Chasing the Domino

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended

Chapter Summary: Hermione Granger comes out of hiding at last. Snape makes his move.

Chapter 1: Raven's Nest

Hermione was a morning person these days. Despite waking in the cold, dark pre-dawn, she always felt fresh and new. The cold shower felt good on her skin after a night of tangled dreams and tangled sheets, and she was always eager to leave her box of a flat. She would dress quickly, eat meagrely, and slip silently into the sleeping street– the first waking creature of Raven Row.

It was easy to feel almost safe there. The street was dirty, the buildings ramshackle, and at night there were drunks and chavs. But she had been there for two months now and it almost felt like home. Nothing had happened to her beyond almost getting run over by a cab a few nights back, and she was tempted to stay for good.

Of course, she wouldn't. She was a wanted criminal and there was nowhere in Britain was she would be totally safe. Still, she had found a good hideaway and she might risk another month or two. No one would look for an Undesirable above a lamp shop in Stepney. And she even had a modicum of comfort. It was only a very short walk to the station, and then straight to the beating heart of muggle London.

It had been surprisingly difficult to find a muggle job and amazing how much she'd forgotten about her parents' world. Computers, for instance, were nothing like she remembered anymore and it seemed you couldn't get away from them no matter what you applied for. In the first month she'd had jobs in a restaurant, a pub and a department store – and had lost them all for clumsiness and prudishness and 'lack of people skills'. She'd lived in a hostel, a bedsit and one night in an alley.

But that was a year ago and she knew the game now. They weren't tracing her magic as far as she could tell, though she chanced few enough spells. Really, there was no need to once you figured out how. A forged resume was almost as good as an enchanted one to your average human resources type. Muggle hair-dye and make-up worked perfectly well for disguise. So she called herself Jane Puckle and got herself a job in a tiny bookshop with more basement than front and very few customers.

It was a bright, clear morning and Hermione enjoyed the short walk from the station through still-waking London. At the end of the street was the aforementioned tiny bookshop, wedged between a flat and a baker's. It had been painted bright blue in the previous decade, and bore across the single window display the somewhat anaemic title of "Lavinia's Secondhand Books". The light was on which meant that Lavinia(she of the sign) was already in.

It was the sort of place that had a brass bell for the door – the kind of place that had remained stubbornly quaint while the world surged around it. In hindsight, Hermione supposed that was why she'd chosen it. Once past the lurid blue, the interior of the shop was very pleasant with its neat rows of vintage books arranged on the rather cramped, but polished old shelves, its worn out floorboards ,threadbare rugs and unmistakeably bookish smell. The similarity to the Hogwarts library didn't escape Hermione.

In a way, Lavinia even reminded her of Madame Pince. She was a small woman with snow white hair in a bob, neat spectacles and a very rigid back. It was hard to say who had the more draconian standards on the care of books. But as with Pince, there was a trick to Lavinia. It was a matter of pride for Hermione that Lavinia liked Jane as much as Pince had liked her.

Lavinia was sitting at the little desk cum counter at the back of the shop, as she usually would be, with a stock list and tasks for the day. They shared the morning courtesies, Hermione doing her best impression of airy cheerfulness, before getting stuck into the ordinary business of moving, finding, stocking, tagging books and selling.

Nothing remarkable happened until lunchtime.

_...O..._

Snape was at his desk. It was an ostentatious thing in ebony and green dragonskin with carved Snakes and inlaid ivory. It had been a house-warming gift from Rabastan and Snape had to wonder if Lestrange hadn't confused him with Lucius. Or even if it had been intended for Lucius, before he lost his wits.

The house still felt new, though it was where Snape spent all his time these days doing the leftover business of the Rebellion for the Dark Lord. Severus Snape had lived although he couldn't remember how and - even more miraculously - the Dark Lord had come back for him. Snape had Potter's easy and humiliating defeat to thank for his Lord's forgiveness, perhaps. Or perhaps the Dark Lord simply could not afford to lose another seasoned supporter.

Whatever the reason, when the Dark Lord at last claimed his victory and took his coronation as Sovereign Lord of Britain, Severus Snape was given his place back and his share of spoils. Honours, titles, gold, and a reputation. He was reinstated as Headmaster, made a member of the Wizengamot and 'special correspondant' of the new Minister. In truth, Snape had no duties except to wait for the Dark Lord's call.

And brew a certain potion. Powdered Cinnabar, nectar of Ambrose, a bezoar, crushed amber, jelly of the African bee. And a pint of unicorn's blood. Brewed under the light of the full moon in a gold cauldron, then cooled and stoppered in crystal. Deep red and viscous. Cinnabar, Amber and Unicorn Blood for preservation, obviously. Bezoar to purge the body. Bee's jelly to nourish. It was potent restorative draught – a variant on the deathstopper for someone with a slowed metabolism, perhaps an instability of mind.

But who? The Dark Lord was in no danger now – Potter was dead and the Dark Lord was the master of the Elder Wand. He couldn't be killed even if anyone dared to try. Yet every month Snape made this curious potion and delivered it unquestioningly to the Dark Lord's own hand. To question openly was to die, now more than ever, and Snape needed to live.

And live in more style than he was used to. The house was as bigger than he knew what to do with, on sprawling grounds in the countryside near Yorkshire. It was an old building taken from a muggle family – they had called it Raven House - a suitable place for a half-blood overlord. He had a manicured garden he'd only seen from above, a lake, a hill, a view into a picturesque valley with a muggle village that one day he would be ordered to obliterate. It was almost feudal and reminded Snape that the Dark Lord had once named them the Knights of Walpurgis. He even had serfs – a sullen pair of Peacekeepers who patrolled his fences like hounds, and a squib in the kitchen.

So it was that Snape spent entire days at his ill-fitting desk serving the one master he had left.

This he was doing. In the morning he'd had a Floo call from the Chief Peacekeeper bringing urgent news. The Peacekeepers had caught scent of Longbottom, Lovegood and Ginny Weasley on a port at Calais but had lost them again. 'Vanished into thin air' was the phrase. Which could mean many things, but was especially suggestive of one.

So Snape had spent themorning looking over the problem. Spread across the aforementioned desk was his dossier on the Undesirables. A year old, they had been thumbed frequently and were beginning to curl at the edges. He lined them up, their faces blinking back at him. A pathetically small number of survivors of the final battle. McGonagall and Aberforth were missing. As was Granger. He amended the sheets for Ginny Weasley, Longbottom and Lovegood. Fled Abroad. Muggle Europe.

There were now certain actions he must take – and an urgency to his other project. He took out a bit of parchment and scrawled a quick note to the head of foreign affairs.

"Mr Chang,

Alert the European Ministries of the Undesirables Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood to arrive by boat or other means of muggle transport. To be captured alive and sensible.

-S. Snape"

For a moment he considered alerting the Dark Lord as well.

His Lord did not like to be kept ignorant of news, but neither did he like to be troubled for small matters. There had been no rebel act since the capture and execution of Molly Weasley six months ago and these three would not concern the Dark Lord as much as Snape's continued efforts in finding McGonagall and Dumbledore's brother.

No. This crumb of ill news could wait.

There was, however, business that couldn't wait now, in light of these three and that particular turn of phrase. He had been wavering about it for a fortnight. It was time to finally take action.

He quit the office and went upstairs to change out of his robes.

_...O..._

Hermione had dinner in a bistro on Charing Cross Road, opposite the Leaky Cauldron. It was too crowded, too loud, too expensive and by far too close to the Wizarding World. But she felt daring tonight. Not from courage, but from a confused and reckless fear. She needed to see the Leaky, to watch the people coming and going and to know what they were doing. And she was too scared to go home. If they – if he– was watching her, then she had to stay where there were people.

She had seen...well, she thougth she'd seen...in truth, it was only his hand she saw. And the shadowed profile. It could easily have been a muggle with a big nose and long fingers. And it had been across the road – she could easily have misidentified.

But the way he was bent over that paper, and the way his hands moved as he wrote– all sharp strokes and forceful turns - How often had she seen him do just that at his desk at the front of the class?

She had made sure to hide behind the curtain and only occasionally peep at him in the cafe across the way. He finished his lunch, finished his paper, and was gone within the hour. And, really, it might've been a muggle after all. The idea of Snape in a brown tweed jacket...

But he'd left that scrap of paper, hadn't he? And the writing –the writing! It was identical – she was sure of it! She'd deciphered it countless times for Harry and Ron. The overly tall 'T's ("Oh, Harry. A 'Troll'? Why didn't you read that book I gave you?"), the D's that looked like B's they so long was the stem, ("No, Ron, it doesn't say 'Breadful'...") and strange, cursive E's that were wholly out of place in the mass of spiky text ("Exceeds Expectations, Granger.") -

-it was his writing for sure.

No, there could be no doubt that Professor Snape had been in a muggle cafe across from where she worked.

Well.

She took another long swig of her wine for courage. Snape was Voldemort's right-hand man , a traitor, a spy, and a murderer. If he found her in thebookshop, then he probably was watching her now. He hadn't killed her all on the way, amidst all those muggles, and he hadn't attacked her now that she'd stopped. Which means- she forced herself to think, to rationalise - which means he'll wait until you're finished and it's dark and there are fewer people. He'll follow you home, or until you reach a quiet spot and then...would he kill you? No, idiot. He'd torture you for information, or bring you to Voldemort so he could do it himself.

That certainty of this outcome had a strangely calming effect. Harry and Ron were both dead. As far as she knew, so were the others. She had been on her own for a year and it was a year more than what everyone else had. She was nobody - it didn't matter squat if she died now. As to the information they wanted...they would never get that out of her, which was something. Voldemort was going to torture and kill her, but that information was untouchable now.

She drained her glass and ate her dinner with only mild hand tremors. And when she was done, she tipped all the cash she had. In all the time, she never looked away from the Leaky, but no one had left the building, nor had she heard any apparitions nearby. Which meant, probably, that the Snatchers had apparated remotely to lay an ambush for her. Maybe they already had her surrounded on all sides.

Should she walk boldly out the front and let them stun her? Should she prepare some last words about heroism and truth and sacrifices? No. As little hope as there was, she had to try . She could imagine how Harry and Ron would look – would feel – if she just gave herself up. She could use the bathroom window and sneak into the back alley. And – then – if there wasn't a Snatcher there, she'd use levitation to get herself onto the roofs, maybe. If she was silent, the Snatchers might not find her. If she wasn't, it was her duty to take down as many as she could.

She shook herself out of reverie. First things first. The bathroom window.

Casually, Hermione slipped her right hand into her coat pocket and found her wand. Without a backward glance, she made her way to the restrooms and pushed open the heavy door that proclaimed 'Ladies'.

All the stalls were empty and she breathed a sigh of relief for small mercies. The door was a slow-closing one and she had to wait a little before locking it with a silent wave. She stood in front of the mirror to cast a strong enough disillusionment charm – and managed to be excited that she was going to do her first bit of magic in months.

She never got the chance to raise her wand.

Her body went rigid, though she never heard the incantation, and, overbalanced, she fell backwards into thin air, towards the hard floor – only to be caught by an invisible, vice-like grip on her shoulders.

"You were not easy to find, Miss Granger," whispered the familiar, dangerous and disembodied voice of Severus Snape.

_...O..._

Author's Notes: A lot of action, but perhaps more questions raised than answered. Tune in next time for some clues at least.

-Zhangers