New Perspective 2
TAKEN ON TRUST
By Bellegeste
Disclaimer: Characters etc are the property of JKR and her publishers.
A/N: Thanks for the feedback everybody. Apologies if Luna was somewhat OTT, but don't worry – we're back to Snape and Hermione in this chapter. Special thanks to my previewers Cecelle and Duj.
The story so far: Hermione has accomplished her latest errand - retrieving Snape's books from Hogwarts - but was less successful in her 'sounding out' of McGonagall. Still no news of Mrs Weasley; Harry is still off chasing Horcruxes (good luck to him!). Ron has suspicions.
Chapter 10: A FORTUITOUS CONNECTION
"If I've got to suffer, the least you could do is stay awake," puffed Hermione, embarking on her fourth set of bicep curls. "How many's that, Crooks? Are you counting?"
A single slit of yellow glinted with supreme indifference for all of three seconds, before settling back into that blissful lassitude that comes with a full belly and a hot radiator. Crookshanks was far too comfortable to care about that undignified Muggle madness – exercise.
"What's next?" the girl gasped, clutching the back of the chair and peering fuzzily at the Health and Fitness supplement. Nowhere in the small print was there anything to say that a few squats, lunges and abdominal crunches should have such a woeful effect on one's vision. Maybe it was oxygen starvation; she kept forgetting to inhale. Despite being (supposedly) half-way through a full body work out, the Lycra-clad 'lovely' in the photo did not appear to have broken sweat, and certainly was having no difficulty focussing, breathing or standing without support.
Walking, Weights and Water – the 'W' Plan made fitness sound easily achievable. 'Anyone can find time to fit our three simple Ws into their daily routine,' the article proclaimed. 'Walk your way to cardiovascular stamina; drink water to flush away those toxins; trim and tone with our beginners' weights' programme. No special equipment required.' Hermione had decided to give it a go.
The previous afternoon, Hermione had dragged a reluctant Ron out for a walk. McGonagall's end of term injunction to be careful and only travel in twos and when strictly necessary had faded in their memories with each passing week of the summer holiday. And Mrs Weasley's disappearance, rather than making Ron more cautious, had had the opposite effect. Days spent cooped in and around the house had made him restless and defiant.
"Think of it as Quidditch training," Hermione had wheedled. "It'll be invigorating."
Ginny had tactfully declined to join them, and Harry was off Quill-seeking in Norwich, or Nantwich – Ron couldn't remember which 'wich' – so it was set to be a romantic stroll à deux. For once Hermione wasn't sorry that Ginny wasn't there; that girl was quite fit enough already. Playing Quidditch might be a dull hobby, but it did have some benefits.
From The Burrow they headed across the fields to the banks of the River Otter, followed the towpath for a while, then cut through the village and on up towards the slopes of Stoatshead Hill.
"We can Apparate back," Hermione had compromised. "At least it keeps us out of the house."
Ron's family discouraged visitors for a few days around full moon time – Bill could be moody and unpredictable, and it was generally felt to be a tactful precaution. Judging by Ron's demeanour, one might have thought more than one Weasley brother had a 'touch of the Bills'. He had been so grouchy that Hermione was soon regretting asking him to come along. He seemed constantly on the point of saying something, and then changing his mind, contenting himself with sarky digs about hikers, ramblers, joggers and pedestrians in general.
"Why the sudden taste for fell-walking?" he complained. "Been up Totridge recently, or Hawthornthwaite?(1)"
Had he been looking at a map, checking up on her? Taken aback by Ron's sudden geographical knowledge, Hermione pretended not to understand. There was no point in dragging Neville into this; she didn't want to pursue the Lancashire connection. So she had tolerated Ron's attitude, putting it down to sour grapes about not being able to show off his new Apparating skills, until the moment when she had innocently stopped to point out a patch of wild Chuntering Chervil in the hedgerow amongst the nettles and docks.
"Yeah, that'd be right. You'll be taking up gardening next," Ron fumed, storming off ahead in an inexplicable huff. Next time she wanted to go for a walk, Hermione resolved, she would borrow a dog – a rottweiler couldn't be any snappier than her nominal boyfriend.
And today, foolishly, she had been waiting for him to come and apologise. Not that there was much chance of that now; it was getting too late. Ron tried to avoid her parents wherever possible, and she was positive he hadn't been listening when she'd mentioned that tonight they'd be out at a Badminton Club 'friendly' at the sports centre.
It was her dad's excruciating fondness for nicknames which threw Ron. How was he supposed to respond when addressed convivially as 'Burger Boy'? Harry got off relatively lightly as 'Boy Wonder', though Mr Granger often egged the embarrassment by whistling several bars of the 'Harry Lime' theme too. Ginny came into an all-embracing category for Hogwarts' students known collectively as the 'hubble-bubble' brigade.(2) Hermione had long since given up trying to convert or understand her father. Why the names? Was it shyness? A feeble stab at mateyness? A form of condescension? Or was he simply too self-absorbed, too work-obsessed to remember her friends' names?
"Come on Crooks – shake a woolly leg! You could do with some exercise, Mr Fatness."
Hermione doggedly returned to the fitness supplement. 'There is no need to purchase dumb bells. A bag of sugar makes an ideal 1Kg hand weight.' Or it would if you could keep hold of it without your sweaty palms making the wrapper soggy. Hermione bemoaned her first attempted upper body workout, most of which had been spent on her hands and knees – not doing press-ups, but sweep-ups, after the splitting sugar packet had left the kitchen as white and crunchy as a frosty morning. 'Or use a can of beans' the article blithely suggested. 'Just get those muscles pumping.' The Granger larder didn't run to beans, so Hermione had grabbed two tins of soup and subjected them to several punishing rounds of 'upright rows' and 'triceps squeezes'. By the time she progressed to 'lateral raises' her arms, shoulders and brain cells had gone for the burn so thoroughly they were smouldering. The standard, two-serving, 415g soup tins, she was convinced, had expanded to family size; after sixteen pulsed 'shoulder presses' they had swelled again to bucket-size, bumper catering packs… She could barely lift them any more, let alone 'push them up in a controlled straight arm lift'.
'Sleeveless, backless dress' served as a motivational mantra. There might be not be another Yule Ball on the horizon, but her 18th was approaching fast. Her wizard coming-of-age had been a very low-key affair; she wasn't going to miss out on her Muggle birthday too. In the short-term, however, the phrase 'Ron is a jerk' had fired the aggression needed to press her way through the agonising repetitions.
When the expected knock came, Hermione was flushed and pumped and spoiling for a fight.
"Well?" she demanded, flinging open the door, ready to deck Ron if he wasn't suitably contrite. "Oh!" she gulped, her self-assertion escaping in a mew of mortification, acutely conscious of her skimpy crop-top and breathlessly heaving chest. "It's you. I thought you were Ron." Crossing her arms defensively, covering up, clamping her damp armpits to her ribcage, she stood aside for Snape to enter. Where the hell had she put her sweatshirt? "You knocked," she accused, irrationally blaming Snape for this latest gaffe.
"It was locked. An expedient negated when you answer the door wandless," he carped. Giving no indication that he had noticed her clothing – or lack of it – and without waiting for an invitation, he dragged out a chair and dropped into it with a heavy sigh. Hermione regarded him with surprise. Was this how Luna's trespassing cuckoo made himself at home in the nest? He had the air of a travel-weary explorer who has finally reached base-camp after a gruelling trek, and wants nothing more than to stop walking and unlace his boots. It was the first time in six years Hermione had seen him unshaven. Compared to the girl's energetic, ruddy glow, his natural pallor was unhealthy.
"You look tired," she commented.
"You'd be tired, if -" the whiplash retort cracked back.
If what? Hermione waited for him to complete the sentence, but the momentary flicker of honesty was a stray spark. Snape stamped it out before it could catch. In the pause that followed, Hermione's frantic eyes scoured the surfaces for her top – she'd flung it off when she thought she was about to expire during the triceps dips (how could such a small muscle cause so much pain?), but she hadn't seen where it landed. Still Snape said nothing, just sat there, barely acknowledging her presence. Uncertain how best to proceed, Hermione stood eying him, wondering why he had come this time, whether he had any news, or another errand for her to run. A mild tic worried at the lid of his right eye. Was he angry? Had she offended him? Was he ill again?
"I got your books." If Snape wasn't going to speak, Hermione would have to take the initiative. She placed two cheery volumes on the table in front of him: 'Travels with Trolls' and 'Wanderings with a Werewolf'. "You said to turn them into something innocuous," she laughed thinly, struck by his astonishment, lifting her wand. As the Untransfiguration spell took effect, the beatifically smiling cover shots of Gilderoy Lockhart dulled and darkened and, as if the beaming blond Adonis were being swallowed up in a vat of melted tar, finally sank into the textured blackness of the original leather.
A shudder rippled through the wizard as he picked up the dark books. No thanks, no congratulation for a job well done.
"Did you open them? Show me your hands."
Unquestioningly, Hermione held out both hands for inspection. Snape turned them over and examined both palms before declaring himself satisfied.
"Very good."
His own hands, she couldn't help but notice, were cold to the touch and dry to the point of being scaly, the skin cracking at the knuckles and fingertips, with several deep scratches across the backs and wrists.
"Owls," he muttered, catching her troubled gaze.
"What were you looking for, Sir?" asked Hermione, dipping to retrieve her sweatshirt which she had finally spotted under his chair, and pulling it over her head in relief. Covered up, she felt less exposed, more confident.
"Had you attempted to read either of these texts without first using the correct incantation, the pages would have lacerated your fingers."
"And yet you didn't warn me? What if -"
"Then you would have learned your lesson the hard way. As it was, my faith in your obedience was vindicated."
Classroom discipline still applied. Hermione bit back her grievances; why should she expect his tactics now to be any different from those he had employed at school? He was the same man.
"Grapthar was a perfect gentleman," she said, "for a mirror."
"Indeed. What did he offer you? Flowers?"
"Fruit."
"Ah, fruit," he repeated, almost to himself, allowing his dulled eyes to glaze as they rested on the featureless black covers. He fell silent, his head tilting slowly forwards and for a moment his eyelids drooped. He was clearly exhausted. Then, with a jerk, he roused himself.
"And McGonagall?"
It was the question Hermione had been dreading. She shook her head.
"She's still awfully angry, Sir. She's up to her neck in admin – recruiting new staff, fending off the Ministry, all that kind of thing. It's almost as if she blames you – not only for… for Professor Dumbledore, but for everything that's happened since. She wasn't even prepared to listen. I really don't think you should try approaching her – the mood she was in, she'd probably AK you herself, and the Ministry would be only too happy to call it self-defence. I even suggested taking some of your thoughts for her to see in the Pensieve, but she wouldn't hear of it."
"You didn't tell her you'd seen me?"
"No. No, of course not." Give me some credit. "It was all hypothetical. She may have thought I was labouring the point, but then that's the advantage of having a reputation for being a pedant. I'm sorry, Sir. I did try. I'll go back and talk to her again -"
"No. You'd only arouse suspicion." His shoulders slumped in resignation.
Hermione wished she had better, more positive news. Tonight Snape seemed so spiritless, so down. Fetching the three potions from her bag, shyly she set them on the table by his elbow.
"I brought you these, from your room."
His glance slid from the phials to the girl's face and back to the bottles, recognising the labels, registering her concern. Without a word of acknowledgement, he transferred them to his pocket. Hermione couldn't tell if he was grateful or insulted. She filled in the blanks herself: Thank you. Very thoughtful of you. It wasn't any trouble, Sir.
In the soporific warmth of the kitchen, Snape was fighting to keep his eyes open. The man was dead on his feet. Hermione, seeing his head nodding again, had visions of him falling asleep right there at the table. How would she explain that to her parents when they came home? She couldn't very well offer him a bed, but perhaps she might boost his flagging energy levels.
"Are you hungry, Sir? I could knock you up a quick sandwich, or -" Her eyes fell on the two tins on the worktop. "Or some soup. If I whack it in the microwave, it'll only take a couple of minutes."
"Don't bother." Pride broke through fatigue, bringing with it the instinctive recoil from kindness.
"Look, Sir, it's not pity, it's not charity, it's not -" Hermione hesitated over the word, but still conscious of her state of undress at his arrival, decided to say it anyway, "- it's not seduction. It's just soup. Would you like some or not?"
XXX
By the time he had devoured the soup, bread and cheese that Hermione put before him, and was sipping his second cup of tea, Snape was looking less pale and more alert. Watching him eat, Hermione was appalled at how hungry he really had been.
"Don't they feed you at that godforsaken place – wherever it is? Or let you rest? It's worse than prison. When did you last have a decent night's sleep?" Shut up, Hermione. Don't fuss. You'll only antagonise him.
"Friday." A factual reply; no trace of self-pity. Yet why would he have told her this at all if he had not, at some subconscious level, wanted her sympathy? Hermione couldn't work it out. She wasn't used to getting straight answers from Snape.
And today was Tuesday. Three days without sleep. Ye gods! It wasn't human.
"And just how long do you think you can keep on going at that pace?" she blazed. Snatching up the empty plates, she dumped them in the sink and turned on the tap fiercely, letting the water gush until her brain ran clear of anger.
"The last few days have been exceptional," he said. Explanation and evasion now combined in an infuriatingly unhelpful comment.
"But you can't be making potions the whole time – not for three days and nights on the trot, can you? What kind of potion needs that amount of attention? Sir, I probably shouldn't ask, but what is it you actually do for 'him'?"
Hermione had never been comfortable with the You-Know-Who type circumlocutions, but she knew Snape wouldn't let her get away with the name Voldemort, and she couldn't bring herself to use the term 'Dark Lord'. It was nothing really, just a hitch in his breath, a thought shadow passing across his mind, but for a second she would have sworn that his impulse was to tell her.
"Brewing potions forms a substantial part of my duties." He glanced ruefully at his cracked hands. Too many hours slaving over a hot cauldron? "As for the rest – the less you know the better. Is Potter having any luck with his treasure hunt?"
Hermione accepted the abrupt change of subject with good grace. She hadn't expected him to reply at all. Harry's search for the Pen of Ravenclaw was proving, if anything, too successful. Following up new leads had become a full time occupation. He was Apparating from one end of the country to the other, investigating references and trying to authenticate the proliferation of relics, half of which claimed a provenance linking directly back to the Founder.
"It's like the Hydra," she told Snape. "As soon as Harry debunks one rumour, another two spring up in its place. It'll keep him busy for ever. There's even an eagle sanctuary down in Cornwall which sells 'genuine' Ravenclaw quills in the gift shop. He's traced at least eleven of those already – all the owners swearing blind they're the real thing. How dumb can you get? Oh, and we were hoping to talk to Agatha Chubb sometime about ancient artefacts, but so far she's been too busy to see us."
"The Ministry woman?" Snape's brow furrowed.(3)
Hermione recounted her meeting with Barnstable Lovegood, pointing out how Harry's quest overlapped with research for the forthcoming article in The Quibbler.
"In his own way Mr Lovegood seems just as flaky as Luna – you know, nice, but totally barking. But, Sir, I got a real sense that they'd be willing to give you a fair hearing. That's got to be a good thing, hasn't it? I don't suppose they'd be able to find out that much about you at Hogwarts, would they, Sir? I mean, you've covered your tracks?"
Such frankness from a student did not go down well. Hermione could see in the sudden tightening of Snape's jaw that he didn't like it.
"The problem is more my Ministry file," he scowled. "If Lovegood has an entrée to Chubb, he may have other sources within the Ministry. The Quibbler can doubtless rehash a few stale facts into any amount of hokum."
"I did tell them that any kind of exposé might jeopardise your position, but Mr Lovegood was going on and on about the freedom of the press. What will you do, Sir – warn them off?"
Snape sat thinking, chin in hand, his fingers lightly smoothing the unaccustomed stubble.
"No," he said after a lengthy pause. "Intimidation will only convince them they are onto a scoop, and make them more determined to run with the story. I flatter myself that I would make the front page. I shall have to find them something else to write about…"
"You're not poisoning any more owls! Or causing any more natural disasters – not just to put a few reporters off the scent." Hermione would have liked to believe him incapable of such tactics. "Isn't there some mind-altering spell in one of those horrible books? Can't you use magic to make Luna's dad change his mind?"
"Obliviate him? It's not that simple. Next you'll be telling me to turn myself in, on the basis that I could reprogramme the consciousness of the Wizengamot. No, Dark magic will not be necessary in this instance."
"So what are the books for, then?" Hermione asked boldly. Normally she would be wary of being so forthright, but tonight she was beginning to feel more relaxed. Maybe it was the endorphins… Snape had chosen to visit her, he was sitting in her kitchen, he'd eaten her food, he was apparently in no great rush to leave and, now he felt better, he was more than usually disposed to talk. Was he so starved of conversation when he was with Voldemort?
"How does Harry plan to destroy Ravenclaw's Quill, if and when he finds it?" Snape answered the question with a question. Hermione met his eye with a hopeless shrug.
"Well, he was all right when he destroyed Riddle's diary, wasn't he? But he did have a basilisk fang – that probably helped. The magic didn't rebound on him or anything." Not like Dumbledore's ring. What had gone wrong there?
"Youthful arrogance!" Snape's scorn might have been directed at either Harry or Riddle. "You see, even the Dark Lord has made mistakes in his time. Though it doesn't happen often. Having taken the first step towards immortality, he neglected to safeguard the diary against its own destruction. But we cannot assume that the other objects will be equally vulnerable. It is conceivable, is it not, that in your exhaustive inquiries into the subject of Horcruxes, you may unearth further information which will be of assistance to Potter," he suggested obliquely, preparing the ground before he planted fresh ideas.
"Only if by some miracle I chance on… Oh. I see. You mean – the books? What? Do you want me to pass them on to Harry?"
"And give a child the key to Armageddon?" Snape was scathing. "I think not. Don't be naïve. Think of the wilful damage that boy wreaked with my old potions book: experimenting with unknown spells on fellow students. The magic in those two books is Darker than anything I used to dabble with. Do you think it wise to give that boy – 'Chosen One' or not - access to power of such magnitude?"
Humbly, Hermione shook her head. Snape was again right about Harry. Her friend was impetuous and irresponsible, and extraordinarily lucky. What else but luck had seen him through so many scrapes?
"Just as not all poisons have antidotes, there is no such thing as a universal Horcrux antidote," continued Snape, frowning. There had been no instant remedy available for him to save Dumbledore's hand. "Each artefact may be protected by a different curse. I shall need to analyse the texts and work out the most likely combinations of counter-curses." He sighed and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing tired eyes. "Merlin knows when I'll get the time. Those spells are what you may, eventually, pass on to Potter."
Hermione couldn't deny the logic in this.
"Yes, Harry'll buy that," she agreed. "Hey, I could tell him I tracked down a copy of one of the missing Bruno manuscripts, and that it contained some of his early spell-work." In her embarrassment at Snape's unexpected arrival, and with the burglary uppermost in her thoughts, her earlier research had slipped her mind. And yet she had been looking forward to discussing it with him. "It was fascinating, Sir, by the way – all that stuff about Flamel and Della Porta and Burning Bruno… Sir?"
Under the renewed intensity of Snape's stare, Hermione found herself faltering. His expression had that same mix of alarm and curiosity, which she had witnessed on the victims of Ginny's Bat Bogey Hex when first presented with a mirror, but without the accompanying panic.
"Refresh my memory, Miss Granger."
That, she recognised, was teacher-speak for one of two things: either 'I know this subject inside out, so woe betide you if you try to bluff me', or 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' Snape habitually used it in the former sense. But this time… Hermione experienced again the jolt of disillusion and disbelief she had felt on realising he had not been privy to Dumbledore's secret knowledge about the Horcruxes.
"But you told me to read up on Nicolas Flamel and investigate his connections," she protested, aggrieved. "Do you mean to say I've spent all that time researching the wrong people? But it all made such sense. I was sure I was onto something. God, I'm an idiot!"
"Let me be the judge of that…"
XXX
"Fortuitous."
In predicting Snape's reaction, this was one of the few F words Hermione had not anticipated.
"Highly circumstantial, but plausible," Snape reflected. Hermione hadn't shown him all her notes, but she assured him she could back up her findings if he wished. Was he impressed? Surely he must be impressed. She basked in the absence of overt criticism.
"I haven't checked any international archives," she apologised. "I've never Apparated out of the country. And it seemed like a lot of effort – for what return? What more would it tell us? That other manuscripts are missing? Unless, by some fluke, I stumbled upon an extant copy of 'Animarum spoliator'… If I were looking for Flamel's stuff, it would be a whole different story. His works crop up all over the place." Reciting from memory she listed names gleaned from various Indexes. "The Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris; the Biblioteca dell' Accademia dei Lincei in Rome… There are even some translations from the original French in the Rainsford Collection at Alnwick(4). For more on Bruno, though, my best bet looks like the University library in Venice, or Florence. But would it be worth it? What do you think, Sir? I'm really not sure. I haven't managed to get access to the International Database of Damaged, Stolen or Mislaid Rare Books and Manuscripts either - I reckon you need to be at least MI5 to get clearance. That'd probably show up a few more gaps, unless Ridd-, er, 'he' decided he'd got enough with the books he'd already pinched."
Throttling back on her enthusiasm – she knew Snape hated her showing off – Hermione looked to him for approval.
"As you say," he mused, "without the crucial Bruno tracts, your hypothesis does little more than establish a likely link between the two Italians and Flamel. One assumes that the Dark Lord consulted the Bruno texts for the methodology of Horcrux creation. There would have been other, openly wizard, precedents, of course, but even at that time such magic would have been confined to Restricted libraries; the Bruno would have been more readily accessible."
"But why go to the bother of stealing the books?" Hermione asked. "To prevent anyone else getting hold of the same information?"
Snape nodded in slow agreement.
"Quite possibly. We know he takes pride in the unique nature of his talent. He would wish to preserve that. Or he may have taken them purely as a souvenir of his quest. Albus noted certain 'magpie' tendencies - to retain objects belonging to his victims. He may have seen a kind of empowerment in the possession of the manuscripts. But that is pure conjecture. Unless you have any more evidence?"
Hermione glowed. Snape was taking her work seriously and asking her for further input. Regretfully she shook her head. Snape didn't seem to mind. He was still toying with the available facts.
"We may, in any event, deduce that Albus learned about Horcruxes through his association with Flamel – at least enough to recognise their potential dangers – which accounts for his vehemence on the subject. I had suspected as much."
"So that was what you wanted me to find out? Why Professor Dumbledore hated Horcruxes?"
"Indirectly. But, Miss Granger, you have earned yourself an E for this project. My expectations were more modest. I had another connection in mind. Our last conversation reminded me of something Nicolas Flamel once said to me -"
"You met Flamel?" Not often star-struck, Hermione nevertheless felt a vicarious awe at Snape's having been in the presence of the great alchemist.
"Briefly. Dumbledore introduced me once, in passing." Snape too betrayed a quiet pride.
"Did he talk to you? What did he say?" asked the girl eagerly.
Snape sat straighter, preening in the mere memory of Flamel, relishing the link, however tenuous. There can have been precious few brushes with fame during his career at Hogwarts.
"On hearing my name, Flamel greeted me with a quotation. He said, 'Severus, eh? And do you take after your Roman namesake? Do you also know 'how to act the part of both a fox and a lion'(5?"
"What a very odd thing to say."
"He was an unusual man. It refers, he told me, to the Roman emperor Severus Septimus, a military tactician."
"I think I've heard of him." Hermione ransacked her memory for snippets from early history lessons. Didn't he have something to do with Hadrian's Wall? Or maybe that was another Septimus." Roman history, for Hermione, had been confined to the construction of a scale model of a fort and an overview of Caesar's Gallic wars. Plus a few episodes of 'I Claudius' on TV. "But that would have been before Flamel's time, surely?"
"Indeed." Snape nodded. "Flamel said an Italian acquaintance admired the Roman as a strategist, and used to describe him in those terms. To be compared to Septimus was considered a complement."
"And this acquaintance was?"
Snape met her eyes with a wry smile.
"My doppelgänger – Machiavelli."
Hermione blushed. Was he pulling her leg? Of all the things they had spoken about during their kitchen-table conversations, why did he have to remember that one? She wished Ginny had never put the stupid idea into her head and that Snape had not glimpsed it there. But when she had looked up the famous Ghirlandaio(6) portrait of the tyrant in a book on Florentine old masters, the resemblance was undeniable. In the painting the hair was brushed back, the nose straighter – fair enough; but there was definitely something familiar about the eyes, the high, spare cheekbones, the tight lips and uncompromising expression. As she gazed at Snape across the table, the Italian statesman stared back.
Why was he looking at her like that?
"Flamel certainly met a lot of interesting people!" Suddenly self-conscious, she giggled, covering her confusion. "Think of who he might have known in all those lifetimes: Shakespeare, Newton, Michelangelo…"
In Snape's eyes, she recognised the simultaneous shocks of enjoyment and denial. Mutual awareness sucked the air out of the room.
"All the Machiavelli stuff - it was just a physical thing," she exclaimed, flustered, a Freudian slip. "You look like him, Sir, that's all. It's not a reflection on your -"
"On my principles? I'm gratified to hear it. Just my appearance, then, that you find amusing?" Suddenly harshness had replaced humour.
Flames of embarrassment were curling round Hermione's thighs and beyond, consuming her as completely as the fire that had burned the heretic Bruno at the stake. Why was he doing this to her? Why was he being so cruel? Was it so wrong to enjoy each other's company?
"I must go." The silence was terrible as he gathered up the two leather volumes, and pushed himself slowly to his feet, dragging against the weight of bone deep exhaustion. Hermione saw, contradicting his words, his weary reluctance to leave, to step out of this refuge and return to the fray. She moved with him to the door, wanting him to be gone, wanting him to stay where he was safe.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Why was she apologising? She couldn't let him leave on this sour note. "Please, Sir - be careful…"
He couldn't respond, couldn't admit that he too had discovered an unexpected connection.
End of chapter
1 Totridge, Hawthornthwaite – peaks in the Lancashire fells to the west of Pendle. In THE CHOSEN I tentatively situated Neville's gran's cottage somewhere in the vicinity of Pendle.
2 This is taken directly from my own father, who (for reasons too embarrassing to mention) has always referred to my school friends as 'the gravy girls'.
3 Agatha Chubb. Referred to in HBP as the Ministry expert on ancient wizard artefacts.
4 Alnwick – couldn't resist including this reference, as Alnwick Castle was where several scenes of the first HP film were shot (also RPoT). The Flamel texts are in the private library of the Duke of Northumberland.
5 'the part of both a fox and a lion' – Machiavelli, 'The Prince' ch XIX
6 Ridolfo del Ghirlandaio (Florence, 1483-1561)
Next chapter: It's a bad day for Neville when he gets visits from both Ron and Snape.