Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything recognizable to the HP-Universe, JK Rowling does. I'm not making any money off the writing of this fanfic.

"Then, what happened?" Ginny asked her, eyes wide and shining.

"I told him to go fuck himself. I might have used some choice words about his mother and disparaged his paternity. But you know what sucked? I only thought of a whole host of better insults to use right after I walked out. But what could I do? I'd look like an idiot if I barged back in."

"Ugh, I hate when that happens."

"It's just damn skippy he's never called me a Mudblood. On Doctor Allport's Prejudice Scale, 'anti-locution' is the first step towards 'extermination.' Of course, had he called me that, I'd have skipped straight to 'physical attack,' and I'm just not quite sure what that says about me."

"I think it means you won't put up with any bull crap," Ginny asserted, prompting both girls to display predatory Gryffindor grins.

"I'll go all Muggle on his ass," Hermione teased. "He won't know what hit him."

"He might like that, you know. He's probably got a S&M streak a mile wide," Ginny said with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Hermione set down her wine glass. "I really don't want to talk about him anymore."

Ginny nodded, understanding perfectly.

"So, tell me about your date. Charles, was it?"

"Thomas. Charles was two weeks ago." Ginny was getting accustomed to only having half of her friend's attention. It used to bother her, but the only way Ginny could see Hermione was to come over to the flat with a bottle of wine while she worked on payroll. She could either settle for half her attention or lose Hermione entirely. Hermione, of course, firmly maintained that she was always accessible. Ginny only needed to send her an e-mail or get a Facebook account.

"Uh-huh," Hermione prompted while leafing through ledgers. "What was the problem this time?"

"Gay. Or at least that's what he said."

"You think he was lying to you?" Hermione looked up incredulously. What had Ginny done to scare this one off?

"I don't know." Ginny tapped her finger thoughtfully against her lips. "But it seemed really suspicious. He announced it out of the blue, right after I told him how many children I wanted."

"No, Gin, you didn't! On a first date? You're lucky he didn't run screaming from the table."

"Yeah, he looked like he might bail, too. But to be fair, he did ask me how many I wanted. I couldn't lie. I mean, what if we ended up dating, falling in love, and getting married? That would be so wrong. What would I do, tell him at the altar to add a one in front of the number I gave him?"

"You could have misdirected him, put off answering the question."

"'Mione, you know that doesn't work. Once my dates connect my red hair and last name, that's the first thing they ask. As a matter of fact, it's usually more like an interrogation."

"Well, maybe this archaic law with all its 'production incentives' will actually work in your favor. It's got to benefit somebody." Hermione tried to sound encouraging, but she couldn't help tipping her words with a hint of sarcasm. The law was still a sore issue with her.

"Yeah, maybe," Ginny answered softly. "But all the decent wizards are already taken. I'm beginning to believe that Mr. Right is shacking up with Prince Charming, and I'm left to sort through the scraps. You know what? I don't want to dwell on this. Let's go out, Hermione. I don't want to sit here wallowing in my sorrows; let's just go somewhere. I know it's a weeknight, but I'm sure we can find a party somewhere."

Hermione dropped her quill. "I can't do that, Gin. I'm sorry, I've got all this to do." She spread her arms out wide to encompass the haphazard stacks of folders that had taken over the kitchen table.

"Just for tonight. Come on, we never do anything anymore. When was the last time you went out dancing? Pleeease!"

She shook her head. "You go on without me."

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "I'm not taking no for an answer. You need this just as much as I do. More so, probably."

"Look, Gin, that sounds nice and all, and I'd really like to go out with you. Honest. But if I don't get these drafts in to the bank on time, people aren't going to get paid this week. You understand? I'm not going to ruin all these people's lives just because you have an idea to go dancing."

"So get a bloody accountant!"

"No way."

"Why not? My brothers have one and don't have to deal with this crap. In fact, they have a whole lot bigger staff to handle half the work that you take on, and they actually have the opportunity to enjoy their success."

"No," Hermione said firmly. "I'm not going to entrust the running of my business to wizards who haven't got math skills past primary school education. If they offered rudimentary subjects at Hogwarts, I'd consider it, but as they don't...I can't chance it."

"So run your business and get someone to take over the R&D department. You can't run both."

Hermione grabbed a fist full of her hair and tugged. "Yes, I can."

"You need help. 'Mione, you can't do this all by yourself."

"No. What I need is time. I can do this if I just had a moment to concentrate." She rubbed her forehead, unknowingly smearing it with a large ink stain from her fingers.

Ginny was silent for a moment as she considered what to do with her best friend. It was in her nature to stalk off upset and pouting, but she couldn't leave Hermione like this.

"Is there something I can do?" She gestured to the stacks of reports. "Maybe there's something easy you could let me do to help you out."

Hermione looked at her warily. If there was anything that she might be convinced to entrust to Ginny, she knew that the moment the witch was finished with it, she'd then go back over her work to double check it. But then, giving Ginny something to do might make her feel like she was helping.

"Progress reports. I could let you take a crack at the progress reports."

"Okay." Ginny nodded. "What do I need to do?"

"The progress reports contain a synopsis of every project we are currently working on. The developer also writes about successes, failures, and speculations. It should also contain a detailed description of everything that has happened in the last week. All you would have to do is read it. If there's anything that strikes you as odd, or if you have a suggestion, write it in the notes section. It usually takes me a long time to go over them, but if you're willing to make a start, it could help me knock through it sooner. It might be helpful to have a different pair of eyes looking at it. You could bring a fresh perspective."

"Is that all?"

Hermione looked at her in disbelief; obviously, Ginny had no idea how invested she was in her progress reports. "Here, I'll show you." Hermione pulled a fat, dark blue folder off the top of a stack of other fat, dark blue folders. She had piles of such weekly folders going back several years, all organized in miniaturized file cabinets. Hermione estimated that she probably had no less than twelve file cabinets in her satchel, which never left her side. Paranoid was putting it mildly.

She flipped open the folder as Ginny stood over her shoulder and thumbed to the first tab.

"That son-of-a-bitch! I'll kill him."

The margins of her pages were covered in thin, spiky black handwriting.

"Well, at least it's not red ink," Ginny said sarcastically.

"I'll kill him."

Ginny watched as her friend began to melt down and stepped aside.

"They'll send me to Azkaban, but I'll kill him. Hmm... I won't have to get remarried if I'm in prison... I could kill him and live happily ever after. That's it, I'll kill him tomorrow."

"Hermione?"

"I'll kill him."

"He's probably just trying to help. Maybe you should read his notes; they might be good, you know." Ginny looked at her seething friend with genuine concern, Hermione was still muttering 'I'll kill him' over and over under her breath.

"Help? He's not trying to help me. The man's trying to ruin me. He probably just did this to throw me off my game."

"Why would he do that?" Ginny asked quietly.

"Why? Because he's Snape. He does evil things like that. The man isn't right; nothing he does is because he's nice. He's a Death Eater." Hermione's hands were now shaking.

"I know. I haven't forgotten he betrayed us all. But maybe you should just read what he's written... Hermione?"

Hermione was making a frantic grab for all her recent folders, turning them open and gritting her teeth as she found more and more spiky black handwriting.

******

Long after Ginny had abandoned her to her own personal hell, and a second bottle of wine was consumed, Hermione was lounging on her couch, reading as Crookshanks warmed her feet. She wasn't yet ready to admit it. To make the concession that Snape had done an admirable job of, well... doing her job, was too much. So, instead, Hermione took to scrutinizing everything he'd written, looking for flaws and even spelling errors.

He had a nasty habit of omitting apostrophes and connecting outrageously long run-on sentences with semicolons. But for a wizard without reference books for fact-checking, he actually had done a decent job. No, wait... scratch that.... He'd done an adequate job. Marginally good.

Oh, who was she kidding? Snape had managed to pick up on exactly the same things she would have and made exactly the same comments and suggestions she would have, as well.

What gave her pause, the thing that caused her the most consternation, were his notes regarding Imelda Gibson's project.

Gibson's project was so unique that they were charting new waters, and there was very little historical data to suggest that anything of the like had ever been attempted before. Hermione had the idea after listening to Harry describe something he had seen in a Pensieve. She wanted to view it herself to see if there were any details Harry had missed, but the Pensieve wasn't available.

Most people didn't have access to Pensieves; they were exceedingly rare and damned unaffordable to the average witch and wizard. Most were so small that they could be viewed by one or two people at a time. One night, after watching an old black and white movie on her television, Hermione's mind wandered to the old style projectors and a bizarre idea took root. What if it were possible to project memories like a film? At least they would only have to take a three dimensional source and pair it down to two dimensions, which in theory sounded easier than the other way round. Theoretically, of course...

Before any type of enchanted projector could be constructed, there was first the difficult task of working with the gossamer vapor-like material of which memories were made. Gibson, her Potions maven, had jumped on the idea immediately by spouting off ideas of binding the mist with a potion so that it was more stable without degrading the contents.

Her progress had been painfully slow, but the results were promising. And until the lab blew up, Hermione had a lot more confidence that they'd have the breakthrough they needed. Lee Jordan was already almost finished with the projector, or at least he was before he left. Now, she wasn't so certain the endeavor was even worth it. Imelda's potion was really volatile, too volatile to bring to market, and she nearly had lost her life in the explosion.

There, in the margins next to her progress report, in cramped handwriting read:

Potion highly unstable.

of dittany and copper cauldron.

"But it needs to be in a copper cauldron," she whispered to herself.

Suggest substituting 1 oz. tisane

deep violet.

--HBP

"Oh, now what do I do?" Hermione moaned.

This was bad. She reviewed the process in her head several times before coming to the same conclusion she had first arrived at. It would work. Damn him.

What did Snape want? Money? Credit? His name on the patent? Residuals? A stake in her company? She owned Granger Industries 100% outright and had no plans on ever going public. Oh, this was bad.

She pulled out her cellular and dialed up Edwards. He was accustomed to getting frantic calls in the middle of the night.

"Jake? I need your help. I'm in big trouble."

"Trouble? What's wrong, mama? This isn't about that time I did that thing, 'cause you said it wouldn't come back to haunt us, and I just can't..."

"Jake! Stop it. This is no time for you to go all 'oooh, shiny' on me. We've got real problems. Snape problems."

"Oh-my-lo! What'd he do? You're all right, in one piece? You don't need me to come over and bring tissues and Carly Simon?"

"No. Never mind all that, I'm taking care of it, but I need you to clear my schedule for Friday."

"Pardon?"

"I need the day."

"I don't understand. I'm confused. You're going to miss work?"

"Yesss," she hissed, losing patience. Hermione sighed loudly. "You'll have to reschedule the distributor meeting; and, Jake, I don't want to see them any time before next Friday."

"Oooh, yikes, they'll have kittens. Anything else I can do, sweets?"

Hermione wracked her brain. "Yeah. I need another Snape-Care Package. A good one. Go all out again. You seem to know what he likes... oh, and he'll need a proper bookcase and bed. Nothing too big, but something to replace his nasty cot. You've got that?"

"Absolutely. And while I'm out shopping I can pick up a little something for myself, right?"

"Yes, of course. I don't care as long as the Snape box is stellar."

"And that's why I love you, my sweet sugar mama."

"Good night, Jake."

Her next call was to her lawyer, who was less accustomed to getting calls in the middle of the night, but was still all too familiar with his client's unusual work habits.

******

Friday morning found Severus Snape in high spirits. It was a 'Hermione Day,' which was always a cause for a bit of celebration. Not only did the little chit provide countless hours of entertainment by being so much fun to provoke, but she brought goodies, too.

Although he was expecting her visit, it was still much too early when the morning guard Strathmore called for him to stand for inspection.

"Oh, good grief!" Severus groused, "Give me a minute to get presentable."

He knew it. The moment he let the witch into his life, she was going to muck with his finely tuned schedule. It was after breakfast and before lunch, meaning it was calisthenics time. Having Hermione show up unannounced at such an inopportune moment was infuriating. The witch would pay for this.

Hermione was amused. Little did she suspect when she turned up early at the prison that she'd get a show from her husband through the jailer's slot. She'd interrupted him while he was engrossed in push-ups. Hermione supposed it was because she had only brought him proper robes that he was doing his exercises in nothing more than fitted trousers, but she had to bite back a giggle when she thought that he might always have done his exercises that way. Was it possible that, in the bowels of Hogwarts, the man exercised in three layers of wool? Since Hermione couldn't imagine him in trainers and gym shorts she supposed he did.

When her mind drifted to what he might have worn in Azkaban before she brought him the sets of robes, her giggles ceased. That was something she didn't want to even consider.

Severus toweled himself off briefly before snatching up a collared shirt and throwing on his robe. He held out his arms wide open, "See, nothing. Not like I need anything to strangle her with."

"Let's see you try it, Snape," Hermione retorted as she walked in.

"Madam Granger, missed me so much you couldn't wait until this evening?"

Hermione dropped her satchel with a deafening thud. "I'm here on business, Snape."

"Last time I heard those words from you, my dear, you were proposing marriage. What brings you here this time? Some other harebrained scheme? Perhaps you want to start the honeymoon, Vixen?"

"This," she hissed, pulling out the thick dark blue folder, "is why I'm here."

"Ah, that." He smirked.

"Yes, 'that.' You crossed a line, Snape. What the hell gave you the right to go through my stuff?"

"Granger, I believe we've had this conversation before, and while I found it highly amusing at the time, I'm in no mood to listen to you wail about your insecurities again. I read your files. So what? I made a few comments. So what? I dare say my pearls of wisdom have benefited you."

"I'm not going to answer that."

"I'll take that to mean they did."

Hermione rubbed furiously at the point between her brows that was starting to scream. "Why, Snape?"

"Why not? I was bored. I was curious. And loathe as I am to admit it, the work was fascinating."

She took her usual seat on the leather armchair and Severus sat again on the cot, though he was really tempted to throw her off of it. It was his chair, after all.

"So, what now?" Hermione asked. When Severus' face remained completely blank and betrayed not even the slightest flicker of recognition, Hermione continued, "What do you want? I'm not giving you any stake in my company, if that's what you're thinking."

Severus let out a long, rich belly laugh, the likes of which Hermione had never been treated. He laughed without a trace of self-consciousness, as if he didn't care if anybody was listening or judging him. Hermione was momentarily transfixed. Not only had she never really seen the man laugh, or honestly believe that he could, but her laughter was always stifled into nervous giggles and chortles. She was always so embarrassed that someone might be analyzing what she was doing. People watchers always tended to believe others were watching them.

"Fine, I take it that somehow amuses you, but you still haven't answered the question. What do you want?"

As he recovered, Severus solemnly said, "I want to be involved."

"Involved? How? I'm willing to put your name on the patent as co-creator, is that involved enough for you?"

"Hardly. I want this," he gestured toward her bulging satchel, and she drew it closely to her chest.

"Granger, I am a solitary man. I'm not accustomed to working with anyone or even relying on anyone for anything. And I find myself in a position where I've become dependent upon you, of all people, much too much for my own liking. It's not as bad as I had feared."

His eyes took stock of his much improved cell. "But a man who has nothing, has want for nothing. And it seems that as I have more, or at least the trappings of more, I want more. It's no longer enough for me to sit idly by and watch the sun rise and set. I want to be productive again, feel useful in some way. I need to work. Nothing would make me feel more connected to being alive than having a purpose in life."

Stunned by his impassioned speech, Hermione didn't quite know how to respond. After a few seconds, she found her voice again. "Well, you can't have it. It's my company."

"And don't we all know that, Madam. But I believe you're missing my meaning entirely. I have no interest in taking over your job; there's no way I could do it from my cell, either. I would, however, like the opportunity to work on more production reports and market research analyses and whatever else you've got stashed in that bag of yours."

Sensing her apprehension, Severus targeted her irritating Gryffindor sentimentality. Their heartstrings were so easy to manipulate.

"My body is deteriorating here from disuse, my magic is weakened, my psyche is degenerating from the torture of being imprisoned..."

"I didn't put you here, Snape. You put yourself here," she interrupted.

"Yes, that's very true, and I didn't mean to imply that I don't deserve my punishment. I do. Hermione, please listen to me; don't let my mind atrophy as well. You could use me to your benefit."

"I'm not putting you on payroll."

"I don't want you to."

"You'll have to sign confidentiality and non-disclosure contracts."

"Done."

"And you have to accept that I'm the boss. You will have to answer to me."

"Regarding work? Yes."

This wasn't what Hermione set out to do. Hiring Snape, even non-salaried, was not what she had planned at all. She was supposed to bribe him, get him to sign over rights to the amended potion and other affidavits.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered under her breath.

Severus looked as if Christmas had come early as he hid his joy behind a veil of long sable hair.

A/N:

Chapter title: Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam - Either I will find a way or I will make one.