The Match and the Spark

8. A Life Beyond Reproach

He thought he would have been used to it, spending as many years as he had in the Scottish highlands, but no, the chill hit him like a slap in the face when they appeared in Ardrossan. Severus frowned as he surveyed their surroundings—an area of nondescript parkland.

'Any idea where we are?' he asked.

Granger pulled out her map and studied it. 'I'm not sure, really,' she replied after a moment.

Sighing a little, he pulled out his wand and used it to find north. 'We shall follow this path in a westerly direction and hope for the best.'

He set off immediately and she followed without a word. They walked in silence until they eventually rounded a corner and ahead, the trees thinned to reveal a road and a few buildings.

'So, what's the plan?' his companion asked.

Severus paused. He wasn't entirely sure. 'Haven't you got any ideas?'

He heard her huff her breath quietly. 'Well, paramount is establishing whether we have the right cottage, but I suppose the only way to do that is see it for ourselves.'

He nodded. 'Let us assume that it is. So, we need as much information about the place as possible. For instance, it would be to our benefit to know whether we this cottage is inhabited by a Muggle or not. If it is a Muggle, then, obviously, we are going to have to fabricate a story.'

'I suppose we could say one of us is tracing a family member…'

Severus wasn't convinced that would stand up, but it would do for the time being.

'Do you think it possible that Selwyn is on the island? Is that why you wanted to come here first, in case he discovers our presence?'

Severus thought for a moment. Honestly, he did not think they would find Selwyn there. 'If it were me, I would not linger in any one spot, not until a few years had elapsed, anyway.'

She stopped in her tracks. Severus frowned impatiently. It was freezing cold—he had no desire to dally about outside. She looked up at the trees with frustration. 'Part of me thinks you're right…'

'And the other part?'

'I know we touched on it before, but what about disguise?'

Severus dug his hands deeper into his pockets. 'Disguise is not necessarily easy. Polyjuice is the best, but let's face it, not many people can whip up a batch whenever they feel like it. Access to it, otherwise, is restricted. Furthermore, consider the difficulty in sustained use of the potion. What do you do with the person you are imitating? I assure you, Selwyn would have no scruples on that score, but it is a bit of a logistical problem.'

'He could disguise himself without magical means.'

'It is possible to do so to good effect, certainly. But I should say nothing is ever foolproof.'

She sighed and resumed walking. 'I suppose it's just something we will have to be vigilant about, sir.'

He noticed the clearing of her throat that seemed to suggest she'd suddenly remembered his request to no longer address him as 'sir.' But he let the incident slide. After all, he'd not given her any alternative. Letting her use his first name was a level of personal intimacy that, frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to share with Hermione Granger. He supposed he would have to be satisfied with one or the other.

'I've been thinking about where we will find the information we need. I expect estate agents here will be advertising properties on Arran. We could enquire there. There's also bound to be a travel agent or tourist information centre here somewhere. We can say we're tourists considering a trip to the island—'

Severus interrupted with a snort of pained disbelief. 'Miss Granger, please, there has to be some shred of credibility. I actually can't think of anything less likely than you and I on holiday together.'

It was true. No doubt they would attract some strange glances—him, clearly some years older than the slip of a girl he was travelling around with. It wasn't as if they could be mistaken for family, either.

She issued a short laugh. 'Fair point. Well, if anyone else asks, we can simply say we are doing research on the island.'

That sounded a tad more plausible.

For the next hour or so, they wandered around the small town, but their information gathering wasn't proving very fruitful. The time was getting on, and already, some places had closed. They did find the Tourist Information office open, and Severus waited outside while Granger went in. He'd hoped to find out more before they crossed the Firth and landed on the Island. They could not know what awaited them when they got there, and he would have liked to take all possible precautions. They would be better off, perhaps, going disguised, themselves. Were Selwyn lurking anywhere, he would doubtless recognise the both of them. But it was difficult. Transfiguring oneself, or charming oneself, to look different was risky and ill-advised.

And it could still turn out that they had the wrong house…

Granger reappeared clutching a sheaf of papers. 'Every piece of information on Arran you could wish for,' she said with a wry smile. 'I did find out that Blackwaterfoot is a rather small village.'

They began walking in the direction of the harbour.

'I asked about self-catering accommodation in Blackwaterfoot, and she gave me a brochure on holiday cottages. Guess what? Thistledown farm is not listed—inference, then, that it likely belongs to a local and will most probably be occupied at this time of year. We still have no idea of it's history or current occupier to—'

They heard a dull blast of a horn as they rounded the corner. In the distance, they could see the ferry pulling away from the quayside. Granger scrambled to look at her watch. 'Do you think that's the last one tonight?'

Severus only watched as she shuffled through her collection of papers and found a leaflet for ferry crossings between Ardrossan and Brodick.

'Bugger,' she muttered crossly. 'That is the last one until tomorrow.' She looked at him as if expecting him to have a solution.

'Before you say anything, no, I am not attempting to Apparate across a stretch of water using only a photograph as a guide.'

Her expression became scandalised. 'Just how reckless do you think I am?'

He blithely looked out over the water. He'd done it before.

'I'd wanted to get there today…' She looked around for inspiration. 'The marina…'

'Trespassing not enough for you, Miss Granger? Fancy hijacking a boat, do you?'

'I prefer borrow,' she said with affected pedantry and he found himself smirking. 'No, I wouldn't know what to do with a boat, but someone in this place must. Maybe we can find someone to take us across? It's not an especially long journey…'

'It's dark, it's cold, it's a Saturday night—yes, who wouldn't want to ship two strangers over to Arran?'

'Do you have another suggestion?' she asked snippily.

No, he didn't.

'Well, then. Let's try that pub up the road. If anything, it'll be warm.'

The Maltsters Inn, as it was called, was noisy. It was many other things, too. When Severus walked in, he was immediately grateful for the warmth of a large fire that permeated the room. But mostly, it was busy and noisy. The majority of noise emanated from a table in the far corner, near the fireplace, where a group of old men sat getting 'merry'. Absolutely hammered, was probably more apt.

Granger stepped up to the bar, and shortly, the barman came over to her. 'I was wondering if you could help me? You see, my, ah, colleague and I are travelling to Arran and we've missed the last ferry. We'd hoped to get there tonight—I don't suppose you'd know of anyone who would be willing to take us across?'

Severus stood nearby, trying not to wince as the raised voices from earlier began to break out into song.

The barman flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and sucked in a breath between his teeth. 'Ol' Jasper, over there, would like as much 'ave taken yer across, fer the right inducement, but…'

'Jasper?'

'Aye; him that's singin'.'

They both looked over to the fireplace. There was a fairly old, grizzled about the edges, man waving his tankard in the air, obviously caught up in an inebriated fantasy that he had talent as a singer.

A small smile appeared on Granger's face. 'You mean the one whose so far gone he's singing Loch Lomond at the top of his voice?'

'The very one, Miss.'

'I don't think he's taking us anywhere, tonight,' Severus observed.

Severus didn't fail to note that the barman eyed him slightly when he spoke. It was at times like this that he loved people. Always judging, they were. So influenced by appearance. It was so predictable, but he enjoyed it, and in fact, to an extent, cultivated it. It amused him, what more could he say?

'It's dark now; ye probably best off leavin' it 'till morning, anyway. We have rooms here if ye be needing somewhere to stay.'

The barman excused himself to serve another patron at the other end of the bar. Severus swallowed a groan. They'd clearly gone about this in all the wrong way. They should have left it until tomorrow morning to travel here.

'I'd hoped to at least establish that we had the right house by tonight…'

Severus folded his arms and leant onto the bar, staring grimly at the beer pumps. 'It's too far to Apparate home. But regardless of that, we still have no choice but to stay here.'

'People will wonder where we've gone?'

'Precisely. I can't imagine they get many visitors at this time of the year.'

She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of surrender. 'I suppose we can at least get an early start tomorrow, then, and as it'll be Sunday, it'll be more likely that someone will be at home.'

Fantastic. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with Hermione Granger. One of his lifelong dreams achieved right there.

The barman, who Severus assumed to also be the landlord, also, approached them again. 'Will ye be wanting somewhere to stay?' he asked brightly.

'So it would seem,' replied Severus expressionlessly.

'Excellent, I'll get my wife to show you our rooms in a moment. Do you have luggage?'

Severus blinked.

Granger started mumbling. 'Oh, yes, we, ah…'

'Left it outside; we shall go and collect it.' He glared swiftly at Granger, who, smiled weakly.

'Yes, please excuse us for a moment.'

Severus marched towards the doors and out into the chilly air. He glanced at the glowing orange streetlamps around the pub and wondered, not for the first time, what on earth he was doing.

'Right, we need something to Transfigure into some bags.'

'I don't have anything,' he answered. 'What about you?' He nodded towards the small handbag she carried.

'Not really.' She looked around their surroundings thoughtfully.

While she was dithering, Severus strode into the porch and plucked out a large golfing umbrella from within a bucket. He stepped back towards her and thrust it at her. 'Transfigure that.'

'But that's somebody's umbrella…'

'No, really? Just do it.'

She snatched it off him with a frown. Severus turned around and, satisfied there was no one to see his actions, aimed his wand at a flowerpot. In a matter of moments, a large bag lay on the ground. He charmed it to inflate, to appear as if it wasn't, in fact, empty. He ignored Granger's continuing frown.

'I hope you have money for this,' he commented as he headed back inside the pub. 'Because I certainly don't.'

He heard a huff of annoyance behind him and he took it to mean that she did indeed have money. Oh well, this was all her idea—she could cover the expenses. The twenty quid he had in his pocket would not get them far. Still, he always had a Confundus charm at his disposal, if push came to shove. Which, in his experience, it often did.

A short, middle-aged woman with greying hair greeted them when they reached the bar again. She took them through to the back and up a narrow staircase. She made chit-chat, of course, and he wasn't quite sure whether it was merely idle chat, or that nosy curiosity that he despised even more than he did idle chat. He ignored her and let Granger make the awkward, stilted responses.

They came to a stop on the first-floor landing and the woman, whose name they learned was Martha, opened a door. She proffered a key. 'Which one of you would like to take this one?'

He looked at Granger. 'I'll have it, thank you,' she said.

The bushy head disappeared inside, and then, without further ado, Severus was led around a corner and further along the landing. Good; he was not next door to Granger and she would not know what room he was in to bother him further for the night. He took the key, murmured a noise of thanks, and found himself in a small room. He dumped his bag on the floor and sat on the bed.

Yes, he really was sitting in some random public house in the middle of a Scottish backwater. He unwound the scarf from his neck and allowed himself a moment to place his fingers beneath his collar to press at his scars. Then he shrugged out of his coat.

What now?

He had nothing with him. Nothing at all. He ventured into the small bathroom and discovered a small bar of soap and a small tube of toothpaste. He went back into the bedroom and glanced around. There was a small television and he picked up the remote control that sat atop it. A few taps of his wand later, he had a toothbrush.

Next, he pulled open the drawers by the bed. Inside, he lifted out an odd plastic contraption that he wasn't quite sure as to its purpose. He examined it further, pressing the buttons, but of course, it wasn't plugged in. Looking at the nozzle, he was beginning to think it was what Muggles used to dry their hair. Well, he was hardly going to need it. A swish and a flick and he had a nightshirt.

He supposed that would be enough to be going on with. He mentally noted to return the items to their original state in the morning, but whether he would remember remained to be seen. If he didn't, it was hardly likely to prick his conscience much.

He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Four patches of damp he could see. Nice. Though, he'd slept in far, far worse places in his lifetime. Some damp was hardly likely to put him off.

The one thought that did form with some insistence was that if it turned out that they'd got the wrong Thistledown cottage, he… Well, he wouldn't be very happy, put it that way. He did not especially think they would find Selwyn in Arran, but he couldn't help but feel that they were getting warmer.

He glanced over at the bedside clock and sighed. Half past eight. There was no way he was falling asleep any time soon, if he even would at all tonight. He might require something to aid him, and of course, he had a whole pub at his disposal. A few nights ago, he'd given in and finished a bottle of Ogden's, and he'd ended up sleeping like a baby—for hours. He hadn't allowed himself that luxury in a long while, and he probably shouldn't have allowed it again.

But, now, well, this box of a room was almost claustrophobic, and a stiff drink would prepare him for what lay ahead.

He swung his legs off the bed, stuffed his key into a pocket and got up to leave. He was relieved that on entering the bar, it was less noisy than it had been previously. Looking at the fireplace, he could see that old Jasper had given up the ghost and had his head slumped against the back of his chair, snoring quite heavily.

He requested a double Scotch off the barman and pushed his twenty pound note towards him. It was as he was stuffing a multitude of change back into his pocket that she called out, 'Sir!'

Severus stilled. Perfect. He should have known she would not stay tucked up in her room. Scowling to himself, he picked up his glass and looked to his left. There she was, sitting in a corner, looking at him expectantly. Reluctantly, he joined her.

'Tell me, Miss Granger, who refers to their work colleagues as 'sir'?' They had a charade to maintain here!

She looked exasperated for a moment. 'Probably the same person who refers to them as "Miss".'

He sipped his drink feeling annoyed.

'Anyway, listen, I've been thinking—'

'English, are ye?' came an interrupting voice.

They both looked up to see a man sitting on a stool at the bar. 'What part of England are ye from?'

Severus was sure his expression could not have been more hostile.

'Um, London,' Granger answered carefully.

The man nodded. 'I have a friend who lives in the Big Smoke.'

There was a silence during which Granger only smiled politely.

'Hear yer off to Arran—tourists are ye?' The man looked between the two of them speculatively and Severus felt his eyes narrow.

'It's work, actually,' said Granger. 'We're geologists.'

'Ah.' The man nodded as if he knew all about geology, which Severus sincerely hoped he didn't.

Luckily, Martha came over at that point putting down a plate of sandwiches that Granger had evidently ordered at some point. 'Come on, Gil,' she said. 'Leave them be, they've had a long journey.'

'Gil' shrugged and sloped off to the other end of the bar with Martha.

'Have one if you like,' said Granger, picking up a sandwich and putting it in her mouth.

He probably should eat something, he realised. He'd had a couple of slices of toast earlier, and that was the sum total of his consumption for the day.

'Very well.' He picked up one of the triangles, which looked edible enough, and chewed. He'd eat it, finish his whisky, and then go and while away the hours in that cramped bedroom. It wasn't anything new, really, in fact, he was quite good at whiling away hours.

'I wanted to tell you, sir, that I've phoned Harry and told him where we are.'

'Oh.'

'You see, I thought Harry could have a look for us in the records to see if there are any,' she lowered her voice significantly, 'Floos registered on the island. That would give us an idea how big the Magical population is. We can hopefully judge a bit better beforehand whether we will be dealing with a Muggle or not. I'm going to phone him back in the morning and see what he says.'

He supposed it could be helpful. 'Are you sure Potter can carry out such a task?'

It was like a forgotten old reflex really, to insult Potter. He wondered if it would ever go away. He hoped not.

Granger meanwhile, merely huffed out an impatient, 'Yes.'

Severus was nearly at the bottom of his glass and was preparing to make his excuses… Actually, he didn't need excuses, he could just get up and go. He was about to do just that when she started chattering again.

'I would just like to say that I am grateful that you are assisting me in this. I mean, I expect you have other things you would rather do with your time. I had to do something and…' she paused and Severus wished she would just keep quiet. He didn't want thanks, he didn't want anything. Merlin, there were times when he didn't know why he was doing what he was doing!

'Do you know? I once considered fabricating some evidence to get the Aurors back onto the case.'

He looked at her, then, vaguely surprised that she of all people would consider such a thing. Was that what she would have resorted to if he had point blank refused to help her, as well as faced with his threat of handing her over to the Aurors? There was a small, rueful smile on her face.

'Possibly, that would have ranked as one of the more stupider things you'd ever done.'

She nodded in agreement.

That she was going to such lengths caused him to wonder, to really wonder, for the first time, about her reasons. About Weasley. He was sure that not many people would take matters into their own hands, not where a known dangerous Death Eater was concerned. What was it about Weasley that could inspire such loyalty and… love, he supposed. He didn't know if it was the platonic love of a friend, or something more, but it was love nevertheless.

That he should be sitting in a Scottish pub with Hermione Granger and thinking about love, of course disturbed him greatly. But the subject intrigued him, despite himself.

Perhaps it was because he could empathise with her. He'd loved someone enough to want to go that extra mile for them. But his love had become tainted by immense guilt, regret, and anger, till he wasn't sure what it was that he'd felt anymore. Were her actions out of guilt? In his experience, he might say guilt was a stronger motivator than love, but his experience was… It was not the best blueprint for fathoming human nature was it? No, on reflection, he doubted it was guilt that was driving her. He doubted it was anything less than those noble and admired emotions of loyalty, bravery, and love.

Guilt wasn't noble. Conscience wasn't noble. For, surely, you had to have done something ignoble to ignite them in the first place? And, Granger, to him, seemed to be one of those who always knew when to do the right thing; to know it, and to do it, with infinite ease. He might have resented her for it in the past, indeed he had resented people for it, but now he was resigned to it. He was resigned to the fact that it could not, and would not, ever be him. He was not noble.

He heard her sigh next to him and, feeling almost dazed with his thoughts, he wanted to get up and leave before things became really desperate—before he said something foolish.

'But would anyone have blamed me for it?' she asked ponderously, not looking especially at him, but staring pensively into the middle distance. 'It's not wrong to want justice.'

And that was another facet to her cause. Even her quest for justice was noble.

Justice was a concept he struggled with. It plagued him, even, at times. He had enough self-awareness, and had done enough introspection, especially in the past months, to know it. With Voldemort finally gone, now was the time for justice—for those to pay for their actions. That included him.

'Justice is not a given, Miss Granger. In fact, there are many who never attain it and there are many who may also avoid it.'

'I know,' she replied firmly. 'But that doesn't mean it isn't achievable or that we shouldn't seek it. That is why I cannot believe the Aurors. Let's face it, they've given up pretty easily. And it's not even all about Ron. What about all the other people that have been affected? I think that the Wizarding World will never be able to move forward unless justice is done for the ills that have befallen it.'

'Do you think justice is ever enough?' he asked sharply, and surprising her, it seemed. 'What about those who have died? Justice is not going to help them, and for their families, it's never going to make up for what has been done. Mr Weasley may be restored back to health, but that is just a drop in the ocean compared to what else Selwyn is responsible for.'

She looked mildly irritated, but she also seemed to sense he was not deliberately antagonising her. 'It may not always seem sufficient to those affected, but… If Selwyn is caught and made to account for what he has done, then that is justice. In the circumstances, that is all there can be.'

'And just what do you take "account" to comprise?' He felt on edge as he anticipated her reply.

'I don't necessarily believe that justice is about getting even,' she said slowly. 'But I believe in punishment, if it is warranted and within reason.'

Severus nodded bitterly. She did not advocate cold retribution. Yes, definitely noble. 'If, in two years' time, Selwyn has not been caught and Weasley is still incapacitated, I'll ask you that question again.'

She was beginning to look confused. 'Retribution is not always the answer.'

'But does that not redress the balance? Quid pro quo? This is a man who is clearly without any sense of morality or respect for the welfare of society as a whole; he would have to be for what he has done, wouldn't he? And he was only one part of a much larger problem. What are we to do, hmm? What is a just punishment for them? What is right? What do we… What does Selwyn deserve?'

What do I deserve?

She stared at him oddly, and Severus began to feel a surge of anxiety at the possibility that she knew what he was really talking about. Any moment now, he would see the pity, and then the empty banalities proclaiming that he was different. He was a special case. Suddenly, there was a sick feeling in his stomach.

'It's not always a question of enacting justice… or deserving justice, as such,' she began, and her voice was quiet and tentative. 'Reparation—'

He stood abruptly and, ignoring her flinch of surprise, he strode away from the table without another glance. He simply could not stand to hear a word more. He would not be patronised. Taking the stairs two at a time to his room, he locked the door behind him and, in the dark, he rubbed his hands over his face. His heart beat fast, resulting in a throb in his neck. 'Get a grip,' he muttered repeatedly, grabbing his throat and pressing the bumpy skin there.

He moved to lie down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The damp patches weren't visible now.

He'd always hoped to make amends for his past actions, but now, after the fact, it still didn't seem enough. He wondered, not for the first time, how many people thought he'd escaped justice. Why should he be different? Or was the half-life, the sedentary life he led now—was this his justice? Was this him accounting for his past transgressions?

He frowned into the darkness; he knew what the real answer was. He should have died that night in the Shrieking Shack. He'd killed a man—he'd broken the most moral and ethical codes of society. To have died that day… It would have been justice. His justice. And it would have been almost poetic, really, considering who it was that had set it in motion. Yes, it would have been ironic, but in the balance of things, deserved.

Because, surely, no one should be able to do what he had done and live a life beyond reproach?

The answer was simple, and it echoed freely in his mind.

No, they shouldn't.

AN: Thanks for reading :)