Chapter Five

Chapter Five: In which Christmas comes to Hogwarts, Severus Snape stumbles over his most recent tribute, and Hermione Granger investigates.

~o0o~

Christmas showed the castle at its most festive, and while it bore the distinctive stamp of each tenured headmaster or headmistress, Hogwarts was still a school for children and young adults. Under Vector's headship decorations were more Victorian than her most recent predecessor and significantly more restrained than during Dumbledore's tenure. Nonetheless, pine-scented garlands hung in looping strands along balustrades, swaying in pendulous arcs as stone staircases swiveled on their pivots. Christmas trees were festively decorated and lit by enchanted candles in each of the four house common rooms, and in the Great Hall a veritable woodland was situated upon the dais where the high table was normally found. A small community of fairies flitted from tree-to-tree, illuminating silver, gold, bronze, or pewter ornaments.

Severus Snape, long assumed by Muggle-borns and half-bloods to be a descendent of Ebenezer Scrooge, had decorated his quarters for the season. He had succumbed to McGonagall and Flitwick's wheedling, and together the friends had hiked to a finger of forest where they had acquired three moderately small trees. Snape's tree was located in his sitting room, blocking one of the French doors. It was decorated with pine cones and winter berries, and he had used a Beguiling Charm to coax a nest of fairies into defecting from the woodland in the Great Hall.

On Christmas Eve, Snape returned to his rooms following the post-curfew party for those staff members remaining at Hogwarts over the holidays. Many stopped by Pince and Filch's quarters for a glass of mulled wine and holiday cheer, and while Poppy Pomfrey only remained for a quarter of an hour, her excuse was a Hufflepuff stricken with influenza and tucked up in the hospital wing. She wasn't on speaking terms with the Defense professor, but she didn't treat Snape as something unclean. Sprout and Hooch departed as soon as they realized he was present, although Snape had sat quietly in a snug corner playing chess with Filch. Charlie Weasley and the Astronomy professor, Sinistra, remained for the longest time. They left shortly before midnight, weaving their merry way out of the door, one to return to the school's highest tower, the other to give the creatures under his care a last check before retiring to bed.

Snape was the last to leave the party, and when he entered his quarters he lit no lamps, settling instead into his favorite chair and staring into the fire smoldering in his grate. He considered destroying his memory vials as a gift to himself, but by the time he finished the last of his drink, his muscles were almost too relaxed to support his body as he found his bed.

When he woke Christmas morning, it was to the stirring of his loins. During the last years of the war, an erection had been as rare as a worry-free day. Then throughout his long and oft-times frustrating convalescence, sexual gratification had been infrequent at best; even more recently, the unease of having an unknown persecutor had dampened his libido significantly. Thus, any erection was a gift to be celebrated.

Before Snape opened his eyes, he had tucked his hand into his pants. The familiar tug and pull as he stretched his foreskin stimulated a fresh surge of arousal into his rigid appendage. He grabbed for his wand and wordlessly cast a Lubricating Charm. The wet sound of friction accompanied Snape's harsh, panting breath, and he summoned a well-worn image of Lily Evans to the forefront of his mind. Only this time, it didn't cause the expected reaction. There was no tingling in his spine, no elevated pulse at the thought of the alluring young woman he had once loved to the exclusion of all else. Stroking himself tighter and faster didn't work, although release hovered at the edge of consciousness. Snape riffled through his memories for a sexual encounter to stimulate the final spark. There had been women in his past, not many and not often, yet none came to mind.

Within seconds the lack of mental stimulation wouldn't matter as his hips flexed and he used both hands to speed his release.

There.

He groaned and shuddered, and in the second of blinding white light, an image of slightly parted lips and earnest brown eyes snapped into mental focus, but it was quickly forgotten in the short, sharp ecstasy of orgasm.

It was difficult to wipe the grin off his face as he climbed into the shower and thought about breakfast.

As in Dumbledore's time, the long house tables would be banished in favor of a single oval table large enough to seat all who had remained during the break. Meals during the holidays tended toward the exotic, as house-elves catered to the whims of their small audience. Extravagant puddings were prohibitively expensive during term time, but for a score of students and staff, Crepes Suzette or Baked Alaska wasn't unusual.

Breakfast on Christmas morning was one of the few meals Snape anticipated with pleasure. On his plate he would find delicately poached eggs layered atop a thick rasher or two of Wiltshire dry-cured bacon perched on two perfectly toasted crumpets. He didn't particularly like English muffins and sneered at anyone who said crumpets were the same thing really. Next to his plate a small gravy boat of hollandaise sauce would be kept at the perfect non-curdling, non-skin-forming temperature. His love of Eggs Benedict was the one thing Snape had picked up from his late and unlamented father. He had never learned where Tobias Snape first encountered the indulgent meal, but it was the only time he would remember his sperm-donor with anything approaching fondness.

Thus, bathed and dressed, and bending to the frivolity of the day to come, Snape, the younger, ignored the small pile of presents on his hearth which he would open with McGonagall, Flitwick, Pince and Filch later, and crossed his sitting room to leave his quarters.

When he opened his door, his transitory contentment shattered and his breakfast was forgotten.

There, lying in a massive heap across the threshold was a two-meter long wild boar ... undeniably dead.

Snape's wand was in his hand within a fraction of a second. "Hominum revelio !" He cast the spell in each direction of the hallway before he stepped over the body and into the corridor. A recasting of the spell on the staircase confirmed that he was the only human on his and the nearest levels of the tower.

As Flitwick had done so many weeks before, Snape tried a basic diagnostic spell on the bristly corpse, expecting and yet dreading the results. They were as he thought. The body had been sucked dry.

A further spell revealed two wound sites, one at the beast's heart and another at the jugular vein in its neck.

"Scheiss!" he hissed viciously.

None of the harassment thus far had been significant, but the consistency of the negative attention and its present escalation had succeeded in making Snape feel exposed. He hated it.

Whipping his wand in a pattern Harry Potter had taught his study group their fifth year at school, Snape summoned a silver Patronus. The great winged creature unfurled from his ebony wand, its wingspan brushing opposite sides of the corridor as its wings took their first down-stroke.

While he waited for McGonagall, Snape considered his options. He regretted being unable to use the spells he'd cast when discovering that first vole. Since his rooms were located in an open-ended hallway with adjoining stairs the results would be unreliable. Alternatively, he reinforced the protective warding on his chambers. The only reason the spell he chose wasn't classified as Dark magic was that the Wizengamot had never seen it before. It was one Snape had invented during his short tenure as headmaster, when the school had been home to the predations of the Death Eaters.

As he completed the added layer of security, he sucked in an unexpectedly frigid breath of air. Only one of the castle's ghosts ever sought out his company. "Baron," he said in a clipped greeting before facing the shimmering outline of the Slytherins' mascot which had materialized at his elbow.

"S'teeth!" the Baron exclaimed in heavily accented English. His native tongue, spoken in the days of Chaucer and Le Morte d'Arthur, had suffered the lingual shift of centuries. Essentially a vain man, the Baron had disliked being the butt of jokes by other Houses, and had made the effort to update his colloquialisms and pronunciation, yet the accent and occasional anachronistic phrase remained. "What a fine beast. Been hunting again, Snape?" Then he said reminiscently, "There's nothing finer than the taste of a fresh-killed beast, sliced from the carcass as it roasts on the spit. If I could but sup and sip, I should be content. As it is, I shall envy you this fine meal."

"Indeed." Snape inclined his head. "My pardon, Baron, I have other duties this morning."

The ghost sketched a bow before phasing into the nearest wall. Without pause, Snape summoned his ladder-back chair and transfigured it into a small, but sturdy, bridge over the boar's body. Next he called for a house-elf. "Coffee, tea, and some breakfast, Flossy. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall should arrive shortly, and unless I'm mistaken, they will ensure Mr. Potter's attendance as well."

The tiny green elf disappeared with a faint pop.

With no task left to perform Snape stormed from one end of his sitting room to the other, his anger seeking escape like a pocket of methane beneath a lake of tar. Abruptly, he spun on his heel and sighted his wand at a Chinese vase on his desk. With a snap of his wrist, a spark of virulent green shot from the ebony tip of the wand.

BANG!

The vase exploded into a cloud of china shards and porcelain dust.

"Really, Severus, there's no need to be so dramatic." McGonagall's tone was crisp as she climbed into his quarters. With a discreet wave of her wand the vase pieced itself back together.

"No need?" he asked, his glare fulminating.

Curling her lip fastidiously, she remarked, "None. It is not your fault one of our students has shown extremely poor judgment." Having quite clearly dressed in a hurry, she finished pulling the cuff of one blouse sleeve from her fitted jacket to cover her wrist. "Not to mention such poor taste in Christmas gifts."

"Christmas gift?" Snape's laughter was a harsh bark. "Minerva, you know what this means."

She crossed the room to his side, her sincere expression belying her initial dampening response. "Yes, Severus, I do. You'll have to report this incident."

His jaw tightened as he paced the perimeter of his sitting room, pausing to flick one of the silver ornaments hanging on the limb of his tree. "When I discover the perpetrator..."

"You'll let us handle it," she said sharply. And when his eyes narrowed and his mouth turned down, she huffed in exasperation before placing her hands on her hips in a universally understood stance. "You can't possibly think I believe you mean the student harm."

"You would have ten years ago," he snarled, storming across the room to confront her.

Her hand flew to her chest, as if to protect her heart, and her eyes gleamed wetly behind her square glasses. "That remark doesn't become you."

"It would have once."

"You are no longer that man."

His posture changed and his expression softened. "You're quite right. Forgive me." Then he resumed pacing, his one-armed gesticulation fueled by his emotions. "But this...! These ... they're insidious. None of the incidents are threatening when taken singly, but when you look at it all together, it's as if..."

"You're being stalked, Professor." Snape spun on his heel toward the door, his forward momentum carrying him in the direction of Hermione Granger as she followed Flitwick over the bridge. It was she who had spoken, and she paused at the apogee of the transfigured arc, her eyes fixed on him.

"Stalked, Hermione?" Flitwick asked, prompting the explanation for his colleague's ears as he made a beeline for the tray of beverages. Flossy had come and gone with none the wiser, but Flitwick was never terribly coherent with less than three cups of coffee equalizing his blood-to-caffeine ratio.

"Stalker is a Muggle term, but Harry and I think it might apply in this situation. I'll save you the lecture, and give you the expurgated version." She entered Snape's domain and met him at the base of the short bridge. He inclined his head, his dark hair falling forward, but she could see his eyes and the memory of an earlier discussion lurking in their depths. "In short," she continued, speaking directly to him, "it means someone has fixated on you, Professor, for whatever reason. The expression of that obsession can be as mild as sending you flowers or a Class Three love philtre. More exaggerated cases may subject the recipient of their desires to something more noteworthy..." she waved her hand at the boar beneath the bridge, "...and in other, less pleasant, circumstances, a stalker might resort to vandalism, property damage, or even become violent."

"My word!" Flitwick exclaimed, adding three lumps of sugar to his coffee cup and pouring the hot brew into the delicate china. He seemed to have taken the morning's events in stride, except those who knew him well would notice he was wearing his jacket from the day before.

"I tend to provoke strong reactions in people."

Snape's dry remark drew Hermione's attention from the bristle-tufted peccary, and her appeal was earnest. "Please don't take this lightly."

"As inconceivable as it may seem," he said sardonically, "I have been the unwilling focus of student fancy in the past. Some of whom have resorted to poorly brewed love potions."

Hermione shook her head, her undulant hair emphasizing her vehemence. "It isn't inconceivable at all. You're a heroic figure." When he sneered, she pressed on, "Professor, there have been cases with very unhappy endings, and I don't want to see that happen here."

"How do we find the culprit?" McGonagall asked from her position on Snape's sofa. To ease her anxiety she had begun to sort and rearrange the biscuits on the serving plate.

"And where is Potter?" Snape inquired with an underlying bite to his question.

Hermione ignored his tone, and walked around the edge of the bridge to where she could see more of the massive beast obstructing his doorway. She bent over to have a closer look, and didn't look at Snape when she replied. "Harry is at the Burrow this morning with his wife and son. Unless you want several Weasleys to accompany him, you will have to make do with me. Besides, I promised Minerva and Filius I would come if at all possible."

Snape glared at his colleagues, his anger spilling into his comment. "I wasn't aware you had been consulted, Miss Granger."

Her head came up and she looked over her shoulder at him. "Is that a problem?"

He strode to his French door, skirting the festive tree, and instinctively positioning himself for an escape. "It was my understanding your last jaunt to these hallowed halls was in search of a career change. I had no idea I was also subject to your scrutiny."

A seasoned Auror, Hermione understood the underlying significance of his relocation within the room, and her heart lurched. "My last visit was both personal and professional, and if you'll excuse me, I would like to examine the feral pig."

"Boar," he corrected.

"Really? I thought boars were extinct in Britain."

He had turned to look out the window, one hand fingering the short needles of his fir tree, and McGonagall answered the question. "They're not extinct any longer, Hermione. There's been a resurgence of the species these past fifteen years. Some cultivated varieties have escaped to flourish in less populated areas."

"I thought it was rather large, but then again, I've never seen one in person, so to speak." Hermione crossed the bridge into the hallway, and then levitated Snape's handiwork off the boar and into the professor's chambers. "If you'll give me a few minutes?"

At her question, Snape shook off his unpleasant reverie. Without waiting for permission, Hermione initiated a series of spells on the dead animal before attending to the corridor beyond. An enchanted mesh, sparkling in a variegated range of blue hues, settled atop the coarse hair of the boar. Leaving that magical field in place, Hermione roamed beyond Snape's line of sight, and he finally accepted a cup of tea from McGonagall before positioning himself at the door for a better vantage point. He was familiar the first spell she cast on the stairs at the end of the hall; her wand-work was unsurprisingly textbook. However, as he watched her in action, Snape recognized very little of what she was doing. He traced his lips thoughtfully, his attention unwavering, his tea forgotten.

While Hermione worked and Snape watched, McGonagall, in her official capacity as the deputy headmistress, used the discretionary override to activate his Floo connection and report to the headmistress. Flitwick settled onto one of the window seats and drank his coffee. He appeared perfectly calm, but he fingered his holly-patterned braces, and every couple of minutes, his anxiety was relieved when he released the elastic. SNAP!

No one was more surprised than Snape when Vector's reaction to McGonagall's report was to step through the Floo into his sitting room, and he left the doorway, taking several steps in the headmistress' direction.

"Seven?" squeaked Flitwick.

"Filius? Whatever brought you here?" she asked, dusting Floo powder from her elegant crimson robes. Without waiting for a reply she chided her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. "Severus, you could have told me the news yourself. There was no need to involve the others." Her eyes focused beyond Snape, taking in the massive tribute lying across the doorway. Neither head nor hindquarters were visible. "What a magnificent specimen."

"Sorry?" McGonagall involuntarily asked.

Vector smoothed a nonexistent, wayward hair into her coiffure. "It's an impressive display, don't you think? One rarely sees this sort of homage in this day and age, but I believe there is a time-honored precedent for it on the continent."

Quick footsteps sounded in the hall. "There is?"

"Miss Granger! I hardly expected to see you here this morning."

"It wasn't a problem. My parents sleep late on Christmas Day, and I was already awake when Minerva Floo'd." Hermione, too, smoothed hair out of her face, but unlike Vector's, hers was all too real. Hermione's hair was a wild confection of curls which was quite flattering. Unaware of its becoming effect, she was only conscious that she was dressed in jeans, a ratty jumper, and hadn't bothered to pull a brush through her hair since she'd padded barefoot into her parents' kitchen to put the kettle on.

"But I fail to see why there was a need to call you in the first place. Surely you don't think there is cause for alarm?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Snape was quicker. "Considering the Board of Governors' stance regarding my employment, Miss Granger's presence is best categorized as precautionary."

Flitwick hopped to his feet, thus standing on the window seat so his head was at a level with his peers. "It seemed the most prudent course of action."

Vector's expression softened and she smiled at her diminutive colleague. "I quite understand, but I have no intention of allowing the Board of Directors to interfere with my choice of teachers, and nothing as immaterial as an overly enthusiastic schoolboy prank or out-moded gesture of gratitude is going to interfere."

McGonagall straightened to her full height. "Severus was understandably concerned with his contractual obligations."

"I'm fully aware of the terms of his contract, Minerva." Vector nodded thoughtfully. "I will not be bullied by the Board. I insisted on the phrase, 'at the discretion of the headmistress,' and know full well when to exercise that right."

"How comforting," Snape said into the silence that fell after her pronouncement.

Hermione bit her lip to hide her reaction to the snide undertones of his comment, but no one commented on it.

With the poise gained over many years of dealing with unexpected situations, McGonagall offered Vector a cup of tea and a muffin.

"Thank you, no," she said. "Breakfast is being served in the Great Hall, and it would not do for me to be absent on this festive occasion. Minerva, I trust you will file an appropriately worded report regarding this mischief?"

"You'll have it by noon, Seven."

"Very good. Then I will bid you all a Happy Christmas." She dipped one hand into the pewter box on the mantelpiece and threw the Floo powder into the flames. Before she stepped into the green fire, she said, "Filius, I'm certain you can leave the others to tidy up. While Minerva has a report to write, I would like the other heads of house to be present at breakfast."

"I'll be with you as soon as I complete my toilette." The Charms professor lightly jumped to the floor in an accompaniment to his statement.

Vector stepped into the flames as Hermione crossed the bridge, re-entering Snape's sitting room. "Would someone care to explain?" she asked.

"Not particularly," Snape replied, but he wasn't looking at her; he was glowering at the fireplace.

"Surely you understand the necessity of keeping these events low-profile," Flitwick said, placing his coffee cup on the tea tray, and crossing the room toward Hermione.

Her cheeks flushed as if she'd been scolded like a first year. "Yes and no."

"Searching for another front page? Been out of the limelight too long, Miss Granger?" Snape asked nastily from his resumed position at the French doors. "Shall we summon Rita Skeeter and her Quick Quotes Quill?"

"Severus!" McGonagall snapped.

"I expected better of you, Professor Snape," Hermione said, her heightened color reflecting irritation rather than embarrassment, "...than to make assumptions based on too little information."

He turned from staring out at the snow-covered grounds and crossed his arms. "Then by all means, Miss Granger, regale us with your astounding intellect."

Instead, she faced McGonagall and Flitwick, each of whom was shooting admonishing glares at their colleague. "While I loathed Dumbledore's policy of sending soldiers to fight a war for which they were woefully unprepared – a position with which you, Professor Snape, might empathize - I understand why you don't wish to draw attention to these pranks, to use the headmistress' word. The school can ill-afford another scandal. Aside from that, it's the prudent course of action to take where a potential stalker is concerned. What I don't understand is why you didn't want to discuss it with Professor Vector, unless she is unaware of the other incidents and you want her to remain ignorant."

Snape sneered. "With a quick mind like that it's astonishing you haven't become Minister."

Hermione crossed the room like an Unforgivable. She stood toe-to-toe with him, her head tilted back to look directly in his face. "And with a mouth like yours, it's a wonder you remained out of Azkaban."

"Hermione!"

The situation might have become ugly if Snape hadn't chuckled with unexpected mirth. Hermione's eyes flew wide as he drawled, "That lump of coal would produce a diamond the size of a pygmy puff."

Flitwick and McGonagall stared at the two as if they'd been struck by a Confundus Charm.

The sound Hermione made as she shook her head would be described by the uncharitable as a snort. "Is that your idea of an apology?"

"Was one called for?"

"None whatsoever, and I'll thank you for saving me the trouble as well. Look," she said, poking him in the chest, "I hate that someone is eroding your peace, and I want to help."

The expression in Snape's eyes was indecipherable, but he stared at her finger as if transfixed. He cleared his throat. "Then tell me what your investigation uncovered."

"You're not going to like the answer."

"As there have been few things in my life that I have actually liked, I can bear the strain."

Hermione backed off a pace and faced all three teachers. She slipped her wand back in the narrow pocket along the outer seam of her jeans. "While I found magical residue on both wound sites, it wasn't delivered through the use of a focus. No one used a wand on the boar either to kill it or to place the carcass outside Professor Snape's door. Whoever or whatever killed the animal was disturbingly strong." Brown eyes visually raked their audience, and Hermione rested a hand on her hip and tapped her toe. "What aren't you telling me?" she asked. "It isn't yours, former Master of Espionage, but your co-conspirators' expressions make it abundantly clear there is more here than meets the eye."

Flitwick stepped onto the bridge. "I must be going if I'm to appear in the Great Hall for breakfast."

"And I have to write that report for the headmistress," McGonagall said, fingering her hair before she became aware of the nervous habit and dropped her hand, "not to mention arranging with Argus to have the carcass removed."

With hurried holiday wishes, the two teachers disappeared in less than a minute, leaving behind a bemused Hermione and a clench-jawed Snape.

"I take it the story is yours to tell, and you aren't inclined to elaborate." She stepped closer to the warmth of the fire.

He moved away from the French doors. "If there were such a story it would have no bearing on these events."

"How can you be certain?"

"I was a Death Eater, Miss Granger. I murdered the most beloved wizard in a century. Aren't those sufficient reasons for my persecution?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No." An unguarded expression crossed his features, but she didn't know him well enough to read its meaning. After a moment, she said, "I won't press you for an answer now, but I would appreciate it if you would consider confiding in me." It pleased her when he didn't interject a derisive comment, and she pressed on. "I've removed small sections of skin from each of the wound sites as well as additional hair and tissue samples. I cannot trace the perpetrator at this juncture, and none of the standard Blood Tracking spells revealed anything of significance. Wherever the boar was killed, that's where it was bled dry. Harry will be here later this afternoon, and I'll ask him to do a fly by. He's very good at finding anything there is to be found."

He grimaced. "I have to suffer Potter as well?"

"It could be worse."

His tone was peevish. "I cannot fathom how."

Unexpectedly, she found it endearing, but her response was mischievous. "I could come back with him."

"Tempting," he said, his mood lightening, "but I think I'll forego the honor."

"Pity." She smiled, and then sobered. "I'd like a list of everyone remaining in the castle over the holidays, including students. After Malfoy Imperio'd Madam Rosmerta, we can't rule out any possibility."

He agreed by walking to his writing desk, plucking a piece of parchment from a neat pile and picking up a silver-tipped quill. When he finished the short list, Snape discovered Hermione had succumbed to the enticement of his small library. Gently, she brushed one finger down the spine of a book, tilting her head to read the titles.

Snape interrupted her, his hand offering her the list. "As you requested."

"Thank you." Their fingers touched briefly when she accepted the scroll and it drew her attention from his collection. "I'll let you know if I find anything. In the meantime, you might want to dismantle the outermost layer of wards on your rooms. They're worth a mandatory three-month sentence in Azkaban. Since I'm here on my own time, I can fudge the requirement of reporting them, and I imagine Harry will, too, but please don't put him in that position."

He straightened to his full height. "I will take care of it."

"I could replace them with an Auror-equivalent."

"That's unnecessary, but I appreciate your offer," he said stiffly.

"None of us like feeling defenseless." She knew how to school her expressions, and didn't bother to hide her empathy. Then she shoved the list he'd given her into her back pocket and took her leave. "Happy Christmas, Professor, and please call me the next time – don't wait for someone else to do it. Call me..." she paused suddenly, and then dug into her pockets, "...here, take this." Offering him a golden galleon, she explained, "They're how we communicated with the D.A., and there are still a few of us who carry them. I modified it from the standard Protean Charm, but you need to say my name before activating it. Otherwise, it broadcasts to everyone in the link."

His fingers closed around hers. "I wouldn't particularly enjoy the entire Weasley family knowing my business."

She laughed and released the golden coin. "Nor Kingsley Shacklebolt, I'd wager."

"Shacklebolt?" His voice rose in surprise.

"He's been on the list since Potterwatch."

"Of course. I believe he was Royal."

"Yes, he was." She smiled at the memory. "That first time we heard a broadcast," she said, then cleared her throat, shifting her weight from foot-to-foot, "shall we say it was more welcome than I can express."

"I can imagine," he replied.

She looked into his eyes and said frankly, "I expect you can." They were silent for a long beat, both recalling a more dangerous time. Her voice dropped to a soft murmur, but he heard her. "I'm quite surprised you knew about it at all."

He took a step back, distancing himself from the dark reminder. "I was an Order member. I helped Dumbledore with the initial idea before..."

"It was brilliant."

His pale cheeks flushed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And now I really must go."

He walked with her to the doorway and watched her cross the bridge. "Good-bye, Miss Granger."

"Professor."

By the time she reached the Entrance Hall, Hermione's mind raced with ideas, possibilities, and suspicions. Enticing aromas came from behind the doors to the Great Hall and her stomach growled. She was hungry for her mum's Full English breakfast, something her family enjoyed only at Christmas Day.

When she retrieved her winter coat from the cloak room, she discovered it had been soiled by what appeared to be owl droppings, and one arm had been shredded, most likely by the bird's claws. Dismayed, Hermione nearly tripped over an open owl cage shoved haphazardly into a corner. She thought someone deserved to lose massive numbers of house points for their irresponsibility. Taking the time to clean and mend her coat, she then collected her broom, and pressed out into the cold winter morning. She still didn't like to fly, but she had grown proficient at it during her training.

~o0o~

Boxing Day was the first opportunity Hermione had to speak with Harry, but finding a quiet moment, or indeed location, during the boisterous festivities at the Burrow wasn't particularly easy. Shortly after dinner, while Fleur accepted congratulations on the announcement of her second pregnancy, Harry told Hermione he wanted to talk to her outside. She excused herself from a conversation with Angelina Johnson, now Weasley, and bumped into Charlie on the way to the kitchen.

"I know you're careful," he said, picking up their earlier conversation which had been interrupted by Molly's sumptuous feast, "but Snape was a Death Eater for a long time."

"He was a double-agent." She bit her tongue on a sharper retort.

"He fooled some canny people..."

She interrupted him. "Charlie."

He held up his hand. "Just be on your guard, Hermione. You're like family to me." Charlie quickly kissed her cheek before escaping into a clutch of redheads. He passed Harry sitting on the arm of the sofa, but said nothing to his brother-in-law.

Hermione hovered in the doorway waiting for Harry to catch up.

Her dark-haired friend bent to whisper something in Ginny's ear which caused her to roll her eyes, but then she caught his hand and squeezed it. The couple shared a brief, wordless conversation.

Hermione watched their interaction with an affectionate smile, but then someone bumped into her from behind. "Sorry, Hermione."

"It's all right, Bill. Congratulations, by the way."

His scarred face crinkled as he grinned. "Thanks. It's good news."

"Fleur looks happier than I've ever seen her."

Across the room, the part-Veela was radiant while she chatted amiably with her mother-in-law "She is. We are." Then he gave Hermione a one-armed hug. "We're sorry you and Ron didn't work out – not surprised, mind – but sorry."

"I am, too, but I hope we'll stay friends."

"There's no question." He kissed her on the cheek and returned to his wife's side.

It was then Harry grabbed her hand and led her through the kitchen and out into the overcast afternoon. It was cold, and she stamped her feet to keep from freezing.

"Are you a witch or not?" he teased before casting a localized Warming Charm about them.

"You're stealing Ron's best lines."

Twigs cracked and popped as they veered off the path, and Harry replied, "I have special dispensation when they're directed at you."

"He won't be coming up with any new ones either, especially now."

Concerned green eyes peered through foggy lenses. "Ron told you, then?"

Before she replied, Hermione snapped her wrist, dropping her wand into her hand. She tapped his glasses, nonverbally casting an Impervius, and then grinned at him. "Are you a wizard or not?" Harry's smile was sheepish. It was a spell he rarely forgot, and it reminded her that even after all this time they both occasionally thought Muggle before magical. Then she answered his question, "He did. I miss him." Hermione held up her hand quickly before Harry jumped to any conclusions. "Not as a lover, just as a friend. He's my best friend."

Harry clutched his chest as if he'd been mortally wounded. "What am I, then? Pumpkin juice?"

"You're different. You're ... you're my brother."

"Yeah." He suddenly stopped clowning around. "You'll always be part of the family, you know, regardless of whether you marry into it."

"It can't be the same, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit it's part of why it took me so long to break it off. It's not that Ron isn't right for me, Harry. It's that we're not right for each other. Look how long it took for us to get together. We waited and waited for the time to be right, only it never was and we finally said sod that and started sleeping together.

"Oh, we could have a perfectly pleasant life. In someone's demented imagination we'd be married for nineteen years, have a couple of kids – a girl and a boy, of course – and it would be fine. Ron would make fun of me behind my back and I'd nag at him to follow the rules. But deep down I would be hurt that he didn't respect me, and it would cripple him that I wouldn't look up to him as my hero."

They had passed through the garden while they talked, nearing the far end, where the individual trees in the orchard rose out of the fog in darkly spectral shapes. Harry paused while she crossed the narrow stile, leaving the garden proper.

"Once I started to look at us – Ron and me – more objectively, I remembered a lot of the things he did and said while we were at school."

Harry clambered over the stile, jumping the last two feet onto the soft dirt. "That's not fair, Hermione. He was just a kid."

"I know. There were many things I was willing to forgive and forget because I wanted a life with him. And when I started to question our future, I couldn't help but remember all the times he had ostracized me if he didn't like what I had to say or when he simply disagreed with me.

"You can't douse him with that potion and not cover me with it, too."

She carefully navigated past a warren of garden gnomes. "I realize that, but Harry, you and I aren't a couple. We're ... it's different."

"Yeah, it is."

"Besides, I remembered more than just his blaming my cat for Scabbers' running away. There was, for example, the Lavender year."

"Now that's really not fair," Harry protested as he ducked beneath a low-lying branch. "Ron might have been a hormonal prat, but you weren't much better, Miss Attack-of-the-Killer-Canaries!"

She smiled ruefully. "I was quite horrid that year, but that's not what I meant."

"Enlighten me then."

"What he did with Lavender was cruel."

He snorted. "Kissing Lavender Brown was definitely cruel and unusual punishment. I always felt rather sorry for Ron." She winged him with her elbow and he whinged, "Ow, Hermione!"

"I know you've never liked Lavender, but I'm talking about the underlying lesson. The one which, when I understood it, made me certain I'd made the right decision to break it off."

His face was wiped of all levity. "What?"

"Ron walks out."

Harry's face darkened, and he kicked a wizened windfall apple like the football he'd never had a chance to play as a boy. He said very softly, "He always comes back."

"But at what cost? I wasn't willing to take the chance it could be when we were married and had children. That when we were all sick and he didn't like something I said because I was tired and needed his help, he would simply walk away."

"He'd never!"

She faced him. Her voice was very gentle and very sad. "But he does. How many times did he sleep at your place because we had a row?"

Harry didn't answer for awhile. They found themselves in the heart of the orchard, and he leaned against the stout trunk of an aged apple tree. "You really have given it a lot of thought."

"I wouldn't have given him up otherwise. I've loved him since I was thirteen, but I had to sort out whether it was platonic or something more ... and while it's always been something more, it wasn't enough for me to ignore the negatives.

"I don't want him to be unhappy." She joined Harry under the tree's umbrella of denuded branches, one hand reaching up to push a snarl of twigs out of her way. "At least he's moving on with his life."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but Romilda Vane?"

Hermione snickered. "She's always wanted a war hero of her very own."

"Well she's got one. Are you really all right with it?"

"I expected to be gutted, but I'm quite surprisingly not. A bit sad, of course. It was thoughtful of him not to invite her today."

"Could you imagine Molly's reaction if he had?"

She shuddered. "It's hard enough that you and I work with her. Ginny's never forgiven Romilda for those chocolate cauldrons."

Harry straightened. "Enough talk of Ron's love life."

"It's not something I particularly want to think about." She broke off a twig and bent it between her fingers. "What did you find when you were at Hogwarts?"

"The centaur herd is as unwelcoming as always and the Acromantulae are more prolific than ever."

She shuddered remembering the monstrous spiders climbing through the broken walls of Hogwarts during that last night of fighting. "That's disappointing."

"You have no idea. There was nothing. I counted a handful of wild boar, but otherwise ...." He shrugged.

"No kill zone?"

"Not that I could find. I suspect the centaurs know something, but I narrowly avoided being impaled by one of Bane's arrows, and when I politely asked about the boar, I was summarily dismissed."

Hermione's shoes made squelching noises while she paced in time with her thoughts. "And if someone or something is poaching in their territory, they won't come to us for help either."

"The heavens would have to be in more favorable alignment." His tone mocked Sibyll Trelawney. Hermione giggled in spite of herself, and Harry said, "That leaves us with more standard avenues of investigation."

"And none in my current area of expertise. I won't get to the lab until tomorrow, but I'll run standard diagnostic spells on the tissue and hair samples. I had hoped to find some distinctive magical residue, even if it only confirmed that the person who made Horace's Love Philtre and killed the boar were one and the same. I have to finish the Bulstrode report and complete the analysis on Falconworth before I can dedicate any of my time to this. At least I don't have any outside commitments these days."

"I am sorry, Hermione, but I'm glad you're available to help with this. I don't like the idea of Snape being persecuted." Absently, he traced a broken line of bark with his index finger.

"Or stalked."

"Do you want me to take the list?" he asked.

"Give me a couple of days. If I can't get to it by Thursday, then I'll ask for help."

"Sounds good. If all else fails," Harry said as they returned to the house, "I'll put in for some leave and stay at the school for a couple of weeks."

Hermione laughed as they reached the back door. "Can you imagine the look on Professor Snape's face? Harry Potter as his own personal bodyguard!"

The rougher timbre of Harry's laughter mingled with hers as they re-entered the house for the promise of dessert.

Later that night, when Hermione unpacked the care package Mrs. Weasley had sent home with her, she found a single Fantasy Cube stuffed in an envelope, accompanied by a letter.

Hermy One,

Your points are well taken and should we proceed with product development we'll tone down the subconscious wish fulfillment.

Ron doesn't know, nor will he.

Ange does, but that's because her reaction was the same as yours. She tried one while I was'tn on that junket to Paris. I don't fancy being replaced by one of my own products, 'ta ever so!

Happy Christmas!

Love,

George and Ange

Hermione tucked the little cube into her sock drawer and pretended it wasn't there. She didn't, however, quite have the nerve to use it, or to put it in the rubbish.

Harry tried to be as good as his word, but Wednesday afternoon saw his patience at an end. His sometime partner, Bones – Harry never referred to her by her given name, his and Hermione's initial encounter the morning after the final battle serving as the cornerstone for their association – had complained during their first assignment that he lacked the fortitude required for a long investigation. He had, only once, responded heatedly that he thought dying for a cause might serve as fortitude, but he could be wrong. Bones had never publicly criticized him again, but they weren't easy partners.

Hermione wasn't in her office, although a complex set-up of tubes, glasses, small graduated cylinders (one containing what appeared to be blood), and an odd gadget clamped to the edge of her table called a centrifuge, seemed to be running an automated series of tests in her absence. A barrier spell had been placed on her door, preventing entry, but he was fascinated by the amalgamation of Muggle and Magical methods, and watched for a while before resuming his search.

She wasn't to be found on either of the two floors which housed Magical Law Enforcement, and by the time he decided to create another Marauder's Map, this time for the Ministry of Magic, Harry had run into Dawlish three separate times.

"For the last time, Potter, I haven't seen Granger. Quit fart-arsing and send the woman a memo!" Then he sneered. "Your time would be better spent investigating properly rather than encouraging her eccentricities."

For the most part, he had learned to keep his temper over the years, but Dawlish always managed to find his trigger point, and Harry said hotly, "Her eccentricity secured life sentences for Rabastan Lestrange and Aristotle Mulciber!"

"No one ever said she wasn't lucky." Dawlish pushed past the younger wizard without noticing his clenched fists.

Harry finally found Hermione, and it had only taken three Point Me Spells and a bit of well-chosen arse kissing before he discovered her buried amongst the dusty stacks in a small room off one of the main branches of the Records and Magical Statistics wing of the Ministry's archives.

"Here you are," he said as he rounded the corner of a floor-to-very-high-ceiling bookcase, ducking beneath a set of the Encyclopedia Magica, all thirty-seven volumes and twelve appendices, which had slid, en masse, from a head-high shelf in answer to a summons by a researcher in another part of the archives. "Couldn't you have left a note?"

She didn't respond to the comment, but her quill paused mid-word and she raised her head. "Even though it's only Wednesday, I'll give you half the list."

Harry pulled a chair from the table, flipped it around and straddled the seat, leaning his forearm across the top of the chair's back. "What happened with Bulstrode and Falconworth?"

"Bulstrode's done. Dawlish wasn't best pleased to release her, but she didn't tamper with the Vratsa racing brooms. If I hadn't found the wool from Meghan McCormack's jumper snagged in the handle, Dawlish would never have accepted my findings."

"He's a git. I may not have ever liked Bulstrode, but she's the Cannons best Beater." At her glare, he said, "Er ... I'm also very glad your methods proved her innocence."

His rote contrition amused her, but was short-lived. She rearranged a pile of books, stacking them by size. "On the other hand, Bones refused to accept my findings on Falconworth. Says it's a dodgy piece of work and she wants it done the wizarding way."

Harry's immediate anger erupted and he sprang from the chair. "Bloody cow!"

"Harry! Keep your voice down." Hermione's admonition had too few sibilants in it for a proper hiss, but it was effective nonetheless.

Harry grumbled as he paced. "I hate working with her almost as much as I do Dawlish."

Hermione picked her wand up from the table and anchored a Muffliato spell to one of the bookcases. Still, she lowered her voice. "I won't deny they're a significant factor in my potential change of career. Neither has been what I'd call welcoming, more of a permanent obstruction, and Bones has never thought we earned our place. Remember what she was like as an instructor?"

"Having survived Snape as a teacher, she wasn't so bad." He sat back down, his hands gripping the sides of the chair.

"I never thought we'd find anyone more demanding," she said.

"Or more unfair."

"But we survived. Still, I'm now following the Approved Ministry Regulations for Magical Investigations on Falconworth. He's guilty, but Bones refuses to entertain the possibility I might be right." Her ink-stained fingers aligned the pile of notes she'd taken. "It's so discouraging."

"It's the Ministry of Magic." Harry leaned forward, rocking on two of the chair's legs. "Discouragement is its motto. C'mon, we always knew we'd have to work from the inside to make any changes."

"I'm revising my opinion. I'm not sure it's possible any longer." She pulled a tendril of curly hair straight and then let it spring back into an irrepressible coil.

"Chin up! Dazzle me with the results of your Hogwarts investigation. What have you found out?"

Hermione pulled a scroll from a small pile and tossed it toward him. "Those are my results, and you can read them in depth later. Essentially, the exsanguinated boar was killed by a magical being or creature at an unknown location and transported from that point to Professor's Snape's living quarters in the castle. There were no signs of violence on the body other than the two wounds – one to the jugular and one to the heart – which were made with an unknown weapon. There is no magical residue for me to track or correlate, no signs of a hex, or a jinx, or any other sort of curse – Dark or light. There is one small bit of gen you might find interesting."

He raised his eyebrows.

"There was a trace of anti-coagulant in the neck wound. I might have found the same in the chest wound, except too much tissue was missing to create a seam."

Harry stopped rocking, dropping the chair back onto four legs. "What do you mean too much tissue was missing?"

"I performed a Suture Spell on the carcass and–" she held up her small fist, "...there was a hole approximately this size missing from the wound."

Harry frowned. "I don't like what this means."

"It could easily be a diversionary tactic." She picked up her quill and jotted a note on a piece of parchment.

"Or," he said, grabbing her hand to still her note-taking and ignoring her frown, "it could be exactly what the clue suggests; that we're dealing with a Sanguinarian."

"There are different types of Sanguinarians. For example, a mosquito is a Sanguinarian."

As Hermione drew a breath to continue, Harry cut off her incipient lecture. "Stick to the point."

"I was." She poked his hand with a finger. "Mosquitoes inject their victims with anti-coagulant before they feed."

He flushed. "Right. Sorry."

"It's all right. But the primary question is would a Sanguinarian leave Professor Snape flowers or make a love potion?"

Harry snickered with real mirth. "It's highly unlikely. Here, give me the list." He held out his hand and she gave him a small slip of parchment. "I'll take the students, and you can use proper wizarding techniques for background checks on the staff."

"Why do I get the staff? Not that I haven't been reading through their files already."

Grinning irrepressibly, he rose from the chair. "Because if you take the Arithmancy position, you'll know all about your colleagues.

"It's nice to see you've learned some cunning over the years." Hermione laughed at his outrageous suggestion.

"Besides," Harry said, nudging her foot with his boot, "Charlie's my brother-in-law, and if this ever becomes official, I don't want there to be any question of 'undue influence'."

"Good point. Charlie has been openly anti-Snape, but it doesn't follow that he's the culprit. It would be more his style to dump a load of Thestral dung in the professor's classroom than this."

"Yeah, and he would know where to find the boar." Harry chuckled, but then his expression sobered. "Hermione, he's extremely strong."

"A boar that size would weigh over a hundred kilos!"

"Exsanguinated it would be less, and that's not beyond him."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Really? I didn't realize."

"I don't think he's our man, but don't count him out. He's a Weasley," Harry said, and despite the seriousness of their conversation there was a mischievous curve to his lips.

"Which means he's probably smarter than he looks."

"Or not." Harry shrugged, and she laughed, although there was an edge to it. She cleared her throat. "He's not the only member of the staff who has unknown depths."

"Oh?"

"Did you know Madam Pince has an Incognito File?"

"Madam Pince? The Hogwarts librarian?"

She nodded and consulted another list, this one written on parchment with red ink – which Harry knew meant 'priority'.

"Why?" he asked.

"Since I don't have the clearance, and unless something has changed since last week, I know you don't have the clearance, we may not find out."

Harry rolled the list Hermione had given to him into a tight scroll. "Think it has any bearing on Snape's stalker?"

"Not necessarily. She's been there for years." Hermione lifted a blue file from where it had been sandwiched between two piles of books. "Did you know Vector taught at Durmstrang?"

"No." He unrolled the list, but his eyes focused on her. "Did she know Karkaroff then?"

Hermione opened the slender file and flipped through the pages. "It doesn't say, but he didn't become Headmaster until after Voldemort's first disappearance. It's possible they knew one another, but I don't have that information here."

"It doesn't make any sense that she'd do something to Snape, though. There was ample opportunity at other times, and she's headmistress, for Merlin's sake!"

"You never know where a bit of gen will lead you." She closed the file while Harry gave his list a perusal. "Although she was quite outspoken about protecting him from the Board of Governors."

Abruptly, he dropped to one knee on the seat of the chair. "Hermione! Did you see this kid's name? Martin Edgecombe."

Their eyes met, and guilt heated Hermione's cheeks. Her lack of regret over Marietta Edgecombe's death during that last year of Voldemort's war still bothered her. It was something she and Harry had discussed on occasion. His position about the former Ravenclaw had been resolute. Marietta had been Umbridge's tool from their fifth year. Sometimes Hermione believed it, but mostly she was relieved not to have another lifelong enemy. "If I was the one being targeted," she said, "then he'd definitely be ...."

"What?" he asked when she trailed off, her eyes unfocused.

"My coat was damaged. You know, at Christmas. When I retrieved it from the cloakroom, I discovered that an owl had crapped on it and shredded one of the sleeves. I thought it was just a careless student, but it might have been someone seizing an opportunity. I mean who would ever believe ..."

Harry said in a falsetto, "Oh, Professor, I don't know how my owl got out of his cage. I was bringing him to the Owlery from my dorm, but it was time for breakfast. I just left him there for a minute."

She nodded her head. "Exactly. No proof, only suspicion."

"It's a brilliant ruse, and it's the worst thing about a case with so many suspects. It acquaints you with the seedier side of humanity."

"A stroll through Knockturn Alley will do that." He chuckled at her dry delivery, but then pointed to the list. "Sorry," she said. "I'll be serious. I think I've become a little jaded."

"Hermione you're the least jaded person I know; realistic, maybe, but not jaded."

She smiled and plucked a thick file from the nearest pile. In cramped, but legible ink, was written the name Minerva Margaret McGonagall.

"Oi! Potter!" a voice called from the archive's Main Hall, but the anti-eavesdropping spell distorted the words. Quickly, Hermione twirled her wand in the elegant counter-spell.

"Yeah?" Harry yelled.

"Get your worthless arse out here! We're supposed to be in Brighton in fifteen minutes."

Primly, Hermione pursed her lips. "Bones again?"

"Only this week. Just another sign of Dawlish's appreciation." He rose to his feet and yelled over his shoulder. "I'll be right there!"

"You know who else's file isn't here?" Hermione asked, grabbing his arm before he left.

"Who?"

"Professor Snape's. And his should be thicker than this." She balanced McGonagall's file in her hands. "If I were to bet on something, it would be that we'll find his file on Dawlish's desk. He hates the Professor enough to keep it handy, and that's exactly what the professors are attempting to avoid. See if you can find it, will you?"

"Always the sacrifice!" Harry sighed dramatically, and Hermione poked him with her wand. "All right, all right. Don't hex me. I'm going into the field with Bones; that's punishment enough, even for your ruthless little soul." He raised his hands in mock surrender when she held the well-oiled vinewood in a practiced dueling posture, and said, "I'll let you know what I find out, and you work on getting clearance so you can read Madam Pince's file." Harry re-rolled his half of the list and stuffed it into the pocket of his robes.

"I'll even take it up with Kingsley." She offered and then tucked a thick curl of her hair behind her ear; it had escaped from the braid she'd fixed that morning.

"Good. He always gives you what you want." He avoided another poke on his way to the end of the row, but then he turned back. "Look into the possibility of it being a Sanguinarian, too, just on the off-chance."

She gave him her bossiest look and patted a pile of books, her hand resting on the faded leatherwork of Antonius Liberalis' Metamorphoses. "I had planned on it."

He pointed to the smaller pile of books on the other side, but before he asked, he read the title and laughed. "Moste Potente Potions?"

"I'm looking for Horace's recipe. There isn't a copy of his Epodes in the archive. I'll probably have to make a trip to Hogwarts to find it. I'm hoping the list of ingredients will include wild boar, but I doubt it."

"Let me know when you go. If I can I'll come with you," he said as he rounded the corner, but his voice carried back to her. "Good luck on Falconworth."

"Thanks," she called after him. "And be careful!"

~o0o~