March of the Black Queen

Author's Note: My sincerest gratitude is owed to Angel Mischa, a wonderful beta with truly amazing turnaround time, and to the administrators of TPP (especially amsev), who have made it possible for me to bring this story to life.

March of the Black Queen

Snape stared in undisguised consternation at Antonio Silva throughout breakfast, the contentment of his night spent with Hermione at Malfoy Manor shattered in the face of this unexpected guest. He was not alone in his surprise; Draco, Hermione, and Neville all gaped in stupefaction at the man, startled by this new development. Snape wondered if they shared his confusion, too, for Antonio Silva was not at all how Snape had imagined him. Snape was not so insular that he expected all foreigners to look exotic and primitive, but this thin, clean-shaven man in his Muggle suit – his Muggle suit! – hardly fit Snape's mental profile of a Spanish pureblood wizard. And the man looked so young! Scarcely older than Miranda, if that. Nor was he at all sinister; grooves that appeared in his narrow cheeks when he smiled suggested that he performed that action often, and his dark eyes were warm with good-natured humour. Snape's curiosity about Miranda grew exponentially as he ate his eggs and sausage. Why on earth had she left this man? What did she see in Snape that she preferred him to this handsome, well-bred Spaniard?

Snape's countenance darkened as he found himself, once again, considering her motives and coming up blank. He applied himself to his food with ruthless efficiency, ignoring Draco's questioning glances and Hermione's attempts to engage him in conversation. At the end of the meal, Draco dragged Hermione and Neville from the table with a pointed glare at Snape and a brief request for him to meet them at the manor when he finished his coffee. Snape ignored this, too, and remained in his seat, sipping the lukewarm brew and not bothering to conceal his thundercloud expression. When Miranda stood and moved toward the door, leaving her husband deep in conversation with Flitwick and Professor Vector, Snape rocketed out of his chair and headed Miranda off in the Entrance Hall.

'What is he doing here?' Snape hissed at her. 'Why did you hide this from me?'

'I didn't hide anything from you,' Miranda responded casually. 'I had no idea he was going to visit.'

'Why is he here?' Snape demanded again.

'To see me, I suppose.'

'You told me you left him,' Snape accused. 'Was that a lie?'

'Why, Severus,' she teased, flicking her black hair behind her shoulders and looking up at him with innocent eyes. 'I thought you said I wouldn't be able to lie to you.'

His body went rigid with anger; clenching his jaw, he ground out, 'Was it a lie?'

'Of course not,' she said flippantly. 'Now do run along, Severus. I'd hate to think you were jealous.'

Furious at being spoken to like a child, he stepped close to her, invading her personal space, his lips twisted in a vindictive smile. 'Jealous?' he repeated silkily with just a hint of a snarl. 'That would imply that I gave a damn about you.' With a whirl of black robes, he stalked up the staircase and along the fourth-floor corridor to his office, where he swept behind the desk and sat staring at a stack of essays, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.

It dawned on him, as he sat there, that he truly, genuinely, did not like Miranda Silva.

***

Late that morning, as he was marking third-year essays on boggarts, an owl swooped in through the window of Snape's office and dropped a small parchment card in front of him. Assuming it was from Draco – Snape had not gone to Malfoy Manor, and he had left his fire unlit to prevent unwelcome interruption – he slit the envelope open with his small, silver dagger and skimmed it negligently, his mind still on the essays. What he saw made him drop his pen in horror, ink dripping out and obliterating the assignment he had been marking. The card was not from Draco, but from Antonio Silva, inviting Snape to join him and Miranda in the dungeons that evening for a private supper.

His suspicions ratcheted into hyper-drive. Had Silva found out about the affair? Was he going to call Snape out? Did you invite someone to dinner if you intended to call him out, or was it just 'wands at dawn, be there'? He had no idea how these things were done in Spain – perhaps this was some gesture of politesse. He would have to ask Draco to be his second, but if Snape should lose – how accomplished a wizard was Silva, anyway? – then Draco would surely be killed. Perhaps he ought to scribble a quick note to Arthur Weasley, or to Potter...

He dropped his head into his hands. Maybe this wasn't an invitation to a duel. Maybe – oh, God, no – they wanted him to participate in some sick ménage a trois. His stomach turned at the thought; he imagined the hideous awkwardness of the request and wondered if he would be able to keep his food down long enough to stammer out an emphatic refusal. He truly did not know Miranda well at all, he realised, unable to judge whether or not she would actually make such a request.

And then the worst possibility of all dropped like a rock into his brain: perhaps Silva wanted to discuss Snape's career as a Death Eater. Snape could imagine no torture worse than having to recount horror stories to an avid audience over the port and cheese. Surely Miranda would have explained Snape's true role in Voldemort's camp! And yet, as he considered this, it occurred to him that perhaps Miranda herself wasn't as familiar with his past as he had assumed. Potter had defeated Voldemort nearly seven years ago, while Miranda was still living in Spain, and Snape's part in the war had never been made especially public. He had lingered on the edge of death for so long that many people had forgotten him, and when Kingsley Shacklebolt had finally pardoned him, the news hadn't even made the front page of the Daily Prophet. The circumstances of Dumbledore's death had never been publicised in great detail, either – so perhaps Miranda knew even less than Silva himself, who at least had a network of connections, if Draco's gossip were accurate, to keep him informed.

Taut with anxiety, Snape made his way to lunch with every intention of expressing his regrets to Miranda and her husband: he had marking to do, reports to write, a conference with Neville had been lined up to discuss the summer exam schedule...

Draco was already seated at the high table, and as Snape approached, he waved a parchment card in the air. 'Are you going to this dinner as well?'

Relief washed over Snape. Dropping into his chair heavily, he asked, 'How many people did they invite?'

'Just me and Hermione, I think. Neville wasn't asked – he said he'd eat glass rather than sit through a formal dinner with Miranda.'

'I can't say I don't sympathise,' Snape responded dryly. 'I'm meant to be meeting him at the Three Broomsticks this afternoon to write up the exam timetable.'

'Drink lots,' Draco advised, turning to his plate as food materialised there.

After lunch, which the Silvas, to Snape's eternal gratitude, did not attend, he and Neville walked to Hogsmeade. The April sunshine was warm, and Neville speculated that the fine weather might continue into the week. They sat at a wooden table outside of the pub and drank cold lager as they consulted schedules and lists to arrange the dates and times for the upcoming exams.

'What do you think of Antonio Silva?' Snape asked finally, unable to focus any longer on work that was, even on this lovely Sunday afternoon, impossibly tedious.

'He seems like a nice enough chap,' Neville answered cautiously. 'I haven't talked to him at all.'

Awkwardness spilled into the atmosphere around them. Snape was unaccustomed to sharing confidences with Neville, who could be inconveniently perceptive. The young man's head was turned to observe passers-by strolling down the high street, but Snape didn't need to make eye contact to know what thoughts were scrolling through Neville's brain.

'I'm not jealous, you know,' Snape offered in a low voice. 'Miranda and I –'

'I know,' Neville interrupted. A light sheen of sweat glowed on his earnest face and plastered wisps of dark hair to his forehead. 'I saw the roses in Hermione's room this morning.'

'Would you go to this dinner, if you were me?' Snape asked suddenly.

'Yes,' Neville confirmed instantly. 'It would be rude not to.'

Snape nodded and ran a finger over his lips thoughtfully.

Neville met his eyes now and said carefully, 'You and Hermione and Draco – you all seem so wary and uncomfortable.' He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. 'I'm not sure how to ask this, but... what is the big deal with the Silvas? I admit to disliking Miranda. She's unkind. With you three, though, it's deeper than simple dislike. What do you know that I don't?'

Snape laughed sourly and arranged their papers into a neat stack on the table. 'That's just it, Longbottom – we don't know anything at all.'

Neville grinned wryly, an expression he did not often wear. 'I can see why that would make you, of all people, nervous.' He picked up his pint and took a long swallow. 'Why don't you tell me what you do know,' he suggested.

Over the next hour, Snape unburdened himself to Neville: he told the whole story of his affair with Miranda, interspersed with all of the questions and suspicions he had harboured since meeting her and the new ones that had arisen with the arrival of her husband. Neville listened without interruption, calmly sipping his lager.

'I think,' he said, when Snape had sat back at the conclusion of his tale, 'that you would feel better if you knew why Miranda left her husband in the first place. I imagine that would answer a lot of your questions for you.'

'If only I could ask her,' Snape said, almost wistfully.

Neville looked at him evenly. 'Why can't you?'

***

When Snape arrived outside the door to Miranda's dungeon rooms that night, he paused before knocking and reviewed exactly how he wanted to behave throughout this dinner. Polite, calm, distant – he would reveal nothing of his relationship with Miranda, nor anything of his deep and troubling suspicions about her and her husband. He would take his cue from Draco, whose social affability had been bred into him, and from Hermione, who had also been taught gentility by her middle-class parents. Snape's lips twisted briefly; in all his years of spying on Voldemort, he had learned nothing of social etiquette except how to grovel – a skill which was no longer of any use to him.

Gathering his mental fortitude, he knocked firmly on the wooden door and was admitted jovially by Antonio Silva. 'Ah, yes, do come in,' he said in a smooth voice, waving Snape through the door and into the sitting room. 'Please, may I get you a drink?'

'Yes, thank you,' Snape responded courteously. Hermione and Draco were already there, seated together on Miranda's long sofa before the fireplace. His eyes locked onto Hermione immediately; she was dressed in long, red robes that set off her colouring to perfection. She looked like a fire-goddess in contrast with Miranda, who occupied the armchair near the window, her ice-blue dress matching her piercing eyes. Beside the two vibrant women, Draco's pale fairness was otherworldly, given earthly life only by the flush in his cheeks from the red wine he was sipping.

A glass was thrust into Snape's hands, pulling him out of his reverie. 'It is African wine,' Antonio elaborated, tasting his own drink with a friendly grin. 'Allow me to introduce myself formally,' he said and presented Snape with his right hand. 'I am Antonio Silva. And you,' he continued when Snape shook politely, 'are of course Severus Snape. I need no introduction to you – your talented potion-making is well known.'

Snape narrowed his eyes but said only, 'You are too kind.' He watched Silva cross the room to perch on the arm of Miranda's chair. He really was not at all what Snape had expected: his smile was genial, and the faint hint of an accent to his English only served to increase his charm. In his slightly rumpled Muggle suit with his tie askew, he was the sort of familiar foreigner any uptight Englishman could feel comfortable around.

'Please, all of you, tell me what it is like to teach at Hogwarts,' Silva said, addressing his guests. 'I have always wondered.'

Hermione leapt bravely into the conversation, leaving Snape and Draco to insert a few brief comments as she spoke. Silva asked questions throughout, seeming genuinely interested in the operation of the school and the abilities of its students. The subject carried them to the dinner table, which had been situated in Miranda's office.

'What is it that you do, Señor Silva?' asked Draco politely after the house-elves had distributed the first course, a dainty piece of cold salmon on a bed of baby spinach leaves. 'My father told me once that you work for the Ministry in Spain.'

'Ah, yes,' said Silva, spearing a piece of fish on his fork and eating it with every evidence of delight. 'That is true, although it is nothing very glamorous. I am merely a junior minister. A lowly bureaucrat, if you will.'

'Is the Ministry in Spain much like our Ministry here?' asked Hermione curiously.

'Not at all. The Spanish Ministry is very corrupt,' answered Silva, grinning when his guests looked surprised at his candour. 'Do not pretend to be astonished. We have had no such changes as you have had here in England in the past ten years. We are still struggling to distance ourselves from the more unpleasant aspects of our history.'

'What do you mean?' asked Snape.

'The legacy of Franco continues even now,' Silva explained, finishing his spinach. 'When he was dictator of Spain, he persecuted the magical community as surely as he did the dissenters in the universities and in business. He widened the rift between the magical and non-magical world. The Decree of Secrecy – I am not sure what you call it in English – has never been closely adhered to in Spain, and the divide between wizards and non-wizards has always been deep. While Franco was in power, there were many wizards in Spain who sympathised with and supported Grindelwald, and later Voldemort, in their attempts to bring the magical community to supremacy. Many still wish those attempts had been successful, including some of those who are in power now. It is a precarious stalemate, what we have with the non-magical government, and it leads to much shady practice in our Ministry.'

Snape grew fascinated as Silva went on; he scarcely noticed when the main course was placed in front of him. He could see that Hermione was interested, too, in Silva's discourse, although Draco and Miranda looked slightly bored.

'But enough depressing conversation,' Silva said finally, smiling again at them. 'I do not wish for you to think that Spain is hopeless. We have a very vibrant magical community most of the time.' He turned to Miranda, who was eating her roast and parsnips enthusiastically. 'Have you shown your friends any Spanish magic?'

'Yes,' she said shortly.

Rolling his eyes apologetically toward Snape, Silva asked, 'What did you think? I know that some of our spells are quite different from what you use here in Britain.'

'I've only learned one spell,' Snape admitted, 'but it was fascinating – the Enhancement Charm.'

'Yes, a very useful spell indeed,' Silva agreed.

'Useful?' Snape enquired. 'I'm not sure I –'

'I've read that it's commonly used as a diagnostic spell,' Hermione interrupted him. 'How exactly does that work?'

Snape stared at her, surprised that she would talk over him so rudely, but even more astonished that she knew anything about Spanish magic. He should have known, he realised quickly, that she would research it, but why hadn't she shared what she had discovered?

'I'm not sure entirely how it is done,' Silva admitted, clearing his plate of his final few vegetables. 'As I understand it, however, when the spell is cast upon a person who is ill, it provides the contrast of how that person would appear if he or she was healthy, and this contrast enables the Healer to identify more easily what the illness is and what treatment is required. I am surprised Miranda has not explained this to you; she –'

'¿Porqué no te callas, Antonio?' Miranda cut in swiftly. 'A nadie importa esa.'

'Excuse us for one moment,' Silva requested politely of Hermione and Snape, then turned to his wife and said, '¿Cuál es el problema? Ellos quieren –'

'Basta,' Miranda stopped him emphatically. 'No necesitan comprender ahora. Van a descubrir pronto de todos modos.'

'Lo siento,' Antonio replied softly. '¿Quién es?'

'Si deseas,' said Miranda resignedly. She turned back to Snape and asked with a friendly smile, 'Perhaps you would like to show Antonio what you have learned.'

Completely confused now, but unwilling to show it, Snape nodded his compliance and cast the spell. He was almost too distracted to notice its effect on the room. After a minute or so, he ended the charm and said to Miranda, 'How was that?'

'Perfect,' she said quietly, watching not him, but Hermione, whose eyes were focussed thoughtfully on her empty plate.

'It is time for dessert, I believe,' Silva announced pleasantly, clapping his hands to summon the house-elves. They brought out chocolate mousse and coffee, and Silva directed the conversation onto other topics, asking how the England Quidditch team was faring that year.

Draco finally perked up and joined the discussion, enabling Snape to sit back and consider what had just happened. Miranda had stopped her husband from elaborating further on the diagnostic properties of the Enhancement Charm, but Snape could not fully understand why. Did she wish to conceal an illness of her own? He considered the difference between Miranda normally and Miranda under the effect of the charm: she always looked softer and more feminine, viewed by means of the charm, but that did not suggest to him that she was suffering from a health problem of any kind. She had been watching Hermione very carefully – perhaps she believed Hermione was unwell? Snape knew better, however; had there been anything wrong with her, he would have seen some difference in her when he cast the charm, yet he never did. His Spanish was too rudimentary for him to figure out what the whispered conversation had been about; perhaps he was thinking along the wrong lines entirely. Maybe Miranda just didn't want illness discussed at the dinner table.

After the house-elves had cleared the dishes away, Silva offered them all more wine, but Draco announced his intention of retiring. 'It's been a long weekend,' he said apologetically. When he had gone, the talk returned to the intricacies of the Spanish magical government, but Hermione was uncharacteristically quiet as she nursed her glass of wine. Snape watched her with some concern until, half an hour or so after Draco had departed, she stood up and set aside her wineglass.

'I should get some rest as well,' she said to Miranda and her husband. 'Thank you so much for the lovely dinner. Could I persuade you both to have tea with me tomorrow afternoon, around four o'clock?'

'Certainly,' said Silva. 'We would be delighted.' Miranda nodded her assent.

'I look forward to it, then,' said Hermione. 'Good night to you both. Good night, Severus,' she added.

Silva walked her to the door and said, 'Please, allow me to walk you back to your quarters.' He shrugged at her with a sheepish grin and said, 'This huge, empty building can be very intimidating, as I discovered last night.'

'All right,' Hermione acquiesced. He opened the door for her, and they passed into the hallway.

When the sound of their footsteps had retreated, Miranda sighed wearily and refilled Snape's wineglass. 'So, Severus – what do you think of Antonio?'

'He seems very pleasant,' Snape replied honestly. 'I enjoyed his conversation a great deal.'

Miranda nodded and curled deeper into her armchair, gazing into the fire, as was her habit.

'If you don't mind my asking,' Snape began tentatively, 'why did you leave him?'

Miranda smiled tiredly. 'You want to know because he doesn't seem like the sort of man a woman would walk out on.'

'Well, yes, in a way.'

She straightened up a little and took a long swallow of wine. 'We're not well suited. Our marriage was rather hasty, and neither of us realised how different our lifestyles and temperaments were.' The look she turned on Snape as she said this was frank and open; it was an expression he had never before seen on her face.

'I see,' he said, his voice non-committal.

She shifted in her chair again, a move that betrayed her sudden discomfort. 'That answer isn't complete enough for you, is it?' she asked shrewdly.

'I was hoping for a better explanation than "irreconcilable differences,"' he admitted.

'You deserve a better explanation,' she agreed. 'But that one is the truth, however vague it may seem.' She tucked her hair behind her ears and looked up at him with a small smile. Unlike most of her smiles, this one was not mocking or challenging; instead, it had an air of apology about it.

Snape drank the rest of his wine in silence, wondering why Miranda couldn't be this gentle and genuine all of the time. She appeared to be content with his silence, and they sat companionably as they waited for her husband to return.

After perhaps half an hour, when Snape began to grow unpleasantly curious about what could be taking the man so long, the patter of running footsteps approached Miranda's open door, and Draco barged in, out of breath, blond hair tousled.

'Come to the hospital wing,' he rasped. Without waiting for an answer, he darted from the room again. Snape stood abruptly and exchanged a puzzled glance with Miranda. Filled with consternation, he followed her into the corridor and hurried behind her up the staircases to the infirmary.

The sounds of shouting reached them well before they entered the long, brightly lit room. The sight that met Snape's eyes when they crossed the threshold made him stop suddenly and stare past Miranda in shock. Antonio Silva sat on one of the hospital beds, holding a white cloth to his lip, which was torn and bleeding, and rubbing the side of his face gingerly. Snape could see the red imprint of a hand there, just below a gash on his temple that was also bleeding freely. Hermione was on the bed across from him, but she was not sitting calmly. Instead, she struggled against Madam Pomfrey's restraining arm, trying to snatch her wand, which the Healer held in her other hand, just out of Hermione's reach.

'You bastard!' she was shouting, pulling away from Madam Pomfrey futilely.

'Hermione! Hermione, stop it!' Pomfrey threw a helpless, entreating look at Draco, who helped her hold Hermione in place so that the Healer could inspect the finger-mark bruises on her upper arms and the purple swelling that blossomed across her left cheekbone.

'What is happening here?' Snape demanded loudly, cutting across Hermione's invective. He stalked forward, a fierce glare twisting his features.

'He tried to molest me!' Hermione cried, pointing an accusing finger at Silva, who smirked beneath his white handkerchief.

'Is this true?' Snape hissed at him.

'Of course not,' Silva responded dismissively. 'She wanted it.'

'You liar!' Hermione screamed at him, grabbing for her wand again. Draco snatched it out of Madam Pomfrey's fist and backed away.

'I heard bumps and shouting from my office,' he said to Snape. 'When I went into Hermione's room, he had her pushed up against the wall, so I Stupefied them both and carried them here. I think that's how most of the injuries happened,' he explained.

'Not the ones on my arms!' Hermione snapped indignantly.

'Nor on my lip,' interjected Silva indistinctly. 'The bitch bit me.'

'You're calling me a bitch?' Hermione laughed without an ounce of humour. 'I guess you're used to women allowing you to grope them without invitation, then?' She grew still for a moment; when Madam Pomfrey eased her hold, Hermione whipped around and grasped the Healer's wand. Before anyone could stop her, she pointed it at Silva and cried, 'Impedimenta!'

The force of the spell shot him backward off the bed; he landed with a thump and rolled into a crouch, aiming his wand at Hermione, but before he could cast, Snape was there, grasping his wrist in a punishing grip that forced him to drop the wand on the floor. 'Do not point your wand at her again,' he snarled menacingly.

'Let go of me,' Silva demanded.

'No.'

Miranda finally unfroze from her position inside the doorway and came up behind her husband. 'Antonio, leave it,' she commanded sternly. 'Fighting with Severus will do you no good at all.'

Silva wrenched out of Snape's hold and faced his wife angrily. 'Do not say this to me!' he shouted at her. 'You wish to protect your lover from me, is that it?' He turned back to Snape and continued, 'Yes, I know you are her lover.' His voice dripped with contempt. 'Much good may it do you.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Snape countered icily.

'Oh, yes, you do,' snapped Silva, waving his hand expansively around the room. 'Look at them – they all know! Nobody contradicts me. She cannot help you, Snape – she is my wife, it is her duty to take my part.'

Snape snorted derisively. 'I doubt that, considering she left you eight months ago.'

'Left me?' Silva drawled incredulously. 'She hasn't left me.'

Scowling, Snape whirled around to face the other occupants of the room, who were watching the altercation with undisguised curiosity. 'Draco!' he snapped. 'Take Hermione to my office.'

Madam Pomfrey scuttled to the other end of the infirmary as Draco obediently helped Hermione off the hospital bed and steered her toward the door. She met Silva's eyes as she passed him, her expression still full of fury. 'If you dare touch me again,' she threatened, 'I'll kill you.'

'Hermione,' Draco admonished, dragging her away. Silva raised one eyebrow in polite disbelief as Draco closed the door behind their retreating forms.

'You think Miranda has left me for you, Snape?' he persisted, bending down to pick up his wand.

'Antonio,' Miranda broke in, 'please. This is undignified.'

'I don't give a damn about your travesty of a marriage,' Snape answered him sharply. 'If I hear that you have bothered Hermione again, I will kill you, make no mistake.'

Silva looked at him curiously, arrested halfway toward a standing position. 'You don't care about my marriage?'

'Not in the slightest.' Snape paused and tilted his head to one side. 'You don't seem to care much either, if I might point out. How do you suppose Miranda feels after witnessing your clumsy attempt at rape?'

'Rape?' Silva gasped incredulously. 'I tried to kiss her. She bit me. Then Sir-Knight-in-Shining-Armour burst in and blasted us apart. That is why I am covered in these bruises.'

'Why did you try to kiss her?' Miranda interjected. Snape cast a wary eye on her; she looked neither surprised nor upset by the evening's developments.

Silva scowled at her. 'You should leave, Miranda. This is a discussion for men.'

Taken aback, Snape asked in disbelief, 'Have you lost your senses? She has every right –'

'No,' said Miranda. 'I'll go.' Sweeping her long hair behind her, she walked casually out of the infirmary. Just outside the door she found Draco and Hermione, who stood as close to the wooden panels as possible, obviously eavesdropping.

'What are you smiling about?' Hermione demanded, affronted at Miranda's suddenly smug expression. 'This is all your fault!'

Miranda's grin disappeared. She paused for a moment before saying, quite calmly, 'Shut up, Hermione.'

Draco stepped forward to challenge her, but Miranda was already striding away from them, down the corridor. He suspected that the smile had not disappeared for long. Turning his ear back to the door, he discovered that the shouting from within the infirmary had stopped; all he could hear now were low murmurs of conversation. Reluctantly, he pulled Hermione away from the door and pushed her toward the stairs. 'Come on, let's get you to Severus's office.'

With a final, uncomfortable glance backward, she accepted his guiding arm and allowed him to lead her to Snape's rooms.

Back inside the infirmary, Silva had returned to his seat on the hospital bed and sheathed his wand inside his sleeve. 'You are involved with Hermione as well?' he asked Snape carefully.

'That's none of your business.'

'Do you not find it difficult to maintain two mistresses at once?' Silva went on, as if Snape had never spoken. 'I would not attempt it, myself.'

Snape sneered at him. 'I understand now why Miranda left you.' His brain added: you stupid, foreign berk.

'What is this leaving?' Silva repeated, looking confused. 'She has never said any such thing to me. Although,' here he gave a soft laugh, 'it would not surprise me if she wanted to. She has never liked me much.'

'Keep your confidences,' Snape said cuttingly. 'I don't want to hear them. I bid you good night.' He stalked into the corridor and felt his robes billow around him. He was reminded of his habit, years ago, of prowling the corridors of the school in exactly this manner; the memory fuelled his anger pleasantly. Had there been any students around, they would have felt the kind of wrath from him that would not have surprised Hermione or Draco in the least.

He went, not to his own quarters, but back to the dungeons, where he accosted Miranda in her sitting room. 'You make sure,' he ordered, 'that your husband stays here all night. I don't want to find that he has forced himself on Hermione again.'

Miranda stared up at him from her armchair. 'I'm afraid I can't help you with that,' she said quietly. 'He's staying in the guest room while he's here.'

Snape nodded. 'Good night, then,' he said stiffly and began to make his way back upstairs. He would just have to ward Hermione's chambers, he decided.

***

When he had collected Hermione from his office and escorted her back to her quarters – Draco, drooping with exhaustion, Flooed to Malfoy Manor from her sitting room – Snape sat wearily on her bed and watched while she changed into her nightclothes. Still trembling with anger, she slid under the duvet next to him and curled into a ball.

'Do you want to talk?' Snape asked awkwardly, having had very little experience consoling women in this situation.

'No,' said Hermione. 'I just want to sleep.' She snuggled up against him. 'Will you stay?'

'Of course,' he assured her. He dimmed the lights with a wave of his wand and wrapped his arms around her. He was still dressed, but he considered his own comfort a small matter compared to hers. It was some time before her breathing deepened into the rhythmic pattern that signalled slumber, but she didn't speak again, and Snape was content to lie there and hold her. He had warded her door from the inside; confident that his spells would keep out any unwanted intruders, he allowed himself to drift off as well, lulled into sleep by the warmth of Hermione's body and the sweet smell of her hair.

The sky was beginning to lighten when he awoke several hours later. Carefully, so as not to wake Hermione, he eased his body, stiff and uncomfortable, from the bed. He scrawled a quick note for her, in case she woke while he was gone, and left for his own rooms to shower and change clothes.

The hot water cascading over his back soothed his tight muscles; with a groan, Snape settled into a sitting position on the floor of the bath and leaned his head against the condensation-covered tile. He felt terrible, the combination of hangover and unrelieved stress turning his body into a mass of aches and pains. He would have to go to Flitwick this morning; the Headmaster needed to be informed about the assault on Hermione. He hoped Hermione would let Flitwick decide what to do, since he doubted she would be clear-headed about the whole episode. Snape couldn't resist the smile that graced his lips at the memory of Hermione, fiery in her red robes, screaming at Antonio Silva. He would have expected tears, but her wrathful reaction served to remind him that she was no longer the young girl who had once wept at his humiliating remarks about her teeth. Her threats had surprised him as well; he knew that he was capable of killing – a vision of green light streaking across the Astronomy Tower flashed painfully through his mind – but he would not have thought Hermione the vengeful type. Another memory swam behind his eyes, one of Miranda sailing through the air in the Great Hall, her body striking the wall with an almighty thump. He revised his appraisal of Hermione with a soft laugh – maybe she was the type to shoot first and ask questions later.

Snape dragged himself painfully from the shower when his fingers and toes started to turn pruny and dressed without paying much attention to the clothes he selected. Thanks to Draco, his wardrobe was so organised that everything matched everything else; nevertheless, he felt a twinge of guilt at taking so little trouble with his appearance when Draco had tried so hard to teach him the value of looking good to feel good.

After towel-drying his black hair, he returned to Hermione's quarters and found her awake and dressed, standing by her bedroom window and drinking a cup of tea. Another mug, wreathed in swirls of steam, sat on her desk, and she offered it to him wordlessly. There was a strange tension in the room; Snape wanted her to talk – to show him, by means of her incessant conversation, that she was all right – but she continued to gaze through the window without speaking until the sun had risen fully above the treetops of the Forbidden Forest.

Finally, he could stand the silence no longer. Resting his empty teacup on the mantelpiece, he approached her and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.

'Hermione,' he began – but at that precise moment, a violent pounding rattled her door in its frame. Tensing with unidentifiable apprehension, he followed her through to the sitting room. She opened the door to reveal Neville Longbottom, not yet dirty from working in the greenhouses but nevertheless dishevelled. His boyish face was set firmly in a serious expression and his eyes were fierce.

'Flitwick wants to see you both,' he said evenly. 'Could you come with me, please?'

Throwing a resigned look at Snape, Hermione waved him into the corridor and warded her door firmly behind them. Neville led them down the stairs to the third floor but passed by the entrance to the Headmaster's office without so much as a glance. Snape scarcely had time to wonder where they were headed before Neville stopped in front of the door that opened into one of the school's guest rooms – and then his assumption, that Flitwick wanted to speak to them about the events of the previous night, shattered.

The first thing Snape registered, when Neville pushed back the door in what felt like slow-motion, was Miranda, huddled in a chair by the fireplace, her face concealed by the long, straight hair of her bowed head, her body wracked by silent, heaving sobs. Then Flitwick, standing next to her, one hand on her shoulder, his eyes grave; then the unexpected figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, kneeling in the centre of the ornate rug that covered the floor between the fireplace and the bed, a weary hand rubbing his shaven head.

Sprawled on that rug, arms and legs out as if he had fallen backward, but looking impossibly peaceful, was Antonio Silva, a silver knife embedded deeply between his lower ribs.

Hermione's gasp reached Snape's ears belatedly; everyone's gaze fixed on her, but nobody moved to comfort her. Feeling almost indignant, Snape turned to put his arm around her, to pull her to his side, but even as his muscles snapped into action, his eyes snagged on the body and transmitted one final piece of crucial information to his brain: the silver knife, glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the open window of the bedroom, was his own.

Time sped up again; light-headed from the impulsive, hectic rush of blood through his veins, Snape faced Hermione and did not recognise the blank, flat expression on her face. The freezing chill of suspicion sliced through his chest; Hermione moved suddenly, her wand materialising in her hand out of nowhere. She pointed it at him, her eyes now flashing, and said, her voice harsh with accusation, 'That's your knife, Snape.'

Neville, still standing next to her inside the doorway, placed a restraining hand on her arm. 'Hermione, stay calm,' he commanded quietly.

Through the haze of a growing sensation of betrayal, Snape became aware that Kingsley had straightened; his deep voice echoed in the silent chamber.

'You'll both need to return to the Ministry with me straight away,' he addressed Snape and Hermione.

The colour drained from Hermione's face. 'Why?' she asked, lowering her wand.

'To give evidence,' he answered her, holding out a pouch of Floo powder.

'Are we suspects?' she whispered as she dipped her hand into the pouch.

'I can't discuss that right now,' said Kingsley. He offered the small sack to Snape, who took out a handful of powder, unable to believe what was happening.

A rustle from the direction of the fireplace drew his attention; Miranda had risen shakily from her chair and was staring in confusion at Kingsley. 'Why Hermione?' she asked, a note of panic in her tone.

'I'm sorry, Professor, but I truly can't discuss it,' Kingsley said quietly. He motioned toward the fireplace, and Hermione approached it, moving like a sleepwalker, and tossed her Floo powder into the flames. When she had gone, Kingsley directed Snape to follow; his last sight before the flames swirled him away was of Miranda's face, white and stricken.