Hermione Granger's hands shook as she accepted the iced tumbler from the waiter. The harassed young man - probably in college, by the look of him - stumbled on, not paying any more attention to the young woman with bushy brown curls nursing her beer in the corner of his London pub. An upstart band pounded drums and strings to the beat of some home-cooked tune. Hermione had picked this place at random to drown her sorrows, but she'd had an idea in mind of the place she was looking for: small, obscure, and smoky. It was the sort of place where no one would look twice at her slightly outlandish clothing - an odd mix of Muggle and magical that raised eyebrows at the Ministry - or the carved vine wood twig holding her bun together. It was near Halloween, and more than one of the pub's patrons were wearing dark and unusual garments. The young witch looked around, trying to steady her hands long enough to raise her glass to her mouth. She was determined to finish at least a half-liter, on the principle of the thing.
Suddenly, a figure appeared out of the crowd that made her blink the growing alcoholic haze from her eyes. Tall, black-clad, and striking; long black hair and a slim profile. Hermione let out a breath she was only half-conscious of taking. It...couldn't be. The Ministry had declared Severus Snape dead after a team or Aurors and mediwizards had recovered his body from the Shrieking Shack following the Final Battle. The funeral had been a small, closed-casket affair; Hermione herself had attended mainly to support Harry - who had insisted on going - and to pay respects to a brilliant man who had done an admittedly admirable job under horrific circumstances. The Ministry had been tight-lipped throughout their investigation, citing lack of evidence. That, unfortunately, hadn't stopped Rita Skeeter...
The man in black turned, shaking Hermione out of her reverie. He was just a bit too short, his teeth a bit too straight, his stance a bit too easy. His nose was the wrong shape altogether, and she was sure her old professor would never have the patience to listen to that silly little woman in the hot pink dress prattle on drunkenly about something indiscernible over the noise of the band. No, he was not Severus Snape, regardless of his brief resemblance.
Still, Hermione's curiosity had been piqued. What had really happened to Snape? What was the Ministry covering up? A year and a half was plenty of time to investigate Shape's involvement in the war, especially since the average Death Eater trial had lasted under a week. Why hadn't he been exonerated? Even if it was posthumous, the man deserved a break...
...And that was the beer, she thought as a rush of light-headedness forced her to rest her head on her hand. She took one more sip, grimacing at the shallow remains. Then she remembered her reason for coming all the way out here in the first place and finished her drink in two big gulps. Heaven help Ronald Weasley if she saw him before she was properly sober again.
.oO0Oo.
Monday morning came up all too soon for Hermione. The events of Friday night were still a bit hazy, but the almost-Snape wouldn't leave her mind. Sighing, she realized that it was becoming an Issue. It was like Dumbledore's riddle in the Tales of Beedle the Bard, or Harry's voices back in second year. It would haunt her day and night until she solved it. She huffed, shutting her copy of the Ministry Guidelines for Relations with Non-Human Species with a bit more force than necessary.
Her office was tucked away in a corner, down one of the hallways Umbridge had dragged her down that day she and the boys broke into the Ministry. The area was largely vacated; her only departmental coworker, an awkward young man named Proofrock, nodded to her as she passed. She returned the gesture. He was used to her comings and goings, particularly to do research in the massive General Library or the Hall of Public Records. He wouldn't report her to her boss.
The Hall of Public Records would be a good place to start, she thought. At the very least, it would give her some idea of what information waspublicly available. No sense in digging for some important detail that was hidden in plain sight. Six months of dealing with beaurocracy day in and day out had given her a newfound appreciation for meticulous study and Slytherin ideals.
As she entered the Hall, she murmured a greeting to one of the Record Keepers (who nodded in return), then paused to bask in the bibliophilic glory. Rich mahogany bookshelves formed floor-to-ceiling walls that divided the open space into a series of dim alleys. Beyond, an open space lit by an unearthly white mass of light was filled with rows of individual reading desks. A few round tables were arranged around the edges, seemingly out of place in the world of neat edges and harsh lines; it was towards one of these that Hermione gravitated. The Record Keepers, accustomed to her presence, knew to leave her alone. It was, she reflected, a blessing; if the Ministry was hiding something, then broadcasting her intentions was a poor way to begin.
Seven and a half hours later, she was about ready to give up and ask for help. Most of the records on the ongoing Snape investigation were, apparently, classified. She had found references to evidence in the transcripts of the Death Eater trials that could have come from him - details about the inner workings of Voldemort's followers that could only have come from someone who was there - but no mention was made of the source of that information. Sighing, she returned the last scroll of parchment to its place and headed back to her office to gather her things.
Proofrock was gone by the time Hermione got back to her office, so she had no warning of the head of hair that appeared in front of her when she opened the door. For a moment she had the urge to throw something, before she registered the face beneath the hair.
"Ginny!"
Her intruder leaped up. "Oh, Hermione! I'm so sorry! Ron is such a git..."
Hermione snorted. "Not your fault."
She sunk into the other chair in the tiny office. "Now, I know you didn't come all the way down to my little corner of the Ministry to verbally abuse your lying cheat of a brother. How have you been?"
Ginny's response was to hold up her left hand with a smile that nearly eclipsed the shining ring on her finger.
Hermione squealed and clapped her friend on the shoulders. "Oh, Ginny! Congratulations! When...where? How?"
An hour and a half later, both young women were collapsed onto a scarred wooden table in the Leaky, overcome with hysterics.
"He DIDN'T!" Hermione shrieked. "He actually proposed to you over dinner at the Burrow!"
Ginny guffawed. "I really don't think he meant to...it just slipped out! He had to summon the ring from home!"
"He didn't! What did your parents say?"
"Well..." Ginny took a sip of her water, "Mum was running around trying to get the treacle tart out of the oven, so she got him first - even before I did! she just grabbed him and..." She gave an admirable re-enactment of her mother's enthusiastic embrace.
The image of the Weasley matron pushing her daughter's brand-new fiance into her opulent bosom in a moment of rapture sent Hermione back into fits.
"Then Dad grabbed him and clapped him on the back; then Bill had to shake his hand, and George and Charlie started moaning about losing another bachelor, and Ron snorted his butterbeer..."
The thought sobered Hermione. After a moment, Ginny caught her breath. "Oh, Hermione...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..."
Hermione waved a hand in feigned nonchalance.
"No, really. It wasn't fair to you. I don't believe for a minute that that Lavender cow was just kissing him randomly. Really, I don't blame you for breaking things off."
Hermione sighed. If she hadn't seen Ron and Lavender snogging on Friday - in the hallway near her office, no less - she would have been at the weekly Weasley dinner at the Burrow. She hadn't been invited that week. To be fair, she had sent a howler to Ron before heading off to that obscure old pub. Ron was still living at home, after all, and Mrs. Weasley had never thought much of the Muggleborn witch who had an on-again, off-again romance with her youngest son. It was a remnant of Rita Skeeter's influence from her fourth year at Hogwarts that had never truly faded. Really, it was no surprise she hadn't been invited to dinner; still, she couldn't help but feel a pang of loss for what could have been.
Ginny slipped a hand over one of Hermione's. "Ron's a prat. He's...confused, I think, by the war. Everything's changing, and Ron...well, Ron hates things he can't control. He's not like Harry, who thrives on the unknown. You, at least, have some sort of inner drive to figure out what you don't know. Ron just sort of...bumbles about without guidance. Especially now that he and you and Harry are going your separate ways."
When Hermione didn't respond except to poke at the remains of her fish and chips, she sighed.
"Well, don't worry too much. Give Ron a few years; then see if you're willing to take himback. Now, what great cause are you jousting for these days?"
Hermione hesitated. "Well...work in the office has been slow. Some days I think the Ministry just shunted me off into a corner where they could...minimize the damage I could do while maximizing on my status as a war hero. There isn't enough workfor two people and a supervisor, especially when the higher-ups drag their feet on passing relevant legislation!"
Ginny just sat forward in her seat.
"Oh, fine. I'm..." She looked around, and cast a nonverbal Muffliato just to be safe. "I'm researching Snape."
Ginny stared at her, stunned. Hermione fidgeted. Maybe telling someone else was a bad idea.
"But...why? Are you trying to get back at Skeeter? There are better ways..."
"No, no. It's just...have you ever wondered what happenedto him?"
"He died. You saw it!"
"I thought I did...but really, Muggles have ways of surviving injuries like his; assuming he found a way to deal with Nagini's venom, it's within the realm of possibility. Plus, have you noticed how the Ministry's dragging its feet on exonerating him? Everything else Harry asked for, especially the first few months, they gave him without question. Why this? What are they trying to hide?" She took a deep breath. Ginny looked a little lost. "Heh...sorry. I guess I got a little carried away."
"No, no...I did ask. Just...be careful, all right? You, of all people, should know how dangerous the Ministry can be. If they're trying to hide something...you may not like what you find."
Much later that night, Hermione sat on her bed in her little London flat. On the comforter in front of her were several scrolls of notes and a brand new notebook. She loved new notebooks, a carry-over from her pre-Hogwarts days. She'd stopped by a general store on the way home from the Leaky, brushed her fingertips over an amusingly large selection of bright red books, and dug a Slytherin green one out of the bottom of a stack. She pulled a gel pen (much more efficient than quills for extended writing) out of the package and began to copy down her notes.
Ginny was right; it wasn't safe to just go poking around like a...well, like a Gryffindor, Snape would say. It was, Hermione mused, time to think like a Slytherin. She finished quickly, warded the notebook with several charms she'd wheedled out of Madam Pince after graduation, destroyed her notes, and went to bed.
.oO0Oo.
That whole week was one of the most frustrating of Hermione's short term at the Ministry. There was little public information on Snape; since his trial was still in progress, the record was closed. Even the trial, unlike those of the other Death Eaters, was kept under literal lock and key. Keeping Ginny's warning in mind, Hermione quashed her impulse to ask help from the Record Keepers, no matter how frustrated she got. A lesser witch would have given up, but Hermione Granger had never thought of herself as being lesser than anyone else.
She persevered. Every day, she set aside two hours for scouring the Library and the Hall of Public Records - rarely in a single chunk, and always at different times of the day and interspersed with her other 'work.' It was difficult to do - she grew daily in the realization that her talents were being deliberately wasted - but it gave her a reason to get up and go into work every day. For the first time in a very long time, Hermione couldn't wait for the weekend to end.
When Monday morning finally came 'round again, Hermione found herself occupied with the first draft of a new centaur treaty that her boss was adamant had to be finished and on his desk before noon. Marcus Quill was a stout man with a round face that hid a brilliance bordering on insanity. He was relentless when he was on a mission, a trait which Hermione both sympathized with and despaired of. Thus, she was down near the courtrooms when Draco Malfoy was escorted through the halls by two Aurors.
Trying not to look too suspicious, Hermione trailed the small group until they reached the elevator and ducked in behind them. Two others - a young wizard buried under a stack of books and an elderly witch in shimmering green robes - were already in the elevator, so Hermione felt a little less like a stalker.
Draco, for his part, looked livid. The two Aurors kept whispering in his ears. The witch and wizard pushed past, heading for the exit; Hermione huddled in the back of the elevator, hiding behind an open book in case one of the Aurors remembered she was there.
Clearly, they didn't. "Mr. Malfoy," one said, "If you persist in refusing to testify..."
Malfoy exploded. "Never! I'll never help you! You're trying to find something, anything against him. I won't...he did enough damage to himself." He sneered. "Must really sting to scrape the bottom of the barrel, hmm? Can't convict him yourself; you have to go asking his crimes from a bloody Death Eater? Why not just kill him and be -" He was cut off by a quick Silencio from one of the Aurors and frog-marched out at the next stop.
Hermione held her breath, not sure whether to announce her presence or try to hide, but the only one who looked back was Malfoy, wild-eyed and looking half-mad. There was a keen intelligence and awareness in those eyes, though, that prompted Hermione to nod to him. He half-winked, which made her nervous, but he didn't give her away and she wondered just how much he suspected...or knew.
There was a piece of paper on the floor of the elevator that she didn't notice until she left herself. It read, in an awkward scrawl that suggested he'd written it without looking: "MM,3P3110." It took her a moment to decipher it, but when she did her face whitened.
'MM' could only mean one place. She knew from her research that Draco and his mother were under house arrest. Malfoy Manor...the one place she desperately wanted to avoid. '3P3110' was a bit harder to decipher (especially since Malfoy's P looked a bit like a badly formed 8 and his 3's looked like B's), but as best as she could tell it meant that Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, traitor, coward and notorious Muggle-hater, was trying to arrange a meeting her at 3 p.m. on Halloween...which was, by her calculations, that upcoming Sunday.
Hermione's mind raced, trying to justify not meeting Malfoy on his own turf to follow a lead she was reasonably sure he couldn't possibly know about. It was ridiculous, unreasonable, and looked like a trap. With a sigh, Hermione spent the rest of the day dividing her attention between refining the centaur treaty and dissecting the terms of Malfoy's house arrest.
.oO0Oo.
Sunday morning came all too soon. Being a rather important magical holiday, nonessential Ministry workers were given a long weekend, Friday through Monday. That meant that Hermione was not only separated from all avenues of research for an extra day, but she also was stuck puttering around her little apartment. Her only relief was dinner on Saturday night with Ginny and Harry at Grimmauld Place to celebrate their engagement and catch up on gossip. Luckily, either Harry had grown a bit of tact or Ginny had beaten some into him, because Ron was neither invited nor mentioned for the entire evening. Hermione felt his absence keenly still, but it was more of a betrayal than a loss.
Getting ready for the meeting was a bit of a challenge as well. As far as she knew, there was no wizarding protocol for what to wear when returning to an estate where one had been brutally tortured after being invited there by the heir apparent, who was a longstanding enemy of everything she stood for, to possibly discuss a lead to a case being actively covered up by the Ministry of Magic. In the end, Hermione - feeling very silly - put her hair up with a judicious application of Sleakeasy and donned a set of formal, dark purple robes. They were less comfortable than her usual style (a set of modern-cut robes over jeans and a nice shirt) but they seemed...appropriate.
Thus, Hermione was rather fidgety when she approached Malfoy Manor at ten minutes to three. An Auror at the gate greeted her, recorded her excuse for visiting (she vaguely recalled stammering something about 'putting the past to rest') and showed her through the doorway.
Security was unusually lax, at least personnel-wise. Though there were specific wards and tracing spells on the Manor and its inhabitants, the lack of heavy guard gave it the feel of a Medieval fortress rather than a prison. The Auror - who introduced himself as Davis - clearly didn't mind the position; in fact, he claimed he was invited up to dinner once a week by the lady of the house herself.
Hermione froze when she came to the drawing room. Despite the obvious effort that had been put into redecorating it since her last visit, she could still hear the faint echoes of Bellatrix's crazed laughter and the sharp edge of her knife. She resisted the urge to rub the scar that still lay on her arm, despite the best attempts of healers to remove it after the war. Even magic couldn't fix everything, she thought grimly.
Draco appeared a moment later from one of the many doors leading to various parts of the house. He took one look at Hermione and offered both her and Davis tea, but Davis begged off, saying he had to go back to watching the gate. Malfoy, to Hermione's surprise, gave him what passed for a friendly smile among Slytherins (and a rather arrogant sneer among ordinary folk) and told him that he'd send out a few biscuits with a house elf.
It was a measure of Hermione's nervousness that she didn't react to Malfoy's statement; after all, it was Dobby - the Malfoys' old house elf - who had started SPEW. She allowed Malfoy to lead her into a small room with pink curtains and a table set with tea for three.
"My mother is planning to join us a bit later," Malfoy said, still keeping up his pretense of politeness. "She would like to meet you."
"We've...met."
Malfoy's smile slipped a little. "She would like to meet you formally to thank you for all you and your friends have done for our family, and to...apologize for the circumstances of your last visit." The last part seemed a bit forced.
He waved his wand, and a tea pot and a plate of chocolate biscuits appeared. "Tea, Granger?"
Hermione didn't move. "First, Malfoy, let me clear one thing up. I'm a Gryffindor. We may be out of school, but the fact remains that our house selection identifies fundamental characteristics about our personalities. I appreciate that you are making an effort to be polite - Merlin knows why - but that doesn't mean I trust you."
Malfoy glanced from her face to the wand tucked in a dueling sheath up one sleeve. He sat back, running a hand through his hair; abruptly, Hermione realized that his hair had been cut much shorter, probably in an effort to distinguish himself from his father. The elder Malfoy had earned a lengthy Azkaban sentence, after all, though it had been mitigated from life to a mere ten years due to his family's role in keeping Harry alive. Draco and Narcissa, because they had actively helped Harry and hadn't thrown curses for Voldemort's side during the Final Battle (that anyone witnessed, anyway), escaped Azkaban altogether.
"By all means," Malfoy said at last, waving a hand at the tea. "I have no reason to poison you, Granger. I don't expect you to believe me, though; I won't take offense if you want to cast your own spells."
She did, nonverbally casting a modified detection spell on the pot that listed ingredients on a scrap of parchment she dug out of her handbag rather than detecting any substance in particular. "Calming drought, Malfoy?"
"How did you...never mind. We merely wished you not to get...excited."
"A bit of an insult, isn't it? Especially since you still haven't told me why you wanted me here."
Malfoy waved his hand again, summoning another tea pot and waiting while Hermione ran her charm again...then proceeded to do the same to her cup, plate, silverware, and napkin. "Perhaps; but just as you don't trust me, I don't explicitly trust you. However, I believe that we may come to an agreement that will prove beneficial to the both of us."
"Regarding?"
"I can't tell you."
Hermione eyed him over the brim of her cup, now full of what tasted like Earl Gray. "Clearly, you've thought around this little issue. What makes you think I can help you?"
"A little bird told me you were already on the case." Malfoy took a sip of his own tea, obviously enjoying the fact that he had information she didn't.
So he did know. It was a struggle not to chuck her cup at his head. "I knowyou know what I'm doing, Malfoy. You wouldn't have invited me into your house if you didn't. I want to know how, and why you are bothering to associate with me given our...past."
"Oh, is that all? Here I thought you'd ask something difficult. Well then. I know because Astoria Greenglass saw you and Miss Weasley in the Leaky Cauldron almost two weeks ago."
"But how...?"
"Astoria can read lips."
"...Ah."
"Yes; apparently, she's always had a knack for it. It isn't a completely fail-proof method of information gathering, but...certain names are composed of a specific set of consonants that make them recognizable to one who knows how to look." He shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Astoria hasn't had any luck teaching me."
Something about the way he said 'Astoria' struck Hermione. "You're dating?"
Malfoy sneered openly. "Courting, Granger. We're not Muggles."
"Oh. Well, congratulations, then."
"Why?"
"Everyone deserves happiness, especially after what we lived through."
Malfoy hid a faint look of mocking disbelief behind a biscuit. He was saved from having to answer by the arrival of his mother.
Narcissa Malfoy had changed in the year and a half since the Final Battle. While Draco appeared pretty much the same (except for the hair), Narcissa looked like she had just been released from a short stay in Azkaban. Her clothes were neater than Hermione remembered, from the few times she'd seen her (which, admittedly, had mostly been in the middle of battle), but there were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was coming out of her bun. She sat without saying a word to either of them on a chair pulled out by a house elf that dodged her heels.
After accepting a cup of tea from her son, she turned to Hermione. "Forgive me, Miss Granger. I have been a bit ill lately, but we had no way of rescheduling our meeting. I hope we didn't inconvenience you?"
"No..." She had to bite off the instinctive "Ma'am;" Mrs. Malfoy had always reminded her of a snooty schoolmarm, setting off her pedagogical instincts.
"Good. Draco, did you tell her why she is here?" A significant look passed between mother and son, and Mrs. Malfoy nodded. "I see, then. Well, Miss Granger, please accept this letter on behalf of myself and my family. We haven't had the chance to thank you properly for your assistance to our family, especially after what you suffered at the hands of my sister the last time you were here."
"It was an honor to see justice served. You helped Harry; it was only right that we return the favor."
"Indeed." She made a motion to the house elf, who stood wringing its hands by the side of the table. He disappeared in a pop. "As you undoubtedly know, things at the Ministry are...not always what they appear. Justice, it seems, is not always served as...generously...as it was in our case.
"Information is difficult to obtain when one is cut off from the world as we are. What we know comes mostly from our guards, or from what few visitors we have. Recently, however, the Ministry has contacted us for help in a most peculiar affair. We ourselves are magically bound not to speak of these events except to each other, to write about them, or to discuss them in front of others. To that end, Miss Granger, I must ask you to leave the room." She turned away, obviously finished.
Hermione vindictively stole a chocolate biscuit on her way out of the room. She smirked when she shut the door; a chair had been put for her in the hallway, angled so she could listen at the crack in the door. She could clearly hear what was being discussed in the tea room, though the conversation seemed contrived to pass as much information as possible in a very short period of time.
.oO0Oo.
That evening, Hermione sat once again on her comforter with the Slytherin green notebook propped open in front of her. With a shaking hand, she readjusted her gel pen and wrote:
MALFOY MANOR, HALLOWEEN
SEVERUS SNAPE LIVES?
MINISTRY OF MAGIC?
Revenant - one who returns after death or a long absence
To be continued...
