III. In which we join the man in black

Disclaimers of non-ownership here. Neither am nor want to be JKR.

Story written for the summer round of the SS/HG Exchange to the prompt 'A liaison between Snape and Hermione which won't evolve in love or babies. Happy sex buddies. It does exist and can be satisfying, respectful and funny.'

No less than five Aurors, none of them fellow Order of the Phoenix members, escorted Severus Snape into the dungeon courtroom, holding their wands trained on him at all times. In a misguided attempt at a combination between abuse and security (the very definition of what the Dementors had been before they had proved themselves completely outside Ministerial control), Snape's hands and feet had been manacled together almost tightly enough to stem his blood circulation. Apparently, gruff Aurors poking their wands at one's person weren't quite enough in the way of a pointed demonstration of security ... But, of course, the Ministry needed to actually exhibit something that the public and the prisoners could equate to the horrors that had been the Dementors.

When he had been in this position the first time around, some eighteen years ago, Snape had enjoyed the dubious honour of being escorted to the defendants' chair by three of the soul-sucking abominations. Severus had been sure the use of Dementors as ushers had had little if anything to do with subduing rebellious prisoners or with facilitating transport to and from Azkaban. The prison itself was more than capable of performing the former of the tasks; and one would imagine, or at least hope, that wizarding Britain's Aurors were at least well-trained enough to provide secure, competent escorts for weakened, unarmed prisoners. Still, to most witches and wizards, given their weaker constitutions and their propensities to wallow in fear, Dementors were unsettling entities, disrupting their presence of mind and their abilities at coherent thought. Little else could have gone such a long way in making prisoners more amenable to 'cooperating' with the Ministry when the time came for such to be required.

Severus had relied on his not unremarkable Occlumency skills to guard himself from the Dementors' influence during his erstwhile incarceration in Azkaban. He still thanked Albus Dumbledore quite fervently in his innermost thoughts for having discerned his natural abilities for Occlumency and for having taught him that powerful and particularly subtle art. Severus knew he would have barely lasted in the Dark Lord's service, let alone as a spy for or against Dumbledore, armed only with the skills he'd possessed when he had first received those fateful orders from the Dark Lord.

Snape remembered disgustedly how honoured he'd felt when the Dark Lord had 'entrusted him with the most important mission any of his servants could dream of.' The Dark Lord had preyed upon Severus' desire for recognition; he had sent Severus before Dumbledore to secure a teaching position at Hogwarts and to become a spy in the place where the world's most powerful wizard would ostensibly spend most of his time, and where they would hold each other under mutual, intense scrutiny. Essentially, the Dark Lord had, with no small measure of cruel amusement, sent Snape to the wolves.

Severus had been inordinately smug during his first meeting with Dumbledore – drunk on the esteem the Dark Lord had deluded him into thinking he had secured. The old wizard had been his usual affable self, listening to Severus' shoddily concocted story intently and without interruptions before fixing Severus' black eyes with a piercing gaze. It had taken all of Severus' concentration for him not to squirm under the weight of those clear-blue eyes. Ever perceptive, Severus had realised Dumbledore could read him like a ridiculously accessible book and had understood just whom the Dark Lord had sent him to face and to fool. As Snape had realised the depth of the Dark Lord's flippancy towards those whose lives he had Marked and commanded, his loyalties towards his erstwhile Master had begun to crumble.

That, in the end, brought him in this highly unenviable position once more ... Unlike the previous time he had appeared before the Wizengamot, Severus didn't have the Headmaster's – former Headmaster's, he reminded himself with an unpleasant lurch in the pit of his stomach – kindly blue eyes gazing at him in encouragement. Nor did he have his mentor's declarations to confirm on whose side he was and for whose benefit he had been risking his life during these long, torturous years.

Snape tried to take comfort in the thought that Albus wouldn't have left him to take the fall when he had concocted his ridiculous, self-sacrificial plan. Of course, Severus didn't know whether Albus had had an inkling of the kind of machinations Minister Scrimgeour would be setting in place to impede any proper judicial proceedings. Severus expected Scrimgeour would be capable of dismissing virtually any evidence that Albus could have left, on the basis that nothing could be verified if the wizard in question wasn't there to present it himself. Snape firmly instructed himself not to continue with that train of thought and start brimming with even more of this uncharacteristically exuberant optimism. As things stood, he no longer had the power to change anything.

Aggressive hands, hostile growls and pushing, prodding wands led Snape to the iron-wrought chair in the middle of the courtroom where the manacles on his wrists and ankles were replaced with the chains built into the chair. He took a small measure of comfort in the fact that these proceedings would take place in privacy. He shuddered internally at the thought of being made into even more of a spectacle than the Minister already seemed intent on doing.

Hermione sneezed as she cleared the last of the soot from her robes with a measured flick of her wand. With Harry and Ron's budding Auror careers gaining momentum and her own projects becoming increasingly ambitious ideas that she couldn't wait to explore, Hermione had found that she and her two best friends had less and less time to see each other as regularly as they would have liked. Intent on not distancing themselves from one another, the Trio had agreed to convene in the Weasley kitchen at the Burrow every morning to enjoy a hearty breakfast and some light conversation together before going their separate ways for work.

"Oh, hello, Hermione," Molly Weasley greeted her surprisingly warmly. Hermione was quite relieved that Molly had managed to overcome the impulse to treat her glacially; said impulse, a reminder of how vindictive Molly could be beneath her usual veneer of courtesy, had seemed to have been instigated by her split with Ron after the end of the war. Never mind that precious Ronniekins had been the one who had opted to go in search of greener pastures. Molly Weasley had apparently been quite hell-bent on seeing Hermione as the source of any and all of Ron's possible discontents.

"Good morning, Mrs Weasley," Hermione answered civilly. There really was no reason for Hermione to follow Molly's example and treat the older woman in kind, especially now that the Weasley matriarch seemed to be returning to her more affable, motherly attitude towards Hermione. Well, well, Hermione mused. Ronald must have started seeing a witch with whom he was becoming serious enough for Molly and her matrimonial (and presumably grandmotherly) yearnings: desires which strangely enough only seemed to manifest themselves where her youngest son was concerned.

Just as Hermione was stepping further into the kitchen to take her customary seat at the table, a jovial-looking Ginny came bounding down the stairs, holding hands with Harry and dragging him in after her by their intertwined fingers. Ginny's look didn't so much resemble a cat that had got the cream, but rather a cat that had spent the night rolling blissfully in catnip.

"Good morning, Hermione," she trilled, giving her friend a brief one-armed hug before taking her seat. Ginny then encouraged Harry to sit next to her by the judicious use of a jerking, pulling motion which looked like it could successfully be applied as a dislocating manoeuvre.

"Morning, Hermione," Harry greeted once he had managed to seat himself next to his girlfriend and retrieve his hand. Ginny's hand, apparently unable to stand still and function as a normal appendage if it was bereft of contact with Harry's person for more than two seconds, soon set itself on Harry's upper back, massaging the nape of his neck before tangling in his hair.

Ginny, Hermione surmised as she witnessed her friend's clinginess, must have missed Harry far more desperately than she'd let on while the Trio had left her behind in their search for Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes. Ginny had put on quite a brave face when Harry had made the decision that splitting up with her would ultimately protect her from becoming Voldemort's target. Perhaps now she was feeling just that exuberantly joyous over Harry resuming their relationship.

On the other hand, perhaps this behaviour was Ginny's way of desensitising Molly to the relationship, in case her mother would accuse her of being a 'scarlet woman' (incidentally still one of Molly's favourite appellations, and how Hermione managed to think that without breaking into giggles, she had no idea) or of being 'too young', as she had claimed about Bill when his relationship with Fleur had evolved. Of course, where she had been snide and openly dismissive of Fleur, Molly adored Harry to the point of already considering him a part of the family. How that would face up to Molly's reluctance to let her only daughter grow up and let go of the apron strings remained to be seen.

Ron made his way sleepily into the kitchen just as Hermione had taken her seat at the large table. He gave her a crooked smile and a mumbled, "Morning, Hermione," before plopping down into the seat next to her and hiding a wide yawn behind the large palm of his right hand. Arthur Weasley padded his way down the stairs moments later, just as Molly seemed to have finished bustling about with her wand and the pots and pans lined up on the stove. As was their habit, Fred and George Apparated right behind their respective seats at the Weasley kitchen table; their arrival was heralded by a resounding crack, one that Hermione suspected was magically enhanced by the twins to ensure their entrances didn't pass unnoticed.

Ron's exclamation of "Bloody hell!", understandable given that Fred and George had Apparated to his immediate left with a great deal of noise and without any warning, almost drowned out the twins' chanted, "Good morning, Mum, Dad, everyone."

"Ron!" Molly snapped. "Watch your language at the table. And you two," she continued, rounding on Fred and George, "how many times have I told you two not to Apparate in unannounced?"

"Sorry, Mum," Fred cut her off as she was drawing in a breath to continue berating them.

"Yes, Mum, very sorry," George rejoined, the smile adorning his face every bit as devious as the grin his twin was sporting. Fred and George took their seats almost at the same time, having clearly decided that they had baited and aggravated their mother enough that morning.

Seemingly content to leave the twins be for the moment, Molly rolled her eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh; she then placed the results of her sumptuous cooking before them all. Random conversations broke out among the eight people gathered around the table as they all filled their plates and started eating.

Before long, the conversation turned to Severus Snape's trial. Given that Harry and Ron would both be giving testimonies several times over the course of the next few days, the topic was inevitable. Ron started the discussion with his typical brashness after he'd had a look at his watch.

"Oi, Harry, we'd better hurry and eat our fill, mate. We're set to be in courtroom eight in an hour. Don't want to be late...

"I can't wait to see the git," he added viciously after a small pause, enough to give Harry the time to check his own watch and nod. "I reckon being in Azkaban all this time made him even greasier and uglier than normal."

Hermione was impressed that Ron had managed to swallow the last of the morsels he had been chewing before opening his mouth to speak. She imagined the disgust in his voice would have been contagious otherwise, though she certainly wouldn't have caught it for the reasons he had expressed or would have expected.

An ugly look flashed in Harry's eyes as he listened to Ron. Hermione was alarmed to see that the loathing burning in those green eyes was far more intense than it had ever seemed even when Harry had talked of Lord Voldemort. Only the intense fury and concentration in his eyes when he had struck down the Dark Lord had resembled or perhaps surpassed the hatred that Harry's eyes had just exhibited. What was more alarming, though, was how no one else at the table seemed to have noticed or cared. Irrespective of this seeming inattention, Hermione was sure it was more than just her impression that all eyes had, however surreptitiously, been trained on Harry since Ronald had opened his mouth.

This wasn't the first time Harry had blown personal prejudices out of proportion and deluded himself into believing that his fabricated half- or even quarter-truths were accurate interpretations of previously transpired events. Despite the fact that Hermione couldn't be there at the hearings, she was determined that Harry would see the truth that had been staring him in the face since first year. Regardless of the outcome of the trial, Hermione would see to it that Harry understood once and for all where Severus Snape's loyalties truly lay.