Most Oft Where Most It Promises

Most Oft Where Most It Promises

Hermione almost fell out of the phone booth. She choked, feeling as if she had just broken the surface of a deep, airless ocean. The trip to the Ministry had brought back many memories, none of them cheerful. We were only children, she thought. We should not have been left to fight an adult's war. We should have been protected by the people we trusted. We were only children. We were only children...

She sprinted into the relative safety of an abandoned alleyway and Disapparated, grateful to put some distance between herself and the Ministry.

The Leaky Cauldron teemed with witches and wizards who had lately decided that life, in and of itself, was cause for celebration. Although Hermione had recently come to dread crowds, she found the laughter and noise of conversation a welcome relief from the stately, menacing quiet of the Ministry.

"Oy, Hermione!"

Hermione peered through the crowd until she saw Ron's beaming face. She squeezed and pushed her way through the crowd until she reached him. As his face came into clearer focus, she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. She could tell he was trying to read her, trying to find in her demeanor some sign of how he should greet her. His perplexity grieved her. She regretted the mixed signals she had given him, but her emotions were as baffling to her as they were to him. She recalled the word Rita Skeeter had used against Harry...labile. Hermione winced. It might as easily describe her.

Ron looked surprised when she stepped closer and embraced him. His surprise melted into relief, though, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly. For a golden moment, they were all that they should have been: two old friends who had endured unspeakable trials together and who had finally found in each other an unshakeable love.

"Are you all right?" Ron asked. "You looked pale and shaky when I first saw you."

"I just left the Ministry." Hermione pulled back slightly and looked up at Ron. His eyes radiated concern.

"That hearing about Snape?" he asked.

"That's the one." Her indignation flared in her voice.

"What happened?"

"What if I tell you over lunch?" Hermione asked, forcing a smile.

Ron grinned back at her. "I like conversations over lunch."

"Would you mind terribly if we ate outside?" she asked. "After dividing my morning between St. Mungo's and the Ministry, I would prefer some fresh air."

Ron stepped back and looked at her, frowning a little the way Molly used to do when she looked the children over at the beginning of Christmas or summer holidays.

"I think you need some fresh air," Ron said gravely. "You're really pale these days, 'Mione."

"I suppose sunbathing opportunities are rare at St. Mungo's," Hermione joked.

Ron's frown deepened. "That's just it, Hermione. I mean, do you really have to be looking after Snape all the time? He has Healers..."

Hermione's resentful glare effectively silenced the rest of Ron's thoughts on the subject.

"Sorry," he grumbled. Hermione suspected that he regretted activating her outrage more than he regretted slighting Snape, but she held her tongue as they maneuvered through the Leaky Cauldron.

It was a relief to step through the wall and join the bustling energy of Diagon Alley. Ron's hand tentatively sought out hers. She twined her fingers through his, noticing the relief that softened the lines of his face.

They made their way down the alley in aimless serenity, all purpose cast aside as they savored the comfort of each other.

By the time Ron's hunger had reasserted itself, they had almost reached the corner of Knockturn Alley. They had wandered companionably, in uncommon disregard of the thinning crowds or the seedy surroundings. The little burst of post-war enterprise had not expanded this far down the alley. Most of the shops remained forlorn and shuttered, and if the surge of nascent businesses at their backs had seemed vulgar in the wake of the war, this decrepitude was unnerving.

"Let's go," Ron said gruffly. He turned swiftly, and had begun to steer her back into the crowd when a burst of yellow caught Hermione's eye.

A scattering of tables capped with yellow umbrellas broke through the dilapidation and disrepair, like desert flowers blooming amongst stone. A cheery yellow and white striped awning flapped in the breeze, the words "Au Péché Mignon" blazoned across the stripes in red. Its merry little façade seemed to be an act of defiance against the dereliction that surrounded it. It was a spark of life in the midst of decay, and Hermione was immediately drawn towards it.

"Look, Ron," she said excitedly, tugging on his arm. "Let's try it. Please?" She looked up at him hopefully. Ron eyed the storefront doubtfully.

"Please?" Hermione repeated.

He relented with wordless reluctance. Hermione did not fail to notice the apparently casual way he slipped his hand in his pocket, no doubt to grip his wand.

The door of the shop opened as they walked towards it, allowing the enticing aroma of baking pastries to waft through the street. Ron's face brightened a little.

"Say, Hermione, what does "Aw Peach Mig-Non" mean, anyway?" he asked.

Hermione choked back a chuckle. "It's French for 'a little sin', the sin usually being of the victimless variety. The sin of gluttony, for example," she said, looking at Ron sideways.

"One of my all time favorites," Ron laughed.

The interior of the café was just as cheerful as the façade, with yellow tablecloths and vases of red poppies. A glass case showcased a delectable array of offerings; airy meringues, buttery croissants, and rustic tarts almost begged to be eaten.

The comforting ambience of the café drove all thoughts of outdoor dining out of Hermione's mind. Together, she and Ron drifted to a table in the rear, which was framed by a tall, arched window. Hermione peered through the glass into a cobble-paved courtyard, abloom with roses and flutterby bushes. A stone fountain bubbled in the center; Hermione could just barely hear its calming gurgle.

Menus appeared spontaneously as they sat, as did water glasses, a basket of bread, and dishes of olive oil and butter. Hermione felt the stirrings of appetite for the first time since she had come down from Gryffindor tower days after the Final Battle.

"Umm," Ron grunted through a mouth full of bread. "This place is brilliant."

Hermione grinned. Ron usually dismissed all French food as "fussy." She pondered the ease of their camaraderie...uncharacteristic, of late...and it seemed that a bright ray of optimism had cast its light over everything around them. He looked up from his menu and caught Hermione's smile. Seeing the warmth and happiness in his eyes, Hermione was suddenly reminded of everything that had ever drawn her to Ron. She reached across the table and took his hand.

A shadow fell over them. Hermione turned and found a pretty, dark-haired woman with placid features standing patiently.

"Welcome to Au Péché Mignon," the woman said softly. "My name is Mignon. Shall I assist you in making a selection?"

Hermione's stomach rumbled. "I would actually like to go ahead and order," she replied hungrily.

"So would I," Ron murmured.

"Of course," Mignon answered.

Hermione ordered first. "I would like the leek tart with carrot soup and wild-yeast bread."

Mignon nodded and turned towards Ron.

"I'll have chicken pie and potato soup."

Hermione looked at the menu in puzzlement. She could find no mention of chicken pie, but Mignon simply took Ron's order serenely. She wondered if the menus were charmed to appeal to individual customers.

Their food arrived within minutes. Enticing, aromatic tendrils of steam curled upwards from the gorgeously presented plates, and Hermione felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she ate. The tension that had gathered in her muscles slowly ebbed away. She and Ron ate in near silence, and it seemed that nothing could be better than eating a delicious meal with the boy...no, the man...that one loved.

Ron broke the silence first. "So, how did things go with Kingsley today?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, hesitant to leave the comfortable bubble of satiety that had surrounded her so briefly.

"Rather well, actually," she replied, and immediately felt a flame of righteous satisfaction leap in her belly. "You would not believe..."

Ron listened intently as she recounted Rita Skeeter's disgrace with triumphant relish.

"Serves the old bitch right," he muttered.

Hermione laughed, then sobered when she recalled the words of the threat against Snape.

Even Ron paled and flinched when she haltingly repeated the words Kingsley had read:

"I will be waiting to kill you with my bare hands, you sick, Death Eater bastard."

"That's grim," Ron said gravely. He frowned. "I don't like this at all, Hermione."

"I know!" she exclaimed. "To attack an injured, defenseless man, when he has already suffered so much for the cause... "

Ron shook his head impatiently. "Snape isn't a fluffy bunny, 'Mione, and he isn't a house-elf," he said. "I don't think he deserved that threat, no," he said, forestalling her protest, "but he was too intelligent to expect anything else. What I don't like is you being in the middle of this."

Hermione sat up indignantly.

"Don't," Ron said. "I don't know why you care so much what happens to Snape, but then, I never got the thing about the house-elves, either. You are the kind of person who cares about justice and fairness, and I love that about you."

Hermione stared at him, speechless. This was a new, more open side of Ron, and she was unsure of how she felt about it.

"Snape knew what he was getting into when he agreed to spy for Dumbledore, which is a hell of a lot more than you can say for Harry, or you, or me," Ron continued. A note of bitterness crept into his voice.

Hermione almost rose from her chair, a thousand recriminations ready on her tongue.

Ron leaned across the table and stared into her eyes. "I'm not saying he shouldn't be treated better, now, Hermione," he said, anticipating her response. "I just don't want you putting yourself between Snape and somebody else's wand. Promise me, Hermione, that you won't do that. I can't lose someone else I love. Not for something the Aurors can handle themselves. Promise me. "

Hermione sat back in her seat, stunned. Ron's argument had actually been intelligent and well stated. Suddenly, it did seem unfair of her to take such a disinterested view of her own safety. Ron cared for her, loved her. For his sake, she had to balance her own safety with Snape's.

She looked into Ron's earnest blue eyes. "I promise," she answered weakly. He took her hand in his and smiled.

"How about dessert?" he asked, grinning. Hermione laughed.

They continued laughing together over a crème brulée and café au lait. Hermione felt that she could stay at Au Péché Mignon forever, with its delicious food and comforting ambience. As she looked about, she recognized the complicated charm work that had gone into the décor, including the trompe l'oueil window and gurgling fountain that had drawn her to this table.

Ron didn't seem to be particularly eager to leave either, she noticed, but whereas she had become increasingly more relaxed throughout their meal, he had become more and more jittery.

Finally, when the check had been paid and he still made no move towards the door, Hermione could no longer let it go.

"Ron, are you all right?" she asked gently.

"Oh, yeah, I'm great," he said, the nervousness of his smile belying his protest.

Hermione eyed him curiously, considering whether she should press the issue. Just as she started to interrogate him further, a Ministry owl sailed through Au Péché Mignon straight at Ron. He took the scroll with shaking hands and looked at it briefly.

"Here," he said, thrusting it into her hands. "It's for you."

"Ron, what on earth..."

"Just read it, Hermione," he said tightly. His face was a mask of ill-concealed tension.

Hermione nervously unrolled the scroll.

"Dear Mr. Weasley," she read aloud, "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Ministry of Magic's Auror Training program, pending the completion of your NEWTs. You will report to the Aurory on September 1, 1998."

Hermione looked up in astonishment. Ron breathed deeply and smiled.

"What is this, Ron?" Hermione asked.

"You read it; you know what it said," he answered obliquely.

"But you said you didn't want..."

"Yeah, but after we talked about it, I realized that I should give it a go. I shouldn't give up on my ambitions just because of the war," he reasoned. "Besides, I want you to know how seriously I take our relationship. I want you to know how important you are to me, Hermione."

Hermione felt the old guilt and ambivalence edging in through the peaceful bubble she had enjoyed so briefly.

"I am proud of you, Ron," she said. "Are you sure this is what you want, though?"

"Absolutely," he said with conviction. She could not escape the feeling that his conviction had more to do with their relationship than with Auror training, though. He had put too much stock in her judgment, much more than was warranted, given her unpredictable mood changes and insecurities.

"Thank you so much for visiting," Mignon said warmly as they rose to leave, and Hermione could not help but return the woman's gentle smile. She resolved to return and ask her about the intricate charms at work in the café.

They ambled out of Au Péché Mignon and silently reentered the bustle of the alley.

"Hey, look!" Ron said excitedly.

Hermione looked up to see scores of owls sweeping through Diagon Alley with thick rolls of parchment. People huddled around a newsstand, the entire crowd abuzz with whispers and gasps. Ron and Hermione pushed through the crowd curiously.

"Hey, mate, let's have a look," Ron said, pushing a portly man aside as they reached the front of the crowd.

The man's feeble protest barely registered with Hermione. She gaped in amazement. Rita Skeeter's animated visage graced the front page of a special edition of the Daily Prophet. Her lower lip trembled, and a solitary tear trickled down her cheek.

Hermione read the headline aloud: "Disgraced: Failure to Register as Animagus and Illicit Use of Veritaserum Cast Shadow Over Rita Skeeter's Brilliant Career."

She and Ron looked at each other in amazement. She continued reading.

Rita Skeeter, former Daily Prophet reporter and author of a controversial biography on Albus Dumbledore, reported to Aurors this morning after damaging allegations were made against her. Skeeter had apparently been an unregistered Animagus for years, a fact that gave her an advantage over her subjects. She is also charged with using Veritaserum illegally. Skeeter herself has bragged about her use of Veritaserum on her interviewees, including Bathilda Bagshot, who assisted her with her research on Albus Dumbledore.

Daily Prophet editor Susurrus Smythwyck expressed shock and dismay at the formerly esteemed reporter's dizzying fall from grace:

"This is a terrible blow, both personally and professionally," says Smythwyck. "The Daily Prophet is committed to the principles of ethical journalism, and to find that someone you trusted has violated those principles... well, there just aren't adequate words. Suffice it to say that I would have put an end to Ms. Skeeter's work at the Prophet years ago had I known the lengths to which she would go for her information."

Hermione snorted. "He's just washing his hands. He probably encouraged her to do those things to begin with."

Ron looked at her sideways. "Bloody hell! You work fast, Hermione," he chuckled.

"Too bad she couldn't have taken him down with her," she retorted.

"Give it time. You'll get him one day. For now, though, Rita Skeeter is going to have a hell of a time finding work."

"That is a consolation on so many fronts," Hermione responded with savage delight.

They pushed back through the crowd and made their way towards the Leaky Cauldron. Between Rita Skeeter's public humiliation and the charming lunch at Au Péché Mignon, Hermione felt a deep sense of gratification. When they passed Flourish and Blotts, they stopped and watched as workers dismantled displays of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore and stripped Rita Skeeter's publicity posters from the windows.

Hermione smiled with vicious satisfaction. "This day gets better and better," she said under her breath. Ron laughed and hugged her closer.

****

Severus reclined listlessly on his side as Maire massaged his aching legs. His therapy session had thoroughly exhausted and frustrated him. His right leg remained stiff, and the sessions had become more and more draining.

What energy he had he poured into a wordless litany of hatred: he hated Hermione Granger for taking him under her wing. He hated himself for depending upon her. He hated his circumscribed world at St. Mungo's, and he hated more the fact that he had no idea how he would live when he was wheeled out the door. He hated the way the clock seemed to slow when his bushy-headed, do-gooder of an ex-pupil was away. He despised the way he reacted to the sound of her footsteps like some kind of puppy.

He could not remember what it felt like to be fully human. Perhaps he never had known.

The hatred surged until it warmed his belly and ate away at his listlessness. "I suppose you are planning to rebuke me for chasing away my one hanger-on," he snapped at Maire, unable to refrain from picking at sore spot left by Miss Granger.

She calmly continued her task without looking at him.

"You are a grown man. Miss Granger, as young as she is, is a grown woman. Your friendship with her does not fall under my purview, nor do your manners. Or lack thereof." She wordlessly began a diagnostics spell and looked at him with a smirk.

"Friendship," he sneered, annoyed that she would not rise to the bait of remonstrating him. "Why do you let her in here?"

"Why do you not tell her that you find her presence objectionable? Or, if telling her tête-à-tête seems indelicate, why not simply restrict her from your visitors list?" Maire asked. He could hear the mirth in her voice, and it irritated him.

"Mr. Snape, Miss Granger means well. Regardless of her youth, which can lead her towards overbearing or impetuous behavior at times, she cares for you," Maire said briskly.

And you don't see anyone else lining up to see you, do you, old chap? Severus finished bitterly in his head. He turned away, scowling.

"There you go. A good sulk is probably exactly what you need right now," Maire snipped. "All in all, I should think it the most productive plan of action."

Severus looked around at her in surprise.

"Impressive, Healer," he snapped. "I would never have guessed that you had such a wellspring of sarcasm within you."

"A propensity for sarcasm is what one might call an occupational hazard," she said smilingly. "Not unlike that faced by instructors, Professor."

Snape smiled despite himself. He would miss Maire's friendly banter when it was time to go. He pushed the realization away as quickly as it arrived.

Maire finished her diagnostics with a flourish of her wand. "You are doing better by degrees, Mr. Snape."

Slow and painful degrees, Severus thought spitefully. The apparent loss of his magic tormented him.

Maire laid a soothing hand on his arm. "It will get better, Mr. Snape. I promise."

Her promise seemed to be a safe hiding place for him. He turned his face and burrowed into the pillow, hoping that she would not see the tears that formed in his eyes. An echo of knowledge rang through the hollowness within him, telling him that no one had ever promised him anything, never anything that he could actually take comfort in.

Maire patted his arm. "You are understandably exhausted," she said softly. "Sleep, Mr. Snape. These obstacles are not as insurmountable as they seem."

You aren't the one bereft of both memory and magic, depending on a virtual stranger to stand upright, he thought, but could not summon the bitterness forward. The hollow space inside seemed to grow, displacing everything except for a childish grief that he could not will away.

He was glad when Maire extinguished the lights around his bed and slipped through the curtains.

He wept soundlessly into his pillow. He was nothing but human detritus now, nothing but a bit of rubble left behind by a war. He hadn't the wherewithal to take care of himself in even very basic ways. In mere days, he would be homeless. These things alone, though, did not account for this strange and mournful vulnerability.

His growing awareness illuminated the empty spaces in his soul, giving him glimpses of how little he had known of warmth, or friendship, or promises made in good faith. He wondered what was locked in his lost memories, wondered if he was safer in its absence. If he had a home, he was not sure he wanted to go back there.

****

.

"Promise me you'll write."

"I promise, Ma!" Severus rolled his eyes.

"You can use the school owls. Just write 'Mrs. Snape, Spinner's End' on the envelope."

"I know."

A tantalizing flash of auburn captured his eye. Reflexively, he started forward to chase after it.

His mother's eyes narrowed, and she caught him by the arm.

"Don't forget who you are, Severus," she said sharply. He winced. The little bit of Yorkshire that had crept into her voice during his parents' marriage slipped away, leaving naked a cold, clipped, almost aristocratic tone, the way a scabbard might slip away from a coldly lethal blade. He had learned to fear her during these times.

"Don't forget where you come from, and don't forget what you are," she warned him. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his upper arm. He fought against himself to keep from running after the red haired girl.

"Promise me," she said more harshly, gripping him even tighter.

"I promise," he said solemnly, meaning it.

Mostly.

Then he was finally free of his mother, free to board the train. He saw the little girl again, her red hair bouncing behind her as she slipped through the crowd.

He pushed through the passengers, trying to catch up to her. Always, she was just beyond him.

It seemed that he had followed her down the length of the train. The compartments now were empty, save for him. Finally, he saw her. She sat in the last compartment on the train, looking out the window with her back toward him.

He opened his mouth to speak her name, but could not utter a word.

The wheels of the train screeched on the rails. The cars lurched to a halt. He turned to look toward the front of the train...they could not be at Hogwarts, yet...and when he turned back around, the red haired girl was gone.

He ran through the deserted train, desperate to find her. She would tell him everything, would make everything all right.

Like the train, the platform was deserted. He could see his breath in the night air. How had they arrived so quickly, and why was it so cold?

He walked to the edge of the lake and boarded one of the boats. His heart pounded as he floated towards the castle. He had to find her. All was lost without her.

He was finally within the castle, unsure of how he had moved from the boat to the Great Hall so effortlessly.

She sat at a long table. His heart pounded as she looked up at him with her clear, green eyes. Just as he neared her, however, she cut her eyes to the dais. He saw the Sorting Hat on its cushion.

He did not want to do this, not now, not when she was so near, not when he wanted to look into her eyes and take her hands.

Her eyes flicked between him and the hat, and he understood. She was making him choose. This was something he had to do, even though he dreaded it, even though it felt that he was walking to his death as he mounted the dais.

He reluctantly placed the tattered hat on his head. "Slytherin!" it cried, and it sounded like an execution order. To his dismay, the little girl dashed out of the hall.

Severus threw the hat off of his head and fled into the darkened castle. Though he could hear her footsteps, he could not see her, could not even get a glimpse. He wheezed as he ascended the stairs through the castle.

Finally, though, he saw her again, saw that same infuriating spark of her hair. She was opening a door, she was slipping through ...

He froze as the door closed in his face.

"No," he whispered. "No, please. Don't make me go in there."

He remembered his mother, her voice imperious, demanding a promise of him.

"Don't forget who you are. Promise me."

Heart sick, he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the Astronomy tower. Because it was required of him. Because he had promised.

A cloaked and hooded form leaned against the parapet.

"So good to see you, Severus." An eerie, high-pitched voice issued from the hood. "I've been waiting for you."

Severus stared in horror and revulsion as a thin, cadaverous hand stretched out from the cloak.

Terror and fury welled up within. His wand was suddenly in his hand, and the words felt so right on his tongue...

"Avada Kedavra!" he called, and he was darkly pleased when the cloaked thing toppled backwards off the battlement.

He rushed to the edge of the wall. As he looked, though, the twisting heap of black became a red-haired girl, with the waxing moon reflected in her glassy, unseeing green eyes.

"No!" Severus screamed.

He flew down the stairs, mindless of his own safety. He was finally outside, and he saw her lying on the ground, her arms and legs bent at odd angles.

He rushed to her side and took her cold hand in his. She was changed, though; it was now Miss Granger's brown eyes that stared heedlessly up into the night sky.

"Miss Granger! No! Hermione! Miss Granger!"

Someone wrestled with him, trying to tear him away, but he resisted. "Miss Granger!"

She turned to him suddenly, alarmingly. "It's me, Professor Snape."

"Miss Granger!"

"It's me."

The arms holding him tightened.

"No!"

He twisted, and the light changed. "Miss Granger!" he cried forlornly as he struggled.

"It's me, Professor Snape. I'm right here," a soothing voice cooed.

The arms holding him were her arms, her warm and very real arms. They were at St. Mungo's, not Hogwarts, and her eyes shone with vitality and concern.

He grasped at her hands and wept as she held him against her frail body.

"Everything will work itself out," she whispered. "Everything will be all right. I promise."

I promise.

He clung to her, clung to her promise, with child-like trust, until his grief exhausted itself.

AN: Many thanks to the awesome-tastic Lariope for her amazing beta work! Any flaws you see are mine alone. She is a dream to work with! As always, all I own none of the canon characters, and no money has been made from this story. Trust me.