The Match and the Spark

19. Unintended Choice

The island was as windswept as ever as Hermione walked towards the little church in the village of Blackwaterfoot. The skies were leaden, and but for rain, it would have been a more than fitting atmosphere for a funeral. How many funerals she had been to in recent months, she did not like to think. A stark contrast to her sheltered, misery-free childhood, indeed.

The vicar stood in the doorway to greet the mourners, of which Hermione felt there would be few. As she entered the church and took a solitary seat in one of the pews, she could see she was right. A handful of villagers had turned out to see Josiah Abbott, otherwise known to her as Arthur Selwyn, laid to rest.

John Mortimer was not present. The news that his nephew had not died as a young child, but had been adopted and raised as a Muggle had affected him badly. He was currently under the care of Healers at St. Mungo's.

The Ministry, though they accepted Abbott's true identity, had chosen not to interfere where the body was concerned. They were content to leave the Muggles in no doubt that he was, and had only ever been, Josiah Abbott. In the way that it mattered most, Hermione supposed it was true. He had lived his life as Josiah Abbott. Although, she was unsure as to what he had been told by his brother Horatio, prior to his death. She hoped with all her heart it hadn't been the truth.

From the other side of the church, a head turned towards her and she caught the eye of a man. It was Macpherson, the postmaster whom she had spoken to about Abbott one time. She smiled gently at him.

It had come out, of course, even to the Muggles, that Abbott had not met his death in the fire that gutted Thistledown cottage. The Muggles had recorded Abbott's death as accidental, though the question remained why he should have been all the way south of the border, in Cumbria, when he'd previously never left Arran in his life.

It was one of the reasons why Hermione had decided to come. She'd felt it only right that someone should be at the funeral who knew the truth. Someone who knew the truth of Abbott's true identity and of the terrible circumstances around his death. She knew how he had been coldly manipulated by his own brother. Selwyn had admitted as much to the Aurors under questioning.

She had thought to ask Snape to accompany her to the funeral. Not that she considered he was the sentimental sort he would no doubt proclaim her to be, but still, she had been prepared to ask. Prepared, that was, until he'd brusquely told her she was intruding on his time. It still made her bristle when she thought back to it, and she repeatedly told herself she should not take anything he said or did personally. Easier said than done, of course.

Now that she was here, however, she felt glad she had come alone. Harry or Ginny would have joined her, she knew, but they hadn't been involved in any of this. They could not know how she felt about how the events had unfolded.

The service was short, but Hermione felt the dignity of the occasion keenly and she was grateful that Abbott had been able to have this. If the truth had never come out, his body might have languished, un-commemorated, in the grounds of Azkaban.

When they filed out of the church, Hermione exchanged a few words with Macpherson. He was still under the impression that she was a distant family relative, and she said nothing to disabuse him of the notion. He seemed happy that a family member had been present and how could she disappoint him with the truth?

Afterwards, she went for a walk across the moors to Thistledown cottage. She had not seen it since the fire and she wanted to see it, for it was the scene of another Selwyn's crimes.

The blackened rafters were visible before anything else as she moved up the gently sloping hill. She stood at the top and simply looked. Oakshott had not deserved the end he had got. He'd been a fractious man towards them, but he had been doing his job, and Hermione, in hindsight, could not fault him for that.

The two deaths troubled her a great deal, for she wondered as to her own part in them. Through taking up the idea to bring Selwyn to account, had she facilitated—precipitated—the deaths of Josiah Abbott and Inspector Oakshott? After all, if she and Snape hadn't frightened Selwyn into taking strong action to ensure he remained hidden…

Even as someone emotionally invested in Selwyn's capture, she could see that Ron's recovery could not justify the deaths of two innocent people. Was that why Ron had failed to wake up—to balance the right and wrongs of what she had brought about? She remembered how Snape had scoffed at the idea of some karmic or Divine force balancing out justice. Maybe he was right. She couldn't have foreseen—no one could have foreseen, what her actions would lead to.

Some might say that losing a few was a sacrifice to save the many. It was an axiom she had heard bandied about at many a memorial service in recent months. And there was no question they were better off with men like Selwyn behind bars, but the cost…

With the focus on the 'greater good,' no one ever seemed to consider the cost until it was too late. Well, she at least could acknowledge the cost, and she could respect it in the face of very little else.

Hermione surveyed the cottage for a few moments longer and tried to remember the last time when she had thought life was anything other than hard. She couldn't readily recall such a time, however, and instead, she Apparated away.

'Do you think we should consult Snape, again?' asked Harry ponderously. 'Clearly, what he doesn't know about Dark curses isn't worth knowing about.'

They were sitting in the cafeteria in St. Mungo's, sipping from cups of tea. Hermione leant back in her chair and fiddled with tightening her ponytail, feeling a little uncomfortable. 'I've already told him what happened. He didn't seem interested in the slightest.'

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt uncharitable towards the man in question.

'Oh,' said Harry.

Hermione stared hard at the Prophet on the table before her. She was right, though, wasn't she? He hadn't seemed interested, it was as simple as that. Stubbornly, she blocked out the hurt she still felt at the most inopportune of moments. She supposed it wasn't really his fault; he didn't have the answer to everything, after all, and he had no personal attachment to Ron… Maybe her vanity just liked to think he would have at least listened to her. What matters had he to deal with in the late evening? He'd led her to believe he did very little.

She did not need to trouble herself over it—she just needed to forget about it. It was done with. They'd work something out for Ron, surely—eventually.

She shoved the Prophet away from her with a grimace. It was filled, still, with speculation about Selwyn and the Ministry's dealings with the Muggle government. In the end, following the news of Oakshott's death, the powers that be had not managed to keep everything under wraps. As far as Hermione could tell, the reaction of the Wizarding public had not been enthusiastic to say the least, especially at the news that Muggles had become involved in affairs of the Wizarding world. There were calls clamouring for there to be a public inquiry into the Ministry's relations with their Muggle counterparts, but the likelihood of such a thing occurring were looking slim.

The Prophet had played its part in heating up the debate by printing scare-mongering articles about the influence of Muggle politics in the running of the Ministry of Magic. They'd posited any number of exaggerated outcomes to arise from such influence, which the Ministry had had to flatly deny. The only positive to come from it all was to see the Prophet finally show some autonomy from the political structure. Certainly the Ministry were unhappy with the newspaper because of it.

Truth be told, while the reports were fanciful, Hermione found it all immensely disquieting. The last thing that they needed was for even more hatred and distrust of Muggles to be stirred up than there already was, and she rather hoped, naively or not, that it would all die down in the end.

She'd had her own dealings with the Prophet when the story of Selwyn's capture had come out. The impression she'd got was that they'd hoped to find Harry had been involved, so they could once again laud him unequivocally, but when they'd discovered it was only Severus Snape who'd helped her, the reporters had turned rather more inquisitive and searching.

As per Snape's request, she had tried her best to wrangle it so the depth of his part in it all was kept amongst only those who needed to know, but it had been mostly out of her hands. Bit by bit, the story had leaked out and, of course, then there had been mutterings about why he should have been involved at all. The most ridiculous speculations focusing on his motivations and whether they were sinister or not—had he hoped to help, rather than hinder, a 'former friend?'

Hermione couldn't countenance any of the rubbish whenever she saw it, and she made sure everyone else she knew did not listen to it, either.

Harry had been staring hard into his tea and she watched him for a moment, wishing they were back in their third year, reading tea-leaves in Divination. He looked up when he felt eyes upon him.

'The um, the Healers reckon we should leave it a little longer before we try anything else. They said it may be that Ron's body just needs to get used to the curse being gone, and that in time, his body will begin to overcome the effects on its own.'

'But how long do we wait, Harry?' Hermione sighed. 'Do they even have any other ideas left to try, anyway? I think they're well and truly stumped. Like all of us.'

They each shared a grim look.

'I've been thinking I should go back to Hogwarts and comb the Restricted Section, again.'

'How many times is that now?' asked Harry with a small smile.

'Well, one more time won't hurt.' She returned his smile. 'We're in a slightly different position than we were before—it might help to look at the problem from a different angle.'

'Is there anything I can do, Hermione? I feel useless.'

Hermione reached over the table and squeezed his hand. 'I'll let you know as soon as I find anything.'

The Headmistress had replied promptly to the quick note she had sent about her request, and the next day Hermione was invited for 'tea and a chat' with McGonagall in her office.

McGonagall welcomed her warmly, as she always did, and ushered her into a chair not in front of her desk, but by the fireplace. The older woman took the chair on the other side, whereupon a house-elf appeared with a tea tray.

'Well, my dear,' said McGonagall, 'you know you are always welcome to use the library whenever you need to. I wouldn't even bother asking next time! I am only sorry you don't need it for more leisurely pursuits.'

'Thank you, Professor.'

McGonagall sipped her tea and occupied herself with the biscuits, selecting a piece of shortbread. 'Does, ah, does Severus know you are taking your own line with regards to Mr Weasley's current condition?'

Hermione felt momentarily bemused. 'Does it matter what Professor Snape does or doesn't know? I should imagine he does… In any case, he wasn't much for discussing it when I told him what had happened, and that's fine; I've asked a lot of him lately.'

Hermione quickly picked up a biscuit in what she hoped was a study in nonchalance.

'I see…' commented McGonagall carefully, and Hermione failed to register the pensive tone to her voice.

'Who teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts now, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Oh, Algernon Cressley—former Auror and curse-breaker.'

'There are some points on which I'd like clarification with regard to curses; do you think he'd agree to speak with me?'

'I don't doubt it.'

Hermione nodded her thanks. They'd consulted several curse-breakers at the onset, many of whom Bill Weasley had known personally. But they'd all said the same thing at the time—that the curse had to be removed by the caster. The situation was different now, and maybe there was a way forward if they looked hard enough.

McGonagall was pursing her lips in thought. 'It's difficult these days, Hermione, to find anyone willing to admit a good knowledge of Dark magic. It is so heavily frowned upon, as I'm sure you are aware.'

Hermione knew what she was trying to say. Don't expect too much from Cressley.

'Now, Severus, on the other hand…'

'I'd rather not trouble, ah, Professor Snape, if I can help it.' Hermione was suddenly too embarrassed to reveal to McGonagall that she was on first-name terms with the former Potions master. 'I've no doubt he has got his own matters to contend with.'

But it was true, she realised—he did have matters to attend to, and she'd known it all along. She'd not been able to adequately judge his frame of mind during that short conversation she'd had with him the other night, but she knew that he had much to occupy it that did not concern her. He had matters to sort out certainly; matters to do with himself, and she did not mean that in any selfish way.

'He said as much to me, anyway.'

'Did he?' enquired McGonagall casually.

'Yes… Besides, I'd like to do my own research first—to gather what facts there are.'

The Headmistress looked as if she were weighing up something in her mind, but in the end, she just smiled and said, 'Of course.'

Hermione returned directly to St. Mungo's from Hogwarts. In her bag she had a few sheafs of parchment, upon which were copious amounts of meticulous notes. She had found some pearls of wisdom that may prove useful. From what she had read, it did seem the Healers may have had a point when suggesting that they just needed to wait—to allow the Dark magic to weaken over time.

But no one knew how long that wait would be.

There were other avenues to explore in terms of shortening that wait. She'd found a rather arcane, dusty tome on Dark curses of the incapacitating kind, and it seemed to her that it might be possible to hasten the weakening of the magic in Ron's body. As far as she could tell, it would involve the use of more Dark magic, however…

Harry came out of Ron's room, as she rounded into the corridor, and his expression became immediately expectant.

Hermione suppressed a defeated sigh.

'Any luck?' he asked, as he approached her.

'Some; well, possibly. I will—' She cut herself off when something caught her eye at the far end of the corridor. A long, black coat…

'All right, Hermione?'

She blinked. What the hell was she doing? 'Sorry, thought I saw someone, but I was mistaken. Um, what was I saying? Yes, it wasn't a wasted journey. I shall be going back tomorrow, as I'm going to have a chat with the Defence teacher about what I've found.'

Harry nodded and drew her into Ron's room. Hermione sought to chase away the cobwebs in her mind. She'd thought she'd seen Snape disappearing down the corridor, but clearly she was imagining things. Though, why she should take to imagining him, she could not say.

Charlie and George were sitting by Ron's bedside and she greeted them with forced brightness.

'Listen to this, Hermione,' said George eagerly, looking to his brother, Charlie.

Charlie cleared his throat. 'I've been thinking; you've been looking for books to help us, Hermione, but let's face it, it's not easy to get hold of books on Dark magic—I mean truly Dark magic. Now, in Romania, there is not the restriction that there is here. I was thinking I might return there and do some searching of my own.'

Hermione sat down and bit her lip in thought. 'I agree that you are likely to find something more relevant there than you would here, but…'

They all looked at her, urging her to continue with her obvious doubts.

'I just… I mean, what do we know about Dark magic, really? Would we know what to do with any information we found? It could be highly dangerous. Not to mention the trouble we could be in if the Mnistry found out we'd smuggled potentially illegal books into the country.'

To her slight annoyance, they were all smiling at her, as if they'd entirely anticipated her reaction.

'Hermione, we're not suggesting we mess about with magic we do not understand. But can't you get Snape to help us out when we've found something?' George asked.

Merlin—again?

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, not wanting to get into it all. 'I suppose we can try… Let's just wait and see what Hogwarts turns up, all right?'

Personally, she felt very uneasy about it. None of them really knew what it was to use Dark magic, or what it took to cast it. Clearly, it could be dangerous, otherwise it would not forbidden. Furthermore, Hermione was unsure about the intent needed to be behind the casting of Dark magic. It wouldn't be called Dark magic if it could be used with benign intentions in mind!

Even if Snape were receptive to any approach, from what she could tell, she was not sure he would want to be involved in anything Dark. And, really, she did not want to be the one to ask him of it. She couldn't explain her concerns to the rest of them. They would likely be dismissive, and besides, she didn't want to be the one to dampen their spirits. Not at this moment, anyway.

Her hope remained that she would find something that did not involve tracking down Dark books in far-flung countries.

She turned her attention to the comatose Ron. The moment of his waking she had imagined a hundred or more times. And since that elusive moment had, for a time, been closer than ever, she felt all the more anxious for it to happen. They all needed him to get better. Mrs Weasley was beginning to struggle under the strain, and to see the normally indomitable Molly so downhearted was no easy sight.

Yet, she had not been lying when she had told Snape she was afraid. She had no idea what to expect if ever he did awaken—nothing in terms of his mental and physical state.

But she was more than willing to brave the difficulties if it meant they might speak once more.

That afternoon, she left the hospital to go and purchase some more parchment and ink for her trip to Hogwarts the following day. As she was walking down Diagon Alley, Hermione saw Severus Snape again. And this time, it wasn't her imagination playing tricks on her.

She easily picked out his dark form heading up the steps into Gringotts; bank. The sight left her with a disconcerting sense of deja-vu as her mind recalled that day when she had charged towards him and got her fingers sliced off for her trouble. She looked at the fingers in question. There was not a mark left to signify that occurrence—just the memory.

She should just walk on. He was hardly likely to want to speak with her, but annoyingly, Hermione found herself wanting to place herself within his path. Stubbornly, she turned and looked into the window of the shop nearest her. It was Potage's Potion supplies. Even more irritated, she forced herself to walk forwards, her head down.

She paused by the Magical Menagerie and allowed herself a glance towards the bank again. This time, she saw another face she recognised. Professor McGonagall stood waiting at the bottom of the steps. Hermione instinctively found herself stepping in her direction, but she halted when Snape came out of the bank and she realised McGonagall was obviously waiting for him.

From the other side of the street, Hermione watched them exchange a few words, and she was startled when she thought she saw a small smile stretch around Snape's mouth. Momentarily frozen, she only had the presence of mind to rush inside the menagerie when her two former teachers began walking in her direction.

Gazing blankly at a cage full of mice, Hermione wondered when it was that Snape and McGonagall had re-established themselves on good terms. She had not forgotten that painfully awkward evening she had spent with them at Hogwarts. She was pleased that things had changed, of course, but being pleased didn't stop the oddly sick feeling in her stomach, the origins of which she was too confused to contemplate.

'Do you want a mouse, dear?' enquired the witch behind the counter. 'Or was it something else you're looking for?'

Hermione roused herself with a jolt. 'Oh, no, I don't know what I want… Um, I'm just looking.' She quirked her lips awkwardly and, as soon as she felt it polite, she hurriedly left the shop. She took a few breaths of air before heading back to the Leaky Cauldron.

He'd smiled. She was sure of it.

Immediately, she grimaced. Why was she even thinking about it? So, she'd never seen it before… What did it matter?

She blinked hard, looking around the street with a purposeful gaze. What would she ask Cressley tomorrow, when she saw him? She would make a list of questions tonight, to ensure she did not forget anything. That made her feel better; she liked lists.

As she passed into the courtyard at the back of the Leaky Cauldron, her mind traitorously disobeyed her once more. He'd actually smiled.

Hermione resisted the urge to stamp her foot. She felt absurd—completely and utterly absurd! What was wrong with her? She felt almost shaken… it was…

She pushed the door to the pub open with a shove.

Forget about it, she told herself.

And yet, above all, she found she ached to know what it was that McGonagall had said to extract such a reaction from him.

Forget about it.

AN: ; )