Peccavi

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.

Hermione Granger was no stranger to moral dilemmas. As per her indisputable reputation as Hogwarts' reigning squeaky-clean know-it-all, she'd spent many an occasion acting as moral authority and sounding board for all sorts of childhood woes. She could handle this. She just had to logically think through her problem as if it belonged to someone else, objectively, impartially, and level-headed, damn it.

It was time to make a list.

On one hand: Could she in all good conscience sit idly back and allow an innocent man to rot in prison?

And on the other: Lending her aid would result in everything she had been so desperate to avoid. A real husband, children, home life, dirty nappies, day care, cooking dinner, doing dishes, sex with Snape. No time for her career. No time for her research. No time for herself.

Oh, certainly there were other nuisances and quibbles she could add to the list, but the argument boiled down to one thing really: Was she willing to trade her freedom for his?

How could she? The wizard seemed perfectly happy to rot in his cell. Okay, gilded cage; it wasn't like the man was rotting on Chinese take-away. But then, how could she not? Hermione wasn't certain if she had the evil inclination within her bones, her soul, her conscience, to let him stay in prison when he was by definition a war hero, despite his vociferous protestations.

Hermione certainly couldn't hold him responsible for the Potters' deaths. It's not like he knew they were the family targeted by prophecy and fate, so that karmic law drivel he spouted seemed quite irrelevant. She also knew that very early in his Death Eater career Severus Snape had become a spy for the Order. Whatever crimes he had committed were acts of war, and since soldiers weren't arrested for pulling their triggers on the battlefield, it seemed wrong to hold him accountable for the same thing. Then, of course, there was the Big One: the Headmaster's death. Hermione didn't know what to make of it, but murder didn't seem to be an apt description.

Dwelling on her own personal moral dilemma, she came up empty handed and slightly dizzy from all the circular thinking. Rightfully speaking, there had to be a correct answer. If one took the supposition that it was morally wrong to keep Severus incarcerated, then her path was clear. She simply needed to take whatever evidence Dumbledore had left...per the Headmaster's wishes no less...and set Snape free. Whether he wanted it or not.

Hermione just didn't know if she was that altruistic.

Being a Gryffindor didn't automatically equate with being a sucker.

Shaking her head of profound thoughts worthy of an eighteenth-century German philosopher, Hermione tabled the topic for the time being. Charging in head-first like a Gryffindor hopped up on adrenaline, bravado, and a mission to save the proverbial world wouldn't help anyone in this case. Maybe stewing on her dilemma would render a more suitable answer. One that didn't contradict her integrity or sell herself short.

Which of course didn't solve anything with Snape. Well, Severus, really. Their relationship was nowhere near what one would call healthy, but then, given the circumstances, that was fairly understandable. The sad truth was, she really liked him, or at least she liked his company when he wasn't sulking or being a complete shithead. And he did make a decent husband, especially since it was all at her convenience, but Hermione was afraid she'd gone and mucked it all up.

Their nights together had been strained, but Hermione felt certain the best way to smooth things over with Severus was with steaming plates of food. Unshakably confident in her hypothesis, Hermione tested her theory by stopping at her favorite Indian restaurant. She made sure she ordered lamb korma, since Severus had difficulties stringing words into coherent sentences when lamb and heaps of pillowy soft naan were at the table.

Severus was reading a newspaper when he was called to present himself for inspection. He looked up, scowled at the interruption, and Hermione caught him covertly sniffing the air. Yep, Indian food was right on the mark. She had nearly enough empirical data to write an Arithmancy theorem on the wizard. Predictable: (a) Wizard's interest to (b) Witch was directly proportional to (c) aromatic quality of food. Easy enough, a third-year could graph. Though, it smacked more of a Lavender Brown rule to live by than an Arithmancy equation. Severus would probably throw an all-out, hissy fit if she ever mentioned how much he had in common with Ron Weasley.

Unlike previous encounters when she brought in mouthwatering take-away, Severus acted neither interested nor eager. In fact, he didn't say a word to her. Instead, he returned to his paper and coolly accepted dinner with an outstretched hand. He had been giving her the cold shoulder for quite some time, and frankly, she was getting cheesed off. Really, the man was so irritatingly stubborn.

By the end of dinner, Hermione was nearly fuming with his silent treatment. It was childish, immature, and stupid. Hermione was tempted to jump up and down, shouting, 'You're not being fair! You're being childish, immature, and stupid!' but somehow throwing a temper-tantrum didn't sound all that grown-up, either.

As she packed up the styrofoam take-away boxes and cast her warming charms that would keep the food fresh 'til at least lunch the next day, Severus peeked his head over the top of his newspaper.

"What's a Slinky?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A Slinky. What is it?"

"It's a silly child's toy. I don't think I could really describe it to you; it's one of those things you just have to see. Why?"

"I'm reading an Op-ed article in which someone is quoted as saying, 'Some people are like Slinkys...not really good for anything, but you still can't help but smile when you see one tumble down the stairs.' I rather like the sound of that, but I have no idea what a Slinky is."

Hermione smiled, and her eyes lit up. "Well then, I'll just have to bring you one."

"I suspect I'll like that."

"I suspect you will."

Hermione was utterly bewildered that Severus Snape had accepted the olive branch, but she was happy. Maybe she couldn't resolve what to do for Severus, but perhaps making his self-imposed incarceration just a wee bit better was good enough for now.

The moment she left, Severus sprawled out across his bed. He would never have allowed Hermione to catch him in such thoroughly unseemly repose. She had the worst habit of any meddling female he'd ever met for spying through the jailer's slot, but her heels clacking loudly against the flagstone meant he was safe to let his guard down for the moment. The witch would be the death of him. He was certain of it. At least with a Cruciatus he always had the brief pleasure of passing out, but Hermione Granger could possibly be the Darkest curse ever inflicted upon his person. Surely, the Gods were amusing themselves at his expense. He couldn't stand another day of ignoring her presence. It wounded him to do so, which was odd, indeed. Since when did the age-old art form of shunning hurt?

Ye Gods, since when did his joy and misery revolve around a hag-haired swot? Since she walked into his fetid cell, her nose wrinkled up at the stench, and offered him more than he could ever hope for: companionship. Severus had accepted his solitary existence until offered the smallest crumbles of a life. His beloved friend and mentor, the flamboyant wizard, had kept him at arm's length even before he had cast his curse. Ironic that his first real relationship only developed after being imprisoned, unless he counted the odd shag Kathleen had thrown his way, which he did not.

It was another sterling example of how the Gods liked to fuck with poor, old Snapey. Why couldn't she have appeared in his life a few decades earlier? No. Not her specifically, Severus was no kiddie-fiddler. But he couldn't help but contemplate how much happier he'd have been if any intelligent and attractive witch had wanted to spend time with him when he had been a free man. It was pathetic, really, that it had taken going to Azkaban to land a witch of his own.

Azkaban was a fortress he'd shaped in his mind; his cell a home and resting place for his abused soul. He accepted this. Longed for it. Decades before, when the idea of winning some climactic 'Final Battle' was such a long-shot that it was too absurdly humorous to contemplate, Severus knew that definitively ending the Dark Lord's existence would not earn him the redemption he desired. When was redemption complete? Certainly not amongst the carnage of a bloody battle. Surely he hadn't been forgiven because the Light had won? Perhaps if Fortuna had smiled upon him and allowed him to die on the field.

This had to be his path. His cell, his well-earned privilege. His final opportunity to seek atonement. The uncounted days stretched behind him, the unnamed years stretched before him. Fortuna only ruled half of men's fate; the other half belonged to their own will.

His will had been so strong. He had been so determined, so beautifully resolute in his honest yearning. The many cold nights of prayers whispered to the Gods when the wind howled around his barely covered shoulders were so clear to him. When, with numb, shaking fingers and chattering teeth, he had begged the Gods for a spark of magic to Conjure a sacred flame. No, not to heat his hands, but to warm something of far greater importance.

When she bluntly proposed marriage and lifelong commitment, he almost dared allow himself to believe the vivacious witch with the impudent smile was a gift. A sign that his sacrifice was accepted. Mercy had been granted. It was foolish and stupid, the desperate desire of a half-starved man craving a sign that he had been judged and found worthy. It was shameful how he clung to hope. Repulsive, now that his belly was full and he could see his choice for what it was.

The witch had bestowed finery upon him, which clearly he never deserved. She tossed pearls before swine, and it felt like mockery. A big cosmic joke on poor piteous Snape. Somehow, from their otherworldly perches, the Gods had looked down upon his pathetic tangled soul. They had seen his wretched attempts at penance and had decided to take the mickey out of him. Perhaps they had sent her as a test. Hermione Granger, gift of the Gods or test of his piety? If she were a gift, she wasn't a bloody good one and they were still having him on. Had the Gods bothered to ask him, he would have requested one with a sex drive, a desire for snaggle-toothed old blighters, and an insatiable need to please. She had to be a test. There could be no other reason for her to suggest he leave Azkaban. Absurdity. Such absurdity.

Did she not realize they'd be married? What that would mean?

No. Of course not. Hermione Granger was a silly, self-absorbed chit with no sense of decency to leave a poor man to his blessed suffering. She was no more an instrument of the God's will than a purple purring pygmy puff. A weary sleep claimed him, and Severus resolved not to be bothered by her insolent fantasies again.

His heavy eyelids had barely drifted shut when he found himself in the queerest dream. Little Miss Hermione Granger, with curiously twinkling eyes he had never noticed before, bedecked in school robes, found him lying on his thin, fetid cot, and bloodlessly unzipped his chest. Severus looked down, astonished. He wondered how it was that he never knew a hidden chamber...not unlike Moody's prison-trunk...was down there. Before he could process this discovery further, the dentists' daughter hiked up her robes and descended the staircase inside his chest. Oddly, he didn't feel a thing, and he was quite certain that it probably ought to hurt. Then she proceeded to rummage. In his mind's eye, he could plainly see her fishing around, not that it surprised him, because the insufferable chit always poked around where she was clearly unwelcome, and she came upon all manner of strange higgledy-piggledy objects that looked as though they belonged in the Headmaster's office. Then, as if she had no respect for him as a person, or indeed whatever whirling and chirping articles that had taken up residence within his chest cavity, she began randomly tossing them out. Not knowing how to stop the meddling girl, Severus could only lie back and allow her to work.

****

Hermione snaked through post-holiday shoppers in Muggle London. She was on a quest. Not nearly as bold or dangerous as Horcrux hunting, but just as satisfying on some small level. That, and braving Hamleys', was never a challenge to undertake lightly. She was eager to make whatever amends she could and get back to normal life with Severus, or whatever it was they had. Given the circumstances, she was delighted that they got on as well as they did, especially when she had approached him with a marriage contract purely from the standpoint of a business proposition and not a real relationship. Then again, they did have history to build upon, and occasionally Hermione grimaced when it occurred to her that they got along like an old married couple. She briefly wondered what their relationship would be like when they did become an old married couple. Would she make the daily journey to Azkaban loaded with take-away curry when she was a thin and frail arthritic witch? Yes, probably so. But it was best not to dwell.

She had closed down the production line for the holidays and wouldn't resume until a week after the rapidly approaching New Year, so, hypothetically, Hermione had all day to leisurely shop, if she were a leisurely shopper. Which she was not. Tracking down the silly toy, Hermione paid for it and quickly left. She would always be a Muggle-born, but Hermione hated large crowds. They made her feel suffocated and paranoid. Thankfully, her wizarding world was less densely populated. It was odd. Magical folk lived phenomenally longer than Muggles, they had a longer time span to conceive children, but their population was small in number, compared to Muggles. That defied logic. Except when she considered how many wizards and witches actually made it to their more seasoned years versus how many died painfully young. Unfortunately, Hermione knew of far too many who had never seen adulthood. And Pure-bloods considered Muggles violent? Statistically speaking, it seemed that wizards, armed at all times with a weapon at their fingertips, were much more predisposed to acts of violence.

Hermione was contemplating acts of violence if she didn't get out of the mobs of bargain shoppers. She found a concealed public Apparition point, concentrated, and arrived in the Leaky Cauldron's back garden. A few wand-taps, and she was contentedly staring at the far quieter Diagon Alley and breathing in a deep, calming breath. She wasn't going to think about how ashamed she was by her relief to get away from Muggle London.

Her day was her own. Jake had ordered her to stop trying to play catch-up on reports while the office was closed, citing if she had a stress-induced aneurysm, he'd be out of a job. So she window-shopped, looking aimlessly at storefronts whose grand mystery had drawn her in as a wide-eyed child. Sadly, she wondered what had happened to that inspired, innocent girl who couldn't wait to unlock all the dazzling mysteries of magic. Hermione snorted to herself; she probably had her spirit beaten out of her for asking too many questions. She winced. The thought cut too close to the truth, and just as painfully, she realized that her dearly beloved husband was responsible for part of the self-conscious complex she carried about asking too many questions. Bastard.

The shop front of The Golden Needle, a Gentle-wizard's clothier, caught her eye. She'd been in once before to help poor Ron find adequate formal dress robes...a tailored set that did not in any way, shape, or form resemble the grotty hand-me-downs he'd worn before. An animated mannequin strutted back and forth, showing off a particularly handsome set of robes. There was very little billow, but then nobody billowed like Severus billowed. Severus was a blue-ribbon billower. But the robes had a bitty baby billow. They were perfect. New Year's was as good an excuse to purchase them as any, and according to superstition, one should always wear new clothes on the New Year, and... did she need another excuse? They were gorgeous, and Severus would look undeniably fetching in them. Yes, she needed another excuse. It wasn't proper for her to buy him a set of formal robes simply because she wanted to see him dressed up. Ah well, Jake had loaded his Christmas gift box with the sort of items she had been giving to him regularly, so they weren't proper and fitting gifts. Nice gifts, obviously, as Jake rather fancied himself a Sloane Ranger, but none of them were an actual gift from her. The robes would be like a real gift. There, that was a good enough excuse as any to see her man in sexy, well-cut robes.

Later that evening, Hermione dropped by Azkaban with enough rotisserie chicken and sides to share with Severus and the boys.

Severus heard her the moment she set foot in the echoing corridor. As much as he despised interruptions, it was a sure bet that she'd bring food. He hadn't become so accustomed to her daily meals that he yet took them for granted. So he supposed he'd have to suffer her presence.

He snapped his new Smythson potion journal shut and stashed it beneath a pillow. The ink wasn't properly set, but the fine paper was dense enough, he doubted it would bleed. He still had not ascertained why the witch insisted on buying him the best, but at least now he knew it was probably Edwards, the bollocked-brained Hufflepuff, spending the cash. He stretched, quill still in hand, and heard every vertebra in his back crack. He was an old, miserable bastard who'd gone to seed far too early in life. His body reminded him of that fact constantly. If he didn't attend to his daily exercise regimen, his muscles seized up and his joints cracked at the slightest movement. Long ago, he had accepted this as the destiny of a boot-licking Death Eater. At least he was vertical, which was more than he could say for the poor sods he had called brothers.

By the time Hermione was at his door, the quill was properly stowed, his robes were pulled straight as if he hadn't been idly lounging, and Severus was sitting ramrod straight, wondering what was for dinner. His stomach asked the question as well.

Dinner was a quiet affair as Hermione was still a bit skittish around him, and Severus was thinking on his original potions he'd been transcribing from memory. To keep his mind active, he had spent a considerable amount of time inventing potions. His lab still existed inside his brain, intact and fully stocked. Though it was purely theoretical, he had the capability to imagine how they would develop. Severus was quite certain his wit hadn't been blunted to the point where he was unable to create brews, but he was also a realist. There was a distinct possibility that each one of his dreamed-up potions was a complete and utter flop without research and a real lab at his disposal. Still, the journal had been a wonderful Christmas gift. He now had a proper place to record his wistful fantasies.

Hermione could sense he was gathering wool elsewhere and tried several times, unsuccessfully, to draw him into conversation. She even tried Ron's tasteless joke about the wizard riding the wrong end of his broom and playing on the other side of the Quidditch pitch. It went over like U-No-Poo in a punch bowl. Instantly, she regretted it and chided herself for ever retelling any of Ron's god-awful jokes. At least she had the good sense not to mention the one about the cock-eyed Veela with the speech impediment.

Once dinner was polished off, Hermione asked for his hand and dropped a large spiraled object into it. Severus sneered at the slightly cold metal and held up an end pinched between his fingers.

"What is this?"

"It's your Slinky. I told you, it's a child's toy." She knew for a fact that Severus Snape had spent his formative childhood years in Muggle England. The fact that something so common as a Slinky passed his attention was troubling. She supposed he had led a sheltered life. That probably explained much of his abysmal social skills.

An amused eyebrow arched at her statement. "Oh, yes, because I can see how a bit of coiled wire would provide hours of amusement to a child. What a crap toy."

Annoyed, but unruffled, Hermione grabbed the Slinky from Severus and showed him how it worked between her hands. "There's no tension in the spring. It responds to movement," she explained. She surveyed the cell, and her eyes rested on the loaded bookshelf. Other than the growing number of white boxes stuffed on the bottom shelves, the top shelves were filled with pleasure reading and the occasional academic journal. She drew her wand and Summoned the contents of a shelf. Severus raised an elegant eyebrow, but said nothing.

She preformed a hasty Transfiguration; it was one that would not pass muster under Professor McGonagall's sharp eye. The small steps she created against the cell wall still had their titles plainly visible, and the steps appeared to be made out of a wood grain that obviously resembled pages, but Hermione was satisfied. She dropped the Slinky at the top of the homemade stairs and nudged the coiled spring to flip over. Severus watched, transfixed, as the softly tinkling metal rolled itself down the stairs.

"Can you imagine how that might look falling down a flight of stairs?" she asked, handing the toy back to Severus.

He nodded silently, tipping the responsive spring back and forth between his palms. It was fascinating. He desperately wished his joints would move so freely.

Hermione left him a few minutes later after re-shelving his books. After all, it was best to give the silly boy some peace while he marveled at his new toy.

*

A/N:

Chapter title: Peccavi : I have sinned.

Fortuna only ruled half of men's fate, the other half belonged to their own will. - Mangled quote from Machiavelli's The Prince

Special thanks to my beta Christev20 who nursed me through this chapter, and to MiaMadwyn for her helpful thoughts.