his hands around her back, she welcomes him easily.

They Disapparate and she holds on tightly until they arrive on Hermione’s stone doorstep at her quiet, little cottage in the country, far away from London.

“Are you sound enough to be left alone?”

She looks up at him, lips pursed, and reluctantly pulls back when his arms drop to his sides.

“I’ve been through worse.”

He smirks. “This is true.”

They stand awkwardly together on her step and she hopes he’ll say something else. Anything, really. When his voice is calm and, well maybe not caring, but sympathetic, it’s really very nice.

“It’s still a shame about the concert though.” She closes her eyes. ‘The concert, Hermione? Another Voldemort nearly comes to power and you’re still on about the bloody concert?’

“The Requiem was appropriate.”

She grins. “Mozart might have been tickled to know what occurred during the playing of it.”

Crickets chirp nearby.

She stares at a button on his waistcoat, contemplating Mozart, conductors with curly hair and former professors of current interest; yet for the life of her cannot understand why she’s run out of intelligent things to say aloud.

“Dinner?”

She looks up in surprise.

“Pardon?”

He clears his throat. “Food might help restore your, ah, energy levels.”

She mentally smacks her forehead. “Oh! Oh, yes. I suppose.”

He watches her carefully.

“Not sure I could stomach food at the moment though, considering.” She murmurs aside, “Definitely not chicken.”

At her response, it appears as if he somewhat deflates. “Right.”

She quickly adds, “I think a hot bath and bed is what I really need.”

He nods and steps back.

“Well, then I’ll leave you to it,” he says quietly, looking to the ground. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Granger.”

Something’s happened, she thinks anxiously. A shift she’s missed, somehow in his tone, and can do nothing about but nod and agree.

“Yes, of course, and you as well.” ‘Don’t go.’

He turns to leave and she’s seized with an urge to say something. Anything to keep him on her doorstep.

“It’s Hermione, you know.”

He pauses and looks back to her.

“Sorry?”

She reminds herself not to chew her lip. “My name. You can call me that if you wish.”

He stares at her.

“I mean, if you want. Rather.”

He simply looks at her and says nothing, and she can feel her cheeks burn. It’s only a name, for goodness sake, it’s not like she asked him out. Oh god, he still hasn’t said anything. Cut and run.

“Okay, well, goodnight.” Feeling incredibly stupid, she turns on her heel and unlocks the front door.

“Hermione.”

She stops inside the entrance. The hopeful lump in her throat has returned. “Yes?”

Snape stands halfway down her walkway, illuminated in pale moonlight, and regards her curiously. “What about tomorrow?”

She cocks her head. “Tomorrow?”

Severus actually shuffles his feet in the gravel, and swallows. Standing up straight, he inhales and looks her directly in the eye. “What about tomorrow? Would you like to get dinner then?”

Warmth blossoms in her chest, and she can’t stop the joyous smile that suddenly spreads across her lips. Dudamel be damned.

“Tomorrow would be lovely.”

Severus is silent for half of a moment, before nodding a final time, and gives her a slight bow from his hips. “Tomorrow then. Goodnight.”

She watches him Disapparate, and stares after the spot he’d lately occupied. The calm of night descends in his absence, and she slowly lets herself relax. Orran and the threat he posed, no matter how unfortunate, has been handled. Their mission is complete. A full inquiry will be launched, and all possible issues have been pre-empted before they’d become full on problems. She breathes a sigh of relief and quietly anticipates pleasanter things.

Her fingertips brush over lips where his had been not so long ago, and her smile widens.

“Tomorrow.”