Beneficium Accipere Libertatem Est Vendere

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.

Severus stood, perched precariously on top of the armrests of his much loved armchair, happy that he was finally high enough to be able to look out his window to watch the snow fall. Hermione's re-charmed window no longer let in the bone-deep cold that pervaded the prison. True to her word, it let in airflow, but it kept his cell's temperature constant. Though he wouldn't have traded the freezing North Sea wind for his warm comfortable bed, Severus missed being able to feel how the elements invaded his cell before her charms.

In the previous incarnation of his life, Severus hadn't been particularly in tune with nature. He never sought out 'mother nature' like some sandal-wearing hippie. Rather, he was content to view it from behind enchanted windows and, occasionally, when the mood struck, bottle up bits of it. But ever since his incarceration, the sharp freezing winters and blistering hot summers connected him with life outside, and he'd grown a deep and abiding love for his planet. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing better than the occasional thunderstorm which brought howling wind and splattering rain into his life.

Now, his climate-controlled sealed environment made him feel even more confined. Snowflakes whipped around the darkening sky, pushed on by speeding winds in a violent ballet. By gods, it was glorious, and Severus just wanted to plant his naked feet into the ground and let himself be overtaken by nature's fury.

He stood atop the armchair watching the storm until he could no longer see out into the darkened night. After dutifully preparing himself for bed (something he'd never done when he had only a smelly cot to lie on), Severus laid awake, thinking of his bushy-haired Vixen.

She knew. He knew she knew. And it was awful. Ffoulkes should have just kept his damned mouth shut, but stupidly thought he was doing Severus a favor. The afternoon he had visited, Severus had requested several items be taken from his vault for Hermione's Christmas gift. When she dropped off the Russian dumplings but didn't visit, Severus thought it peculiar, but was unconcerned.

The next morning, Ffoulkes returned with a smile and obvious pride in the gem he let drop from his lips for Hermione's benefit, and Severus' stomach sank. He liked it better when Hermione simply thought of him as a cruel, unfeeling murderer. The gods only knew what she thought of him now. The witch probably pitied him. She thought of him as a coward. That was probably why she hadn't returned.

Hermione hadn't returned.

The food she continued to drop off was of course appreciated, but it was her company that he craved. Silly, that the biggest thorn in his side next to Potter, the know-it-all swot, could make his days worthwhile and ... happy. He'd even begun to pay attention to the calendar for her. By his estimate, she'd been to two production meetings, two staff meetings, the annual manufacturing meeting, and a sit down with all of the distributors before halting the assembly line for the holidays. And Severus didn't even get to hear how any of them went. It was all patently unfair.

Unfortunately, the whole "innocent" business meant that when Hermione did finally put in an appearance, she'd arrive loaded with questions. Her previous tack 'not to pry' would of course be forgotten. She'd be full of ceaseless, never-ending, annoying, constant, probing questions. There'd be no living with her now.

Hermione Granger was a force of nature and damned near impossible to deter when she had a new project or, dear gods, a mission to save his poor soul.

He could already visualize putting Spellotape on her lips.

Though, if she didn't at least make an attempt at showing her face on Christmas morning, he would consider taking legal action. Clearly, she was abandoning her duties as a wife.

*****

Christmas morning dawned clear and bright, just as perfectly as it should. It found Hermione with a mug of coffee in hand, engaged in a staring contest with a pair of golden eyes. Again, Crooks refused to take his pill, but the staring contest seemed to contain a silent conversation about something entirely different.

Crookshanks cocked his head.

"I'll be right back and we can spend the day together, Crooksy. I'll just drop his packages off and ..." Hermione threw her hands on her hips. "It's not like he actually will want me there!"

Crookshanks said nothing.

"I'm not wimping out! I just don't want to intrude on his holiday." She knew it sounded ridiculous even as she said it. Snape. Holiday spirit. Ha! It was as far-fetched as Snape dancing the Hukilau.

He flicked his bottle-brush tail a few times and twitched a whisker.

"Don't you dare look at me in that tone of voice, young man."

With another flick of his tail which seemed to convey, 'whatever,' Crooks sauntered away to plop on the rug and proceeded to give his genitalia the attention it deserved.

"Oh, very mature. You'll put your mouth on that, but you won't take this pill? You're impossible, Crooks."

Hermione threw up her hands. All the men in her life were damned impossible. Well, there was no use putting off the inevitable any longer. Hermione gathered her cloak and packages and Apparated to the visitors' entrance of Azkaban.

Typically, she was met by two guards as she passed through the security terminal in the Long Term Inmate section. They had special incantations and devices similar to Muggle metal detectors that revealed malicious objects or intent, but Hermione was never overly concerned, and the boys never appeared to be, either. Hermione had become some sort of fixture in the place. Truthfully, she was the only regular visitor, and the boys really did like her and the food she brought. The inmates weren't the only ones who had to endure the grub.

Christmas morning, instead of the usual complement of two guards, it was just Billy Mulciber, who looked quite wretched.

"Happy Christmas, Billy," she said brightly, painting on a cheerful face. "You're not here by yourself all day, are you?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"What a shame, this is a day for family, but don't think I've forgotten about you." Hermione withdrew a white box stuffed with red paper and handed it to him. "I have a few more for the other boys. You will pass them on, won't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied morosely.

Hermione was just passing through the checkpoint when she met his sad blue eyes peering from behind a long fringe of brown bangs. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he'd just been having a good cry.

"Not to worry, Billy," she soothed. "You'll be home soon enough, and I'm sure they'll save plenty of sweets for you."

His eyes cast quickly downwards, and Hermione was struck by the deep look of pain that crossed his features. "Billy," she whispered, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, "did I say something wrong? What's the matter?"

He continued to make eye contact with the floor as he mumbled, "Nothing, Ma'am."

Hermione put down her wand and packages, drew herself up, and folded her arms across her chest. She was settling down for the long haul; she'd get it out of him whether he liked it or not. Nobody was supposed to be that sullen on Christmas.

"Well? I'm waiting," she prompted.

Billy slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just get a bit misty-eyed 'round this time of year. I miss my family, that's all."

"Oh, I'm sorry... I didn't realize... That was horribly insensitive of me."

"Aw, no worries," he said sheepishly. A moment later, he looked up at her with a hint of a smile. "Would you like to meet them?" he asked eagerly.

Hermione's expression must have conveyed her confusion as he hastily added, "They're all two cells up from Professor Snape."

"Oh... uh, all right, Billy," she responded apprehensively. Hermione was NOT interested in meeting his family. She didn't have even the slightest bit of morbid curiosity, but then, she wasn't going to tread on Billy's Christmas.

He led her down the corridor towards Snape's cell. The corridor was wide and dimly-lit, faintly reminding Hermione of the dungeons at Hogwarts. It was always silent in Azkaban prison, only the loud echoes of their footsteps or the occasional squeaky wheel from the meal trolley punctuated the eerie quiet.

When they arrived at the door, Hermione found it odd that he did not call for the prisoners to present themselves, but had her answer the moment the door swung wide.

The Mulciber family slept peacefully, stacked against the walls on hard cots, and Hermione was reminded of a sleeping cabin aboard a train. Magical IVs were plugged into veins in their collar bones, keeping their bodies pink and healthy-looking. If she didn't immediately know they'd been Kissed, she'd think they were just having a lie in.

In a moment of sickening clarity, Hermione knew exactly what had become of the Ministry's processed masses. Those for whom the Wizengamot didn't have time to spare a trial. Those swept up in Ministerial Decrees. She remembered seeing the line that stretched around the Atrium when she'd been there for some long forgotten reason. Knockturn Alley shopkeepers, former Slytherins, and shady-looking persons patiently waiting in line, some clutching Ministry summons, others checking their timepieces, eager to get back on with their lives. Kissed and soulless. After all, it was much easier to warehouse bodies than undesirable people.

Like a bitter aspirin on her tongue, Hermione recalled how happy she'd been that they were finally doing something to make the streets safer. Perhaps a day late and a Knut short, but nevertheless, she'd been honestly glad to know that they were taking the threat of rogue Death Eaters seriously. But not this. Never this. She hadn't known. Nobody knew. The presses had been silent.

"Is this them?" she asked in awe, knowing it was a silly question. "Is this all of them?"

Her eyes drank in their vacant expressions, mothers and children.

"Yeah, the ones who survived." He knelt down by a little boy who couldn't have been older than a fourth-year and held his hand.

A cold shiver ran down her spine; she easily counted fifteen women and children, 'sleeping.' Their faces seemed innocent in their peace.

"I don't get it," she said once her voice had returned to her. "Why?"

Billy stiffened and stood up clenching his jaw. "Loyal followers of the Dark Lord. Ministry said they were unredeemable."

"The children..." she choked.

Billy scrubbed his eyes and nodded. "This is my Ma." He gestured to a thin woman with perfect cheekbones, and thick chestnut hair streaked with silver. "My brothers... sis."

He waved his arm around to encompass another set of bunks. "Aunt Gladys. They said she was sleeping with the devil. Said my cousins were his spawn. Aunt Ronda brought all the kids out to the edge of the Forbidden Forest for a picnic during the Final Battle. Wanted to see their fathers in action defeating Harry Potter. Mind you, none of them participated, little Junebug couldn't even lift a wand."

"That's horrible! I don't know what to say."

"Nothing really to say." He shrugged.

"And what about you? Why aren't you...?"

"Dead? Kissed?" Billy scratched the back of his neck. "I wasn't here. My Da never made me join up because he said I was too smart for it. Sent me to Canada for most of the war to get my Masters of Arithmancy. Now, I wonder if he did it because he knew this might happen."

Neither said another word until Severus was called to present himself for inspection.

Hermione could only think Severus ought to be damned ashamed of himself. Squandering his life while others had no choice.

*

A/N:

Chapter title: Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere - To accept a favour is to sell freedom. (Publilius Syrus)

Many, many thanks for my terrific beta Christev20. She deserves kudos, too!