A Matter of Legalities

Chapter 2

A Matter of Legalities

Disclaimer: See Prologue

*****

Neville Longbottom was not having a good day. Having graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Neville had gone on to become a respected botanist, who specialised in the creation of experimental hybrid plants. He had spent four months creating a Devil's Snare-Puffer Pod hybrid, and that morning it had matured into adulthood. Unfortunately, what should have been a moment of triumph took a rather tragic turn when the plant puffed and burst and shot out black tentacles that almost killed his assistant.

For as terrible as he'd felt about the mishap, he was beginning to wish that he hadn't allowed the poor girl to go home because it meant that he had to go and register the plant himself. The Department for the Registration of Magical Businesses also served as the office for the Registration of Magical Plants and Creatures and was Neville's first stop before heading down to the Control of Dangerous Plants office. It was a lot of fuss for one small plant, but Neville reasoned that the Ministry was there for a reason, and other than having to stand in line for hours on end, he really had no cause to complain about it.

Unfortunately, he ended up in line directly behind the one person who had truly terrified him in his youth, and whom he had hoped to never set eyes on again. To make matters worse, he was wearing his Snapeorium "I survived the Greasy Git" T-shirt, complete with the snarling face of Snape that periodically dripped grease from the end of its nose. Neville decided that the best thing to do was remain calm and nonchalant, as though standing behind the one man who scared you most in the world, and wearing an offensive shirt emblazoned with his image, was a completely normal thing to do.

*

Severus Snape hadn't seen Neville yet, which was probably a good thing given his mood. His scowl was certainly deeper than usual that morning – quite a feat considering the depth of his usual scowl – and he was racking his brain trying to work out just who hated him enough to defame him in such a way. The truth was that there were any number of people wandering about the wizarding world hating him, but he had always assumed that once they left his classroom forever, they would happily forget he ever existed. He stepped up to the counter where a terribly familiar fresh-faced attendant was sitting with a large grin and a Snape mug half hidden behind his quill and ink.

"What can I do for you today, Professor Snape?"

Snape recognised the voice instantly, and he suppressed a shudder as the headache he thought had long passed blossomed suddenly behind his eye. He had almost danced a jig the day that Colin Creevey had finished school. Frighteningly, it appeared the voice still hadn't managed to break. For his part, Creevey looked very much as though all of his bad dreams had just come to fruition, and he quickly slid his Snape mug a little further behind his ink pot.

Despite wanting desperately to cause the mug to explode (and possibly lodge a large porcelain chunk into Creevey's right cornea), Snape decided that being polite would benefit his cause. There was not enough gold in the world to make him smile at that moment however, and his usual demeanor was enough to cause Colin's head to bobble up and down nervously. "I would like to find out the identity of someone who registered a business here," Snape said, trying to sound friendly and failing miserably.

Colin's eyes grew terribly wide, and for a moment it seemed he was trying to produce spit to wet his dry mouth. In the face of Snape's glare he shank back so that he looked positively miniscule, but eventually he did manage to find his voice. "I'm sorry, Professor Snape, we are unable to disclose that information directly to the public. If you like, you can make an application and the head of department will review it. You should have your answer in five to ten days."

While Colin appeared to believe he had found the perfect solution to Snape's dilemma, Snape felt his blood pressure rise slightly, and the Creevey-produced headache became a pronounced thudding pain. He cleared his throat and wondered how long he could keep up the polite persona. "I don't have five to ten days," he said quietly and noted that his voice sounded a little strained. "I need to know who registered the business now."

"I'm sorry, Professor, but the policy of the Department for the Registration of Magical Businesses clearly states that..."

Snape felt his rather tenuous grip on politeness snap, and he reached across the bench, grasped Colin hard by his collar, and dragged him bodily over the counter. It would have been far easier to have used the Imperius curse on the squeaky voiced little bureaucrat, but there was a terrible sort of pleasure in grinding his wand into Colin's quite possibly unused scrotum and making him squeak just a little bit higher. "I'm sure you can make an exception for me, Mr. Creevy. Tell me who registered the Snapeorium as a business."

Colin Creevy was looking around wildly for the Security Guards, and when at last he spotted them moving forward, he almost wilted with relief. "I... I'm sorry, Professor," he spluttered, knowing that his salvation was only moments away. "I... I can't give out that information."

Snape didn't bother to release his grip on his former student's collar, but he did want to see exactly what had given him such courage. He jerked his head around to see what Creevy was looking at, smiled, and nodded cordially. "Crabbe, Goyle, good to see that the references I gave you found you gainful employment."

Crabbe and Goyle were resplendent in their black and silver security robes, and much to Colin's dismay, they waved cheerfully at Snape and settled in to see what kind of damage their ex-Head of House could inflict. Snape could almost sense Creevey making a mental note to complain to his department head about them later, but from the way the imbecile was shaking, Snape wasn't certain if he would survive the encounter without having a heart attack first.

"Now listen, you no-talent little pissant," Snape hissed, his face so close to Colin's that spittle flecked across his cheek. "You either tell me the name of the person who registered that business, or I will give you a case of elephantiasis of the nuts so bad that you'll be wheeling your balls around in a barrow until you're fifty!"

"G-G-G-G-G..."

"'G-G-G-G-G' what?" Snape dug the wand in a little harder.

"Granger..." Colin wailed. "H-Hermione Granger."

Snape released him immediately with a frown. Hermione Granger? What in hell had he ever done to her? "Thank you," he said politely, "you have been most helpful."

Snape turned away and spotted Neville. His eyes glanced quickly at the T-shirt, and he snorted impatiently. He pushed past him, and Neville looked panicked, as though he were about to wet himself. Snape didn't pause to make a comment, but as he passed he made sure to catch Neville's eye and hold his gaze for a second before walking away. He smirked when he heard a yelp of dismay, as Neville no doubt realized that instead of feet he now sported a giant set of rabbit paws. He turned his head ever so slightly, and the smirk that had tugged at his mouth became an evil grin as he caught sight of Neville unconsciously twitching his nose.

*******

The Daily Prophet's dissection of her last press conference reiterated to Hermione that she was not well liked by the media. In truth she wasn't well liked by many people at all, and even shopping trips to Diagon Alley had become events that she treated with some trepidation. Someone always felt the need to come up and tell her exactly what they thought of her – even as they were shaking Harry's hand! She often wondered how she had managed to get into the unenviable position in the first place. She wasn't all that brilliant at public speaking, and she had a tendency to get annoyed at answering the same question, differently phrased, over and over again.

To make matters worse, she was fairly certain that Percy Weasley (who was now Head of the Department of Magical Co-operation and thus her boss to some degree) had some kind of strange crush on her, because he kept asking her out for a drink after work. She had contemplated taking him aside and explaining that in a moment of lunacy she had submitted to intercourse with his brother, and as such it would just be far too strange for her to form any kind of relationship with him. She felt pretty sure these were terms he would understand, and they were far kinder than the truth – that he looked like a giant red pimple and there wasn't enough gold in Gringotts to convince her to have so much as a glass of milk in his company. She had not taken action though, because if her current luck was holding out, she was completely wrong about Percy's 'crush', and she would end up looking like a total idiot on top of everything else.

Today's 'everything else' consisted of yet another press conference regarding the new regulation for cauldron thickness. The Ministry appeared to be completely obsessed with the subject, and a new report, with a new set of recommendations, was released every few months... and every few months Hermione stood in front of the same crowd of journalists and adjusted the regulations amidst much scoffing and sneering. Today was no exception.

One of the main problems with press conferences for the Department of Magical Co-operation was that it made for an international press gallery, and Rita Skeeter (who had fashioned herself a serious journalist in recent years and who referred to Hermione as the Ministry's resident know-it-all with such alarming regularity that it was no longer funny) was always keen to make a statement in front of her foreign counterparts. She was now asking, yet again, why the wizarding world should be concerned with changes so minimal that they could well be considered irrelevant when there were far more important things to worry about, such as the incidents of vampire attacks having risen ten-fold in recent years. Hermione would have loved to have agreed with her, but she settled instead for rolling her eyes and glaring at the troublemaker, envisioning the reporter buzzing around in a jar and fiddling with the wand in her robe pocket, wondering if she could both Transfigure a jar and say the incantation to force her into her Animagus form simultaneously.

Such moments had their uses, however; they served as fodder for her grudge against the man who had been the means for keeping her in this god-awful job. As she had sat through breakfast that morning, with a greasy haired Harry and an even greasier faced Ron, she had been concocting a new product... one that was now taking glorious new shape in her brain. Even as she walked away from the podium, ignoring the grumbled misgivings of the various press assembled, Hermione found that a smile had begun to tug at the corner of her mouth as she contemplated the brilliance of her new plan. With some work, she could have it ready just in time for Christmas, and she had no doubt it would be a hit.

She walked into her office, her mind still mulling over her new plan, and she was about to sit down, when she realised that there was a large and rather ferocious looking owl standing on her chair. She took a step back, and it glared at her impatiently.

Can an owl really look impatient?

She looked at the owl and raised an eyebrow. Yes, an owl could really look impatient. The bird hopped up onto her desk and held out its leg, waiting for her to remove the letter it was carrying and giving her the distinct impression that it was only just tolerating her touch. She untied the letter from the owl's leg, but before she could offer it a drink, the bird took off out the window.

Hermione looked at the heavy grade parchment envelope and read the neatly gold embossed name on the back. Akerbole and Sidenhelm Solicitors at Law. She felt her stomach drop with a nervous thump and carefully opened the letter.

16 October 2003

Solicitor at Law

"Wow," Hermione said, astonished, "I thought he'd just hex me."

******

"Dear Ms Akerbole

Solicitor at Law"

"Well, Severus..." Augustine Akerbole sat back in her chair and blew smoke from her cigarette into the air, "she's got your balls in a vice."

"What?" Snape hissed and glared across the desk at the woman as though she had suddenly sprouted horns. "What do you mean 'she has my balls in a vice'? That know-it-all little bitch will never get my balls in a fucking vice! Why don't you do your fucking job and stop her?"

Augustine blew some more smoke and to Snape's astonishment, she smiled dreamily. A quick and silent Legilimens revealed a disturbing image of his solicitor singing in the shower with a Snape Soap-on-a-Rope dancing on a loofah. Worse still, another image spang to her mind: a group of wildly intoxicated witches whooping and cheering as another, blindfolded witch strived to pin a penis on a frighteningly accurate caricature of himself. Pin the Penis on the Potions Master? What kind of mad woman would buy such a thing? What kind of mad woman would invent it?

"Well, Severus," Augustine said cheerfully, "if we take her to court, it could come out very badly for you. I mean, you're not the most popular man in the country, and..."

"I think you will find that those fortunate enough to have been placed in Slytherin House have quite fond memories of me," Snape cut in indignantly.

"Yes, I understand that former members of Slytherin house have a great deal of respect for you, but they do total less than a quarter of the wizarding population, and it doesn't stop them from buying these 'products'."

Bastards.

Snape began to pace Augustine Akerbole's office. The Granger girl was obviously harbouring some grubby little grudge from some ill he had done her, either real or imagined. He had to admit that it was very possibly real; he had generally gone out of his way to either ignore or insult her when she was at school. But he had schooled countless students, all of whom still hated the sight of him, and none of them had ever done anything like this. To add insult to injury, the little bitch was too smart for her own good, and she had managed to find a legal loophole that would allow her to do it. Damn the Wizengamot!

So how should he stop this? Should he just ignore it? Take the high road and pretend it didn't bother him? Or should he come up with something else? Should he perhaps get his own back?

Snape stopped pacing, and a thin smile crossed his sallow features in a way that made the world-weary Augustine Akerbole shudder.

Then, inexplicably, Snape began to chuckle. "Oh, yes," he murmured more to himself than to his solicitor. "How utterly perfect. How perfect indeed."

********