Ex Post Facto

The next morning Hermione was even worse for wear; she'd spent the night on the couch hurriedly scribbling every abstract thought and notation that came to her regarding freshening charms.

Every Muggle corner market and stop-n-go shop had 'em; spritzers for the upholstery, socket fans filled with liquid potpourri, even little evergreen trees for the automobile. The wizarding world didn't bother with such things. What was the use? A few waves of a wand and the air was clear and fresh again.

But what if they could be convinced they needed something like that? Hermione could create a market for some such charmed device... witches would be wondering how they ever got along without one.

Her head pounded with the possibilities. Granddaddy Granger smelled of warm pipe tobacco, flannel shirts, and his fishing hole after a good rainstorm. It was the kind of scent that inspired comfort and many happy memories. Occasionally, when she pined for his bear hugs and mugs of cocoa on the back porch, she tried to think about how he smelled and often wished she could just inhale whole big lungfuls of it at a time. Was it possible to create an enchanted device to absorb a scent, regardless of how complex, and faithfully reproduce it on command? How many Galleons would someone pay for something like that?

Her staff would not be happy. At least not until the bonus checks were drafted.

Hermione had them working around the clock on all sorts of projects covering every discipline of magic. They needed a break. She needed a vacation. But more importantly, she needed to expand. What started in the Weasley's garage five years ago had moved and expanded four times since then. This time, she would just purchase the warehouse outright. Eight months ago, when Hermione knew she needed to expand, she balked at the idea of ever filling up a two-story warehouse and settled on a more 'manageable' space. Now she just wished she had the time to talk to a realtor again.

Time. That was yet another project. If she ever had the time to get around to it. True, all the 'known' Time-Turners had been destroyed in her fifth year at Hogwarts, but the original research still existed. Granted, it was mostly in Middle English, but eventually Hermione would get 'round to it. Then maybe she'd have the time to hit the stacks of half-formed ideas and shelved projects. Maybe. At present, if Hermione had a Time-Turner, she'd cuddle up with her pillow and tell the world to bite her ass.

"Crooks!" she screamed, "I'm running late so get your gingy-butt over here."

She knew he understood her perfectly well; every morning was the same fight. Even in the magical realm, there wasn't an easy or pleasant way of giving a cat a pill. Crooks was too smart to take it in his food, too cunning to let her sucker him into it with a belly rub, and much too devious to let himself be found every morning when she hollered for him. And of course Crooks was smart enough to know he needed to take it. That was the problem with Kneazles, too bloody smart. Not that she'd stand for a dunderheaded familiar.

"If I have to go hunting for you, it'll be much worse. I'm in no mood to play!"

Hermione didn't have the luxury of waiting on his master's leisure this morning.

"I'll Stun you if I have to!" Of course she didn't really mean it. How could she? The sad truth was Crooks was no longer a kitten. Hermione had a difficult time imagining he'd ever been a kitten. Kittens had kitten-fur: soft, spiky, kitteny fur. Crooks would never have stood for it. Sadly though, he was getting on in years.

She tapped her foot before threatening, "One!..." A faint scurrying sound came from the bedroom "Two! ..." She could hear his nails clattering on the wood floor. "Three!"

The grumpy half-Kneazle came to a lurching halt in front of her feet and eyed her with angry yellow eyes. She met his glare. "Oh, don't give me that, you marmalade monster. You know it's for your own good."

Hermione proffered the pill that was supposedly beef flavored and yummy for cats and Kneazles alike (Ha!) and watched him grumble a bit before taking it from her. "And I'd better not come back to find it on the rug again." Hermione could have sworn he rolled his eyes at her, but once the pill was gone, she offered him a chicken treat. "Good baby," she crooned.

"Right. Fine. Now that's settled..." Hermione glanced around her kitchen and parchment-littered living room, "Where's my satchel? I swear... the story of my life, once I get it all together, I can't remember where I put it...."

Years ago, she'd graduated from her small beaded bag that held mostly everything to a Mommy-purse that really did hold everything, before having to trade it in for a messenger bag that held everything plus the proverbial kitchen sink. Hermione pondered a possible scientific explanation. The Law of Expanding Crap. The more room she had to house crap, the more crap she found that needed to be housed. It was all patently unfair.

She didn't honestly have time for this; even if she was the boss, Hermione would never think of coming in late or missing a single day of work. That would be inexcusable. "Accio satchel!" she cried before cringing as a heap of books flipped over. The moments were few and far between, but there were moments when Hermione found herself wishing for a house-elf. A little help every now and then wasn't so much to ask for, was it?

The moment Hermione arrived at work, she was instantly assailed.

Edwards handed her a stack of phone messages, her daily calendar, and the status report of each current project.

Hopper wanted to bend her ear just for a tick, which meant he wanted at least an hour of face time to schmooze.

Gibson was on to something, which was either earth-shatteringly good or bad enough to unmake all creation and break several laws of physics.

And Jordan wanted more time off because his wife was going into labor... right now.

Jordan was given the week. Thankfully Edwards suggested sending flowers to the new family...she certainly wouldn't have thought about it. Hermione delegated that task to him.

Hopper was put off. Indefinitely, if at all possible.

First priority was to check on Gibson, Hermione couldn't really afford any more explosions. The Muggles got all flighty last time that had happened.

It turned out Gibson was on to something, but nothing dramatic, which was just great with Hermione; she couldn't handle much more drama.

By the time she made it to her own office, it was past lunch, the phone messages had tripled, and she hadn't even had the opportunity to check her email. No doubt her inbox would be full.

Whereas most wizards wouldn't give the Muggle world a second glance, having an office where electricity and an internet connection were available was a necessity. Really, the technology gave her quite an advantage over all of her competitors. Most of her staff was accustomed to the strange Muggle contraptions and laptops that dotted most of the workstations.

It wasn't that she tried to hire Muggle-borns, but she mostly snapped up the students that the Ministry tended to overlook, regardless of their genius, which invariably meant Muggle-borns. In all actuality, Hermione was more concerned with that intangible spark of brilliance and creative thinking than abbreviations after a name. Before any product was launched, it was thoroughly vetted by a series of subject-matter Masters, but most of her staff had only a Hogwarts education.

Surprisingly, this had the opposite effect of what everyone told her to expect. Early on, Hermione was given advice to hire only Masters, but shortly found out that most Masters spent their time arguing with her about why something could not be done. It just wasn't worth the effort.

As most Hogwarts graduates couldn't get apprenticeships if they didn't have experience and couldn't get experience unless they had apprenticeships, they were usually stuck in a weird jobless limbo. Especially if they had the blemish of being Muggle-born on their transcripts. But she never had to argue with them when she proposed a new project.

Oh, certainly there were some incredulous looks, and more than a few of them said 'One. Two. Three. Not it!' But to date, nobody had ever jumped on her desk whining and complaining that she was asking them to do something fundamentally impossible. Maybe only theoretically impossible.

By the end of the day, which was somewhere between quitting time and dawn, Hermione had caught up on email, sorted through most of the research left with her, read all the progress reports (which usually took forever because she constantly had to edit, add her own comments, look up facts, and suggest other alternatives), and most of the phone calls had been returned with the exception to the ones who didn't appreciate being called in the middle of the night. Along the way, she managed to grab a bit of nosh, courtesy of the clever Muggle magic machine, the 'microwave.'

Which just meant Hermione had time to Apparate home and drop in bed only to wake five hours later and do it all over again.

*****

They sat there, looking nothing less than perfect. It was even a bigger bundle than he'd ever netted on any Christmas or Birthday haul. Four large white paper boxes sitting on the cushion of a stylish leather armchair, the red tissue paper peeking out artfully. In another time and place, a glamorous photograph for a department store could have been taken.

It was as if someone had meticulously conceptualized exactly what he needed and executed the plan flawlessly. Severus expected nothing less from his most impressive student. Hermione never did anything in half measures; she was too detail oriented and obsessive for anything short of perfection. He wasn't certain what was contained in the rest of the boxes; he had only gotten so far as unwrapping the first few items before being overcome by something, a feeling he couldn't quite explain, but made him feel very uncomfortable.

So the boxes sat. And he sat. Trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. Didn't he want this? To make the best of a bad situation? Manipulate the witch just a bit? Get a few kicks and lighten up the misery in his life?

Why did the witch have to get him the best of everything? If the first items were anything to judge by, Hermione had spent a small fortune on items that would have made Lucius green with envy.

Why?

Surely she realized he was in Azkaban prison. The girl wasn't dense enough to think that he had anyone to impress here. The Dementors, though still well employed by the Ministry, were no longer in residence since the Prison Reform Act, so he had no reason to bribe a guard.

So the boxes sat. And he sat.

After what might or might not have been several hours of a staring contest, Severus blinked first. There was no use for it. The boxes couldn't possibly contain anything that would actually bite him, and he'd look like a damned fool if she came waltzing in the door only to see he hadn't move a muscle, other than to get the boxes as far away from his bed as possible. He had to open them, if for no other reason than to prove he wasn't a coward.

And that was another thing, just when was Hermione going to decide to show up? The chit hadn't as much as given him notice. This was the girl who lived and died by her schedule. What if she decided to pop in while he was doing something important? He'd be damned if he'd rearrange his schedule for her.

Mornings were sit-ups, push ups, crunches, squats, and whatever range of motion exercises he could manage given the small space. Running obviously was completely out, but he managed to get some cardio in by huffing and puffing through as many jumping jacks as he could.

Afternoons were dedicated to silent meditation, reciting brewing instructions, and the occasional attempt at teaching himself more wandless magic. The wandless magic bit was only to keep himself busy; there was really nothing he seriously wanted to use magic for. What exactly would he do, 'Accio toilet paper'?

In the evening he did his most serious thinking by composing potions in his head and dwelling on things that made him want to crawl into his disgusting mattress.

No, Severus was quite busy and really didn't have much time at all for the witch in his life. If she knew what was best for her, she'd avoid just casually dropping by, mucking with his schedule and all that. He liked his life just fine. In fact it was perfect. Just dandy.

"Oh, fuck it all."

Severus grabbed the partially unpacked box and dumped the contents out on his cot. He certainly wasn't afraid of a few grooming products.

The girl had taste. Or at least an idea of what he liked, which of course was always tasteful. The most exquisite French-milled herbal soaps. A proper set of shaving lathers to accompany the wicked shaving razor. Nail clippers. Clean-smelling deodorant. Assorted scrub brushes for every body part imaginable, and...thank the gods above...a package of fresh towels to replace the disgusting rag she'd transfigured into his much-loved leather armchair. Surely her place in the heavens was assured.

Practical items all in all. Manly even.

The most fascinating of all were the bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Granger's own brand, Good Hair Day. He had no idea why anyone would want to call a hair product Good Hair Day; it would seem to suggest there was something such as a Bad Hair Day, but he chalked it up to her bizarre eccentricities. Severus read the labels twice. To say he was impressed was an understatement. No wonder the girl was successful.

It was a universal truism; people always wanted what they didn't have. Girls with heads full of enviable curls always wanted straight, stringy hair. Stringy-haired poor bastards like himself craved a bit of wave and body. Hair products catered to that need and raked in the Galleons promising to transform any head into the 'ideal.' Not Granger's. Her charmed cleanser/potion simply promised to give the user the best outcome based upon what nature dictated. And because it worked with nature instead of against it, the product was non-abrasive.

Clever, clever girl. He idly wondered what exactly she'd look like on a 'good hair day,' though most likely it would take a weed-whacker to get any desired effect.

One box down, and Severus was feeling less apprehensive about the situation, on the whole. Actually, he was a bit angry with himself for his moments of weakness. Weakness, that was all that it was. He was growing soft and sentimental in his imprisonment. Why should he deny himself whatever luxuries he could grab hold of while caged like an animal?

He wasn't quite certain what to make of the clock and calendar duo. Did he really want to number his days? Take stock and account for the hours that slipped past him in silent mockery? It was all typical Hermione; never once could he remember an instance of her being late to a class. Severus supposed that if she wasn't able to plan her waking hours down to the minute the poor girl would come utterly undone. Control freaks were all the same. The clock was quickly put aside. He was on nobody's time but his own.

The next three boxes were quickly sorted through, and Severus now had a huge fluffy pile of red tissue paper. If she hadn't included a roll of never-ending toilet paper, he'd be a happy boy just with the packaging. As Severus was now in possession of several items and not a damn place to stow any of them, back in the magically expanding boxes they went.

But first he changed into one of his new sets of robes. There was nothing comparable to the utterly sublime feeling of a new set of robes, especially after two years of practical undress. The wool wasn't as soft as he would have preferred, and the cut wasn't precisely to his own tailor's specifications, but then he had lost a great deal of weight. At least she got the color right.

Severus nearly felt human again. In fact when he closed his eyes and occluded his mind, the world seemed strangely right for the moment, but then the moment quickly passed.

The truth was that even though he had fresh linens and bedding of a disgustingly high Egyptian cotton thread count, he wouldn't dare throw them atop his fetid mattress, or let his new robes come in contact with it either. So the old grey prison clothes came back on, and the luxuries were packed away.

Severus only allowed himself the joy of picking at will from the generous number of books and periodicals she'd thrown in.

A/N:

Chapter title: Ex Post Facto - After the fact

Sweet thanks to the lovely Christev20 who gives so generously of her time.