House at Row's Edge

.

.

14 Spinner's End.

The little note was roughly scrawled in familiar, spiky script in fading ink. The writing was grey, as if the ink bottle had unexpectedly run out and the author added water in an attempt to prolong its last drops. There were no other words on the note, no pleasantries, no instructions, no explanation, just a single line written hurriedly in thinning black.

Hermione held it tightly between her fingers, glancing down again and again to check for the house number. It was a simple number, one that she should have been able to remember after a single look, but somehow it continually eluded her memory. When she found number 14, a house which was identical to all the other little connected brick boxes on the street, she stood at the black door and hesitated.

What would she find here? Pleasant surprises? Disappointments? Terrifying things?

Could she even find enough courage to walk through a stranger's home?

Reaching into the Ministry-issued envelope in her bag, she pulled out an iron skeleton key. the key's grooves were dark with age and oxidation, giving the impression that it opened the way to a dark dungeon. Perhaps it was not the key, but rather her memory of the man that led her to believe such a thing was behind the door. Either way, she felt strangely terrified and altogether undeserving of this gift from her deceased professor. In fact, she was still barely certain that he was really dead despite having seen him lying in a wooden box.

Snape's will had not been officially submitted, but the Ministry found an incomplete document in his desk and processed it anyway. Much to the shock of many curious wizards, it contained only one stipulation. Everything he owned would pass into the hands of Hermione Granger, a girl he had no connection to at all. No connection and no goodwill.

People gossiped about the matter; they said horrible, untrue things, insinuating the crass and the impossible. Hermione's stomach knotted up in anger every time she heard those hushed mutterings behind her back. They whispered that Severus Snape had been a deeply disturbed man, a deviant who took advantage of an innocent young student. And as if they'd expected the worst of him and suspected all along, surprise was the one thing lacking in their tones. They all shook their heads and sighed in resignation like pedestrians watching a train wreck they knew to be inevitable.

But it was laughable for anyone who knew her, or knew him, to think that she had anything to do with such an unpleasant man—a brave man, she grudgingly admitted, but unpleasant nonetheless. She had no memory of ever even being in his presence without a room full of fellow students. Hermione vehemently denied the rumors, yet people still gave her looks that were a mixture of deep pity and disgust no matter how many times she tried. It made her blood pressure rise to unhealthy levels to see that anyone thought of her as a helpless victim, easily manipulated and taken advantage of.

The trouble was that no one, not even her, could fathom why he would leave her his life possessions. She could not think of any legitimate reasons to refute the allegations, but Hermione liked to think that there was more to the story. Perhaps there was something there that he'd wanted someone of a logical mind to discover. And she wouldn't blame him for wanting such a thing, but she suspected that the more likely answer was that Snape had no one left in this world. He'd probably been appalled at the thought of leaving his property to the Ministry of Magic and merely pulled her name out of hat.

The little house on Spinner's End was extraordinarily unassuming, sporting dingy brick and black rain trails under the windows. The house number bore striking resemblance to the patina of the house key, grimy and metallic. It precariously hung to the door on crooked nails. When Hermione touched the aging paint of the wooden door frame, it crackle under her fingers and fell to the ground in flakes.

So this was where the fearsome professor had lived, a perfectly ordinary house. She couldn't understand why, but she felt it was rather fitting, as though the image was always in the back of her mind that he was a very normal person outside of school and spent his time in a place like this.

The lock gave little resistance toward its key, resounding a thin racking click when Hermione pushed it forward. Turning the key was another matter altogether. Blackening metal refused to move easily, and a little magic had to be applied to grease the screeching mechanical process. In all honesty, the young witch was very surprised that Snape's house was locked by something as simple as a metal key. She'd expected the entry to be full of wards and harmful hexes. Perhaps the magic had died with the wizard.

A loud jamming thump signaled the bolt unlocked. A number of subsequent clicks crawled up the door frame—magical locks. Once they were silent, Hermione pushed the door forward with tentative hands. The creaking from hinges vibrating through her arm as the door opened slightly. She stopped.

Darkness was beyond, and the witch was unsure if she'd actually chalked up enough courage to cross the threshold. Pulling the key from its hole, she grasped it tightly in her palm.

There was a strange texture to it that she hadn't noticed before; a distinct ridging of the teeth that felt familiar, like a long forgotten childhood toy. Hermione ran her thumb down the large raised-squares pattern. It was an exercise that spoke of repetition, of previous encounters. Again and again, she felt the message of lines and spaces that the key drew on her thumb.

She suddenly realized that she knew the message well. The act brought her back to a fuzzy moment of sitting in his office, playing with the key. When had she ever visited his office? It must have been an illusion cooked up by her anxious mind, she reasoned. But the jars of strange floating ingredients lining his shelves, the echo of water trickling inside the walls, the way he seemed to melt into the room as if they and him were one and the same; it was far too real to be an illusion. The more times Hermione ran her finger across the key, the clearer it became.

In fact, a strange and utterly forgotten conversation with her professor began to take shape in her head. The deep lines of his scowl were becoming ever more true.

She stepped into the dreary, dusty entry way.

"That would be foolish and highly inappropriate to consider, Miss Granger." She heard his low voice droning in the distance.

The sound was a stolen thought slowly crawling back into her mind.

Hermione suddenly found that maybe she'd known him after all.