Chapter Six

The next day, in the late afternoon, Hermione checked her reflection in the mirror as she readied herself. Pansy Parkinson was due in twenty minutes to take her to St. Mungo's, and she would almost certainly offer up a caustic remark when she saw the pains Hermione had taken with her hair.

Out of boredom, Pansy had assigned numbers to the various hair routines Hermione indifferently employed for her public appearances. This particular look was Number One: long and loose, the dark curls slicked with just enough Sleakeasy's hair potion to set them to dancing about her face when she moved. It was her most labor-intensive hair style.

But it had always been Ron's favorite, and he deserved it.

She had time for one more cup of tea. Moving through the tiny living room, Hermione heard Phineas clear his throat in his frame, now propped against the wall.

"Don't you look nice today," he commented. "Who is the undeserving audience?"

"No audience...no speech," she replied absently, heading toward the kitchenette. "I'm going to St. Mungo's to..."

Phineas gasped. "Then you've found Dilys?"

She stopped in her tracks. "Dilys? Dilys who?"

"Dilys Derwent, you foolish girl! She is only one of the most celebrated Hogwarts heads of the eighteenth century. She was bestowed the honor of having two portraits...one in Dumbledore's study, and the other in St. Mungo's."

"I see," she replied tartly. "Thanks ever so much for telling me about her before this moment. Is her portrait still there?"

"How would I know?" he snapped. "You're the one with legs. I assume you've been tracking down dual portraits like I told you to."

"It's not as easy as opening a book," she replied angrily. "I do try and keep my ear to the ground, but you'd be surprised how hard it is to ask people whether their portraits are secretly spies."

"As a matter of fact, young lady, it is as easy as opening a book. Hogwarts: A History, to be exact."

Hermione grew quiet as the anger bled from her. "I...I'm not allowed a copy of Hogwarts: A History, Headmaster. It's a banned book. In fact, many copies have been destroyed."

Phineas' reaction was nothing short of amazing. He rose from his chair and roared, "Banned! Why on earth was it banned? It's not exactly The Magical Kama Sutra in Victorian England, by Lord Stokenheimer."

Miserably, Hermione answered, "Why do you think? It doesn't follow the ideals of the new regime. Besides, too much of it shows Salazar Slytherin and his House in less-than-rosy light. Those in charge don't wish future generations to think of them as anything but the idea of Wizarding perfection."

"That's utter bollocks!"

She sighed. "I know, Headmaster. But the point is that I can't lay hands on that book. It's against the law to be found owning a copy now."

"Utter, profound madness," Phineas spluttered, pacing around his frame. He must have noticed Hermione's stricken expression, because he stopped and he looked at her sympathetically.

"Well, Miss Granger, it seems as it's truly you and me against the world. Alright then." He crossed his arms. "Seek out Dilys. Perhaps she can tell you more."

When Hermione was nine years old, her father had gone into hospital for a routine tonsillectomy. As she and her mother walked into the huge, sprawling mess of St. Helier's to visit him, she became more and more convinced that, not only would she never see her daddy again, she would also never find her way out of its rabbit run of corridors, rooms and stairs. She would forever roam the halls, trying to find her way out. She never lost her fear of hospitals; she could feel the dread and misery in the walls.

St. Mungo's was no less imposing a building as St. Helier's, and twelve years later, Hermione still hated walking into a hospital. She had been here before the war of course, but she'd resented the healers and medi-witches their cheery disposition, their disregard for her anxiety. When you grew up from birth knowing that your tonsils could be vanished with a wave of your wand and some well-pronounced words, you didn't tend to stress too much about things.

The Janus Thickey Ward was like something out of a Salvadore Dali nightmare. As she exited the lift and walked into the ward, a confusing welter of impressions assaulted her. Countless pictures graced the walls, all drawn and painted by the patients. Each one was surprisingly detailed and beautiful, frightening and painful. These were the roadmaps of madness that affected the mind of each artist. They were fresh and still writhed with the magic imbued within the artist's medium to bring the disturbing images to life. The paintings at that end of the ward were apparently the latest artistic offerings.

As she walked further down the hall she noticed that the paintings were larger, older, less mobile. These masterpieces, painted long before Hermione was born, were nightmares in oils and watercolours. They were less vivid, having faded with time, but their desperate hopelessness and sadness almost overwhelmed her, and she wondered how on earth the healers came here day after day and remained sane having to look at these illustrations of psychosis as their wallpaper.

A young Medi-witch with a friendly, elfin face walked with Hermione up to a room near the far end of the hall, her old-fashioned blue robes rustling importantly. Her name was Mariam Tickle. "He has good days and bad days," whispered Tickle confidentially, although they were the only two people in the hall. "He's just had lunch, and that usually helps. He's more lucid after a meal, I find."

She tapped on the door twice, and when a familiar voice said, "Come in," Hermione was surprised to hear how cheerful he sounded.

Tickle smiled and held open the door. "I'll be just down the hall if you need anything."

"Thanks," Hermione replied, and taking a deep, steadying breath, she walked in.

Ron was sitting at a small desk, a chess board in front of him. Aside from the fact that his hair was cut very short, he looked no different from the last time she'd seen him. That relieved her. She was afraid he would be so changed she wouldn't recognise him. Then she wondered if he'd think the same about her.

"Be with you in a sec. I'm two moves away from winning," he said, his bright blue eyes focused on the board.

Hermione's heart stopped. There were no pieces on the board. Ron's eyes swept over the board like a circling hawk, looking for the next move. She'd seen him do that countless number of times in school.

"Hello, Ron," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. He looked up at her curiously. The mild, patient look in his eyes never changed. They were as calm as a mill pond; she had never seen him so still.

"Hello, Hermione," he said, as if she walked into his room every day. He turned back to the board. "I'm playing chess with Professor Dumbledore. Barmy as the day's long, but a great chess opponent."

He turned back and reached out. His fingers pinched together, as if picking up a piece, and his hand moved over two squares and lowered slightly. He parted his fingers. "Checkmate."

He turned to her with a satisfied smile. "I hardly ever lose anymore. When I first started playing I never won, but Fred's been giving me lessons." He turned to her, his eyes lighting up. For a moment, he looked like the Ron of old.

"I've been helping Fred and George at the shop. Did dad tell you?"

Hermione froze, uncertain what to say. Ron waited so patiently. He had never been patient about anything. Finally Hermione nodded. "I think I remember him saying something about it."

"Brilliant! You'll have to stop by. We've been working on some cracking good stuff." He rose from his desk, and hopped easily up on his hospital bed. "You haven't been by for ages. I've missed you."

Hermione felt as if her throat was bleeding. She swallowed. "I'm really sorry. I've been away, but now I'm back."

His eyes lit up. "Brilliant! Hey, why don't you come round to the Burrow on Sunday? Mum's doing her regular Sunday roast, so you know the table'll be groaning with food." He smiled sweetly, and for a second he looked like the eleven year-old imp that had both plagued and charmed her. "I'll tell her to make that custard you like. She always said that she didn't know how you stayed so thin, eating all that custard."

"That...that's great, Ron." Hermione sat down, feeling completely unnerved. It had been Ginny who always loved and was teased about the custard. Not only was Ron delusional, but all his facts were confused.

Ron didn't track her movements, just sat staring toward the door, as if expecting someone else. He nodded. "I was just telling Harry the other day that you haven't been around in ever so long. He said you were busy. He said you hadn't forgotten us, have you?" His eyes flicked to her, uncertainty and worry clouding them.

"Of course not!" she said, and took his hand. "I'll be around all the time, now that I'm back."

He brightened immediately. "Brilliant! Hey, I think Fred and George will be there. Maybe we can put together a three-a-side Quidditch pick-up match."

Hermione closed her eyes. She had never played Quidditch with them. Her ineptitude with a broom was such that she was always relegated to cheerleader as Harry, Ginny, Ron and the twins played. She sighed, and smiled back at him. He was looking at her, but not in any recognisable way. It was almost as if all the others in his head were real, and she the apparition. "I'd like that very much Ron." She cast about, trying to find something to say. "It will be like old times, won't it? All of us at the Burrow."

At the word Burrow, something flickered in Ron's eyes, and they fluttered slightly, like a dog's will when someone blows in their face. When he looked back at her, his face sagged, but his eyes were clear, were there.

He looked at her, really looked at her. "Hermione? Is it really you?" His face crumpled, and he dropped his head. "I see so many people who aren't there."

"I'm here, Ron," she answered, fighting tears. She put her arms around him. She could feel a tremour in his limbs. "I'm really here. I've been away but I'm back, and I'll always be back. I promise."

He allowed her to hold him, then he moved away, his eyes dull with grief. "They're all gone. Mum and Dad, Bill and Charlie, the twins, Ginny. Even Percy." He looked at her with eyes so full of sorrow Hermione couldn't breathe.

"Harry's dead, Hermione! Everyone is dead. Why was I left behind?" He shook his head. "I'm never going to see them again." Tears ran from his eyes. "I'm messed up, but I know the truth." He sighed, his lips trembling. "Everyone is dead, aren't they?"

Hermione held him, and whispered, "We're not, Ron. We're still here."

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

"Whatever for?" she asked, trying to wipe the tears from her face.

"That you lost him."

Hermione felt a thrill of fear. "Lost who?"

Ron wiped his eyes. "Snape."

Hermione felt the world split open. "S...Snape? I don't know what you mean..."

"I'm sorry you lost Snape. And I didn't tell anyone about him. Never." He put his arm around her. "I'm not angry. I was at first, but I'm not anymore. I know how it feels to lose someone."

Hermione stroked his hair tenderly. It looked dull and dry, like they were using harsh Cleansing charms on it. "Ron, I didn't lose Snape. He's alive. He survived."

"Who survived?" He looked puzzled.

"Snape. He's alive."

Ron's eyes lifted to hers. "Snape is alive? Mum and Dad and Charlie and Fred and George and Ginny are dead, but Snape is alive?"

The calm tone frightened her more than if he'd shouted the words. She answered, "Yes, Ron. I'm sorry, but he's alive."

Ron blinked, and his eyes refocused. His slow grin returned. "No, Ron," she said, suddenly desperate. "Don't go! Stay with me, Ron! Stay here with me..."

"Snape? He visits me all the time. He's an even tougher chess player than Dumbledore." Ron rose from the bed and walked back to the empty chessboard. "He brings me sweets from Honeydukes, and chocolate frogs. I got over hundred already." He turned back to Hermione. "I've been helping Fred and George at the shop. Did Dad tell you?"

Blinking back tears, Hermione nodded. "Yes, I think he mentioned it."

"Brilliant! You'll have to stop by. We've been working on some cracking good stuff." He turned his attention back to the chessboard. "The next time you come, tell Harry to come with you. I haven't seen him in ages." He smiled at her, a soft smile of lost recognition. "I'm glad you stopped by, Lav. You always were the prettiest girl in school."

Hermione bit back a sob as Ron turned his attention back to the desk. "Thank you...Won-Won." He smiled his crooked smile, the one that had made her own heart flutter, once upon a time. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

He nodded, his eyes fixed on his imaginary chess pieces, and Hermione turned to leave, feeling as if her head was going to explode.

Just as she reached for the door handle, she heard a soft. "Hermione?"

She turned back. He was looking at her with eyes that were as old as time, older than Dumbledore's; older than Hogwarts. "I'm never going to get any better, am I?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm...I don't know."

He nodded in resignation. "It's okay," he replied soothingly as if to comfort her. "I knew you weren't really here. Everyone else who comes to visit isn't alive either."

"But Ron, I'm..."

"Promise me something, Hermione."

His plaintive tone almost drove her to her knees. "Anything."

He waited a long time before replying. Hermione was beginning to think he had forgotten she was there, when he finally said, "Don't come back anymore, okay? If I don't see you, I don't remember that you're not here."

Hermione walked out of Ron's room like a sleepwalker. She saw Mariam Tickle conversing with another Healer, and Hermione waited until they finished their conversation to approach her.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a bag of Galleons. "Make sure he has everything he needs, anything he wants," she said, her voice strained and tight. "I want him to be comfortable..."

The Medi-witch's eyes grew round. Shaking her head, she replied gently, "You put your money away. There's no need for that, Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley is one of my sweet ones. I take good care of him, never you doubt it."

Hermione wiped her eyes, and the other woman put her arm around her comfortingly. "It's alright, Miss. It's because you remember him when he was whole. But he has happy days here, and he's usually very cheerful."

Hermione shook her head, wanting to tell her how Ron used to be so self-centred and grounded, loyal and infuriating and lovable, but nothing would come out.

Tickle nodded, understanding. "Just remember that he's safe, and no harm will come to him."

"But he told me he didn't want to see me anymore," Hermione wept, and other woman held her, rubbing her back soothingly. "He asked me not to come back."

"It's because he has trouble distinguishing real people from the ones he sees in his mind," came the gentle reply. "He asks all his visitors to leave, but he never remembers that. He's always happy to see them when they return."

Puzzled, Hermione sniffed. "Does he have many visitors?"

"No, not many. His brother, once or twice. I think that's about it..." She gave a little giggle. "Oh, and Foreign Minister Snape, how could I forget him? You know him, I'm sure. He used to teach Potions at the old Hogwarts. He visits regularly, at least a couple of times a month."

Pansy was not due back for half an hour. Hermione found a chair in the lobby under a moldy-looking oil painting depicting cherry trees in bloom, and sat down to think.

The idea that Snape visited Ron on a regular basis puzzled her. Why did he come...what did he hope to accomplish? She was not so naive as to think it was just to play chess. A wizard like Snape always had a reason for what he did. She was living proof of that, wasn't she?

Even now, it was difficult to think of those weeks spent with him without wanting to curl into a ball and pray for oblivion. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the overwhelming thrill, the crippling moment of utter abandon she had experienced the first time he took her to his bed. He had seemed so achingly vulnerable, so ready to throw away everything just to be with her.

And she had believed it. She had taken insane risks, lied unapologetically to the boys, left her sentry duty...anything, just to feel his arms around her, to look into those black eyes as he entered her, to revel in the pleasure he gave her body.

It was the only beautiful thing she could remember from that awful year; those sweet, stolen moments of desperate longing and stunning passion. She thought she had fallen in love with him; she thought he felt the same. But she had forgotten who she was dealing with...Snape, the spy, the snake, the master deceiver.

Gods, but he'd played her. He'd made her feel like a goddess. The awkward and unsatisfying fumblings she had experienced with Ron bore no resemblance whatsoever to the way Snape made her feel. In her limited experience with sex, he'd turned it into an addictive drug, and she was ready to do anything and everything to have it. And then he'd made her wait those long, cold weeks of early spring. She'd gone through withdrawals like a junkie, making the boys miserable with her moodiness and sullen silences.

Then, when he finally called her, he'd waited until he'd taken her over and over, until she was limp, glutted and sated. Only then did he try to make her betray Harry. And when she didn't, he'd said those horrible things about her. He'd as much called her a whore, and not a very good one at that.

Even with that, she'd begged him not to leave her. The moment he Disapparated, however, she knew he wasn't coming back. She stayed a long time, hoping he would return and say it was all a misunderstanding. Clearly, she had forgotten who she was dealing with.

For almost a week she stayed inside the messy confines of their tent, crying. She made her excuses...the time of the month, that old convenient bugbear, was cited as the reason for her seclusion, but in reality she thought she might be going mad. She tormented herself with dreams of him, holding her, loving her, making her feel safe, then turning on her and telling her how unworthy she was. Until the day she and the boys were taken to Malfoy Manor, she had been a complete and total mess.

She had thought him a wizard risking his life for the Order, for the overthrow of evil. Instead, he had been a double-agent...perhaps a triple-agent...with loyalties that could only be guessed at. He had fooled everyone in the Order. He fooled her with his talk of 'after we win.' He had been using her all the while. Even now the thought still made her feel sick. And seeing him at the ball with that gorgeous blonde hanging smugly on his arm had sent a clear message...he wasn't exactly sitting around, pining for her. Gods, she had felt so childish and impotent in his arms.

Hermione straightened her shoulders and took in a deep breath. It didn't matter. Severus Snape was not worth it. He was a snake in the grass; he was the enemy, and she was well shed of him, she told herself. Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully. If only she knew why he was visiting Ron. If only she had ever been able to know what the man was thinking.

She shook her head. She would never understand him. He didn't want or care to be understood.

And now it was time to push him out of her...

That voice. Someone in the lobby had been speaking the same words over and over, rubbing against her ear incessantly, like the squeaking of a door hinge. Hermione looked up, slightly impatient at the interruption, but none of the other visitors were sitting within earshot.

Then she heard it again, clearer this time. "Pumpkin pasties," it said quietly. "Pumpkin pasties."

Hermione spun in her chair. Standing in the cherry tree orchard was a tiny figure...an old woman with iron-grey hair covered with a white wimple, wearing blue Healer robes belted with a silver chain.

"Pumpkin...There you are!" said the figure in a broad, Lancastrian accent. "I've been sat here trying to get your attention, but you were woolgathering."

"Y...you're Dilys," stammered Hermione. "I...I mean, you're Headmistress Derwent, aren't you?"

The witch in the grotty painting smiled. "That I am. Please just call me Dilys. The social niceties died out a few years ago, love. We don't stand on ceremony here. Not anymore. And you're Hermione, the girl our Minerva said would come to see me."

Hermione's throat closed at that. Oh, Professor McGonagall, she thought. What faith you always had in me. I've been trying to live up to it, I really have- Tears welled up in her eyes again.

"Tsk, tsk." Dilys clucked in sympathy. "I miss her too, child." Then her smile snapped shut, and she turned briskly efficient like the Healer she was. "Never mind the past, Hermione. We have the future to think of! No time for dawdling, now. Come with me." And she turned and walked out the side of the painting without a backward glance. Hermione stood up in a panic. Where...? How was she supposed to...? She scanned the hall to the left and right.

"Hurrummph!" An ancient voice warbled through the air like a street monger. "Pumpkin pasties!" Hermione spied a smudge of blue and white moving briskly through a village landscape. Relieved, she took off down the hall at a barely-controlled run. She nimbly skirted around visitors and Healers, keeping the former headmistress in her sights, while Dilys wound her circuitous way through portraits, paintings, and even the odd tapestry or two.

At last, in a neglected hallway, Dilys came to a stop within a detailed Wizarding painting of what appeared to be a Muggle appendectomy in progress. Sickened, Hermione averted her eyes from the surgeons with their bloody, gloved hands and gleaming red scalpels.

"Hermione love," called Dilys, "pay attention, please. You've had such a trying day, my dear, but it's almost done. You have one more task ahead. See that door?" Hermione reluctantly lifted her eyes to Dilys' pointing finger. "That's Healer Blyte's office behind you. He is out on rounds now ... if that's what you could call his practice ..."

Her lips pursed in disapproval...at what, Hermione didn't know, but based on Healer Blyte's gruesome taste in paintings, she was willing to let it remain a mystery.

"The object you seek is in there. On a bookshelf, I believe. He doesn't know what it is. Go on, child...you don't have much time," she urged, with a flapping motion of her hands. "I'll be right here."

The door unlocked to a simple Alohomora, and Hermione stepped into the gloomy office. No paintings graced the walls; perhaps Healer Blyte liked his privacy. She moved through the office to a large, ornate bookshelf fronted with latticework doors. They opened at her touch, and she quickly scanned the shelves laden with books, knickknacks and old-fashioned Muggle medical instruments, looking for...well, she didn't know exactly what she was looking for, but she hoped she'd know it when she saw it. She had to hurry...surely Pansy was on her way back by now, and what would she think if Hermione had run off ... She was sure to make trouble for Hermione if she noticed suspicious activity ... such as nicking things from Healers' offices...wait, was that it? Hermione's eye fell on a roundish brass piece, flat on the bottom, covered with the same arcane-looking inlaid black vines as the piece she'd found at Borgin and Burkes. She dug for her baby wand to cast an Accio.

CRACK! came the sound of Apparation. Hermione spun with a cry, wand at the ready. Before her stood a house-elf with a very stern expression fixed between large, flapping ears. She noticed he was not wearing the standard St. Mungo's white toga, but an ordinary tea towel; he was this Healer's privately-owned elf, perhaps.

"Who is you?" he croaked. "You is opening the Master's doors without permission! You is an intruder on Master Blyte's property!"

There was nothing for it. The elf's magic could easily overpower her own if she tried to resist being caught. Hermione's shoulders slumped. "Yes sir," she affirmed, "I know I don't belong in here. But I promise, all I..."

"'Sir'?" He looked at her skeptically through large, protrubent eyes. "I isn't a 'sir.' Is your eyes all right? I is a house-elf, not a sir."

Hermione blinked. She was suddenly so tired. The emotions of the day were finally catching up with her. And on top of that, all her plans were about to be foiled by some random Healer's gimlet-eyed house-elf, who selflessly defended his master's property yet didn't consider himself worthy of the most basic respect.

"You is...I mean, you are a sir," she sighed. "House-elves deserve a lot more than that for the jobs they do all their lives without..."

But there the little elf cut her off by rushing forward and hugging her hard around the knees. "You is She!" He seemed overwhelmed with emotion. He stepped back and looked up at her again, blinking back tears. "You is She who used to champion the rights of the elves, Miss. We remembers hearing about you, years ago! Yes!" He stepped forward and began to shake her hand vigorously. "You is She!"

"Blimey," was all Hermione could manage. "Um, yes, hello, it's me. My name is Hermione. And you are..."

"Noddy, Miss! Noddy!" Continuing to shake her hand, Noddy smiled broadly.

Hermione almost laughed aloud. After championing their rights for years, this was the first time she had actually been thanked by an elf. She wished with all her heart she could sit and talk with Noddy, but it was impossible. She desperately considered the time and her insides turned cold.

"Noddy, I'm so glad to meet you," she replied, "but I am in a terrible hurry. I am looking for something in this office. An object, brass inlaid with black vines. I need to find it quickly, and ... I'm afraid I need to take it with me, and keep it a secret. Could you possibly help me keep this a secret?"

The elf nodded enthusiastically. "I will help you, Miss! And keep it a secret! What is Miss looking for?"

Half a minute later, Hermione and Noddy eased back out the door, where she bid him a polite good-bye. He Disapparated with a CRACK a moment before she belatedly thought to ask him to deliver her back to the vicinity of the hospital lobby.

"Thank you, Dilys, for your time and your help. Tell me, can you think of any other headmasters who might have second portraits? I know you aren't able to venture out of this hospital but...maybe you might remember..."

Dilys frowned. "There were a fair few, child, but one that leaps to mind was Aloysius Everard. His portrait stands in the Ministry lobby."

Hermione knew there was just one portrait hanging in the Ministry lobby nowadays, and that was Voldemort's. But it was clearly the only idea Dilys had. Perhaps it was a start. "I hope we meet again, Dilys," she called, already jogging backwards down the hall.

"All the best, Hermione love," replied Dilys.

Shoving the brass object into her satchel with barely a glance, Hermione sprinted back the way she had come, to find Pansy in the lobby, idly inspecting the cherry orchard painting.

"Took you long enough," Pansy smirked when Hermione came trotting up, breathless and sweaty. "Did you give Weasley a visit he'll always remember?" she leered.

"Don't be disgusting," replied Hermione coldly.

"Your Excellency, your six o'clock appointment is here," announced Mrs. Bulstrode from the office doorway. Severus looked up from his desk. He could hear the disapproval in her voice.

"Show them in, Mrs. Bulstrode. And that will be all for the day, thank you."

"Yes, sir." Curiosity warred with distaste on her homely face as she stood aside for two young men who sashayed into the office with an air of owning the place.

"How d'ya do, sir. Tremaine's the name. At your service," said the first man. "And this is my associate, Mr. Darko." Shaking her head, Mrs. Bulstrode closed the door and left them.

Severus gestured to two spindly chairs near his desk. "Gentlemen, please be seated." But his guests made for a comfortable divan instead, sinking down with twin sighs.

"'Hope you don't mind, Yer Excellency," said Tremaine, "but me an' Darko had a hard day. We could use a bit of a breather on a nice sofa."

Severus gathered himself to speak sharply, but the portrait above the fireplace spoke in a mild tone. "Pace yourself, dear boy," murmured Lugubrious. "This promises to be a long interview."

Still scowling, Severus moved to lean against the front of his desk, his long, black-clad legs stretched in front of him as he studied the Snatchers. It had taken him no time at all to look up the names of the bounty hunters who captured Hermione Granger near Brighton, but a great deal more to track them down and require them to attend a high-priority interview at the Ministry.

He didn't let himself examine his own motives in pursuing this line of questioning; since waking up this morning, he had felt an overwhelming compulsion to learn more about Hermione's last days of freedom...where she had traveled, whom she had spent time with, and what dangers she had faced. That was all that this was, he told himself...a follow-up to a criminal investigation. Nothing more.

Both Snatchers wore Dickensian frock coats and striped trousers...the basic fashion staples among the Pureblood, unemployed toughs of Knockturn Alley. The one called Darko even sported grimy lace sleeves and black leather spats over his well-worn shoes. It was a look that was supposed to convey a nonchalant, ironic attitude toward the Wizarding upper class. Severus, who had barely escaped becoming a thug just like them in his youth, easily penetrated the façade and saw only poverty and resentment.

"Gentlemen," he began curtly, "I won't waste your time, as I'm sure I've taken you away from more important things. I am conducting an investigation into the events that took place in early December 1998, when you caught the fugitive Hermione Granger and brought her to justice. I would like to learn all the background from you concerning the capture and arrest."

Darko spoke up. "Excuse me, mate, but we thought we was here to meet some geezer from the MLE." He paused and gazed about cheekily, as if expecting Aurors to pop out of the wood-paneled walls. "Wha's this gell mean to you, then? It ain't no diplomatic matter. Yer Excellency," he added after a pause, his tone insolent.

They were already suspicious of his motives. Severus wondered what they'd heard of him. "For all you know, this is a diplomatic matter, Mr. Darko," he replied. "You and your associate were the Snatchers on record as having caught Granger and brought her directly to Azkaban, and I wish to learn the circumstances behind the snatch. Where you caught her, how the arrest was made, and so on. Surely not a difficult thing to remember, considering how famous she was."

"Well, that's the thing, innit?" asked Tremaine with an affected concern. "To be honest, Your Excellency, it's been so long, I'm not sure if me an' my partner can remember all the little details." He glanced meaningfully at the liquor bottles on the sideboard. "Now, if we could come to some financial agreement, as well as maybe a little glass of somefink, maybe my memory would improve."

Ah. So they were merely shaking him down for a bribe and a drink. He shared a meaningful glance with Lugubrious, then rose from his perch and moved to the sideboard. First things first, then. "Forgive me, gentlemen. What will you have?"

In a moment, he was back with two crystal tumblers of bourbon. Watching them take their first appreciative swallows, he allowed himself a quick smirk. If either of them had gone to Hogwarts and learned basic Defense, or knew of his own checkered past as a spy and a Death Eater, they surely would never have asked for, much less accepted, a drink from the hand of Severus Snape.

But unfortunately for them, they hadn't; they didn't; and so, they did.

Several seconds later, the Veritaserum kicked in, and his two guests became much more forthcoming with their answers. Before long, Severus had a detailed picture of the circumstances surrounding Hermione Granger's capture.

Foreign Minister Lugubrious, who had been listening attentively all through the interview, cleared his throat. "Don't forget to ask about all the Muggles who might have seen her."

"Right. Mr. Darko, I believe you mentioned the police?"

"There was Old Bill- a PC. He was asking the Mudblood some questions when we got there. When she saw us, she went spare, tried to get arrested by him or somefink. Like that'd scare a coupla gentlemen like us!" Darko laughed loudly, showing his foul teeth. "We walked up, nice and casual, and told him we'd look after her. It would have gone smooth, but at the last minute she only went and tried to Apparate. Right in front of a Muggle and all! Some people have no respect fer the Statute of Secrecy, 'Rexcellency. She's a menace, an' you know it," he added piously.

Tremaine took up the tale. "Good job we both had hold of her. She coulda got away, but she Side-apparated with the both of us! What a stupid thing to do! Me an' Darko was okay, but she got Splinched."

"Yes, I saw the medical record of the Splinching." Severus stared without seeing into the fireplace. In her desperation, she had Apparated with a wizard on each arm. She could have been killed.

"And the name of the PC?" prompted Lugubrious.

Tremaine spoke, his voice a little high and slurred. "Rankin, Your Excellency. Police Constable Edward Rankin of the Sussex Constabulary in Brighton." He blinked owlishly, as if surprised by his own head for detail.

When they finally began to repeat themselves, Severus advanced on each of them in turn and performed Legilimency for good measure. Pushing past the effects of the Veritaserum, which made the men want to mentally throw evidence of recent petty crimes at him, Severus dug deep into their minds until he found clear images of PC Rankin, the tourist area where Hermione had been spotted, and a few other random landmarks such as a pier and a tea shop.

At last, he withdrew and sat down behind his desk to think. It seemed Hermione's capture almost didn't happen...actually, it wouldn't have, if it weren't for the fact she had been momentarily distracted when she was stopped and questioned by the Brighton police force. Severus grimly wondered how much this PC Rankin had been allowed to remember after the Aurors, no doubt sent afterwards to mop up, were finished Obliviating him.

The Snatchers slumped inelegantly on the divan. In a few moments, he knew, they would fall asleep and begin to drool.

"Well, Alfred," said Severus at last, "I believe I have everything I need from these two."

"I would agree," replied Lugubrious. "But please don't kill them. There hasn't been a murder in this office since 1957, and I'd hate to see the rugs soiled."

"I cast quite a formidable Tergeo," he offered.

"Severus," chided the portrait.

"Oh, very well, if you insist." Severus stood up and drew his wand. "Obliviate."

Several hours later, the two Snatchers awoke to the sensation of being tumbled by a couple of hags digging in their trouser pockets for loose change. With growls and grumbled threats, they kicked out feebly until the hags sloped away again, cackling to themselves. Opening their eyes, Tremaine and Darko found themselves face-down in a fetid corner of Knockturn Alley in the middle of the night, stinking of firewhiskey, with no memory of how they got there.