Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Hermione was at her desk, reading the latest report from her agents in the field. They were in America, tracking down someone who claimed to have seen Malfoy in New York. She hoped and prayed he was; the US was one of the few countries which refused to sign extradition treaties with Britain. They had moral objections to torture, which pleased her and bewildered Harry. After all, he said, they were only dark wizards, not real human beings at all. They'd forfeited their humanity the moment they cast their first dark spell. Or so Harry said; Hermione knew it for the load of bollocks it was.

These days, it seemed like she was the only one who did. The media, what little remained of it, was firmly under Harry's thumb. These days, there was only the Prophet and two wireless stations, one of which was all music. The Quibbler had been shut down, with extreme prejudice, after it had failed to comply with the most recent batch of content regulations. Even Witch Weekly was gone, not that it had been much of a blow, at least to Hermione. Still, a little mindless entertainment would have made life a bit more bearable. The grim militancy that Harry enforced cast an eternal pall the wizarding world, a paranoia that exploited the horrors of the war and used them as justifications for atrocities that were, at least to Hermione, worse than anything done in Voldemort's name.

Voldemort may have incited violence on a terrible scale, but he had never crushed the nation's soul. Even in the darkest, most desperate days of the first war, there had been hope of something better, something that was sadly lacking now. Public gatherings had been banned, apparation had been forbidden and the floo was subject to draconian restrictions. Wands couldn't be purchased without special clearance from the office of the High Inquisitor, textbooks were issued by the government and the slightest sign of doubt in High Inquisitor Potter's rightness was punishable as treason. And, for some reason, people were, if not willing, then content to follow him like sheep.

Well, most people were. There had been, early in Harry's tenure, a group of vocal opponents to his policies. They had been forced underground quickly, but so far as Hermione knew, they were all still alive. Her department had been charged with their destruction, so they were either alive or in the hands of Harry's own personal guard. Hermione shivered. Harry's guard, headed by Neville Longbottom, was a legend, something mothers had begun to use to frighten their children. They were the elite, the most fanatical of Harry's followers. Ron had, before the fateful day she caught him in flagrante, bragged that he had been asked to join. Whether or not he had, she didn't know, but she doubted it. After all, a first year could probably outduel him. She snorted in amusement at the image.

"Something funny?"

Hermione's head snapped up. She relaxed slightly at the sight of Romilda Vane, her secretary, an easy-going girl who was used to her little mental vacations. "Oh, not really. It's that the twit who wrote this report," she brandished it, "Seems to think that that snob Malfoy would condescend to live in an apartment over a laundromat. No matter how desperate he was, he'd never let himself sink to that." She laughed derisively, sending a mental apology to whichever agent had written the report.

Romilda shook her head. "No, never. He used to wear monogrammed boxer shorts, you know." she said, snickering slightly, then sobering abruptly. "Anyway, High Inquisitor Potter is waiting outside. He seems kind of upset about something."

Hermione paled slightly. "Send him in."

Romilda nodded and turned, her short, lacy robes swirling as she left. "Yes Ma'am."

A moment later, Harry entered, in a rage. "Would you care to explain this?" he spat, thrusting a piece of her department stationary under her nose. She looked at it curiously, seeing the watermark that meant it was one of her special parchments, the ones soaked in a mild truth potion.

She raised her eyebrows, hiding, with many years of practice, her absolute terror. "It's a piece of my department stationary. What about it?"

He shook it. "This," he hissed, "Was in Snape's cell. Explain NOW."

She forced a smile. "I'd heard that prisoners tend to unburden themselves when they're dying, and I was hoping I could get the full story. It always annoyed me to no end that he wouldn't talk at his trial. He's the only man I've ever seen who could resist Veritaserum. Of course, he was such a stubborn bastard, so it didn't really surprise me." She knew she was babbling, but she didn't really care.

Harry laughed, his rage dissipating as quickly as it always did. "Just like you, Hermione, to be curious enough to brave Azkaban itself. I don't think it worked though; the things he wrote are obviously complete nonsense. One thing you'll like though; he left you his books. It's a pity he left everything else to Malfoy, but since Malfoy is as good as dead..."

Hermione looked at him with genuine puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

Harry smiled at her. "Well, he obviously can't collect his inheritance, and it's forfeit to the Ministry anyway, so I'm giving to you. You may as well have the full set, so to speak. Besides," he grinned, "It'd drive Snape batty to have a Gryffindor living in his house."

Hermione gave him a real smile. Not, as Harry thought, at the idea of harassing Snape from beyond the grave, but at the idea of living in the same house he'd grown up in. "Thank you. It will give me a wonderful insight to his pathology."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Pathology?" he asked.

Hermione waved a hand dismissively. "Well, he was obviously delusional. I want to find out what made him tick, so we can keep any more people from turning out like he did." Almost as if it were an afterthought, she added, "Having that letter would help too. It might not be truthful," she lied, knowing it almost certainly was, "But it will help me assemble a profile of him." She felt filthier with every word she uttered, deliberately slandering the man she'd so admired, but it was for a good cause.

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose I can give it to you. I have no use for his lies."

Hermione nodded, biting her tongue against the urge to protest Snape's truthfulness. "Thanks. That'll help a great deal. Can I have it now, or do you want a copy for your files?"

Harry gestured vaguely, and tossed it on her desk. "Keep it." He turned to leave but stopped at he door. "Oh, and Hermione? I'll have the floo at Snape's house reconnected tonight. You'll need it; the place is in Yorkshire."

Hermione nodded, and Harry left. Before the door had even fallen closed behind him, she was unrolling the parchment, reading eagerly. 'Dear Albus,' it began...