The Match and the Spark

7. The House by the Sea

'Let me get this straight—you're telling me there are Muggle police after Selwyn?' Harry looked at Hermione with a perplexed expression on his face.

Hermione nodded briskly. 'They know everything, it seems. They even know where Professor Snape lives!'

Harry's eyes widened. 'Can't imagine that went down well. Keeping an eye on him are they?'

'Can you believe it? And the Ministry never even had the guts to tell him.'

'So, what did the Police say? What did they do?'

Hermione hesitated, opting to go for an edited version of events that did not include any mention of guns. 'They just told us that we should stay out of it, or they'll go to the Aurors.'

'Don't you think it's a good idea, Hermione? Selwyn'll never expect Muggles to be on his tail—they may very well succeed where the Ministry didn't.'

'But think, Harry; what if they do catch him?' She fiddled with her glass of pumpkin juice. 'Are they going to want to just hand him over to the Ministry? Or will they want enact their own justice?'

Harry frowned. 'They could hardly try him in a Muggle court.'

'Exactly. But if it is the security service…'

'You mean they may try and make him disappear? Isn't this a bit James Bond?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'It does happen, Harry. Voldemort was a huge threat to the Muggle world. Can you imagine that they'll want to sit by without trying to ensure that it cannot happen again?'

She could see Harry was beginning to see the implications of what she was saying. 'It's possible, then, that they will try and dispose of Selwyn quietly, and if they do, Ron will have no hope of getting better.'

She nodded grimly.

'Well, should we go to Kinglsey about this? Arthur?'

Hermione bit her lip contemplatively. 'I don't know, Harry. I think we should keep it to ourselves for now. The Ministry won't want it to become widely known that Muggles are involved in matters of the Wizarding world. I also think the Muggles are no closer to Selwyn than we are, really. They seemed pretty eager to find out what we knew.'

'And what do you know?'

'Nothing.'

There was silence between them for a few minutes.

'Does Snape have any ideas?'

Hermione shook her negatively. 'No, not really. But he's willing to continue helping me, if I need it.'

Harry looked away for a moment. 'And, ah, what is he… How is he, these days?'

She had to stifle a smile at the awkwardness in his voice. 'I don't know really, but he's been civil enough to me, so…'

'Definitely not all right, then.' Harry looked her with a half-hearted, wry quirk of his lips.

'Yes…' She smiled faintly. 'Something like that. But I'll tell him you were asking after him, if you like?'

'Merlin, no!' Harry looked aghast.

Hermione smiled wider. 'He might appreciate the sentiment.'

Harry appeared to think. 'No—no, I can't see it.'

She let out a short chuckle in reply. He was probably right.

She had no idea if and when she would see the man in question again. She'd chosen to go down her own route of investigation for a while, simply because she got the distinct impression that she was wasting his time. Plus, she felt rather guilty about the run-in with the Muggles. She had no wish to drag him into any trouble, and that Inspector had, quite clearly, seemed to have a fairly low opinion of him.

It was difficult to know exactly what to make of the whole situation. Just how deep were the Muggles in? She supposed that Snape had been right when he'd said a certain amount of co-operation between Muggle and Magical officials was inevitable, but only top level, surely? Were these policemen, or whatever they were, Squibs? Squibs who'd opted to function in Muggle society, rather than in Wizarding world? That would explain, to a certain extent, the depth of their knowledge and involvement, but…

Hermione did not know a great deal about Squibs. It was something she would have to do some research on before bringing up the topic with Snape. He might no longer be her teacher, but she still had no desire to appear ignorant before him. Once a know-it-all, always a know-it-all—it was simple.

Firstly, however, she had a more pressing task to attend to. Over the next several days, whenever she had free time, Hermione set herself to the puzzle of the Mortimer family. Regularly, two or three times throughout the day, she would take out the painting and simply stare at it, as if it were one of those optical illusions that if she stared at hard enough, would morph to reveal something else. It never did.

She tried casting certain charms over the canvas, to see if anything was to be revealed. Either she was using the wrong charms, or, more likely, there wasn't anything to reveal. While not making any headway, it was hard not to think that she must be wasting her own time. But there were no other avenues open to her, and despite everything, she simply wasn't prepared to give up.

She did decide to give up on the painting for the time being. Instead, she began compiling all that she did know about the Mortimers. She knew that, historically, they hailed from East Lothian, in Scotland. John Mortimer still had a trace of a Scottish accent, even though he had lived south of the border for several decades. From his relocation, it led her to believe that there was clearly no family estate to maintain, as was the case with many other Pureblood families.

So, where did that get her? Absolutely nowhere. Hermione rested her forehead in the palm of her hand. She needed information on Eliza Mortimer specifically. She was the one who'd painted the cottage—she would have been the one to tell her son about the place, most probably.

Without any other recourse springing to mind, Hermione decided the best place to start would be to trawl through archived copies of the Daily Prophet. The Selwyn's were, formerly, respected subjects of Wizarding society. That the Prophet should have followed their ups and downs, to her, seemed inevitable. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find, but she trusted she would know it when she saw it.

There were two options open to her. Go to the offices of the Daily Prophet and request access to the back-copies of the paper, or she could go to Hogwarts and use the library there, which also held old copies of the Prophet. On the plus side, if she went to Hogwarts, there was a chance she could have a sneaking look at some old school records of Eliza Mortimer. It was worth a try, in any case.

Professor McGonagall had extended to her the use of the library whenever she wished it, and Hermione had already capitalised on that offer when researching into the curse used on Ron. She was sure her old teacher would not bat an eyelid if she were to turn up again.

Mind made up, she waited until the weekend, when she would not be disturbing a school day, to travel to the castle. As expected, McGonagall was more than happy to allow her free reign in the library. She didn't press for too much information on her focus of research, for which Hermione was grateful. She wasn't quite sure whether revealing to McGonagall what she was up to would be wise at this juncture.

Soon, she was ensconced at a table with an impressively high stack of newspapers next to her. Eliza Mortimer had left Hogwarts in 1938, so Hermione decided it prudent to start from there. There was a box of newspapers for each year and she waved her wand over the box for 1938, charming every copy that contained the name 'Eliza Mortimer' to levitate into the air. She did the same up until 1948, by which time she'd accumulated her impressively high stack of newspapers.

The first article to surface was one detailing Eliza's marriage to Selwyn's father, but it didn't contain anything particularly interesting. She could recognise John Mortimer in the accompanying photograph, and Eliza Mortimer, she could see, had been rather beautiful in a quiet way. Henry Selwyn, her husband, was ten years older than her. He stood there with a trace of a smile around his mouth, but to Hermione's mind, it was not a warm smile.

The next article to come to her attention was a brief paragraph announcing the birth of Arthur Selwyn. Hermione knew from her examination of the family tree at the Selwyn's family home that Arthur would only live until three years of age. The announcement of the death of the child, from a virulent bout of Dragon pox, came without any precursor to the child being ill. Hermione considered that it must have been an extremely sudden affliction to the child, and the notice of death proclaimed it to be such.

Moving beyond 1948, and some three years after the tragic death of Arthur, came Horatio Selwyn's birth. This time, there was a picture. Hermione fancied she could detect a subtle change in Eliza, compared to her wedding photo. Her face looked a little drawn, and already, she was greying. Hermione decided it was not too fanciful for her to suggest that there was a tangible sadness evident in her eyes, despite the smile about her lips.

Hermione let out a heavy sigh and put down the paper she was currently reading. She was not finding anything helpful, just fairly useless pieces of information that anybody could know, really. It was nothing suggestive or revealing. Sick of staring at newspaper print, she reached inside her bag and pulled out Eliza's painting, intending to enlarge it and have another stare at it in the hope that an epiphany would occur. She had her wand aimed at it when footsteps approached.

'Any luck finding what you were looking for, my dear?'

Professor McGonagall stood by her table with a small, hopeful smile on her face.

Hermione shook her head ruefully. 'No, I'm afraid not.'

'Anything I can help with? I do not like to think of Mr Weasley confined to the hospital as he is. Molly tells me there has been no change at all.'

'Yes, none,' Hermione affirmed, her heart feeling suddenly heavy.

McGonagall sat down beside her and cast an eye over the papers on the desk. Hermione decided she might as well go for it and throw caution to the wind.

'I don't suppose you know anything of the Mortimer family?'

The Headmistress considered for a moment. 'No, nothing. May I enquire as what they have to do with Mr Weasley?'

Hermione picked up her quill and tapped it against the paper she'd lately been reading. 'Selwyn's mother was formerly a Mortimer.'

'Oh, of course.'

'We thought it might be useful to look into the Mortimers for a lead on Selwyn. Professor Snape said that it…'

She trailed off when McGonagall looked at her with a significant expression of surprise. 'Have you seen Severus, then?'

'Yes… I have.'

The elder woman looked at her speculatively for several moments. 'How?' She raised her hands in a gesture of disbelief.

'Oh… Well—'

'I can barely get him to reply to my letters, let alone see me! Indeed, I've not clapped eyes on the man since he left St. Mungo's. I told myself to not take it personally, but now I'm not so sure!'

'Professor, I'm sure that it is not personal.' Hermione hastily rushed to assure, having not expected such a response. Although, really, what did she know about their relationship, past or present? 'Believe me, it was not easy getting in touch with him. I had to Splinch two of my fingers off before he would even agree to talk!'

McGonagall looked suddenly outraged. 'What?' she spluttered.

Hermione shook her head quickly. 'Gracious, no; he did not request that I Splinch off my fingers. It was just an accident—a long story.'

'I see…' McGonagall's previously tight lips softened somewhat. 'And how is he, then? Is he all right? What is he doing with himself?'

Hermione couldn't help but shrug. 'I'm not sure, to be honest. He's given me no indication as to how he spends his time, but to me… Well, something suggests to me that he is not 'all right.'. His manner is unusual at times, but then, maybe it is his way, I don't know.'

McGonagall adjusted her glasses and Hermione heard a small sigh escape from her. 'Maybe I'll try again…'

Hermione gave her a small, encouraging smile.

'So, what's this?' McGonagall motioned to the painting.

Hermione spelled it back to its proper size. 'I'm trying to work out where the cottage is in the painting. But I have no idea.'

'What is the cottage called?'

'I don't know.'

'What does it say on the sign?'

'What sign?'

McGonagall pointed to the little painted sign hanging by the door of the cottage.

'But it's tiny…' Hermione frowned in confusion.

'This is not a Magical painting, in the sense that the landscape is always moving and changing. However, it was obviously not painted by a Muggle. Go on, tap your wand on the sign.'

Hermione did as requested, and to her disbelief, the painting suddenly zoomed in on itself till the whole canvas was a close up of the front door of the cottage.

'Is this a joke?' Hermione couldn't believe how stupid she'd been.

Professor McGonagall bit her lip, apparently amused. 'Now, this is a very complex charm, and most people do not bother with them, especially if they are not professional artists.'

'But I cast Revealing charms and everything on it and nothing came up!'

'That is because it is not cast on the painting afterwards as a separate charm. The charm is infused into the paint, and well, like I say, it's very complex. Filius, I daresay, could give you a thorough exposition on the subject.'

'But how could you tell it was there?'

'The charm affects the paint when it is infused, allowing it to stretch, if you like, without it cracking. However, charms such as these do wear off after a time, and see here, where the paint has begun to deteriorate?'

Hermione traced her finger over the fine cracks in the paint, which she had simply thought were a product of natural wear and tear. Why didn't Hogwarts have Art lessons? How infuriating!

'My sister enjoys painting and has often used such charms in her work. Furthermore, can you see certain sheens in the paint? This is not achievable with Muggle paint, and suggests that whoever painted this had significant expertise within the realm of magical painting, but not so much that the they could get the landscape to move.'

Hermione could have hugged the elder woman. 'Thank you so much, Professor McGonagall! I can't tell you what luck this is!'

She smiled triumphantly over the painting of the little house by the sea. She knew exactly what her next move would be. She needed a map, and then she would look up every Thistledown cottage she could find. She just prayed there would not be very many.

After bidding goodbye to the Headmistress, Hermione Apparated to her parents' house. They were both in work, so she let herself in and headed straight for one of the bookcases. She easily found her father's huge Ordnance Survey road map of the British Isles and she unfolded it, spreading it out on the floor. It really was huge. She got on her knees and sighed. It was going to take a while.

She knew the cottage was on the coast and that was it. She was going to have to painstakingly search the whole coastline of the United Kingdom and pray that the house was marked on there. She knew that most likely it would not be. And she didn't need to be reminded of the possibility that the painting had been of somewhere abroad. For now, she would pretend that possibility did not exist.

Crawling forward, she decided she would start on the east coast of Scotland, where the Mortimers had originated and work her way around from there. She stayed at her task for a good hour or so. The islands off the coast of Scotland had given her the most trouble. There were so many, and some so small, that she was sure she would have to look up something more specific for that area.

She twice scanned the coasts of Britain and Ireland and, satisfied she'd not missed anything, she looked at her list. There were four possibilities she'd found, but there was only one that seemed to fit her limited criteria better than most. The only drawback was that on the map it was labelled 'Thistledown fm'—a farm, not a cottage. But she supposed it could be explained away as the cottage having historically been a farm, or recently having become a farm. Whatever, she would take her chances and it would be the first one on her list to check out.

Hermione bundled up the map and checked her watch. She should tell Snape about her discovery, she decided. After that run-in with the Muggles, the idea of striking out alone really did not appeal. She was relieved to have had someone with her. However, she was not sure he would want to travel across the country, potentially chasing at shadows. Well, she could do no more than ask, and if he declined, he declined.

A short while later, she was knocking, a tad excitedly, on his door at Spinner's End, the map folded under arm and the painting shrunken in her pocket.

There was no answer.

Had he gone out? She huffed in disappointment. Where would he have gone? She had the distinct impression that he rarely ventured very far…

She fought not to groan. Why did he have to be out now? It was really too bad… Unless, was it possible he was simply ignoring her? He might think she was simply a Muggle selling something. Deciding it was worth a try, she surreptitiously felt inside her coat for her wand. Opening the letterbox, she conjured her Patronus and sent it inside.

She smiled in triumph when, several minutes later, the door opened. He scowled freely when he saw her. 'When someone fails to answer their door, Miss Granger, don't you think that's expressive enough?'

'Why did you open it now, then?'

'Because that thing you call a Patronus wouldn't leave me alone.' He looked disdainfully at his feet where her Patronus lingered.

'It's actually an otter, not a thing.'

'Really.'

Hermione vanished her Patronus and looked at him expectantly.

'What do you want?' he asked with a resignation that Hermione enthusiastically opted to ignore.

'Fancy a trip to the Isle of Arran, Professor?'

He stared at her. For one tense moment, she thought he was simply going to slam the door in her face. 'The Isle of Arran,' he repeated blankly. 'I suppose you'd better come in.'

She followed him into the seemingly perpetually dark sitting room. He sat down, and there was a book at his feet. Before she could have a nose at what it had been entitled, he had sent it whizzing back to the bookshelf. She loved to know what other people were reading. Maybe because she was inherently a literature snob and tended to pass judgement on other people's reading material, but, also, she found it provided a little insight into the person reading it.

'Well?' he demanded.

Hermione turned her mind back to the task at hand, taking out the painting, and once at its proper size, propped it up in front of him. She cleared her throat, pressed her wand to the sign on the cottage, and then stood back to watch his reaction. She saw his jaw clench as he stared at the canvas.

She was sure she heard him swear under his breath, as well.

He raised his eyes to hers and she couldn't resist lifting her eyebrow in sardonic amusement, as if to say, 'Didn't you know about this?'

His eyes hardened visibly and she knew he was about to spit some vitriol at her, so she eased in a quiet chuckle to forestall him.

'Don't worry, Professor McGonagall had to point it out to me.'

He relaxed a fraction. 'When did you see Minerva?'

'Today, in fact. I went to Hogwarts to use the library. She, ah, send her regards.'

His expression gave nothing away and he said nothing in response. Hermione suddenly felt awkward, caught between wanting to say more on the subject about Professor McGonagall and the probability that it wasn't her place to. She wanted to tell him that the old Professor would like to see him, but she wasn't sure he even cared.

'What about this Thistledown cottage, then?'

'I've scoured a map, and found a few references to a Thistledown cottage.' She unfolded the map and showed him the panel detailing the west coast of Scotland and the Isle of Arran. 'See there, in the village of Blackwaterfoot is Thistledown farm. I think it's the one that corresponds best. It's close to the sea; it's on its own; the relief of the land is fairly high in relation to sea level, and we can see in the painting that the topography is quite undulating. Consider, also, that the Mortimers' were originally from Scotland. Did they have family living on the Isle of Arran? Or maybe they holidayed there? What do you think, sir?'

He lifted his hand in a flippant gesture of concession. 'It's plausible.'

That was it—his total speech on the subject. Hermione breathed deeply to retain her patience. 'Well, sir? Does it not seem a good idea for us to go and find out more about this house?'

'I suppose.'

It was to be expected, really, that her enthusiasm was not infectious, but still. At that moment she felt like lighting a fire under him.

Again, a little voice in her mind reminded her and she very nearly blushed.

She tried a different tack. 'If you are agreeable, I should like to go today. But of course, you don't have to join me…'

He looked at the painting for a while before eventually replying that they 'would need a Portkey.'

'We could create one ourselves to save time…' she ventured.

He got to his feet and put a hand to his hair momentarily. 'It makes no difference to me; create one yourself if you want. I'm sure unauthorised Portkeys are the least of our worries.' He picked up the map. 'Just make the Portkey for Ardrossan, not the Isle of Arran.' He slapped the map back down. 'Oh, and one other thing, Miss Granger, I shall entreat you to cease referring to me as 'sir' or 'professor'.'

He glared at her before disappearing out of the room, and Hermione stood there, vaguely stunned as she listened to his tread on the stairs.

Shaking her head at his ineffability, she searched through her pockets and pulled out an old receipt. She'd just cast Portus on it, when he reappeared back in the room with his coat on.

She stared obstinately at the back of him as he stuffed his wand up his sleeve. What on earth was she supposed to call him, then?

Severus?

Hermione inwardly cringed. She couldn't—it just felt too strange. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. 'Um, why are we going to Ardrossan and not to the island?'

She would just avoid having to address him. Simple.

He picked up the map again. 'Because, Miss Granger, we have no idea what we are walking into. Ardrossan is where the Muggle ferry crossing is to the Isle of Arran from the mainland. We will try to find out as much as we can about the house beforehand. Does that meet with your approval?'

His expression dared her to object.

Hermione nodded. 'That's fine.'

Inside, she felt a thrill of something—of anticipation, of even fear, perhaps. What if they were on Selwyn's path, after all? What then? What if they finally did discover him? Would they have time to contact the Aurors? Could they deal with it themselves? Just how prepared would Selwyn be for the possibility of discovery?

Probably extremely well; she knew she would be if it were her.

Hermione let out a breath. She was getting ahead of herself. They were just following up another line of enquiry. One that would probably be a dead-end.

But would it be a dead-end? she wondered. They may have discovered precious little about Selwyn's movements after the War, but she had a good feeling about this. She hardly expected to find Selwyn himself there, but she expected to find something.

She took out her wand and Shrunk the painting to a smaller size. It fell from where it was propped against the table to lie flat on the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and it was only the chanciest of glances, really, but she noticed something peeking out from underneath his armchair.

Suddenly, she felt a little strange. Straightening, she pocketed both the painting and her wand. She looked over at her companion, swiftly dropping her gaze when she saw that he was perilously close to discovering her appraisal. She tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling that had overtaken her. Really, a bottle of Firewhisky was innocuous enough.

But was that what he'd been doing before he finally deigned to answer his door—drinking whisky in the middle of the afternoon? Momentarily, she decided she was probably being a bit far-fectched. After all, he did not look like he'd been drinking, and besides, just because the bottle was empty did not mean that it had been emptied with any haste.

He extinguished the fire and the few candles in the room and indicated that she should produce the Portkey. She did so, silently, while telling herself that what he did with himself in his own time was none of her business, really. It was not for her to question his actions, and actually, she wasn't sure she could ever find the courage to dare to, even if she wanted to. She was quite sure that being a supposedly brave Gryffindor would fail her quite comprehensively to that end.

Still, as she clutched the receipt and they were transported away, the shadow of disquiet lingered with her.

AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing : )