Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR.
A/N: This is the first instalment of a small series. Beta'd by Banglabou who transformed this into something worth reading. My heartfelt thanks to AdelaideArcher and Ms Anthrop for their input. St. Ann's is a real church in Manchester, though I have transported it to Cokeworth for the sake of spinning a tale.
Summer
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Sonnet 65. William Shakespeare.
Chapter 1
1997, The Railview Hotel, Cokeworth.
The funeral notice was slotted in at the very bottom of the column. If I hadn't been holding the paper so close that my nose was close to touching the surface of the cheap, heavy ink, I would've missed it. I suppose that was the original intention.
Cokeworth's local offering to accompany the Yorkshire Post was a poorly put-together weekly newspaper. Stuffed into the appropriate slots downstairs each Thursday morning, it was mostly filled with regurgitated pieces from the major media printouts, with the exception of a few local tid-bits, otherwise known as Births, Deaths and Marriages. And that was how I found her.
Snape, Eileen (née Prince) was featured in a tiny blurb right at the end of the listings, just underneath Fitzpatrick, Herbert ('No known descendants') and to the right of Mitchell, Joan ('Named for Mummy's favourite singer. Welcome to the world, darling Joanie'). At first I almost continued on, barely even taking it in except for a snicker at the misspelling of my mother's favourite female singer, but a second read made my fingers tense and hold onto the folded tenth page until bared knuckles turned a pale white.
"Eileen Snape," I read aloud, "will be remembered during the Sunday morning service at St. Ann's, 9:30am. Mourners and community members are encouraged to attend. Mourners and community members?" I questioned, voice barely above a whisper lest I disturb those in the next room. The rooms in the Railview hotel all had paper-thin walls – quite unfortunate during the night, but reassuring in a perverse way.
I trailed an index finger down the column again, muttering about the 'mourners and community members'. I realised then that there had only been one other request for the same thing, for 'Fitzpatrick, Herbert'.
Eileen needed mourners, because she had none.
I didn't believe it – not even for a second.
…
On Sunday, I woke early and showered before the lukewarm water ran out. It was rather fruitless to wash my hair, considering the unflattering humidity that had plagued Cokeworth for the last fortnight, but it was washed all the same. I had no desire to insult a dead woman's memory, after all.
I dressed in sombre tones and then checked my reflection in the mirror – for once, the charmed Hogwarts mirrors were missed. It would have been nice to be reassured, though how does one really dress for the funeral of the mother of the man who killed their dearly beloved (well, by some) Headmaster only five weeks previously? With a huff, I settled for charming my jeans into a respectful black, and, after some thought, stuck my wand to my hair with a wince and watched it turn into a tight braid.
I slid my wand up my navy blue sleeve and tensed. It would be far more preferable to keep it in hand, though surely he would curse me out of the church and onto my arse if he saw me in such a way. Much better to hope that he noticed me when it was too late to distract the other kind-hearted 'mourners'.
Would he even be accessible? I was prepared for such a thing, as I could always cast a quiet spell to reveal all of the humans present. If he had disillusioned himself, I would know.
Of course, I could always disillusion myself; the strange, cracked-egg like feeling was a simple spell. It would more than likely be the best course of action.
And yet…
There was something about it; something about the 'mourners and community members are encouraged to attend'. I hadn't known Eileen Snape, nor had I really known Professor Snape (not at all, if I considered his most recent actions), but I had seen her picture once, not too long ago. Skinny and sallow, more sharply defined than her son, she had cast a mournful image in the Prophet's small article about the Gobstones team. She had … There was … I couldn't put a name to it at the time, and I still cannot. The closest would be, perchance, an overall sense of sadness about her. Even her eyes seemed to lack the curious glint that the Professor's would have during odd moments where both his interests and those of his pupil's truly aligned in the classroom. I noticed it more and more during later years; though he grew more haggard and weary, he seemed to not dislike teaching the older students.
And that was as good a reason as any to seek him—Dumbledore's murderer—out.
Why not?
It was certainly reckless; I adjusted the collar of my blouse and nodded to my reflection. Yes, it was reckless. But there was a certain charm in it, no? A typical warped, wartime passion of a charm: the lonely Professor, forced to commit a dark and horrible deed. A foolish woman, desperate to uncover his true motivations.
I was, however, not a fool. It could have just as easily been the black-hearted bastard exacting long sought-after revenge.
There was only one way to find out. And there was always the one irrefutable fact: there was no more time.
…
St. Ann's was rather beautiful, in its own way. Nestled within the middle of the large town of Cokeworth, it could be accurately described as a bog-standard seventeenth century British church. But it stood out in the town that seemed to not even be able to lay claim to being blue-collar, thanks to the closure of the Mill.
The brickwork was clean, and the pavement before it was obviously swept regularly. In fact, compared to the dreary appearance of the rest of the buildings on the main street, the only other place that looked as well cared for was the local chippie. Even the pub was run-down, though its specials board out front was bright and cheery; quite odd, really.
Checking my watch—and acknowledging the pang that came from wearing Jean Granger's old, gold piece that should have transferred to Monica Wilkins, and somehow, through every fault of my own, did not—I smoothed trembling hands down over my blouse. No one milled outside the church in the way I was used to; no kind, older ladies descended upon me as I trudged across the road.
In fact, no one was there at all.
It was a foggy morning, apt for the occasion. I took in the closed doors of the church – I was only fifteen minutes early, but perhaps this shepherd preferred to gather his flock at the last minute. If there was a flock to speak of, that is.
I cast a discreet notice-me-not charm, and eased my way in through the doors. It wouldn't come close to keeping me from Professor Snape's notice, but it was a damn good try.
Besides, I wished to be found.
…
A fortnight earlier
"You're bloody mad, that's what you are."
"You're probably right," I agreed, stuffing the rest of my clothes into an expandable and weightless beaded bag. "But someone's got to try, don't you think?"
"Yeah," Ron exclaimed, "the Aurors, maybe? Remember them? The ones in the red cloaks, whose job it is to go after the bastard. You'll get yourself killed!"
"Oh, I will not!" Throwing my hands up in the air with exasperation, I sat down heavily on the end of the bed of my childhood. It sagged under my weight; one more reminder that I was no longer the innocent that once lived with Jean and Richard Granger. Jean and Richard were downstairs now and would wake in—I checked my new watch—about fifteen minutes from the slumber that the memory charm had forced them into.
"Think about it, Ron," I tried again, waving a hand at where he stood by the bedroom window. He didn't look as if he wished to, but miracles could happen. "We should know where he is! We should be keeping tabs on him!"
He scuffed one faded shoe on the carpet. "Yeah, well," he muttered darkly, "it shouldn't be us! It shouldn't be you. It's too dangerous. It's stupid."
"Regardless," I sniffed, "We've got a few weeks before…" I faded off, shrugging. We both knew that the time was fast approaching when Harry would choose to go off on his own – with us tagging along, of course. Even tagging along wasn't the right term – we were chomping at the bit. But we couldn't very well begin to search for Horcruxes without Harry, and so we were determined to wait until he was ready. Ron looked as sour as ever at the idea of traipsing around the country, but I respected the steely determination in his eyes.
"I know," he mumbled, coming to sit beside me. "But you don't have to do this. Why don't you just come and stay at the Burrow?"
"Because… because…" I ran a hand over my face, unnerved. "Because I don't want to be there right now. I'm sending my parents away, Ron. I just… I want some time. I need time."
He sighed and reached for my hand. Despite our friendship, which always seemed delicate and as if it were hovering on the edge of a precipice that neither of us really understood, his presence was comforting. I couldn't have asked Harry to help – how could I have heaped that upon him, when he would never have chosen to do what I have done? Why would an orphan agree to help me send away my parents, after all?
"Fine," Ron said eventually, his damp fingers squeezing just once. "Fine. Two weeks, 'Mione. No longer."
"Yes," I said hastily, knowing that soon Harry would have to be rescued from Privet Drive in time for his coming of age. Yet no-one had come looking for Hermione Granger, and no-one had raised the subject of protecting my parents. I had time. "You've still got the medallion?"
He dug around inside his pocket, and then produced the pair to my charmed galleon. "Sorry. Thought someone would notice if I wore it like a necklace."
I stared at him. "Then charm it…?"
"Oh. Right."
I snorted, and then giggled. Before long, I was laughing, one hand covering my mouth as hysterical tears began to leak onto my cheeks. Ron, familiar already with wild family members, silenced the room with a wave of his wand and tucked me into his side.
There I remained for ten minutes, eyes closed and breathing deeply, as I memorised the smell of him – clean grass, the air at dusk, and something dark that always reminded me of chocolate frogs.
"I'll be all right," I said softly, glad of his company. "I doubt I'll even find him."
"If anyone can, it's you," he said immediately, patting my shoulder awkwardly. "You managed to find that one mention of Cokeworth in the enrolment records, after all. Sheer luck, that was, but you found it."
"Yes, well, Harry was the one who gave me the hotel name."
"Doesn't mean anything," he scoffed. "Snape's not living in a hotel now, is he? But at least you have somewhere to stay. You've got…" he floundered then soldiered on. "You've got enough money? Because I could find some, if you need help paying for the room."
"Oh, Ron." I smiled and shook my head. "No, I've got just enough."
"Right." We stood in unison. "Don't forget – don't engage him. We just need to know where he is – what he's doing. And don't—"
"Don't tell Harry," I supplied, well versed. Neither of us wished to involve Harry in this; he was still too raw, too shocked by what he had witnessed. Ron, too, had been incensed when I'd first brought up the idea of going to find Snape but at the time, even I had been stunned by my desire to search for him. Hadn't he already proven that he was a killer?
But it was never really that simple, and even Ron could see it. Patient now, in ways that he wouldn't be once we started our real task, I took advantage of him shamelessly, manipulating and coaxing until he saw my point of view. In the end he agreed, and I had begun to tentatively make my plans for spending a small portion of the summer in Cokeworth.
…
There was no one inside the church, save a priest—sans robes—by the pulpit. He was standing with one foot on the steps leading up to it, and his elbow was leaning against the lectern.
I made my way slowly down the aisle, head moving back and forth, checking every nook and cranny. When I was finally satisfied that either no one was present, or that Snape wasn't about to hex the heart out of my chest with a man of the church in full view, I sat down in the third row, closest to the aisle.
The priest, more observant than I had taken him for, looked up and smiled faintly. "Are you here for the service?" His voice was light, airy and out of place.
I fidgeted with my hands. "Erm…"
"For Mrs. Snape," he prompted patiently. I nodded once and ducked my head. "Please accept my condolences," he went on to say, voice muffled by approaching footsteps of the regular Sunday parishioners. "I am sure that she will be dearly missed."
"Ah… yes," I stammered. "She will be." Aware that if I didn't stop now, I'd take the lord's name in vain and mean it, I slumped in my seat and stared at what looked to be a nondescript box of ashes on a side table. The plain box had me transfixed and entirely too distracted from my surroundings.
Which was probably for the best, considering it stopped me from screaming when I first felt the warmth of an invisible body sitting close to me on the otherwise empty pew.
"Miss Granger," a harsh voice purred, and I closed my eyes.
"Oh, Christ," I muttered, putting a hand to my forehead.
"Mmm. You could put it like that, yes," the voice said icily. I stayed sitting rigid in my seat; my hands only trembled once. "Good girl," Snape's low voice said disparagingly. "Very brave, aren't you?"
"No," I said petulantly, righteous anger beginning to simmer. Good – that was a vast improvement on ice cold fear.
"Oh, we'll see about that," he whispered; his mouth was so close to my ear that it stirred a tendril of hair. Swallowing, I remained silent. "Good," he said again. "Now – you will stay here, and you will damn well watch the spectacle that you came here to see. And afterwards, I'm going to take you somewhere that your shining shoes and respectable clothes will have never taken you, and you're going to tell me why the fuck you're here at my mother's funeral."