FOURTEEN: The Seeker

The words burned a hole in Hermione's pocket while her hands knotted around Severus's handkerchief. She wished she could cry. She'd cried for much sillier things, much stupider things, but now that there was something to really grieve, she couldn't get the tears out.

I've been very happy.

Her hands shook. She couldn't seem to stop trembling.

I've held on for some time, because you still needed me. I am very old. Tired.

They'd buried him in a small grave near Hagrid's pumpkin patch; the marker gave only his name.

You will be all right now.

Severus's weight dipped the couch beside her; he had returned from fixing tea. She heard the soft rattle of the tray being placed on her coffee table and then his patient silence as he waited for her.

Trust the scarecrow man.

She straightened up; she'd hardly noticed how she'd hunched down, and her back protested the movement.

"Tea?" Severus asked, already reaching for one of the cups.

She nodded, let the handkerchief flutter to her lap, and accepted the cup from his hands. The warm scent of apples and honey unfurled inside her sinuses, warm and comforting.

"Chamomile," she noted.

"It will help you sleep. Not so well as Dreamless Sleep, perhaps..."

She shook her head and took a sip of the steaming tea. "This will be fine," she murmured, and then, because she knew nothing else to say, "thank you."

He did not appear surprised, but she felt his black gaze on her face, as though he questioned her gratitude.

"It's just," she said, staring down into her tea, "I know you didn't like him, but...you were very kind." She took a deep, steadying breath. "You could have...sneered, and made cruel comments, but you didn't. You comforted me. So."

He was silent for a long moment, considering his own tea, before he spoke.

"You found Crookshanks when you were a third-year?" he asked at last.

"Yes." She was still so fond of the story that she almost smiled. "I had some money for my birthday, and I thought I might get an owl, but he came out of nowhere, nearly scalped Ron trying to get at Scabbers...and I just couldn't leave him there. He was so ill-tempered, the woman said no one had shown any interest in him for well on a year, that he'd been abandoned and found in a back corner of Diagon Alley. So I got him instead of an owl. It's funny, isn't it? The way a familiar attaches to a witch or wizard."

"It is...rare," he said slowly.

She glanced at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Dumbledore and Fawkes, the Dark Lord and Nagini...they are the most prominent examples of wizards with familiars, with attached familiars. Most witches and wizards today merely have pets. The relationship is less equal than it once was. Crookshanks had enough agency of his own to qualify, I believe, as a familiar. He displayed an interesting aptitude for manipulation, for one. And the ability to perceive tricks, and therefore provide aid to a human being, as he did during your third year...he was an unusual cat."

"'Interesting aptitude for manipulation'?" she repeated.

He finally looked at her. "Your cat wanted to help you, desperately," he told her. "He did everything in his power to do so." A clock began to chime far above them; it was midnight. "Try to sleep," he said, setting his cup carefully back on the table, almost completely undrunk. "Finish the tea; it ought to help." He paused a moment longer, and his fingertips brushed her shoulder, a wordless gesture of consolation. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said quietly, and swept from the room. She heard the door to her office close behind him.

Your cat wanted to help you, desperately.

She set down her cup of tea and twisted her hands round the handkerchief again, fingers tracing over the simply embroidered S.S. in one corner of the square of linen.

Trust the scarecrow man.

You did just enough, didn't you, Crooks, she thought, tears finally forming in her eyes. You pestered him so much that you drew attention to me, you made him curious. And then you made him care. Her laugh was a little watery, but it was a laugh, nonetheless. Interesting aptitude for manipulation, indeed. Had you been human, you might have been a Slytherin.

She finished her tea, drank a burning snifter of scotch to her loyal, deceased cat, and curled up beneath a blanket on her sofa before the fire, almost certain, despite her grief, that sleep would come soon.

She was preparing to leave for the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning when someone knocked on her office door. "Just a moment," she called, finishing her braid hurriedly. Her eyes were still a bit bloodshot from all the crying the night before, and her concealer only lightened the shadows beneath them somewhat, but she looked no better or worse from her usual self, and that much was acceptable. She strode through her sitting room to her door, pulling it open.

Harry Potter was on her doorstep, holding a napkin full of toast, a tray of food levitating behind him.

For a moment, she was speechless. Though her mouth opened, no sound came out. "Harry," she finally squeaked. "What are you doing here?"

He held up a hastily re-folded piece of parchment, a few short lines of familiar, spiky handwriting barely visible. "I got a late owl last night," he said. "From Snape. About Crookshanks. Hermione..."

She shook her head, her throat tightening, and he closed the distance between them to hug her, holding the toast carefully out of harm's way. She heaved a long, low sigh of relief.

"You didn't have to come all the way here," she said, voice muffled by his shirt. "It's Monday, I have a class in an hour, anyway—"

"You don't." He gave her a stern look as he drew back; she recognized it as the one he used on his son when James was being particularly stubborn. "McGonagall's said she'll cover for you today, and she didn't look like she was going to take no for an answer."

"I'm alright, really," she said, but she made no move to send Minerva that message.

"You're not. I know you're not. How could you be? You had that cat for twelve years."

She forced a smile. "Perhaps I'm not alright. But I will be. He was old. Tired. He had a good life. He said as much." She stepped back, gesturing toward her sitting room. "Come in."

He nodded, and with a flick of his wand—which she now realized he held in the same hand as the toast—the tray of breakfast followed him in.

"I stopped at the kitchens," he said as she showed him into her quarters. "Thought you might not be up for the Great Hall."

She sat down on her sofa in relief. "Yes, a quiet morning in would be rather preferable."

She helped herself to a piece of toast from the stack. Harry did the same, and for a few moments, they ate in silence. She felt, though, in the way that she usually could, that he had something to say, something to ask, and he was working out the proper way to phrase it.

"Was it...he didn't suffer, much, did he?" he asked finally. "Snape didn't say much..."

She shook her head. "No," she replied. "He'd been lethargic for this past week, acting more lazy than usual, you know. I thought it might just be the cold, or that he was tired...he'd been quite active since we got here, all the mice, you know, and I thought he'd just worn himself out. Well. He was twenty-three, according to Minerva. Very old for a cat, an appropriate lifespan for a Kneazle."

"Twenty-three?" Harry shook his head, obviously baffled. "You never would have guessed it, would you? He was an energetic thing."

She chuckled. "Yes. He was." She reached for a bowl of raspberries. "He was just...old. Once we knew there was nothing we could do, Severus suggested Dreamless Sleep, and he just...went on."

He was giving her an odd look of scrutiny. The real thing was coming now, she thought, the thing that he was trying to figure out how to ask.

"Hermione, the letter...Snape hasn't bothered to respond to any of my letters in the last few years, except with Howlers. He's returned every gift, refused every invitation. But he wrote me quite...civilly...last night." He picked up the folded parchment on the coffee table and held it out to her. She opened it and read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

I regret to inform you that Professor Granger's cat, Crookshanks, passed away this evening.

If you or Mrs. Potter could spare some time tomorrow, I'm certain she would most appreciate your company.

Regards,

S. Snape

"Well," she said, stunned and a little touched, "that is quite civil, isn't it?"

When she turned to Harry again, one corner of his mouth was turned up in an amused, lopsided smile.

"What?" she asked, a little defensively.

"You're friends, aren't you? You and Snape." He took the letter back from her. "You took Crookshanks to him when you realized he was ill. He wrote me so that you might have some company today. You're friends. Bloody hell." He didn't sound displeased.

"Well," she said, not knowing what else to say. "Yes."

He waited, as though she might elaborate, but she didn't know how, exactly. There was so much that she couldn't tell Harry—not yet, when it was all still so new for her, too—and it seemed as though her friendship with Severus was all bound up in that.

"You were the key all along," Harry said finally, folding up the letter again.

He had lost her. "Sorry?"

"I want him to be at the naming ceremony for Albus Severus. And he'll come, if you ask him to go with you. Because he likes you." He sounded nearly gleeful. "I should have thought of it before! He had to get past his dislike of you eventually, especially without Ron and I around...you two are so alike..."

"Excuse me," she said indignantly. "I'm friends with Severus, yes, but there are a few key differences in our personalities!"

He smiled at her. "I didn't mean to offend you. I only meant...the two of you, you're both so brilliant, you know? He had to accept that you were a kindred spirit eventually."

She relented. "You're right, of course."

He was quiet another moment, and then he asked, "What's he like?"

There was an odd yearning in his voice. Hermione knew that Harry had always needed few comforts from life—his friends, his loved ones, safe and whole, and that was all—but since the war, he'd wanted to know Severus. Hermione thought that he imagined it would bring him closer to his mother, no matter how marginally.

So Hermione told him that Severus loved a good cup of coffee and wasn't to be asked to socialize before breakfast; that in terms of power, agility, and inventiveness, perhaps only Dumbledore and Voldemort had ever held a candle to the man, and that he might now be the greatest wizard alive; that he had a deep appreciation for good alcohol and rare books; that he knew more about Potions than she could ever hope to learn, and as far as Defence, no one understood it so well as he; that he had a sense of humour full of wit and sarcasm; that he treated house-elves, and even Crookshanks, with kindness...

And Harry listened, which he'd always been good at; how had she ever forgotten?

Severus knew who was knocking on his door at seven o'clock that evening. He couldn't have hoped to invite Harry bloody Potter within fifty miles of the castle without also inviting him to Severus's personal doorstep. It had been some time since Potter had had the opportunity for a face-to-face assault; the temptation would be too great for him to overcome.

He glanced at the clock, wishing that he'd decided to come a little later. He might have used his patrol duties as an excuse to sidestep the encounter entirely, but that was two hours from the present, with nothing in between.

"I invited you to the castle, not to my doorstep, Potter," he said as soon as he opened his door and confirmed that it was, indeed, the Boy Who Wouldn't die.

Potter held up a placating hand. "I'm not going to push gifts on you or ask you to socialize. I've given up on that. It's about Hermione. May I come in?"

"Is it urgent?"

Green eyes flashed, and for a moment, he saw Lily, hands on her hips, irritated with him for his obstinacy. "Yes," Potter replied, brushing past him into his office.

Irked, Severus shut the door behind him. "She was very attached to that cat; is she still...grieving?"

Potter turned to face him. "She just lost a creature she loved as much as she loves me or Ginny, and yet, she's happier than she's been in years." He paused; his eyes were dark, mouth tight with concern. "I know she isn't well. She hasn't returned any of my owls this term, except to thank me for the birthday gift. She isn't writing to Ginny, either, and Ron won't tell us a thing, but he knows something about what's bothering her; he's a horrid liar. I want to know, Professor, if you'll tell me; is she alright?"

He considered Potter for a long moment: the worry and fear in his face, worn prematurely.

"She has chosen not to confide in you," he said at last. "I would not jeopardize her privacy—her trust—to put you at ease."

A mingled expression of relief and annoyance crossed Potter's face.

"She thinks highly of you," he ventured.

Severus said nothing, though the way Potter scrutinized him put him ill at ease.

"At least tell me that she's better, here," he implored. "That she's..." He trailed off.

"How long have you known that she was unwell?" Severus asked, his voice hard.

Guilt tripped across Potter's features; he read like a book, Severus reflected, and always had.

"A few years," he admitted. "Either she hid it well for a while, or we were just really unobservant. We all reacted differently to the war, and...I'm sure I neglected to notice the signs. By the time I did...I didn't know how to help her. She'd distanced herself so much, from me, from Ginny, from Ron—everyone."

"So you make amends by sending her trinkets that don't help her in the slightest? Charming." His lip curled up in a sneer.

Potter didn't take the bait. "It didn't help at all, then?"

"Magic is not powerful enough to fix her."

"But something can," Potter said. "And you seem to know."

Severus didn't reply. He could only say so much before violating Hermione's privacy, and at any rate, he did not wish to offer reassurances to another person who had looked the other way while she suffered.

You did, a nasty voice in his head reminded him, but he brushed it aside.

"Just tell me that you like her, and it'll put me at ease," Potter said. "I want to know that her faith is in the right person, and you know I can't tell. I can't read you. I can see the clues, I suppose—you wouldn't have written me if you didn't care, you wouldn't have put up with her grief if she didn't matter—"

"You have your own answer, then, Mr. Potter."

"I love Hermione like a sister," Potter returned heatedly, taking a step forward. "And I know her. I know that she cares too much about things that give her very little return, but she always sees it as just enough. I can't help her, I can't be in this castle with her, but you can. Or you could hurt her, very badly, and Hermione is the strongest person I know, but she won't be the same if the world keeps rejecting that heart of hers." He stared up at Severus; it was nearly a glare. "She trusts you. Do you understand? It's the highest compliment she could give. I don't think she's really trusted anyone in years. Please, if you can...if you would...do what you can for her."

After a long pause, Severus reached for the doorknob. "I believe we're finished here."

Potter straightened his glasses, sighed heavily, and made to depart.

"Oh, and Mr. Potter...Professor Granger's parents." Potter looked up. "Where might one find them?"

"One wouldn't," he said, fastening his cloak.

"They passed?" Severus pressed.

An odd, pitying look crossed his face. "No," he said. "She hasn't mentioned it?"

"No. What befell them?"

"She Obliviated them before we went off to look for Horcruxes." His frown deepened. "She gave them new identities, sent them to Australia, made them forget they had a daughter. She didn't want Death Eaters to find them, torture them for information. And she thought she could find them, reverse the spell when the war was done. She found them, but...she couldn't lift the memory charm. She tried for months, and Ron finally had to convince her to give up, to come home. She hasn't mentioned them since. It broke her heart. She thought it was the most important bit of magic she would ever do, and she couldn't."

Severus's heart wrenched in his chest. "Your information is useful," he allowed. "Now, get out of my office."

Potter smiled sadly. "Right away, sir."

He returned to his sitting room, called for Winky to bring him a cup of coffee, and sifted through his notes, searching for a blank piece of parchment where he might write afresh. When the new information had been recorded, he considered it until the words blurred before him and Potter's voice echoed in his mind instead.

It was obvious, upon a bit of reflection, that he was right; she really hadn't trusted anyone these past several years. She had shown no one the scar; the one other man who had sighted it had been allowed to assume it wasn't important, merely a relic of a torture scene they all wanted to forget. Her friends had seen the signs, but later, much later, than the suffering had begun. If any of them had resided in the castle with her during her belated seventh year, they might have noticed something amiss sooner. The scene in the library could not have been the only evidence of her impending breakdown.

Potter's wife had been with her, he realized belatedly; they would have been dorm-mates while Hermione sat her N.E.W.T.s, perhaps. What had she seen, and not questioned? Had she attempted to reach Hermione, with no result?

His coffee had grown cold by the time a quieter knock came to his door. The clock over his mantle read five to nine; she was always five minutes early, no more, no less. He got to his feet, removed his cloak from the coat rack, and slid his wand up his sleeve.

When he opened the door to join her, she smiled. It was a small smile, and a little strained, but it reached her eyes. They weren't so bloodshot as the night before, and he saw what Potter had seen: in spite of the death of her beloved familiar, she was not so unhappy.

I want to know that her faith is in the right person.

"Ready?" she asked, her dark eyes rising to meet his.

"We'll start with the Astronomy Tower," he returned, raising the wards on his quarters.

"Harry didn't bother you, did he?" she asked. "He said he was going straight home, but I know him..."

"Obviously." He beckoned her forward. "Most refreshingly, he wasn't intent on inviting me to a gala or gifting me quills."

She chuckled. "What on Earth could he have wanted with you, then?" Her voice was teasing.

For a moment, he considered telling her it was nothing, that Potter had just wanted to chat over tea, but the voice of the Boy Who Wouldn't Die spoke up again, reminding him.

She trusts you.

"He is worried about your health," he said, "and hoped that I might shed light on it."

He felt her eyes on him, suddenly frightened, worried that he had given away her secret.

"I told him nothing," he continued. "If you wish to inform him on your well-being, you'll have to do it yourself, I'm afraid."

The relief in her was tangible. She reached out to touch his arm.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'm not ready to tell them yet."

You could hurt her, very badly.

Indeed, Severus thought heavily, as Hermione lit her wand and led the way. Indeed.