Morning Has Broken
By Bambu
Summary: Hermione accidentally encounters her former teacher several years after the war has ended. Something about his behavior is strange, and she cannot help but investigate.
Author's Notes: This is the story I wrote as a pinch-hitter for the 2006 SS/HG Exchange on LiveJournal (i.e., pre-book seven). My recipient was StormySkize, and I tailored the story to her requirements. Please note there are book six spoilers, and the alternate reality is set in a post-war world where the cost of the war was enormous.
I have many people to thank: Spoose and his beloved, LilithJ, for being great sounding boards, and most especially, SnarkyWench for her unwavering belief in my ability to write a readable story and helping me to make it so!
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer. I've given a nod to a Nicholas Meyer book, and borrowed the title from an old Cat Stevens song. My darling beta has been kind enough to lend me the use of her Draught of Peaceful Death, a potion of her own invention in "Of Pain and Passion."
~o0o~
Chapter One: Hypothesis
Deep in the Ministry of Magic, I stood in a dark antechamber absently staring at the neon blue flames burning in the torches anchored to the round walls. I was unsettled.
As the round walls began to spin and the neon blue flame blurred in my vision, I realized what, or rather who, had unsettled me.
Not ten minutes previously I had encountered Severus Snape.
I thought he died right after the war. He had been put under house arrest – at that grotty row-house he called home – and no one I knew had heard from him since. It had been five years since he escaped an Azkaban sentence for killing Albus Dumbledore. In the end, he was the only survivor from that night atop the Astronomy Tower. With no witness to testify against him, and with his subsequent flow of information from deep within Voldemort's inner circle to mitigate the charges, Snape had been practically exonerated.
I read the trial notes printed in the Daily Prophet from my carefully guarded room at St. Mungo's. My last living friend had been livid when the greasy git didn't receive the punishment had Ron thought he deserved.
I had cried myself to sleep that night. We had won the war but at a terrible cost.
The rumbling cylindrical wall of doors stopped, reminding me where I was. Unerringly, I grasped the handle of the door which had melted Harry's knife all those years ago.
That door led to my office.
I wondered what Harry would think of my choosing to work in a place which had held such horrible memories for him. Ron thought I was mad to have become an Unspeakable. What he didn't know was that I was more than that - I was an Unfathomable.
The first time I heard the title I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Septima Vector had simply watched me until I subsided into sporadic hiccups before saying, "Needed a laugh, did you?"
"You've no idea," I had replied. She had approached me with an offer a short few months after Voldemort's unlamented demise and my parents' deaths.
I listened to her explain the concept of integrated magical theory, my intellectual interest piqued by her description, and then I had followed her to the ninth level of the Ministry of Magic with barely a shudder when entering the antechamber. Considering the things I had seen, the things Harry, Ron, and I had done in the pursuit and destruction of the Horcruxes and Voldemort, facing the memories of our fifth year skirmish had been negligible in comparison.
The dark-haired Arithmancy teacher had introduced me to Meg Croaker, head of Unfathomable recruitment and a member of the small, very secretive department.
"Your reputation precedes you, Miss Granger." Meg's voice was the literal embodiment of her family name, and I found out later that she had been one of Augustus Rookwood's victims during the First Voldemort Rising.
I had accepted her offered hand. "I'd like to say the same, Madam Croaker, but I've never heard of you before."
She had laughed at that, and nodded her head, sharply reminding me of the late Mad-Eye Moody. "That's extremely good to hear. Come along now, we have much to discuss."
I followed the wand-thin witch into the depths of the Ministry and I've never looked back.
Five intensive years later, I strode along the torch-lit corridor and counted the plain black doors… seven… ten… eleven… finally pressing my palm flat on number thirteen. Recognizing my touch, the door opened silently. My superstitious Muggle mother would have been horrified by my office number, but Arithmantically it symbolized several things: hard work, the development of order out of chaos, and being part of a team. Mum would have thought that suited me perfectly. It did.
Stepping into the austere office with dove gray walls, I removed the Hide In Plain Sight bracelets from my wrists. They were a prototype I've been developing over the past several months for Magical Law Enforcement. They temporarily altered one's appearance at the cellular level, and were a better disguise than the methods currently in use.
Today's in-the-field practicum was a complete success.
It was my eighth successful venture outside the Ministry's walls, and my fourth in Knockturn Alley where Hermione Granger would be too easily recognized, not to mention, entirely unwelcome. I've taken to looking markedly different during each trial run, setting the fine adjustments of the gold and platinum bands to alter my hair and eye color, and on one excruciating trip, my height.
In my search for esoteric uses of magic, traveling incognito has been extremely beneficial. I've been able to gather information in the most unlikely places. As an Auror, Ron would have to arrest the majority of my sources, but I wasn't constrained by inflexible and sometimes ridiculous laws.
The bracelets jangled in my hand as I passed the head-height fireplace I used for Floo calls year-round and warmth in the winter, and slipped behind my desk. The only thing on its ebony surface was the hand-carved Rowan case for my H.I.P.S, as Davy Gudgeon, my Charms partner, called them.
Carefully replacing the bracelets in the box, I spoke a single word to activate the cabinet on my left. I called it the Cupboard of Requirement, and I was the first Unfathomable to know how it worked. My unconventional experiences at Hogwarts had prepared me well.
Placing the Rowan box on its shelf, the cupboard appeared to swallow the box, presenting instead another shelf laden with a granite basin. Carved runes encircled the basin's lip, and silver light shimmered from its depths. It was my Pensieve.
The swirling silver strands within the granite basin were a sequential timeline of the H.I.P.S. field trips. Fingering the carved runes, I remembered the first time Harry had told me about this marvelous tool. I had been fascinated by the concept of isolating memory strands, but Harry had never found my calling them home movies funny.
I fidgeted, and firmly told myself to quit stalling.
For some reason, I was hesitant to review my encounter with Snape. It was unlike me to be so reluctant. Rarely have I shied away from unpleasant tasks – well, except for that Boggart my third year in DADA and the final encounter with the red-eyed snake-man. In fact, my morning's task of sorting through our stock of potions ingredients, from the mundane to the rare, had given me the reason to go to Knockturn Alley.
Two of my colleagues could brew that most temperamental of potions, Wolfsbane, and the Unfathomables kept a monthly supply for the newest addition to our ranks, Gabrielle Delacour. She was Fenrir Greyback's final victim and unique in the wizarding world: part-Veela, part-werewolf, and part-witch. She was exceedingly bright, and most-deservedly an Unfathomable. Gabrielle and I were the youngest of the eleven-person department.
Bill Weasley had avenged himself, Remus Lupin, and Gabrielle the night Greyback had defiled his young sister-in-law. Regrettably, it had been Bill's last act. Some of my worst nightmares were of that fatal skirmish. At that point, so near the end of the war, Bill had been the only other living member of Ron's family. When the curse-breaker died, Ron had been inconsolable.
Sitting at my pristine desk, I couldn't prevent the memories flooding my mind. The night Bill had died was also the night I lost my virginity. Harry had gone to break the news personally to the Delacours while Ron had fallen apart in my arms.
"How can I be the last? They're all better'n me… every one of 'em… even that git Percy!" He had howled his anguish and put his fist through a wall in the dilapidated old house in which we were hiding. "Fuck! Fuck! 'Mione … help—"
Tears had streamed down his face, and I soothed him in the most primal way a woman could. I've never regretted it, only the subsequent attempts at a relationship which could never work between us. We lasted as a couple for three tumultuous months, until Remus Lupin was killed by Peter Pettigrew in a duel which showed the depravity to which the traitor had sunk.
Ron had cast his first Sectumsempra that day, killing his former familiar.
I pressed my forehead to the cool surface of my desk, keening softly in my throat. If these were the sorts of things I was going to relive because of my encounter with Snape, then I hoped never to see him again.
Those memories were carefully walled-up, and only brought out when Ron would show up at my flat, half-pissed and clutching a fifth of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. "Hey, 'mione," he would slur. "D'you 'member when Hagrid tol' Harry 'n me to follow th' spiders?"
His blue eyes would be haunted, and I never turned him away.
"No, Ron. I was Petrified in the hospital wing when you visited Aragog. Why don't you come in and tell me all about it?"
I would usher him into the sitting room, bracing his long body against mine. Those nights were difficult and I always ended up hung-over and stroppy the next day.
Those first two years after the end of the war, Ron had found his way to my place about once a month, but it had tapered off to once a year now. It was never on the expected anniversary of Voldemort's defeat. Instead, we both still crumbled on September first, the date the three of us had first laid eyes on each other.
Abruptly irritated with myself, I sat up and scrubbed my face with my fingers as if I could rub off the unexpectedness of seeing Snape again or the upwelling of memories that seeing him had caused. Withdrawing my holly wand from my left sleeve – a gift from Arthur Weasley after mine had been broken saving George's life from Bellatrix Lestrange - I pressed its tip to my temple. I pushed the memory of George's death three weeks later from my conscious mind, and thought of ancient Mr. Pennyweight.
Removing a memory strand is a peculiar, almost painful sensation - like an amputation. You can feel the excision from deep within your brain; sometimes it's only a nick, and then, at other times, it feels as if you've cleaved your brain in half. This memento was multi-stranded, including both the conversation with the Apothecary as well as my brush against Snape.
Wincing as I made the extraction, a thick, silvery thread dangled from the tip of my wand. It clung like spider's web to the holly, and I shook it off, adding it to my half-full Pensieve. Discrete strands cycled in a lazy ouroboros, gleaming in the candlelight of my office.
With another flick of my wand, my office door swung shut, and my personal security spells locked into place. I scooted my chair close to the desk, swishing my wand in a clockwise arc over the bowl, ensuring the memory would unfold in timely fashion. Once, I accidentally entered a Pensieve revolving widdershins, and had been completely disoriented by a backward flowing event.
No more stalling.
I swallowed hard, and dipped my head into the stream of glowing light.
One gets used to the initial disorientation of time and space, and I righted myself within seconds, landing neatly on the metaphoric balls of my feet on the stained, uneven cobblestones of the infamous alley. Quickly looking around the narrow lane, the hag selling poorly-Charmed timepieces from a rickety cart held together by magic was exactly where she had been that morning.
My memory-self passed me, and no one could recognize Hermione Granger in the blonde, grey-eyed witch wearing traditional pure-blood robes. She could easily have been taken for one of Lucius Malfoy's by-blows. It was a look carefully crafted to engender nervousness and acceptance in the seamier parts of wizarding London. It worked beautifully.
I watched as my disguised-self stopped to sneer properly at the hag's wares, and then stepped past to the entrance of Pennyweight's Apothecary, one of the better frequented shops at the bend of Knockturn Alley. As memory-Hermione grasped the old brass knob, the door swung inward, pulling her rather gracelessly into the shop. She stumbled awkwardly over the uneven wooden flooring, and would have fallen had it not been for the tenacious grip of the customer exiting.
While watching the brief encounter unfold, I rubbed my left bicep, where the customer had grabbed me. His grip had been so strong I would probably bruise. A fleeting thought about the disparity of strength to appearance danced through my brain while my other self stammered a thank you to the taller, older wizard in robes which were a far sight worse than those Remus Lupin used to wear.
Memory and visual cues replayed before me.
"So sorry. Thank you, sir." My earlier, disguised self looked at glittering eyes in a pale, ascetic face. A deep furrow marked the separation between his brows, almost an extension of the most prominent feature on his face: his hooked nose.
"You would save yourself the apology if you paid closer attention, madam." He practically sneered the words, but quickly bent to retrieve the package he had dropped when my memory-self knocked against his too-thin body.
It was indeed Severus Snape.
I chastised myself for not having recognized him instantly. Mad-Eye would have hexed me, and deservedly so.
In hindsight, it was easy to see how bloodshot Snape's eyes were and how badly his hands shook when clinging to his package. My memory-self had already been looking beyond him, dismissing the moment as a brief inconvenience with an anonymous stranger.
My present self's attention was entirely focused on my former professor.
Snape paused while straightening and seemed to inhale deeply as if a boar-hound scenting buried fungi. He looked out at the street, his eyes scanning the passersby in quick darting glances. His gaze settled fleetingly on the hag before giving one sharp shake of his head, causing his long, extremely shiny hair to reflect the sun and ripple in stringy hanks around his narrow face. He turned toward the blonde, H.I.P.S. version of myself and a thoughtful expression briefly crossed his face.
He pocketed his paper-wrapped parcel, and from my vantage point of watching the memory, I noticed his ebony wand clutched in his other hand. Snape's grip was white-knuckled, and I wondered what in the world he had bought.
My memory-self had turned to him once more, a half-smile on her lips. "I really am sorry for inconveniencing you, sir."
With a sharp nod, he swept from the building and into the lane. Memory-Hermione turned to watch him walk away, and from my perspective now, I thought it rather sad his robes no longer billowed. My fanciful notion died along with my reminiscent smile as the small hairs at the nape of my neck stood on end, and a frisson of prescience slithered up my spine.
I had seen that view of Snape before.
Those shabby robes, the same shiny hair, the same odd posture were a familiar sight. A recent sight. Still grappling with the enormity of that realization, I was startled when the Pensieved memory continued inside Pennyweight's.
My blonde-self entered the shop, and I railed at her for my negligent attention. Granted, my curiosity was piqued later, but not soon enough, damn it! I should have known Snape no matter how many years it had been since we were on speaking terms.
The soft-edged memory continued.
"Does madam require assistance after her stumble?" The shopkeeper had come from behind his counter. Mr. Pennyweight was short, plump and smelled like a combination of brandy and cigars.
Memory-Hermione had quickly put him at his ease, asking after the aconite. When he returned with a fresh supply of the herb from his storeroom, she inspected the leaves – one never purchased ingredients from the front of this Apothecary.
Disparaging my complacence during peace time, I gave the next bit of the memory my undivided attention. My disguised-self had placed an order for bezoars. In my line of work, the occasional poisoning isn't unheard of, and I've never forgotten Harry's saving Ron's life with one.
This was the important bit of the memory.
I asked, "Was that wizard who helped me a frequent customer?"
The old man's eyes immediately snapped to my H.I.P.S. face. "Why do you ask, Miss…?"
"Brocklehurst, sir. Penelope Brocklehurst," she had replied smoothly. The Brocklehursts were a prolific pureblood family, some of whom had fought with the Ministry and some of whom had been Death Eaters.
Pennyweight didn't question the authenticity of her parentage, and she had pressed on with her inquiry. "I just thought to thank the gentleman more properly if I was to encounter him again. I could have taken a nasty fall."
Since there was a display of snap-toads swimming in a large, glass aquaria at the front of the store, it was a plausible excuse.
Mr. Pennyweight avoided looking her in the eye. "I wouldn't say he's a frequent customer, Miss Brocklehurst, but he comes in from time-to-time. Shall I pass on your regards?"
"I would be most appreciative, sir."
There was nothing in the rest of the conversation to claim my interest, but then my eye caught sight of a small vial filled with a viscous, almost-black liquid. It had been hastily tucked behind a sack of fresh peppermint leaves, and it had a distinctive gold stopper.
It was blood.
I stared at the vial for several minutes as the Pensieved memory played out.
What kind of blood?
It was an extremely rare ingredient. There were few potions which incorporated it in their end-products; most of those were Dark, and many illegal.
After Snape left, there was no one other than the owner and me in the shop. Regardless of the type, blood was too expensive a commodity to leave out of regulated storage for long. I made the intuitive, half-informed assumption that the vial of blood related to Snape's visit. What had he wanted with it?
Surmising the small bottle was in close proximity to other ingredients Snape had purchased or looked over, I leaned across the counter to see what else was next to the vial. The fresh peppermint leaves I had already noticed, but there was another bag adjacent to the aromatic herb. It held a small quantity of dried leaves, generally oval in shape with tapering ends. The leaves were a uniform deep-green on the upper side, and grey-green on the lower surface.
Instinctively, I inhaled deeply, hoping to identify the leaves from their scent only to remember that smells didn't accompany Pensieved memories. The memory ended while my eyes were still focused on the leaves. At this point, my head was filled with more questions than answers.
I closed my eyes, concentrated and abruptly returned to my office.
It was a given that Potions Master Snape would be a consistent Pennyweight's customer, and was most likely the purchaser of the blood, origin unknown, the dried leaves, origin also unknown, and the fresh peppermint.
Why did it matter?
He might never have been nice to me, and he might have had conflicted loyalties, but Snape's actions had saved my life time and again, and without his help, Voldemort would not have been defeated.
And he had really looked terrible.
The thought startled me. He had looked as awful now as he had at the end of the war: all nerve and nose.
Ron had laughed when he heard me say that the first time. But later, after it was all over, I had commented that surely Snape could get some well-earned rest. Ron had said rather cruelly, "Too bad it's not the permanent kind."
To my chagrin, I had been too numb, too wounded to correct him, but that conversation was prominent in my thoughts now. Today's Snape didn't look as if he had benefitted from a decent night's sleep in decades. In fact, if I were honest, he looked worse than he had then.
Never before had I wondered what happened to my former teacher.
Now my curiosity was piqued.
A whirring, clunking noise drew my attention to the Cupboard of Requirement responding to my unvoiced need. It shifted to offer parchment and an assortment of writing paraphernalia. Smiling, I grabbed foolscap, quill, and a bottle of green ink. Green was the color for a project's initial stages.
Jotting down the salient points of my experience with Snape, I included his notable physical characteristics: 'shiny, possibly oily hair; pale skin (no blemishes); bright eyes (blood-shot and red-rimmed); too-thin frame (does he eat?); nervous, almost paranoid behavior (he was a spy); and almost incongruous strength.'
Next, a list of questions, including: 'What is he brewing and why? Is his appearance related to his eating habits? Does he have enough food to eat? Is he ill? Where have I seen him before and how many times?'
Another sheet of parchment and another list: 'Snape's potion requires blood, fresh peppermint and another type of leaf (origin unknown).'
I racked my brain for all the potions I knew which required peppermint, from a simple tisane to settle an upset stomach to a variant of Wit-Sharpening Potion. There hadn't been any ginger or armadillo bile on the counter, which discounted the Wit-Sharpening Potion.
It didn't seem plausible that Snape was brewing something Dark. It would be illegal and he wasn't a stupid man. I scribbled another note to check the terms of his sentence.
Nibbling on my lower lip, a habit from school, I considered another dip into the Pensieve to check the memories of all my recent Apothecary visits. I knew I had seen Snape before today, but couldn't place where or exactly when.
A magical knock and a projected voice interrupted my thoughts. "'Ermione? Are you ready for lunch?"
It was Gabrielle.
Today was the last day before the full moon when she would be sequestered in her office for the following forty-eight hours. Waving my wand at the door, she entered as soon as the last security spell was released. She had grown into the promise of her early beauty and was blonde, lithe, and stunning. As a result of her attack, however, she'd become quite reserved.
"Sorry, 'elle. I lost track of time." I reluctantly left the Pensieve in place.
"Je comprends," she said. Sometimes she slipped and spoke French to me, and having spent a number of childhood holidays across the Channel, I understood her for the most part. Her eyes lit on the luminous glow from the stone basin, but she didn't ask about it, and I didn't offer any answers. It was an unwritten code in our department.
"Where shall we go today?" I palmed the lock on my door before following her down the corridor.
"I thought we could go to the Leaky Cauldron," Gabrielle said, and then she blushed prettily.
"Really?" I was surprised. She usually hated eating at the Leaky Cauldron. It was too dark and too busy for her tastes, even though it reminded me of all the reasons the wizarding world had first appealed to me.
Initially, Gabrielle and I had gravitated toward one another because of our shared history, the fact that we had survived the war, and our positions as the youngest members of an unmentionable department within the Ministry. As we worked together, we had begun to share confidences.
Surprisingly, her love life was more barren than mine. I had dated a few times since the war, mostly Muggles and one disastrous attempt to rekindle a youthful infatuation with Viktor Krum. After the fifth time I went out with a wizard who wanted to know the sordid details about 'the final battle,' and 'what was it like to know him - you know, Harry Potter?' Very quickly, I grew cautious about dating.
When Gabrielle continued to flush as we ascended the stairs, my suspicions were aroused. "'elle, you didn't?"
She wouldn't meet my eyes, and I knew she had invited someone to join us. At some point in our friendship, she had put me in the role of older sister, and sought my approval for the wizards she dated. To date, none had gained my approval.
"But thees one eez different, 'ermione. Really." She nodded emphatically, and her hair rippled like a sheet of hammered silver.
"All right. Who is he?"
By this time, we had reached the Atrium and crossed to the wall of fireplaces. Gabrielle grabbed a handful of grainy Floo Powder and tossed it into the flames. "You'll see." She winked mischievously, then turned to the fireplace and said clearly, "The Leaky Cauldron."
In a flare of green-tinged fire, she was gone.
I resigned myself to a horrid lunch with some Veela-enchanted wizard and grabbed my own handful of Floo Powder before someone cut in front of me.
The Leaky Cauldron hadn't changed much in all the years I had been going there. It was still a little shabby looking. There were several witches who looked as if they had come up from the country for the day, and in the corner were two hags sharing a number twelve cauldron of stew. Seated near the door to Charing Cross Road was a warlock wearing Wizengamot robes, having what appeared to be a steak and kidney pie while reading Charms for the Modern Age.
Gabrielle's shining blonde hair was like a flag waving, and I made my way toward her as she was hugging a tall, lean wizard. He was bent over, obscuring my view, until he straightened.
I gasped, "Ron!"
"Hello, Hermione," he said, and pulled me into a ferocious hug. He had been abroad on assignment for Magical Law Enforcement for the past several months, and I didn't know he was back in England.
When he let me go, I turned toward the smirking blonde. "You were holding out on me."
She laughed, and the musical sound rippled through the aged building. Several heads turned in our direction and one young wizard stood abruptly, staring at Gabrielle as if she was the Rosetta Stone and he had been searching for it his entire life.
Ron took one step in the bedazzled man's direction, blocking his view. It was entirely chivalrous and there was a protective quality to my oldest friend's gesture.
I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. "Is there something you two want to tell me?"
A flush stained Ron's cheeks. I hadn't seen him look so young in years.
"Well, er, yeah," he began to say.
Gabrielle jumped in with both feet. "I'm in love with Ron."
I sat down abruptly and stared at them. The looks on their faces told me their relationship was new, it was precious, and it was serious. My heart lurched and tears welled in my eyes.
"All right, 'Mione?" Ron asked, concern readily apparent on his face.
"All right? Of course, I'm all right! This is wonderful. Tell me everything."
The floodgates opened. They had told no one of their relationship, which began quite innocently when Gabrielle ventured into the Muggle grocery, Sainsbury's, near Ottery St. Catchpole, where Ron still lived in his family's home. They had ended up making dinner together and talking over old times.
After the first effusive minutes of listening to the minute details of their first date, my ears seemed to shut off and my thoughts strayed to enigma of Snape.
"Ron," I said abruptly, "can you find out about Severus Snape's Wizengamot sentence?" My face grew hot as he stopped speaking mid-sentence. "Er… sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."
Gabrielle gave me a pointed look, our fish and chips arrived, and Ron replied, "Nah, it's alright, 'Mione." He shared a look with his girlfriend. "We know how you are."
When I raised an eyebrow they both laughed, and a rueful grin tugged at my mouth. "All right, all right. So I'm a horrible friend who doesn't want to know how many mussels there were in the bouillabaisse. Sorry." We all laughed, and then I asked, "So, do you know about Snape, Ron?"
"No. I can find out if it's important." He took a large bite of his fish while he asked the question. His manners were not what they had been when he was a teen, but they were still quite casual. Gabrielle handed him a serviette, which he accepted with good grace.
There was a winsome quality in the way they interacted which distracted me from my question. In just that one interaction between the two, their long and happy life seemed as clear as prophesy was ambiguous. Ron would never have accepted criticism from me so placidly, and in truth, I would never have offered it so discreetly.
"Hermione?"
I realized I was smiling rather fatuously at them. "Sorry. It's just nice to see you both happy. Look, I don't know how important the Snape thing is. It's… I'm just curious."
Ron gave me a shrewd look. "I'll memo you as soon as I get into the office."
"Floo me, instead." It was a subtle way of asking him to keep the inquiry confidential. Over the years, we had perfected a shorthand form of communication, and he nodded with complete understanding.
Lunch was fun, and my two companions left me to stop at Slug & Jiggers in Diagon Alley while they walked back to the Ministry together.
Crossing the threshold into the large shop, its customary sulfuric smell hit my nostrils. Raptor claws and wildflowers hung from the rafters, and barrels of ingredients crowded the floor. The sunlight was highly filtered to prevent its harsh rays leaching the potency from raw ingredients. Behind the counter was a floor-to-ceiling wall of shelves filled with canisters, tins, and other assorted jars holding all manner of items.
I stared at the row of glass jars containing several varieties of peppermint, lost in thought.
"May I help you, Miss Granger?"
I turned to meet the intelligent, green eyes of Robert Boyle's great-grandson. It took me three years before I could look into his eyes. It hadn't mattered that he and Harry weren't related. "Mr. Boyle, it's nice to see you again."
"Is there something in particular you're looking for?" He adjusted his practical robes, and switched the jars containing spearmint and lemon peppermint.
Glancing over my shoulder, I made certain we were alone in the area. I'd grown less cautious over the years from my war-time paranoia, but the morning's reminder had been unsettling. "Is it possible to step into your office for a moment?"
It was an unusual request, and he took an involuntary step backwards before leading the way toward his office.
We wound through aisles of dried fungi and other hand-picked flora, then down my least favorite aisle past the dried Horklump display. It was the 'eye' aisle. In my years living as a witch, I've learned to deal with raw potions ingredients, but never quite managed to quell my revulsion for using eyeballs in potions. Passing the newts, sheep, kelpie, kappa, and grindylow jars, I ignored the variegated orbs staring in all directions.
Neither of us spoke until we were inside Boyle's office with an Imperturbable protecting the door. He ushered me to a guest chair, and then sat behind his scarred oak desk.
"I had thought all this unpleasantness was behind us."
"I'm not suggesting otherwise, sir. However, I have a rather sensitive question to ask you."
He relaxed, but was still, quite obviously, on his guard.
"It's actually two questions. One, has Severus Snape been purchasing supplies from you, and two, has he ever asked you to provide blood?"
"Miss Granger!" He leapt to his feet.
I didn't visibly react; I simply stared at him.
It had taken years for me to finally learn the value of a closed mouth. In most circumstances, by waiting long enough, the information would come spilling out a source's mouth.
This instance was no exception.
By the time I left John Boyle's office, my curiosity about Snape's activities had evolved into morbid fascination – and more than a little worry – that a wizard of his capabilities had sunk to such base and vulgar depths.
It seemed that Severus Snape had become an addict.
The unidentifiable leaves from Pennyweight's were coca leaves, and while they weren't illegal in the wizarding world as they were in the Muggle world, there were strong precautions about their use. In fact, they were one of the ingredients in a standard Pepperup Potion and several variants of an Invigoration Draught. It was common to find N.E.W.T.-level students drinking mild infusions of coca leaves steeped in peppermint tea during intense periods of revision. However, coca leaves were highly addictive with prolonged use.
It was almost a given that Snape had been using them regularly, for a number of years. Remembered snippets of phrases and conversations bounced around my mind as I returned to my office.
"Doesn't he ever sleep?"
"He's a vampire, I tell you. He's always awake at night."
"Snape took thirty points from Ravenclaw, just because I was out after curfew."
During the height of the war, when his life had been hanging by a word, Snape consistently met with McGonagall at four o'clock in the morning. She used to complain that he was too 'perky' for her tastes. Ron and Harry used to laugh until they cried over the concept of a perky Snape.
According to Boyle's information, he had supplied Snape with a number of raw materials - coca leaves, peppermint, and ginger among them - in bulk quantities for several of years.
I wasn't really surprised. Most everyone I knew lived off stimulants of one sort or another during the end of the war. That's when I discovered espresso in triple shots.
But Snape continued to require the stimulating ingredients after the war was over, and his needs had altered to more dangerous substances. He began to purchase Re'em blood, which was an expensive and rare commodity. It was used in potent Strengthening Solutions, and similar to Muggle steroids, was prohibited from use in Magical Sports.
Boyle had provided Snape with Re'em blood on occasion, certainly less frequently than Snape requested it. However, the real falling out between the former Order of the Phoenix colleagues occurred two years before, and it had been irreparable.
"I have a respectable trade and I intend to keep it, Miss Granger," Boyle said.
Apparently in addition to the other raw materials and ingredients Snape had frequently purchased – he had consistently ordered every item on the standard N.E.W.T. year list – he had asked Boyle to acquire a highly questionable ingredient: powdered Chinese Fireball egg. It was a Class A Non-Tradeable commodity. Had he been caught, Mr. Boyle would have lost his business, and earned an extended stay in Azkaban.
The information was troubling, and I returned to the Ministry.
As soon as I entered my office, I flung my outer robes across the single guest-chair before settling my behind my desk and grabbing a quill.
With Boyle's information, it was easy to make an educated guess that the blood I had seen at Pennyweight's was Re'em blood, and the leaves I couldn't identify were coca. I amended the chart I had begun earlier, adding powdered dragon's egg and ginger to it.
I knew next to nothing about dragon's eggs in potions making, so I twirled my chair to face my second cupboard. It was one of the perquisites which had swayed my decision to join the Unfathomables. I remembered the first time I laid eyes upon the tri-cornered cupboard. It had been the day of my interview with Meg Croaker. She ushered me into her office and unfurled a scroll with my Hogwarts records, including marks for every subject I had taken as a student in addition to the extra-curricular adventures Harry, Ron and I had stumbled into.
She had given me an assessing once-over, and asked in her rough voice, "You're a Muggle-born, aren't you?"
I had stiffened at the question. I didn't know her at all well, even if she was Professor Vector's friend. But the war was over, and I had chosen to take the question at face value. "Yes. Does that matter?"
"Just verifying data." Meg had opened a tall, black, corner cupboard revealing shelves upon shelves of books, spinning as if they were on a carousel. "Muggle-borns, Granger," she demanded.
The shelves ceased to spin, and a single, slender volume had obligingly thrust itself off the shelf and into her hands. I had been entranced… in lust….
I had wanted one of those cupboards fiercely.
I had been too busy trying to read the titles on the shelves to notice when Meg finished her fact-checking. Her harsh bark of laughter had grabbed my attention, though.
"If you decide to accept our offer, Miss Granger, and if the rest of the team agrees on your inclusion, then your office will have a book nook." She had patted the side of the cupboard and the books began to spin once again.
"Do I need to bring my books into the office then?"
"I don't think you understand. These nooks are directly connected with the Ministry's central library. We have access to a copy of every magical book printed since before Gutenberg decided to educate Muggles."
The idea of having such a wealth of knowledge available to me sweetened whatever offer the Unfathomables might have made. Invariably, it has become one of Meg's standing jokes. "I'm not sure we ever needed to pay Hermione a salary. She would've donated her time just to have access to the book nook."
It took me a year before I realized every Unfathomable felt exactly the same way.
Suddenly, a leather-bound book leapt into my hands, ending my momentary nostalgia. It was dark green, and its title read, Class A Non-Tradeables: Potions Ingredients. The volume was fairly heavy and magically expandable. It grew or shrunk with the addition or deletion of the Wizengamot's decisions.
Fortunately, the book was arranged alphabetically and not according to the chronological date of an ingredient's inclusion, and that made finding the entry regarding the Chinese Fireball (or Liondragon) easy. There was an accompanying photograph of a fully mature scarlet dragon, a golden fringe of spikes around its face and protuberant eyes, guarding her clutch of mottled red and golden flecked eggs. I skimmed the entry, growing increasingly uneasy with the information I read.
A flare of green lit the room and Ron's voice echoed through my small fireplace. "Hermione, lift the Privacy Spell."
With a quick wave of my wand and a non-verbal spell, Ron's head was soon poking through green-tinged flames.
"Snape's files are locked down pretty tight."
I frowned, and he noticed.
"I take it you don't want to make this an official inquiry, then? It would only take your signature."
"I'd rather not cause trouble for him just because I'm satisfying my curiosity."
"Poor bastard probably doesn't need the attention."
"What do you mean?"
"We're not kids anymore." He looked at me expectantly.
I rolled my eyes. "Ron, I need a little more explanation than that."
"He was a right git when we were kids, but even that first year at school… you know, 'Mione. Quirrell was there."
I remembered the events of first year, how frightening solving Snape's puzzle had been, and how brave Ron and Harry were. "I know. It didn't get any easier, did it?"
"It still hasn't, really. When I was in training, we spent a week analyzing Snape's involvement in the war."
"You did?"
"Yeah. I always thought he wanted to kill Dumbledore, but when we studied Snape's espionage tactics, I realized I was wrong. There's loads of times he saved Harry's life when he didn't have to."
"And yours, and mine."
"Right. He's ruddy brilliant, remember his book?"
I did indeed remember the half-blood Prince's book. Ron didn't require an answer from me, but I nodded anyway.
His tone became thoughtful. "Snape never seemed to take the easy way, did he? It would have been easy for him to deliver Harry or one of us to V-Voldemort. Other prisoners liked to talk about the numbers of times Snape was Crucio'd. He could easily have double-crossed Dumbledore, but Snape followed Dumbledore's orders, no matter the cost. He could have gone into hiding like Malfoy, but he didn't. He could have chosen to die on the battlefield instead of facing charges, but he didn't. He's only once chosen the easy way rather than the right way."
"I never really thought about it in these terms."
"I never understood why Dad—" Ron swallowed hard, "—why Dad respected Snape as much as he did. I do now. I think it's because we're not kids anymore that we can see it."
I blinked my eyes rapidly. It was unexpected that he had given so much thought to Snape's circumstances, and I was ashamed of myself for never having recognized the enormity of the acerbic wizard's sacrifices. "I don't quite know what to say, except I'm more curious than ever."
"You want me to call in a favor?"
I looked into my friend's clear eyes and open expression, and knew I'd been very lucky that Halloween night all those years ago. "Would it be a very big one?"
"Yeah, probably."
"What I really want to know is how he's surviving."
"Now that you've mentioned it, I do, too. I'll call in that favor."
"I appreciate it."
"It'll probably be tomorrow before I have the information, though."
"It's all right, there's no real rush." Saying that, I felt an odd sort of foreboding. Snape had looked dreadful that morning. "But if you can…"
Ron grinned at me, his dimples flashing in his green-tinted skin. "I'll try to have it by elevenses tomorrow."
"Ta, Ron!" I smiled at him.
"Later, 'Mione." And with a quick flare of green, he was gone.
He'd given me a lot to think about.
I decided to take a walk. Sometimes I thought more clearly when I was moving. Tucking my wand into my sleeve, I left the office, and wandered the halls deep within the Department of Mysteries.
After several minutes, I paused to poke my head through Aurelius Flint's open doorway. He was in his late forties and looked very much like his mother's side of the family. He was related to Molly Weasley, and I could sometimes see my surrogate mother's smile in his. Aurelius stood behind his desk, shouting authors' names and titles which I assumed corresponded to the bound volumes leaping from his book nook and onto his desk.
My tapping on his doorframe interrupted his concentration, and when he turned to look at me a book smacked him in the shoulder.
"Sorry, Flinty. I was curious about something."
Apparently anyone who knew me knew that my curiosity was a driving force, because Aurelius shifted his attention to me. The bookshelves continued to spin, but he ignored them. "And what might that be, little Gryff?"
He had graduated from Slytherin three years before Snape, and we had played up our House rivalry when I first joined the department. He was Marcus Flint's uncle, but his branch of the family had never been Death Eaters. He was a dab hand at Potions, and was one of the two Unfathomables who brewed Wolfsbane.
"What do you know about powdered Chinese Fireball eggs?"
His gray-flecked eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. I could see the unspoken 'don't ask, don't tell' rule being sorely tested. "I strongly suggest you don't eat any unless you have some magically activated charcoal or a bezoar or a broad-spectrum antidote for poison on hand."
"Poison?" I asked. What the hell was Snape doing with a poisonous substance? "I hadn't ever heard it was poisonous. Is that why it's a Class A—"
"—Non-Tradeable?" He raked his blunt fingers through his shaggy hair. "That, and the fact it's highly addictive. The eggshells, which comprise sixty percent or more of the powder, contain arsenikon as one of two active ingredients."
"Arsenikon?"
"Better known in Britain as arsenic."
I sucked in my breath. "Then why would anyone ever—"
"Ingest it?"
I nodded, slightly aggravated that he hadn't let me finish my question, but I was too interested in his answer to say anything.
"Well, there's no question that Strengthening Solutions remain stable for longer periods of time when a pinch of dragon's egg powder is included in the brewing process. It's also an excellent stabilizer for stimulant infusions using coca leaves and, in trace amounts, the side effects are controllable."
I was suddenly cold and wrapped my arms around myself. "What are the long-term effects of its use?"
He narrowed his eyes at me, taking in my stance. "You haven't been using it, have you?"
"No!" My denial was vehement. "But I might know someone who has."
"Effects of long-term use are consistently lethal. If you know someone who's not only been able to acquire a Chinese Fireball's egg, but has used it for longer than a year, then you'd better prepare for their funeral, little Gryff."
"That's… that's… oh, Merlin," I whispered.
"Hermione?"
"What?" He never called me by my first name, and I looked at his concerned expression. "Oh, yes, I'm fine. I appreciate the information, Flinty. Thank you."
I left his office, increasingly alarmed regarding Snape's possible… probable fate.
All my brain could think about was Snape's condition as I had seen him earlier: his bloodshot eyes, his too-thin body, and his shaking hand clutching that paper-wrapped package.
It was none of my business.
Was it?
Snape had never liked me, especially as I was Harry's friend. But he had saved my life as both child and woman, and I had never even given his welfare a second or third thought. I was so consumed by my own grief, and then by the building of a life from the ashes of the war to care what happened to him.
Unexpectedly, fiercely, I didn't want Snape to die.
I began to laugh. I didn't even know anything about him: where he lived, how he lived, whether he was married, or even if he had children. Maybe I was leaping to conclusions with insufficient evidence. Sloppy scholarship, I know.
Nevertheless, my instincts told me he was in trouble and had nowhere to turn.
Somehow, I ended up in the Hall of Prophesy. Its wall sconces burned blue; thousands of glass orbs waiting for fruition or destruction gave off a crystalline shine to the cold, cavernous room. I walked swiftly to row ninety-seven, eyed its repaired shelves, and sank to the floor.
My throat tightened and my eyelids prickled. I would have died here if it hadn't been for Snape's warning. Harry had refused to acknowledge his debt to Snape, but sitting in the shadow of those memories, I was able to recognize mine.
The floor was cold and I ignored it, but some time later, I realized wallowing in guilt wasn't going to get me anywhere. I needed to confirm whether Snape had been using the dragon's egg powder, and if so, for how long and at what dosage.
I completely ignored the little voice in my mind telling me that he would not welcome my interference. At the age of sixteen I had knitted four hundred hats for the house-elves of Hogwarts in a futile, Quixote-like effort to free the enslaved creatures. At twenty-five, I might be tilting at a windmill, but this time I had a better horse and an indestructible lance.
First, though, I needed to sort through my memories and attempt to chart Snape's physical symptoms. Swiftly putting thought to action, I stood, brushed off my trousers, and strode down to the tenth floor. It was time to take a dip into the Pensieve again… and again… however many times it would take.
I knew I had seen Snape more than once, and his physical deterioration, or lack thereof, would help me decide whether to get involved or not.
If my suspicions were confirmed, I was going to have a little chat with Mr. Pennyweight about the illegal importation of Class A Non-Tradeable goods.
I set my chin.
Gentle persuasion when dealing with a reluctant source of information, especially in the name of a good cause, wasn't a task for the faint-of-heart.
~o0o~