Chapter 3: The Stupidest Idea Ever

Chapter 3

The Stupidest Idea Ever

The prisoner studied his visitor keenly. 'Do you have any questions?'

The old woman frowned at the meticulously drawn diagram on the parchment in her hand, then referred again to the written explanation on the parchment on the table. 'This is brilliant, Severus. I would never have considered the vendors' entrance to be such a weak point for Parkinson Industries – all of the doors leading from the loading docks are heavily warded.'

His self-satisfied smirk would have irritated his erstwhile classmates no end, but his former teacher and current business partner viewed his arrogance with complacency. 'The doors are warded against people attempting to gain entrance, Minerva, not against people concealed in crates or other packing materials. It would be all too easy to smuggle in a spy to steal their product formulas.'

A rare smile graced McGonagall's lips, echoed by an equally rare smile from Snape. 'The Parkinsons will be happy to pay a king's ransom for this,' she said.

'Of course,' he responded. 'Especially after the unsolicited demonstration provided for them by our field agents last month.' A far-off look touched his glittering eyes. 'When we open our American office, we will offer such incursions as a service – for a fee. Our own countrymen are too backward to appreciate the Muggle perspective at this juncture.'

McGonagall straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. Snape recognized the signs – she was preparing to bring up a subject that she knew he did not wish to discuss. 'Leave it, Minerva,' he said shortly.

'You will listen to me!' she snapped, her brows contracting. 'You cannot continue to be so bull-headed!'

'Adopt me,' he said promptly, dropping his bombshell with a feigned look of innocence. 'Make me your son, and you can take me away from this bad old place as my loving mum – it worked for Draco, after all.'

'Oh, really, Severus!' she said repressively. 'Do you honestly imagine that I have not already thoroughly investigated that avenue?'

At this revelation, his next acid comment was stilled on his lips. 'You have?' he said instead, somewhat incredulous.

'Do you think me incompetent? Of course I have. Adoption of an adult person for the purpose of obtaining probation is prohibited.' She retrieved her handbag from the floor by her chair and snapped it open, withdrawing an envelope, inscribed in a feminine hand. 'I knew it would be much easier to induce you to become my son than it would be to induce you to take a wife.'

He scowled. 'Oh, for the love of Merlin, Minerva,' he said peevishly. 'Must you speak in this Victorian fashion? Take a wife? You might as well be saying, "Take a bath" – that's how easy you make it seem!'

McGonagall pushed the envelope across the table to him. 'If you would pull your head out of your cauldron, you would see that it is that easy! Hestia Jones is more than willing, Severus. She's even written to you about it.'

He looked at the blameless vellum envelope as if it was a venomous snake. 'Please tell me that you're joking.'

'She's only ten years older than you are. She's been married before – she likes and admires you, and she's appalled that the Ministry ever saw fit to imprison you in this way. She won't be expecting anything distasteful from you.'

He muttered something and pushed the envelope back to her.

'Speak up! How can you expect me to hear you if you mumble?'

'I said, "Nothing more distasteful than consummating the marriage,"' he snarled.

'Oh.' For a moment, McGonagall stared at her hands, then she looked up into his eyes with her piercing gaze. 'It is time to stop playing at this, Severus. The Ministry is bent on closing this facility on the first of July – those who have not been paroled will be transferred to the wizarding correctional institution on Zhokhov Island.'

He sneered. 'You say that as if I'm supposed to be impressed.'

'It's in the Eastern Siberian Sea!' she shrieked. 'Siberia, Severus!'

He sat back, his lips pressed firmly together.

McGonagall took a steadying breath. 'Surely you can see that it would be impossible for us to continue conducting business in this fashion from that distance. Even if Alastor or I were physically up to making the journey as often as once a month, there is no guarantee that the prison administration would permit you to receive such frequent visitation – and certainly no guarantee that you would be permitted to have parchment and quills for writing. I have no influence with the Russian Ministry of Magic, Severus.'

He stared at her stonily. 'I would be unable to continue making creative contributions to the business, then,' he said. 'I don't suppose you would begin to steal from me and halt your monthly deposits into my Gringott's vault.'

'Do you know who the last person was to receive time off for good behaviour from a Russian prison? I believe his name was Rasputin!'

'That Muggle-sympathising twit?'

'My point is, Severus, that a twenty year sentence on Zhokhov Island will actually go on for twenty years – here, you might have hoped to be out sooner, but the former Soviet Union is still rather hard on wizarding criminals.'

He turned his head; in profile, the sharp planes of his cheeks and his jutting nose contrasted with the surprisingly sensuous curve of his lips. 'What are the requirements for the marriage to be considered valid for the purposes of probation?'

'Consummation, which will be verified in the usual fashion, and you must cohabitate – your probation officer will make sure of that.'

He did not answer, and several moments passed with each of them wrapped up in their own thoughts. At last, McGonagall began to gather her things together. When she stood to fasten her cloak, she spoke to him again.

'Six weeks, Severus. In six weeks, you will either have married and been released into the custody of your wife, or you will have been sent to rot in a Siberian prison north of the Arctic Circle! If you truly wish to throw your life away in that shameless fashion, it is certainly your own affair, but I hope you will consider one thing: the business which I began at your behest, using your inheritance from Dumbledore, has prospered more than either of us could have predicted. You, Alastor and I will never want for another thing in our lives, and if we continue on as we have up until now, we may retire as wealthy people. But Security Solutions is not just about the three of us – there are no fewer than forty-seven wizards and witches whose livelihoods are tied up in this business, and if you choose to allow yourself to be shipped off to a Russian prison, we will lose the benefit of your expertise and wickedly inspired security schemes. The business may founder for that reason – and if it does, you will have thrown away not only your own future, but those of the forty-seven people who have put their faith and trust in your company.' She strode to the door and rapped on it twice to summon the guard. Whilst she awaited her release from the visiting room, she turned to pin him with her sternest glare. 'Think about that the next time you're feeling so bloody sorry for yourself.'

The guard opened the door and she swept out of the room without a backward glance.

Hermione stormed through the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, pushing the door closed with a slam. Hurling her book bag to the floor, she pounded down the stairs to the basement kitchen.

Harry looked up from his bowl of tinned soup and frowned when she wrenched open the door to the fridge.

'Bad day?' he asked cautiously.

Hermione slammed the door of the refrigerator so hard the bottles within rattled and glared at his supper as if it were a personal affront to her. 'Why are you eating that slop?'

'Erm –' he began his brilliant defence, but she had already snatched the bowl from the table and carried it to the sink, rinsing it out with a ferocious twist of the tap. 'Hermione?' Harry stood and held his hand up in a 'stop' gesture. 'Why don't you sit down for a minute and tell me why you're so angry with my soup.'

'The stupid Wizengamot!' she cried. 'How can they be so heartless?'

Harry frowned. 'Is the Wizengamot even in session? What have they done now?'

Hermione subsided into a chair and Harry sat down beside her. 'I spent all morning waiting to see the Committee for the Probation Program and they wouldn't even let me finish my presentation! I researched this for ten full days – and all to no avail. They wouldn't listen to me!'

Harry buried his face in his hands with a groan. 'The Probation Program? This has something to do with Snape, doesn't it?'

Hermione touched his arm. 'I know you think I'm daft –'

'Bloody mental, more like!' he snapped, shaking her hand from his arm.

'–but I maintain that it was a complete miscarriage of justice for Professor Snape to be sent to prison for obeying Professor Dumbledore. He had promised, Harry, just like you promised to obey the headmaster before you went to the cave, the night he died. It's not so very different.'

'My obedience didn't take his life, Hermione!' Harry shouted. With a curse he stood and began to pace the kitchen. 'It's not the same thing at all!'

'If Professor Snape had been tried at another time, in a different atmosphere, he might have been exonerated – but the public mood was so against the Death Eaters that his heroism didn't even earn him a reduced sentence!'

Harry stopped across the room from her, his voice quiet. 'He didn't receive the death penalty, did he? Not as Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov and Augustus Rookwood did. He only got twenty years for cold-blooded murder. I'd say he got off light.'

'Well, he doesn't qualify for the probation program, anyway,' Hermione said, her shoulders slumping. 'He has no magical family into whose custody he can be released, and the committee isn't willing to consider making an exception in his case. He could be released to his wife if he was married, but Professor McGonagall says that he won't even contemplate marrying.'

'Well, at least you haven't lost your mind to the extent that you're ready to start Snape-S.P.E.W. – or to marry him to get him out of prison.' Harry took a deep breath, calming himself. 'Come on, let's go get some curry – you'll feel better after you've eaten.'

The night air was cool upon their cheeks as they strolled together along the street to pick up their Thai take-away. Hermione walked with her head down, there and back, her hands shoved into the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt; over and again, Harry's words played in her head.

Harry let her walk in silence until he opened the door of number twelve on their return, allowing her to precede him into the interior. 'A Knut for your thoughts,' he offered.

Hermione shrugged out of her jacket and took the bag of food from him, leading the way down to the kitchen.

'You know, Harry, it's not a bad idea,' she said, taking plates from the dresser and setting them on the table.

'What isn't?' he asked, grabbing silverware from the drawer.

'Marrying Professor Snape so he can leave the prison,' she replied.

'Dammit, Hermione!' he bellowed, allowing the spoons and forks to fall onto the table with a loud clatter. 'You're going from mental to certifiable. That's the stupidest idea I ever heard. You just feel sorry for him because he saved your life!'

Hermione froze, her hands desperately clutching the plates she held. 'He what?'

'How do you think you got to St. Mungo's?' Harry demanded. 'You were in no case to Apparate there by yourself.'

'I don't know – I never thought – I never thought about it.' She put the plates on the table and stared at him accusingly. 'I can't believe you never told me before now!'

Harry thumped himself on the chest and continued to shout, 'I never wanted you to feel any obligation to the greasy git. He had his own filthy reasons for it, you can be sure of that. I just wish to God I had killed him when I killed Voldemort!'

'Harry!' Hermione gasped, horrified. 'That's a terrible thing to say!' She sagged into her seat at the table, her brain seething with confusion. Snape had saved her?

Harry sat down as well, still angry, but chastised by Hermione's reproof. Grabbing a spoon, he began loading his plate with pad noodles. 'Now, stop talking crap, and let's just eat our dinners, all right?' he snapped, his voice still rather loud in the otherwise quiet room.

He ought to have been more wary of the small voice in which Hermione answered, 'All right,' before filling her own plate with yellow curry.

Friday night, Hermione Apparated to a small garden enclosed by a box hedge and walked up to the back door, knocking quietly upon the wooden panel. She had an appointment to keep, and she was right on time.

A moment later the door opened, and she was standing in the flood of welcoming light emanating from the house.

'Wotcher, Hermione!' said the young woman in the doorway. She had a spiky hairdo of soft brown, a heart-shaped face, and great, dark eyes. In her arms, she cradled a bundle in a blue blanket. 'Come in! It's great to see you!'

Hermione followed her friend into a cramped and clean but disorderly kitchen.

'Come into the lounge,' Tonks invited, leading the way into a cosy sitting room. 'Remus will be home soon.'

Hermione glanced around at the slightly shabby room, at the shelves of photographs topped by the lovely wedding portrait of the Lupins waving to her from over the mantel, and felt a pang of envy. 'May I hold the baby?' she asked.

Tonks smiled and shifted the blue-wrapped baby into Hermione's arms. The sandy-haired infant opened his wide, blue eyes and looked intently at her face. 'Hi, Alfie,' she said, running the back of one finger lightly over his velvety cheek.

'Isn't he a love?' Tonks said complacently, sitting on the sofa.

'He's perfect,' Hermione assured her, sitting down and taking the opportunity to bury her nose briefly in the baby's downy hair. 'I love how they smell.'

'Straight out of the bath, he is,' Tonks told her. 'That's when he smells best.'

The back door opened and Tonks bounced out of her seat. 'Remus is home!'

Hermione kept her eyes on Alfie, although she heard the kiss the Lupins exchanged in greeting; after a short time of whispered conversation, they came into the lounge, Remus' hand at the small of Tonks' back.

'Hermione,' Remus said in his hoarse voice. 'It's wonderful to see you! How's Harry?'

Hermione stood, offering his son to Remus. 'Harry's doing very well – really loves the Auror Academy.'

Remus accepted the baby from Hermione, pausing to address to his son a few perfectly nonsensical questions of the type an adult is likely to speak to a baby before he settled Alfie in Tonks' arms.

'Shall we go into my study?' he asked, smiling at Hermione in an inviting way. Hermione nodded and followed Remus into a tiny book-filled room, taking the armchair he indicated and waiting for him to settle himself behind his desk. 'How can I help you, Hermione?' he asked, his steady gaze fixed upon her face.

Hermione sat forward a bit. 'You've heard about the Probation Program being offered by the Ministry of Magic?'

Lupin nodded without speaking.

'Professor McGonagall tells me that Professor Snape isn't eligible for the program because he has no magical family,' she continued. 'I spent ten days researching this in the National Wizarding Library; it seems to me that there was a definite precedent for a prisoner being released on his own recognizance following the War of the Ring in 1376. A wizard who had used killing curses during the war and had been imprisoned for his acts was pardoned in a mass release in 1384. That wizard was released on his own recognizance and went on to lead a perfectly law-abiding life. I took this case before the Wizengamot committee and they wouldn't even listen to my full presentation!' Hermione scowled as she felt her indignation rising again. 'It's so unfair, Remus!'

Lupin cocked his head slightly to one side as he watched her. 'I can't say that I am surprised to hear of this, Hermione. Severus is universally disliked – scorned, even – for the number of ex-students and their parents he has offended during his teaching career. Add to that the murder –' he paused as Hermione opened her mouth to argue, 'no matter how seemingly justified his action may have been – as I was saying, add to that the murder of the universally-loved Dumbledore, and you have a very difficult situation indeed. Severus has made many enemies but has cultivated few friends in his adult life.' He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment before bringing his attention back to Hermione. 'I am, of course, sorry to hear this. In what way does it concern you personally – and how can I assist you with it?'

A slightly fanatical light came into Hermione's eyes. 'I have an idea that may help, Remus, and I want your opinion ...'

Tonks lay the sleeping Alfie in his cot, covering him tenderly with a soft yellow quilt embroidered all over with tiny red lions, and crept out of his nursery, pulling the door gently closed behind her. She had just poured a glass of elf-made wine and cranked up the gramophone to listen to the latest offering from the Weird Sisters when her husband's muffled shout caused her to abandon the wine glass on the nearest table and scramble to his study.

Without knocking, she opened the door and rushed into the room, finding Hermione sitting on the very edge of her chair looking mutinous and Remus with his face buried in his hands.

'What is it?' she asked breathlessly, one hand pressed to her erratically beating heart.

In stark terms, Remus told her.

'Hermione!' Tonks gasped, turning to the younger woman. 'That's the stupidest idea I ever heard!'

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. 'That's what he said!' she huffed, jerking her head in Remus' direction.

Tonks marched out of the room and returned with a tray of glasses and the bottle of wine. 'We'll just have a drink and discuss this like adults,' she said, pouring wine and handing out glasses.

'If we can just find some,' Remus muttered as he accepted the glass offered by his wife.

On Saturday morning, the prisoner stood beneath the luke-warm spray of the communal shower and assiduously scrubbed with the soap provided by McGonagall. The industrial strength green soap bars provided by the prison were good for cleaning the floors and for burning the skin off human beings; the mild white bars of bath soap had been one of the first privileges McGonagall had fought for and won on his behalf.

A dispassionate observer would note that the prisoner was gaunt to the point of being skeletal, the sharp bones of his hips jutting painfully through his pale, yellowish skin, each of his ribs as clearly delineated as the vertebrae of his spine. What little muscle tone remaining to him was due to his stubborn daily pull-ups and push-ups. The guards mocked his industry, but it was easy for him to ignore them. Discipline had kept him alive to this point in his life; he had every intention of living to walk out of this prison and to begin his life on his own terms, even if he was nearly sixty years old when he did it. Planning Security Solutions, arranging with McGonagall how to run it, mulling over the puzzles with which she presented him and devising answers to those puzzles kept his intellect keen. Pushing his malnourished body to maintain some level of fitness was part and parcel of his overall plan: to survive, as he had always done, using the tools at his disposal.

Minerva could not understand his disdain of her plan to marry him off to the willing widow Jones, but then Minerva had enjoyed many friendships in her life. She had often granted her trust and seen it honoured; she had even loved and had a long, committed relationship. Severus had none of these things in his past. Friends were people who needed your help with their homework or their job assignments. Trusting someone ended in betrayal and heartbreak. Committed relationships were for those with enough physical beauty and beguiling charm to merit such devotion.

Would he choose twenty years in prison, isolated from everyone and everything he knew over marriage to a woman who offered the relationship to him out of pity? Yes, he would. He had nothing to trade in such a transaction; he had never accepted charity from anyone in his adult life, and he did not intend to begin to do so now. Hestia Jones offered him a chance to escape being moved to Zhokhov Island because Minerva had compelled her to do so; there was no other explanation. The woman was undoubtedly driven by appreciation for his contributions to the Order of the Phoenix during the war. She could certainly have neither any attraction to him physically nor any liking for him personally.

In his years as a free man, he had never permitted himself to imagine that he might one day marry, as other men did. In his youth, his heart broken, he had been sure he was forever unworthy of such a thing. As a young adult, he had sworn to serve two very different masters, and his duties to them had absorbed all of his passion, all of his energy. Only since his incarceration had he possessed the leisure to consider the matter. Knowing that he was imprisoned until the dawning of his seventh decade, he reasoned that a family, with children of his own, was out of the question. He had decided that he might, upon his release from jail, be able to find and marry a woman near his own age – one who had been married before, was past the age of romance, but who knew how to make a house into a home, and who knew how to be a woman in her man's bed – yes, he could imagine that he might one day have such a woman in his life.

Taking up the rough towel provided for him, he briskly rubbed the moisture from his skin before completely saturating the thin fabric by squeezing his hair with it. He forced the comb through the tangle of ebony strands, then tied them back from his face with the strip of cloth. Finally, he pulled the prison-issue striped brown robes over his head, his mind now mulling over his coming meeting with Minerva.

Back in his cell, he read over the security proposal for the Brocklehurst Company, making notes in the margin with his quill. He was quite startled when the guard entered his cell ten minutes later.

'Visitor for you, Snape.'

As it was not his custom to engage the insolent guards in conversation, he kept his surprise to himself, simply standing and allowing the guard to shackle his arms before being led down the dark, dank hallway. Minerva never arrived before lunch – he wondered if something was wrong.

He was escorted into the visiting room; the metal manacles were removed from his wrists and new ones were fastened to his ankles. He settled upon his chair and removed the Brocklehurst proposal from his sleeve, perusing it again as he waited for Minerva to be admitted to the room.

After a few minutes had passed, he heard the door open. 'Early for you, isn't it?' he said nastily. 'Do you have a hot lunch date with Moody?'

The girlish gasp which greeted this sally informed his quick brain that he was not addressing Minerva McGonagall even before his snapping black eyes rose to the pink-cheeked face of Hermione Granger, the Girl-Who-Abetted-the-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Us-All.

'Is McGonagall recruiting you to do her dirty work now, Miss Granger?' he asked in voice of quiet menace.

'McGonagall?' Hermione said stupidly. 'I don't know what you mean, Professor Snape.'

It was upon the tip of his tongue to castigate her for using his former title – but did he want her calling him Mister? Or Snape, with no honorific? 'Why are you here?'

The tinge of colour receded from her face and she stood before him whey-faced and obviously apprehensive. 'I wanted to speak with you, sir,' she said.

'You are speaking with me – or did that minor detail escape your notice?'

He watched her lips press together as her chin rose; she was quicker to anger than she had been as a student and somewhat more difficult to intimidate. Without asking his permission, she sat at the table across from him; as she took her seat, his senses were bathed in her scent. He could detect oranges from her hair, tea roses from her throat, and a light note on top, which smelt simply clean and fresh – her own, unadulterated scent, no doubt. He filed the information and went on the offensive.

'Please, make yourself comfortable,' he purred. 'It's not as if I have any say regarding who can show up demanding to waste my time, after all.'

The girl flinched as if struck, and Severus enjoyed a vicious stab of satisfaction.

'I hope I will not be wasting your time, sir,' she said, looking into his face.

'We all have futile hopes, Miss Granger.'

'Why won't you let me tell you why I've come?' she blurted angrily.

Severus watched her fluctuating colour, noting the flush of anger spreading up her throat. 'I have no choice, you silly little girl!' he hissed, leaning forward menacingly. 'I am chained to the table.' To emphasise his words he jerked his legs, causing the table to vibrate with the motion and the chains to clank upon the stone floor.

She recoiled slightly and the door opened, a guard entering.

'Is there a problem, miss?' the guard asked.

Hermione stared into Severus' eyes; he leant back in his chair, crossing his arms over his narrow chest and raising a mocking eyebrow at her. If she complained of him, they would escort him back to his cell and her errand would have proven fruitless.

'No problem, officer,' she answered levelly. 'Professor Snape was just demonstrating for me how efficiently you have chained him to the table.'

'All you have to do is call if you need help,' the guard reminded her as he left.

The deafening silence between them went on for quite some time, as each waited for the other to be the first to speak. Severus was wondering if the guards would put the girl out at lunch time or if they would simply allow him to miss the meal, when she put her hand upon the parchment containing the Brocklehurst proposal and pulled it towards her.

With the speed of a striking snake, his hand darted out and imprisoned her wrist in a merciless grasp. 'Speak your piece and get out, Miss Granger,' he grated, tucking the parchment away again and flinging her hand from him with barely contained violence.

She did.

Severus sat listening to her in gathering indignation, wrath keeping him mute through her recitation of her reasons and her conclusion, torn between the notions that she was either taking the mickey or that she had lost her mind.

When she finished her monologue, her anxious, dark eyes searching his face as if to gauge his reaction, he spat, 'That's the stupidest idea I ever heard. You're raving.'

Hermione nodded and stood. 'I thought that might be your first reaction. You just need some time to think about it, sir.'

The violence of manner with which he stood and bellowed for the guard caused the girl to flinch and step back involuntarily; she was waiting at the door when it was opened, and it seemed to him that she bolted from the room like a rabbit fleeing a raptor.

Back in his cell, he paced as he had not done since the early days of his incarceration. McGonagall had a lot of explaining to do.