Disclaimer: Not mine.

Hermione's Son

Chapter 12

Hermione and Hugh travelled to London, using the longer train travel, she spending the time lost in a book, he playing his video games. After stopping in St. Mungo's for what she thought would be a quick trip, she settled Hugh into the cafeteria before finding the employment department. Although her resume met with stony silence and some disbelief that a witch such as the famous Hermione Granger would have reduced herself to a Muggle degree, they continued to have her fill out page after page of personal information and read over a pamphlet on policy and procedures while she waited.

"Excuse me." Hermione finally had enough sitting and waiting while the employment staff studied her cover letter and copies of certificates and diplomas, she had brought. "I have a child waiting downstairs. I didn't realize it would take so long. Perhaps I should talk to the Healer in charge of the lab. All my studies of human anatomy are in there. If you have problems with the Muggle terminology, I am sure that he …"

"Miss Granger," Healer Clough said, walking up behind her. "I saw your name on the appointment list and wanted to make sure I saw you. So sorry for the delay."

"Healer Clough." She held out her hand and had it warmly grasped in his. "How good to see you again. This is your project now?"

"Something I had never thought to hear from you," he chuckled and winked at her. "I will continue the interview." He took the papers from the clerks and started out the door, Hermione following after. "Yes, my project. However, it is meeting with some resistance. I am glad to see you have done so well."

"I never did finish my internship," she admitted.

"That doesn't matter here." He walked to his office as he read the file the employment office had put together, picking out a couple of pages and crumbling them. "Personal opinion pieces are not accepted here. Fine, every thing looks just fine. Now tell me," he waved her to a chair by his desk, "why do you want this position?"

"It is a field I enjoy, affords independent study and hopefully an honest review of my work. The position is also one with a future and a chance to advance in the field. I will say, I may be rusty on the reports and procedures. I am used to computerized files and it may take a while to get in the habit of paper reports again."

"That's what you think I want to hear. What I asked is why here? Why this position?"

"I live north of the city now. This would allow me to stay home. It would also enable me to continue another project I have started.'

"You are not living in the magical world?"

"No." The feeling of being his patient again slipped over her. The way he steepled his fingers while looking over them, much as Dumbledore had done, unnerved her and the way he waited for her to add to her response brought back all those hours she had spent in his care.

"I see," he chuckled and shook his head, tossing the file onto his desk, "nothing has changed. You still distrust me."

"No, I don't think you do see. I am caring for Hugo now. He is my responsibility. I don't want to disrupt him with yet another move."

"We left your therapy before we reached the cause for your problems, only the symptoms. Have you reconsidered?"

"Is that a condition of employment?" Hermione stood and looked down at him. "If it is, I will not take any more of your time."

"It is." Healer Cough stood and walked around the desk, taking her hands in both of his. "When you have resolved your issues, feel free to reapply. I would very much like to have you on the staff."

"I have," she said smiling. "I have an education, my own place, and I am able to care for my brother. What more do you want?"

"I want you to come in here and say your son, not your brother, lives with you. I want you to talk about what really happened and not hide what you mistakenly think is shameful. If you find you cannot talk to me…find another Healer. Hermione, there is something more. Until you admit what it is, you will…"

"Fine."She snatched her hands away from him. "The truth is that I only wanted this job to keep busy, for something to do as it is."

"I'll be here when you are ready." He closed his door behind her, shaking his head and wondering how long it would take.

~o0o~

As soon as Hugh returned to school, Hermione organized her research and began to send letters in the hopes of finding someone that remembered Tom Riddle from his time in the Muggle world before his raise to power. Now that she knew St. Mungo's would not be soon wanting her services she made a work plan, laying out exactly what she had to do and an estimate of the time it would take. After her first batch of inquires was sent out to hospitals, schools, genealogy sites and Muggle publications that were still in existence, she sat and waited impatiently.

Tying her trainers and pulling a thick jumper over her head, she went out for her morning run, unable to clear her head and hoping her daily outing would help. It was difficult to find anyone from Riddle's younger years, as she had known it would be, and she could not stop thinking of the problems she faced, nor could she stop herself from thinking about Severus. She ran along the pavement, turning north at the corner instead of her usual southern route that took her by the river.

This morning was cold, her breath hung in the air, visible and white. Looking at the buildings in the older part of town she now found herself in, she ran past a past a school, then stopped and turned back to study it. Severus would have gone here, she thought, there must be old classmates that remember him. They would have known him before he turned hard and cold. Known him before he had been persuaded to join the Dark Lord's side, known him before he had gone to Hogwarts.

She wondered if they would remember the times the same way he did. Would they remember a poorly dressed boy or would they just see another kid like them, raised in a poor area by a father that didn't care? Would the local hospitals have records of the abuse that occurred at Spinner's End? Would the local police have reports of domestic violence? A child may not have been aware of these things, she thought, pondering the hoards of people that must have known about his home life. She began to run again, returning home, a new idea for her search already forming.

Making a list of all the things she hoped to find, she paused as her pen hovered over the paper. Severus had said he would look into some of the more mundane material, medical records, essays, or old classroom work. Now, she was unsure how to approach him for it. Laying her pen down she scrubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands in an effort to stay awake before fixing a pot of tea.

She knew the Headmistress had gone to school with Riddle, had known him since he had arrived in the magical world, as had her and Tom's classmates. She made a note to find the student list of Riddle and McGonagall's year, hoping to find a Muggle born that had known him outside of school. It wasn't impossible, she reasoned, Lily had known Severus and if she had lived would have made an excellent source of information on him.

With the Muggle life span so much shorter, Hermione had not held out much hope and was pleasantly surprised when she heard back form a curator that was currently teaching at the Munich Art Conservatory. Checking his name against those she had on file, she found his age to be around seven when Riddle would have been on the continent. She could not be sure he was the same Mueller whose name she had come across almost by chance on the internet, reading old court records and affidavits of post war Germany. At first, she had ignored the find. Reading the age of the child that had given the information, and the misspelling of Riddle to Ridlie, she had only scanned the page when the search engine pulled it up.

Later, searching for academics that Tom Riddle may have had an interest in, she read about a University in Munich whose department head had once been known as a rather strange fellow. Favouring teaching old Myths of Necromancy instead of the more sedate and accepted study of Greek and Roman legends, he had made quite a name for himself. Examining his life more closely, she had felt a rush of excitement that this may be her first eyewitness.

The University listed him as an expert in Greek and Roman culture and literature. However, he seemed to be the resident expert in art as well. Painter, works primarily in oils, born 1938. Painting entitled…The Lord's Riddle, Riddle Declassified, Riddle within Arrogance, currently on display as well as many other portraits and historically timed landscapes of post war Europe.

Comparing the dates he had said he was free to see her, with the dates of Hogwarts' term, she knew she either took Hugh with her or found someone to tend him. She didn't dare call Mary. Not after a year with no contact. Playing with the idea of taking him with her, she at once discarded the thought, not wanting him left alone in a hotel room and definitely not wanting him to overhear any part of a discussion about Tom Riddle.

Pacing the sitting room, she finally grabbed her wand and yanked her jumper from the hook. Four hours later, she was walking into the Ministry and surrendering her wand to the receptionist. After finding the office for International Portkey Travel, she filed out a two-page application and waited for approval, nervously sitting in an almost empty waiting room.

"Miss Granger? My word, it is you," Kingsley greeted her with a kiss to both cheeks. "It has been much too long."

"Minister," she said with a smile. "I was so pleased to hear about your advancement."

"How are you? I kept in touch with your parents until their passing. I was sorry to hear that you did not wish any contact with us at the time."

"It wasn't that. I was overseas. By the time I arrived home the arrangements had been made."

"I see you are planning trip," he said easily, in his low baritone voice that Hermione found so comforting and a put her instantly at ease.

I am planning a book. I need to get to Munich and back in the same day and since this…"

"Of course. It is being made as we speak," he said, waving her back to her seat and taking the one next to her. "Now, what is this about? We do have to be careful."

"A Mr. Mueller I wrote to said he may have some information on Tom Riddle, of his time in the Muggle world."

"What do you plan on telling him? As to your reason for requesting this information?"

"Do you think I would do anything to jeopardise this world?" she asked, not able to keep her annoyance from her voice. "I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. To be honest it is a tad nerve racking to be back here."

"Understood. However, I am afraid it is something we must know."

"I don't have a plan as such. This Mr. Mueller is a professor and somewhat of an artist in his own right. He has a series of paintings on display. All with titles that allude to Riddle, a Tom Riddle. Depending on the direction of the conversation, I will say either I am doing a paper on art appreciation or working on a family tree. Also, the paintings are from a collection of his memories of the Second World War. I can use that as well."

"Hermione," he said softly as he leaned closer. "How is your son doing? Is he coping with the death of your parents? Is there anything I can do?"

"No, nothing. He…he is fine. Just the normal twelve-year-old stuff. I will ask you not to talk…"

"No, quite right. I should not have mentioned it. Here is your portkey," he smiled, taking it from the clerk. "Once you arrive in Munich you will be in a small stair well. Move to the top and exit on the first level. The Conservatory will be to your right…a short walk."

"The times? Are they left open?"

"It is only the day that is set. It is also open for two. I thought the boy may enjoy the day."

"I was considering it. I would rather take him on holiday. Perhaps I will bother you for another?"

"Fine," Kingsley smiled his easy smile and patted Hermione's hand. "You tell me where and it shall be yours."

The day before Hugh was due home she left, finding Mr. Mueller easier than she had thought and recognising him by his self description of being perhaps the oldest and most decidedly the slowest in the room.

"Mr. Mueller? I am Hermione Granger. I contacted you about…"

"Ah yes, yes." He looked up at her from his position in a wheel chair. "I could tell by your handwriting that you would bring a feast for my eyes. Indeed you have. Such a treat for an old man to have one such as you for company." He leaned forward and winked at her, his eyes sparkling with silent laughter. "We must not appear to be having fun. This is a serious place they tell me."

"Mr. Mueller, I am…"

"A beautiful shade of red," he chuckled. "Woman these days have lost the fine art of the shy blush and do not know how provocative it can be. They prefer instead short shirts and open blouses, which any man worth his salt can find in the morning newspaper and not waste his time going out to find. Now push this damned thing to the door…yes over there. I have something to show you."

"You wrote that you knew a Tom Riddle? Born 1926 in England?"

"I knew of him. That is all I needed to know. If you are asking, did I see him, talk to him. Yes I did. Tall, handsome man. A silver tongue they would have said. Gifted in the social arts. No one knew him…no one that lives. To know a man you must see into him…discover his soul and know his secrets. You must delve into his dreams and understand what he…"

Hermione felt defeated and had yet to begin. She had come on a fool's mission, she thought as the old man's voice droned on with physiological drivel that she had heard before.

"…yes, yes…I was quite sure it was Riddle. I still think it was him, that son of a bitch. Quite right and proper he was. British when British was still fashionable."

"I'm sorry? The chair…I didn't catch that," she said, knowing he was waiting for a response.

"Over there…yes the second gallery, now to the end and …yes yes…there he is. That is him as I first saw him."

Hermione stopped pushing the chair and looked up at the wall where the old man was waving his arm and found herself face to face with a life size painting of Tom Riddle. "My god," she whispered as her knees began to give out. Squatting next to the wheelchair, she held on to the armrest to steady herself.

"You knew him?" Mr. Mueller squinted at her. "You are much too young to have known that monster. You lost a family member or loved one?"

"Yes, I…I lost someone," she breathed out. "You painted this? When?"

"It was during the reconstruction that I first saw him. The whole city was laid to waste. Each side taking a quarter of the whole and meting out their idea of justice." He looked up at the picture as his own memories flooded back. "I was a child. A hungry child when we came here. It was winter and I had no shoes." He paused and studied the painting as if seeing it for the first time, patting Hermione's hand as if reassuring her. "'We had fled from Dresden with its awful stench of fires that still raged and came here to another type of storm. You must understand that my mother was a proud woman. Yes, yes…a very proud woman. Without her pride, my life may have been much different. Turn me around…quickly now…she is down there at the other end. I say quickly. You my dear may take your time. It is I that must be quick in all I do. At my age, I want to make sure I finish what I start. It is not may age as much as my health…poor health they say is a result of…"

"The woman in blue? That one?"

"My mother, yes, yes," he wheezed out, coughing into a handkerchief. "The woman is her, how she looked the last I saw her. However I took liberties with her dress and gave to her what she never had in life."

"She is beautiful." Hermione nodded appreciatively at the stern looking woman dressed in royal blue silk, wistfully looking out to a calm seascape.

"And proud. Too proud to accept handouts, too proud to let the British or Americans give us food or shelter and hated the Russians too much to go to them. The French, ahh…the French. They wanted too many questions answered. No, no we hid in the ruins of what had been one of the greatest city in the world and she, my mother, a great woman, a princess really, took in laundry and cleaned their toilets."

"She met Riddle there?"

"Quite right. Perhaps before and followed him here. I was never sure of their first meeting. He was young. Younger than she I believed…now, knowing his age most assuredly younger…take me back to him…there is more."

"More paintings?"

"In time… in time. Where to start…" he sighed. "I have written all this down."

"May I …I would be very careful with your writings if…"

"Why are you interested in him? Who would believe me now? Even then, even with the evidence in front of them the tribunal couldn't be bothered."

"I was there when he died." Hermione again squatted down next to him all thoughts of covering her reason for coming now gone. "I would believe you."

His eyes turned to the painting as he slowly shook his head. "They never listened."

"I … the tribunal… for the war crimes? They couldn't. The Tribunal was set up only for the Nazi war crimes, no one else. I saw a report…it was filed by a young boy against a man named Ridles…was that you?"

"Nothing became of it." He shook his head slowly, lost to the picture of his mother. "They let me leave what I had written and shoved it in a file. Nothing more. They thought it…odd…that a child would bring them proof…such is how we treat children. He was not a Nazi, nor was he anything we would recognise by name. It was his own…more private war that raged in those times. The times after the bombs stopped falling."

"Did you try the local authorities? The non-military?'

"My dear, no, no…it was not like that. There was no one to trust you see. "

"I see," Hermione looked back over her shoulder at the first picture she had seen. "You said that is how he looked the first time you saw him. What was the last?"

"When my mother killed him."

"No, he lived. It is the same man I saw. I…I can't prove it to you…but it's him. I know it as surly as I know my own name. I told you…I was there when he died."

"She came back the next morning. She was going to hide his body. That is what the child I was thought at the time. However if pressed, I cannot give you a reason I believed that and still do. Yes, to move it further from our…house we called it. House…three walls and no roof."

"Please, go on," Hermione sighed, wanting him to recite the story without the personal thoughts at this time, anxious to hear the end.

"His body was gone as I knew it would be."

"Gone? Just…I 'm sorry …go on."

"I wanted to tell you the beginning and here I am telling you the end," he chuckled. "I had a speech all planned and now I ramble like an old man. Yes, yes, I was hungry all the time. It was cold at night and sometimes I cannot remember which was worse. The curse of old age you know…forgetting the present and living again in the past. As I was saying, I didn't know which was worse, the cold or the hunger. Then, he came, and we were not hungry any longer. But that is not the beginning. It started well before I ever saw him."

"He…he and your mother?" Hermione wanted to shake the old man, to hurry him along, at the same time wanting to pull out a pen and record every word. Cursing herself for not having the brains to bring a voice recorder she tried to memorize everything he said.

"I thought so at the time. I remember thinking it…almost wanting it to be true at the same time hating him for it. Things were different then...different for a woman who lay with a man outside of marriage…outside of their own nationality at the time. The war did that. Made whores of good German woman who loved a man whose name was different and aged children well beyond their years.

The war was caused by men, thrust beyond what they should have grasped by a population hungry for more. They destroyed our world and took millions with them. Millions. Your Tom Riddle did the same…not for political reasons…for evil and evil alone. However, I was young and the young do not think that their parents have sex if that was your question. I thought at the time that he liked her , for what man could not have been, and would take us out of all that. It's all written down. I wrote it all. Take me back now, to the end…the girl …the one in yellow. She was his first…rather the first of us."

Hermione pushed him to the far side of the gallery, trying to sort out what he had said in his rambling style. Again, she followed his flaying arms until she saw a small painting of a young girl dressed in yellow. "This one?"

"Ah yes, my Greta, my little Greta. I remember the day she wore that dress. My mother wore rags and dressed her finely. An angel she is now."

"You painted it from memory as well? It is beautiful."

"We weren't hungry after he took her. She was my sister," he said with a soft chuckle. "He said she would always be with me…like magic as he would often say. Then, she was gone and we were hungry no more. I miss her still and wonder what kind of woman she would have become. Such a sweet girl my Greta."

"What? I don't…" she stood up and looked back at the far end of the gallery where a young handsome Tom Riddle stood, his eyes seemingly following her. Walking back, she studied the picture, her eyes searching for a clue she did not want to find. Tearing her eyes from his face, she finally saw he was standing in a pool of dark red liquid that had a small yellow ribbon floating in it. Feeling bile raise up in her throat she spun back to Mr. Mueller and saw the truth on his face.

"You …you don't mean that he fed you…you can't…"

"Yes," he sighed and waved her over to him, jerking his head to the back of the chair. "Take me to the next room."

"Your mother…she …she found out what he had done? That's why she tried to kill him?"

"No, that is when she went mad. I am not sure she remembered it after that happened. Oh no, no…thank god she forgot that. She was there when he broke my legs and didn't lift a finger. Quite mad she was."

"How did he…I hate to pry…"

"Hate to pry? Is that not why you are here?"

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded her head. "How did he break you legs?"

"I am not sure I remember more than the pain. I have tried. I have tried to see what horror my mother saw. Alas…it is gone. I have read that great trauma can do that. The greater the hurt, the pain, the mindless futility of it all…the more memories may be lost to protect us from the truth. I am not sure I believe that…they are here…in oils and canvas. My memories left for those with no understanding to ferret out the reason."

"You don't remember him…touching you?" Hermione looked back at the picture and wondered if he, like her, still fought to remember bits and pieces of his life while wishing other parts to stay hidden.

"No, as he said later…it was magic. I had always suspected something put in my food…until I became older. I often see him standing over me, not touching me as the pain became unbearable."

"Mr. Mueller…you said no one listened. No one helped. How could they not?"

"You, my child, said that you knew him. Do you still have to ask that? Did he not have…friends in high places?"

"Yes, yes he did," she whispered. "Your mother…what…what did he do to her? Was she one of his…or one of his victims?"

"A victim you think? One would have to know what you meant by that. By the time he killed her she was quite mad. He said he could bring her back. That he had power over the dead. That she had only to trust him. I quiet believed him at the time. I was a child and wanted to believe him I imagine. She lay there for days before he gave up his chants and threw her body into the road for the carts to pick up. By that time she was…not suitable…was how he put it."

"You…you had to watch?" She choked, feeling her eyes well with tears.

"There is a saying I am sure you know. What does not kill us only makes us stronger." He sighed loudly and waved to another open archway. "I am very strong…as are you."

Hermione snapped her eyes to his, seeing his soft smile, feeling he knew something about her she did not know herself. "What is in the next room?" She asked, not commenting on his statement.

"Terror. Are you ready to see it my dear? Here they call it modern, surrealist, cubism, but I can assure you, evil is not modern. It was unleashed in the firestorms that dropped from the skies. He only scooped it up and ate it for lunch."

She pushed him slowly through the next gallery, seeing four more pictures of Riddle. One with a skeletal face, grinning out at the passersby, one that she could not quite make out except of the dominance of red paint and the two he signalled she stop in front of.

"From my short lived attempt at cubism," he chuckled waving his hand at the painting. "It should be hung in the furnace room. However, since I am as much a part of the displays here as the better stuff they keep both it and me around to tout out for visiting day."

She looked at the third and recognised a hint of Dali's influence and was about to walk by it when she felt his hand reach up and rest on hers. "Are you one of his?"

"His? Heavens no. I am writing a book…"

"There is a fifth my dear. There are many others in storage. However, this one is the impression I still have of him. Do tell me if I have it right."

Hermione turned and saw Riddle with his red eyes and scaly skin, his nose misshapen and his mouth open in a silent scream of rage. Around him swirled a flaming sky, at his feet a castle left in rubble.

"Now tell me again," his hand again gripped hers. "Are you one of his?"

"His? Define his." Hermione choked, not able to take her eyes off the final and most horrifying image.

"His victims or of his magic? Are you one of his?"

"Yes," She fell on her knees in front of him and rested her cheek on his lap as hot tears filled her eyes. "You saw him exactly right. Exactly. How? How did you know?"

Releasing her hand from his grip, he stroked her hair and sighed. "Years ago…perhaps two dozen or more, my legs began to ache and finding it impossible to sleep I began painting what I saw I my dreams. For a while, it was as if I had found my peace only to have it come again. That was when he came to me like this."

"May I visit again? I'll have questions, hundreds of questions. I can't do it now. Not now. I can't think…I…"

"Yes, yes…now take an old man back where you found him and make a left, to the end and another left. My journals are in my office. I will soon be at the end of my life and want to see what you have to say before it comes."

"Mr. Mueller, it may take me years to…"

"Let an old man have his dreams. Dreams I must say are much more peaceful these days and I can look forward to seeing a pretty girl…no, not a girl any longer … a beautiful woman."

"Please, wait…I …I'm confused. You said your mother killed him…but you just said he threw her dead body in the road."

"I have spent my life solving that question," he sighed and looked up at the painting. "It was her. I would know my own mother."

"Please, how did she…what did you see? You said she came back twice. Once to kill him and once to move the body. I…I need to understand."

"She was bloated. Bloated and white, a vile shadow of what she was." His voice a whisper. "I have made a life study of…darkness. Death, rebirth. As a young man, I took a trip to the islands south of America. It is said they still practice the art of making the dead walk. The stories are wrong of course. What I sought was much older."

"Inferi,' Hermione offered. "Are you familiar with that term?"'

"Ah, Inferi Dii, yes, yes…of course. It has no meaning here." He chuckled and lifted his head, locking his eyes on hers. "Koschei is said to have found what you are interested in, not Hades. You are searching in the wrong place."

"No," she stood, stumbling back from him, "no, I only want to know about the man."

"Who are you?" He leaned forward in his chair, spinning the wheels with his hands, coming closer to her. "You are too young to know him, to recognize him unless you are one of his…one like he that refuses to die."

"I…I told you. You asked if I was one of his victims. I lost loved ones to him. I…"

"That is not what I need to know. I need to know if what I believe is true or if I wasted my life. Have you come back? Are you here to finish what he started?"

She squatted down in front of him, slipping her wand down her sleeve, letting it rest in her palm until she decided what to do. "If I tell you that magic is real. That it exists. That is has always existed, would you believe me?"

"It is true," he choked, pushing the wheels of his chair backwards as his eyes grew large and his hands trembled. "You've come back. I knew you would. I knew you would come back for me."

"No."Hermione reached out and stopped the chair. "Even in our world he was a monster. Perhaps more so. He only…practiced in yours." She raised her wand and chanted an incantation, quickly replacing his memory of only the past few moments, beginning at her mention of the word Inferi and replaced them with his consent to give her his written accounts.

Leaving his office, she followed the signs to the loo where she vomited into the toilet. Resting on her knees, she breathed deeply until her hands quit shaking and her legs would support her. Gods, she thought as the memory of Kingsley's warnings echoed in her ears. Standing up she leaned against the stall, wishing she had brought someone with her, even if it was a twelve-year old kid that would be waiting for her in the cafeteria or gift shop.

~o0o~

The first thing she did after reaching home was to write a letter to Severus. She wanted to share what she had found with someone. Someone that would tell her the information was important no matter the cost. Someone that would say she had done the right thing and that a memory charm was harmless. Someone that could reason with her and put her fears to rest.

Perhaps Minerva was correct, she thought as she tore the missive off Ravens leg and threw it in the bin. Perhaps it was just her loneliness that made her revisit the memory of his kiss and want contact with him. Perhaps, she was only his irksome tenant and in his eyes a bother. That or a lonely and easy conquest.

What she had regretted was not the kiss, nor his admission that if they continued it would mean nothing. She realized, after she had soothed her bristled feathers with half a bottle of scotch that she much preferred his honesty than the lies she had heard from too many in the past. What she had regretted was in one moment she lost not only him, but his friendship as well. Now she struggled in her decision…her compulsion to contact him.

Sitting at the table, she rewrote the letter and again hesitated to send it, not knowing how he would feel receiving yet another request from a woman that rejected him. She stared out the window watching Raven peck at the glass before sighing deeply and rereading the note. She had not rejected him, she reasoned. She had rejected only his suggestion of…that's where she was confused and sought the right word.

Tapping the tabletop with her pen, she thought it odd that Severus could ever have a casual affair. He not only was too…too proper, but much to reserved. She laughed aloud at the thought of a reformed Death Eater being reserved or too proper and crumbled up the note to try again. She changed the salutation to the more formal Professor Snape and added Granger to her first name, making sure the letter was a professional letter from one of his student's mother, asking for a moment of his time and the delivery of her son.

She retied the note and sent Raven off, anxious to start reading the notebooks Mr. Mueller had given her. As she watched the tawny owl wing its way over the low wooden wall that enclosed the yard she was suddenly struck with the thought of spending the summer at Spinner's End and wondered if Snape indeed did not mind her occupying the house, or if she should find something else.