Chapter Two

Severus Snape stepped off the lift at the level of the executive offices. He strolled down the polished black marble hall, the heels of his boots ringing purposefully on the stone floor. Golden torches illuminated the hall, throwing glittering reflections off the black tile walls and ceiling. The effect was the sense of perpetual night. Time had no meaning in the Ministry of Magic. One might emerge from the vast underground building to find it was the mid-afternoon or three in the morning. Severus never got used to it.

The double doors to his office suite opened silently ahead of him. The desk in the outer office was empty; his secretary was away. She was an elderly woman who had served the previous administration. Severus knew she would return according to some arcane schedule only she knew. Not that there was a lot here to keep her busy. Whatever work she did to occupy her time in this office, very little of it stemmed from his own responsibilities.

Another set of gleaming doors opened in response to his touch and led to his inner office. He shed his ceremonial robes and draped them carelessly on a nearby chaise. For a second, he weighed the merits of four or five expensive-looking bottles ranged on a sideboard before rejecting them all. He made his way instead to his ornate desk, pulling a bottle of Ogden's and a tumbler out of the bottom drawer. He took a healthy belt of whisky, then poured himself a second shot, put back the bottle and sat down behind the desk. Kicking back, Severus carefully loosened his cravat and starched collar.

He caught a glimpse of himself, mirrored in the false window of his office. Same face; same harsh, severe lines, same large black eyes, same scimitar of a nose, same inscrutable expression, which everyone assumed was one of utter nonchalance. In reality, it was abject emptiness.

He took a smaller drink from the second glassful, and wondered what had happened to the man he had been for most of his life. Severus had never been stupid; he knew he was generally disliked, and he'd gone out of his way to cultivate a manner both unapproachable and avoidable. Getting close to others could hurt; getting close to others got people killed.

He wondered when it had gotten easier to take the path of least resistance; he wondered when all the colour had gone out of his personality. Yes, he'd been a right bastard to friend and foe alike, but at least he'd been awake. Now, he felt like he was sleepwalking, dreaming in black and white.

He had once been a man of great passion and emotion and energy; now it all seemed like too much effort. What was the purpose anymore? Everyone he'd ever felt any passion and emotion and energy for was gone. Severus had been alone for most of his life, but this was a loneliness of self he never quite got used to.

He gently touched the scar tissue on his neck, which still ached after a long day in dress robes. He never quite got used to that, either.

By all rights, he should not have even survived with an injury like this. After Voldemort set the snake Nagini on him, and Severus had done his final duty by Lily Potter's boy, he had lain on the dusty floor of the shack and welcomed the end. But minutes later, he was discovered, purely by chance, and effectively rescued. He had awoken to a new world, one in which the Dark Lord had triumphed over the light.

Severus was not sure who found the fact of his miraculous survival more inconvenient...himself, or the Dark Lord. For Voldemort now considered Severus somewhat of a public embarrassment: the faithful lieutenant who was sacrificed to turn the battle's tide, yet who did not have the good sense to die on command.

However, having won the war anyway, Voldemort seemed to feel he could afford to be generous. Smiling benevolently from atop his new throne, he had sketched an obscene parody of an apology and then blighted Severus's second chance at life.

Lucius and Draco had been at his bedside when he awoke, and he'd struggled to conceal the overwhelming feeling of loss and guilt as Lucius bragged on the victory as if he'd orchestrated it single-handedly. Severus glanced at Draco while the boy's father droned on about a new era dawning in the Wizarding world, but the younger man had looked away, unable to meet his stare.

Severus had felt so heartsick and defeated he had seriously considered ending his own life, but then Lucius said something that snagged deep within him.

"I'm sorry, Lucius, could you repeat that?"

Lucius sighed, heaving his shoulders in that supercilious way that made Severus want to punch his face in, and said, "I'm offering you the moon, Severus, and all you can do is stare at me blankly?" He rolled his eyes and leaned toward the bed. "Our Lord has granted you a very high position within his new Ministry. You are to be Foreign Minister, Your Excellency," he added smugly. When Severus didn't react, he scoffed, "Oh, don't tell me you'd rather spend the most pivotal moments in this or any lifetime buried up in that school in Scotland, Severus! Merlin's sake, man! We are making history here!"

"Your Excellency?"

Severus lifted his eyes to the painted countenance of Foreign Minister A.K. Lugubrious (1872-1997), his predecessor, now a portrait above the mantle.

"What is it, Alfred?" he asked wearily.

"The Minister for Magic would like a word with you. He will be here shortly," the portrait replied. Sure enough, before Severus could finish his last swallow, the fireplace flames turned green and Lucius Malfoy stepped through.

"Bugger the fucking Ukraine," remarked Lucius by way of greeting.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Obviously I should have read my job description more carefully, Minister. I wasn't aware sodomy was part of my formal duties as Ambassador. Would that be a literal or figurative requirement, sir?"

Lucius headed to the sideboard. "That little troll Lazarov packed up this morning before sunrise and Apparated with his entire bloody diplomatic contingent, leaving behind a letter of regret. A letter." He sat in a chair across from Severus' desk, glass in hand.

"I'll wager it was diplomatically worded, though," replied Severus. "So, if the Ukraine said no to an exploratory diplomatic exchange, then Poland and Romania will no doubt follow suit."

"No doubt." Lucius agreed and began to apply himself to his drink.

"I can see I'll have to get in better shape physically. Although Poland and Romania are used to being reamed on a frequent basis by now."

"I ignored the first tawdry reference, Severus," Lucius remarked, giving his glass its own seeing-to. "I'm disinclined to humour you any further."

"Alright, seeing as you're disinclined toward any humour, I will simply remark that Lazarov's note was not exactly the response we were hoping for," said Severus laconically.

Lucius leveled a stare at him. "By 'we,' you mean me," he said bluntly.

Severus sighed. "Lucius-"

"You yourself are not invested, Severus. You never have been. You're supposed to be our Foreign Secretary. But this-" he waved his hand carelessly to take in the posh office, the secretary, the job title- "doesn't seem to interest you."

He rose to fix himself another drink. "Severus, when our Lord won and we took control, it was a new opportunity for us all. But for some reason, you have never had any real-"

"How did the subject turn to my inadequacies?" asked Severus testily. "We were talking about the fractious Eastern Europe."

"-any real interest in power," continued Lucius, sitting back down. "As your oldest living friend, it doesn't concern me. But our Lord has heard a rumor that you are not happy or productive in your post." He held up his hand peremptorily. "Not from me. I don't discuss administrative matters with our Lord; therein lies the way to madness.

"But Severus, our Lord is watching, regardless. He wanted you in this position. It was his way of thanking you for services rendered before the war. And he wants to see you take a greater interest than you have been in building the new regime." Lucius leaned back and stared absently at his glass as he twirled it with his long fingers. "You were rescued from certain death. You were pardoned by our Lord for your breach of loyalty."

"Loyalty?" Severus cut him off. "Don't recite the party line to me, Lucius. Not here." He stood and placed his hands on the desk, staring at Lucius intently. "Dumbledore did own a very old wand, this is true. He never told me where it came from. But the idea that it was the Elder Wand, and that it possessed some sort of moral code, was the stuff of legend and conjecture. It was a fairy tale. No man in this day and age could believe such a thing. No one could have stated with authority that the wand's loyalties had shifted to someone else after Dumbledore died.

"But even if that wand had somehow allied itself to me...or to anyone...that is no kind of breach of loyalty on my part, and you know it." He paused, breathing hard. The hell with it. "Let's be clear between us, Lucius. I never betrayed Volde..."

"Enough." Lucius's authoritative tone pierced like a knife. He sat forward, graceful even in his anger, and his grey eyes flashed red with reflected light from the fire. Severus wondered if he'd finally gone too far. "The 'party line' saves freethinkers and agnostics from an early grave......or an overdue one. Pray you do not forget it. Severus, all that is important is the present day. Our Lord, in his indulgence, has forgotten that business with the so-called Elder Wand. He has forgotten the past entirely, in fact, and I suggest you do the same. You were rewarded handsomely for your part in the war effort with a position in our Lord's cabinet. You continue to have his favour." He fixed Severus with a stare. "But now, you arrogant arse, he requires your tremendous intellect to help us expand our influence into Europe." Lucius smirked suddenly. It was an obvious effort to break the tension. "So do try and make more of an effort, old chap."

Severus looked away as he took his seat again. He forced himself to relax. "Why, Lucius. I didn't know you cared."

"Sarcasm, after everything I've done for you. You're as bad as my son." Lucius rolled his eyes. "Now, I'm actually here to discuss the little public relations campaign we are launching. If you'll remember, I mentioned the particulars over dinner last month."

Lucius stood and began to pace. "A few speeches carried on the wireless, a few interviews in the Daily Prophet, and our new representative will have our half-bloods and Mudbloods eager to return to the fold. We weren't sure she would take to the task, but so far..."

"She?"

"Oh, yes, didn't I mention? I've selected the perfect parolee. None other than the Granger girl."

"No, you didn't mention," replied Severus evenly. "Fascinating choice."

"Wasn't it? I must say, I'm rather proud to have brought it off. Harry Potter's closest friend. A crowd favorite. And it could have gone either way, frankly, but as it turns out, she was most eager to assume all of her duties." Lucius smirked. "Of course, if you had seen her, it would have been obvious she had no choice. You may not know, but the Lestranges had a bit of sport with her early on when they used to visit the prison to see about releasing all our brethren."

"Did they? I hadn't heard." His eyes flicked to the bottom drawer.

"I understand she sought protection for a time by giving herself to other males. Pitted them against one another. Several even managed to keep other would-be suitors disinterested. But the last of her protectors...Arthur Weasley, in fact...died recently. Without them, she promptly became fair game again. She leaped at the chance for parole, and no wonder."

"You're a veritable Fairy Godmother," drawled Severus.

Lucius glared at Severus without heat. He clearly did not understand the reference but would not admit it. "So, to business. And do pay attention this time." He resumed his seat. "Once this campaign launches, everything must be in place on the international front..."

Hermione entered her tiny office at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, slinging her coat onto one of the wooden visitor's chair of the type so beloved in government buildings. She sat down immediately at her desk and leafed through the incoming post, just as the inter-departmental parchments arrived, fluttering through the door like paper birds.

She was just settling in to read when her secretary, a short, dumpty witch with a wide smile, bustled into the office and handed her a steaming mug. "Good morning, Hermione. Here we are, my dear," the little witch chirped.

Hermione looked down at the iridescent oil slick floating on the top. She already knew the coffee would be so wretchedly strong it would practically crawl out of the mug of its own accord. Perfect. She'd taken to coffee immediately upon her return to civilization...the stronger, the better. In the last two years, her tastes had become quite coarse in some respects.

Taking her first sip and grimacing, Hermione cast her eye on a letter in her secretary's hand. "What's on deck for today, Mrs. Grovertree?"

"Just the usual things. The Jarvey survey is nearly complete, and, oh, there's a report of a lovely new nest of Griffins on the Isle of Man. Davies is going to fly up and check on them..."

June Grovertree was a bit of a bonus as a secretary. She was efficient, fairly intelligent and, to Hermione's surprise, very kind toward her. Hermione had steeled herself for ostracism in her new post; instead, she had found a fair amount of acceptance, particularly among the rank and file who toiled in the Ministry vineyards for mere Sickles.

June, for instance, always seemed to want to loiter about and chat a bit longer than was strictly necessary from a work colleague, filling her in on gossip, relaying the exploits of her former boss, regaling her with tales from the weekend. "Perry and I listened to your speech Saturday on the wireless," she informed Hermione, smiling approvingly. "I must say, your technique is much improved from that first time, my girl. Hardly a quaver. We were so impressed. Sitting down with the Minister himself! And won't you just be a sensation at the Ministry ball come Friday? I should say! You've taken to your work like a shrake to water. I was only saying to Perry last night, I said, 'Our girl Hermione has taken to her work like...'"

"Thank you so much for your vote of confidence, Mrs. Grovertree. I can't tell you what it means to me." She indicated the pile of parchment on her desk. "Well, I'll just get on with these, then. Please let me know when Mr. Malfoy arrives."

"Mr. Malfoy has arrived."

Hermione looked up at the sound of his voice. Draco Malfoy was lounging in the door frame in immaculate robes, looking every bit as smugly pleased with himself as he had at Hogwarts. His silver-blond hair gleamed in the overhead lighting like a cap, and he preened like the peacock he was.

"Draco." Hermione frowned and greeted him with the same flat inflection with which she would have pronounced "dragon shit."

"Hermione," he drawled, "I was just telling Father this morning, I don't feel my day has truly begun until I see your smiling face." Hermione answered with a cheerful laugh and a two-fingered gesture. "Yes, I will have two sugars with my coffee, thank you."

Draco had been one of the strangest and best things to happen to her in this whole benighted situation. A high-level bureaucrat and rising star in his own right, Draco had been ordered by his father to come around periodically and keep a stern eye on Hermione. But what started as perfunctory check-ins had turned into companionable visits, and finally, a burgeoning friendship. They were both amazed that, after seven years of unrelieved distrust and hatred, followed by fighting on different sides of the war, she and Draco had found common ground down in the unfashionable end of the Ministry of Magic.

Well, it was a fucked-up world. Why not make friends with your sworn enemy?

Hermione sometimes wondered if Draco's new, mellower side might have to do with his recent bout of self-discovery. After his turbulent youth, when he had finally settled down into the quiet life of adulthood, he finally uncovered his true sexuality and became, in his words, "screamingly camp as a row of tents." His best friend, Blaise Zabini, had been delighted by the change. His fiancée, Pansy Parkinson, had not. And Lucius ... well, Malfoy the elder had eventually done the expeditious thing and learned to ignore the entire matter.

Hermione peered closely at Draco's face. "Are you wearing makeup?"

He looked away, nonplussed. "Of course not."

"You are! I see eyeliner."

He pursed his lips. "I think you'll find that's guyliner."

Hermione smirked. "Oh, and I suppose that's manscara on your lashes as well?"

June gave a little chuckle and headed for the door. Draco plopped unceremoniously in a wooden chair, wincing at the unyielding seat. "Merlin's nads, Granger, why don't you ask your supervisor for some decent chairs? It's devilishly difficult to seduce you when I can hardly sit still in one of these for more than five minutes."

"I think you answered your own question," she smiled. "If you got comfortable and hung around a while, I might take you up on it, and poor Lucius would expire with shame at the thought of the august Malfoy lineage being sullied by muddy blood."

"Oh yes. The august Malfoy lineage. Some would say I've sullied it enough on my own." His gaze seemed to turn inward for a moment, as if recalling an old argument. "But the truth is, I couldn't do better than you, my girl." Then his face cleared again and he smirked. "If I swung that way, which I don't, ever since a certain party in Chelsea, so dry your bitter tears and use your shiny new powers of persuasion to requisition me a comfy visitor's chair."

Hermione returned his smirk. She enjoyed their banter when he dropped by every morning, and she knew he did, too. It limbered up their wits, loosened the brain for storming; it was the verbal stretching of muscles to prepare them for the real business of the day. Hermione was amazed how much she had come to rely on it.

"My shiny new powers of persuasion, is it?" She shook her head. "Do you know I've given five speeches in two weeks? I've lost count of how many interviews with the press. I feel like I've been given a crash course in how to win wizards and influence witches, but I'm not sure what my grades are yet. Have you heard anything?"

Draco smoothed a crease from his immaculate cuffs. "Exceeds Expectations. Granger. Father is pleased, I can tell. Not that he'll come right out and say it."

"Oh, that's a relief." She turned her eyes up to his. "Draco, what do you know about Romania?"

Draco reached for her coffee mug, but when he spied what was in it, he delicately put it back, a faint expression of distaste on his aristocratic features. "What do you know about it, Granger?" His voice carried a note of studied diffidence. Hermione wondered what secret she might be close to.

"Oh, just, after the interview, the Minister spoke to the editor off the record, and said something about Romania." She grinned. "Will we be taking our show on the road?"

Draco laughed, clearly relieved. "You never know. But between you and me, Father hopes that, if it looks as though things have returned to normal here, it will be time to show our united front to other countries."

Hermione frowned. "Are you talking about Vol..." Draco shook his head warningly. "Our...our Lord expanding his influence abroad?"

Of all the people who could have clued Hermione in on the real reason she'd been chosen for the job, Draco had been the most honest and the least politically correct. On her first day, he'd sat with her and laid down some home truths. "Granger, do you really want to know why you're here?"

At her uncertain nod, he had continued. "Good. Here is the situation: it's all about appearances, innit? The Wizarding world flourished without a central government for many long centuries before Merlin; what's to stop them from doing it again? There are those in Wizarding Britain who are expending a lot of time and energy finding ways to live apart from the influence of the Ministry."

Hermione chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. "And a government without the support of its people may as well not exist."

Draco smiled mirthlessly. "In one. I'm not going to whitewash it: the Dark Lord's policy of subjugating half-bloods and Muggleborns had a greater impact than was previously anticipated." A tiny frown of unease had flitted across his smooth face. "Whole swaths of the Wizarding community have gone underground rather than bend to the will of authority. More and more are passively slipping away. Beyond that, the populace has begun to reject the authority of the Ministry. Wizarding Britain is becoming fractious."

But telling this to Lord Voldemort and his consort, Bellatrix Lestrange, was tantamount to suicide. Even in near-seclusion as he was now, the Dark Lord still possessed prodigious skill and strengths. Failing him was a death sentence no one could appeal.

So in desperation, Lucius devised a plan. He would entice people back by improving the public face of the Ministry, showing them that his was a system of government that truly represented Wizarding Britain. A new world order, embodying tolerance and diversity.

"And that's where you come in, Hermione," Draco concluded. "You will be the face of the new world order. A figurehead. I mean, short of launching a long and potentially fruitless manhunt for his own subjects, Father doesn't have much choice."

Hermione had understood all too well. Lucius had his figurehead, and if the initiative failed, hers would be the head that rolled, not his. She was well-known, but expendable. And if she couldn't pull this off, he could accuse her of treason, throw her back in Azkaban and be home in time for tea. It was all so civilised.

Hermione sometimes wondered if Draco was as much on her side as his father's. Telling her the truth so baldly had predictably gotten her dander up and called on every insecurity and inferiority complex she'd nursed since her first year at Hogwarts. Draco had seen it enough to know; perhaps he had deliberately challenged her into keeping herself alive.

"Abroad? That's for the fat cat ambassadors to work out. We're backing Britain here, Granger. You just keep the hoi polloi at home, and let the real crooks deal with Romania."

"But you just said..."

He smoothly changed the subject. "So, all ready for the ball, Cinderella?"

Hermione shot him a wary look. "Maybe. Are you and Blaise coming as the ugly stepsisters?"

Draco affected a pained expression. "You need to show more respect for your older sister, my dear," he lisped, in a credible imitation of June.

Hermione grimaced as she took a sip of coffee. "To be honest, the idea of this ball is scaring the pants off me. I've not exactly been in a social whirl for the past two years." She looked up, letting her concern show. "Draco, I have to get a new set of dress robes, and I haven't been to Diagon Alley in years. I don't know what's in fashion anymore. Pansy is supposed to go with me, but..."

"But you want a man's opinion, and you know I have perfect taste, is that it?" He smiled, all Malfoy charm and smug confidence. "Want me to take you shopping, Granger?"

"Oh, would you?" she asked, relieved. "That would be lovely. If you're not too busy, that is."

"Never too busy for you. Besides, Pansy's taste is decidedly on the Dom side. You need the considered opinion of a genuine gay man if you're going to shine." Draco unfolded himself from the chair and stretched until his spine cracked. "I'll be here tomorrow around two o'clock, yeah? And don't worry. I'll square it with Pansy." He smirked in that insufferable way that used to make Hermione want to hex his bits off. Now that they were friends, it just made her wistful. "She might pretend differently, but deep down, she still loves me."

Hermione didn't bother repressing a snort. "Yeah, way deep down. Somewhere down around China, I think."

The Minister for Magic left an hour later, having secured a series of promises of a diplomatic nature that the Foreign Minister forgot the moment the green flames died down.

Severus sat quietly for a long while, staring at the dying embers of the fire, lost in thought. Then he stood up and strode to the door to see if his secretary had made it back. She had. "Mrs. Bulstrode?"

She looked up from her copy of Witch Weekly. Marion Bulstrode, mother of one of his former Hogwarts students, had looks that did nothing to dispel the rumor that there was troll blood somewhere in the family line.

"Yes, sir?"

"Bring me the Printsesa file, please."

Back in his office, Severus renewed the fire with a wave of his wand and then knelt before the fireplace, hefting the fat file in his hands. The charms he'd set on the file were subtle, but he knew they had not been broken in the last few months.

He waved his wand again to open the file. One by one, he removed crisp white Ministry forms with their gleaming, blood-red seals. In the middle of each seal was stamped one word, described in runes: "Denied." Carefully, Severus laid each form on the flames and watched them burn. They would serve no purpose now, not that they ever had. He threw the file in last, for good measure.

When it was done, Severus returned to his desk, gave up abstinence as a bad job and pulled out the whisky bottle.

"Alfred." He stood, waited to be sure he had the portrait's full attention, then raised his glass in salute. "Arthur Weasley." He took a swig and then toasted the portrait once more. "Neville Longbottom."