Voodoo Chile

If I don’t meet you no more in this world

Then I’ll meet you in the next one and don’t be late

Despite the warnings provided in the ‘Tale of the Three Brothers’ about the Resurrection Stone, Hermione could find no trace of melancholy in Snape over the days that followed, nor any indication that he would prefer to be with the ranks of his fellow dead. At first, she wasn’t sure what he would want to do. Having suddenly found himself alive again, would he wish to go off and assume Draco Malfoy’s life? Or branch out on his own? These questions occupied her even as she worried, in paranoid fashion, that at any moment she’d turn round and find Draco in his own body again. Notwithstanding Draco’s determination to remain part of the collective soul, she wondered whether it was really so easy to maintain absence from one’s body. If she thought of it in terms of physical activity, was it not possible that, at some point, his determination-muscle would get tired, and his need to rest it would propel his soul back? Was the metaphysical link between soul and body one that could remain stretched indefinitely, or would Draco’s soul snap back along the link like a loosed rubber band?

But as one day passed, then two, then three, she gave this worry less and less of her attention, because she was too absorbed in getting to know Snape. He, too, seemed to be discovering himself, and each new facet fascinated her as it was revealed.

For one thing, Snape seemed perfectly content not to discuss what they had done - as if, having said his piece, he left Hermione’s struggles of conscience up to her and thought no more about it. His decision, once made, stood firm, and he was disinclined to doubt it. Instead, they talked about whatever happened to come into his mind: food, perhaps, or the weather, or the plants he thought she ought to cultivate in the back garden. For the first few days, his behaviour imitated the erratic patterns of his conversation: he flitted about without routine, doing whatever he fancied at any given moment. He took long walks into the city centre and along the river; he spent hours examining the carving and statuary in the Minster; once, he wandered for an entire afternoon in the open-air market at Newgate and returned home blue with cold. He took one of Hermione’s rucksacks and Apparated to Malfoy Manor; ten minutes later he was back, carrying Draco’s clothes and all of his own books, which he had found, still packed in boxes, in the foyer. Hermione spluttered at this in outrage - Draco had sworn he’d searched high and low through the collection for the Ars Magica - until she noticed Snape regarding her in bemused astonishment.

‘What?’ she asked defensively.

‘He knew it wasn’t there.’

‘How?’ she demanded.

‘Because he was with me when I burned it,’ Snape answered simply and turned back to continue unpacking, not at all concerned by her affronted glare.

Within a week, the bookcases at Spinner’s End were groaning once again with their renewed burden; the shelves sagged under their double-load of tomes. The books that wouldn’t fit on the shelves Hermione and Snape stacked in piles on the floor in out-of-the-way corners of the sitting room. With Snape’s precious literary collection thus safely restored, and Draco’s clothes hung neatly in the second wardrobe of the master bedroom, Hermione began to allow herself to believe that Snape wasn’t going to leave anytime in the near future.

Indeed, Snape seemed keen to explore not only his environs, but also himself. Hermione supposed that he had never really led a normal life or had the opportunity to satisfy himself without obligation, and she watched with amusement as he indulged his whims, and the seeds of a daily routine began to take shape. First, he rang up the local newsagent and demanded that four newspapers be sent to him - two tabloids and two broadsheets - as well as subscribing to the Daily Prophet. These he read at the kitchen table each morning while he hoovered up toast and coffee. The newspaper habit proved irresistible; before long, Hermione was joining him in the mornings, offering and listening to occasional, random remarks about the perfidy of public figures.

Then, to her utter surprise, Snape began to read her books - methodically, shelf after shelf, smirking at the marginal notes in her textbooks or losing himself entirely in the plot of a science-fiction novel. He took up writing as well, reclaiming his journal from her and continuing its record of his thoughts. Hermione reigned in her curiosity; her desire to read the journal when he was absent was almost irresistible - she had grown accustomed to being able to plunder every available aspect of his life - but she knew such an invasion of his privacy would be unforgivable. Nevertheless, it was difficult for her to see the journal lying about, for Snape never bothered to conceal it or ward it against prying. Knowing that he trusted her and relied on her integrity, she was determined not to let him down, even though she was aware he would likely never know if she took an illicit peek or two.

On the Sunday following Draco’s departure, two things occurred that set Hermione’s nerves jangling. The first was the arrival of a letter from Kingsley Shacklebolt during breakfast. Hermione fed the eagle owl a bit of bacon and slit the seal on the letter with shaking fingers while Snape watched curiously from across the table. ‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured, and passed the parchment to Snape.

The letter read:

Hermione, I’ve just had a most bizarre communication from Edward Teach. I think you’d better come in here today and explain it yourself. I’ll be available to see you at 3pm. Kingsley.

Snape considered it for a moment, then he set it aside. ‘This is good news.’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course. He doesn’t understand whatever Teach has told him. He wants your version of events. Use the opportunity.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

He sighed impatiently. ‘Give it your own spin. Twist the facts to put yourself in a good light.’

‘I’m sure you’re not suggesting I should lie to the Minister,’ Hermione said forbiddingly.

‘If necessary, you should certainly lie.’ Snape shrugged. ‘Politicians get where they are by being economical with the truth. He’ll be expecting it.’

‘All the more reason not to do it!’ Hermione snapped. ‘He’d know it instantly. I’m a bad liar.’

‘Bollocks. Let me put it this way: Edward Teach is dangerous, and whatever he wants to do should be stopped. Twist the facts to put him in a bad light, if you can’t bring yourself to make your own actions look noble.’

Snape buried Draco’s nose in the nearest newspaper while Hermione, jittery with nerves, did the washing up. She had trouble concentrating on anything as she went about her day; instead, she practised in her head how her conversation with Kingsley might go. Although she was reasonably certain she hadn’t done anything illegal, that was essentially only because there was no law yet to prohibit what she’d done to Teach. The one consolation, she thought at 2.55pm as she put on her coat, was that Teach knew nothing about her repeating the experiment on Draco.

‘Good luck,’ Snape murmured snidely as she Apparated out of their front room.

Kingsley was waiting for her in the atrium of the Ministry when she popped out of thin air. His expression was so serious that her stomach shrivelled.

‘Minister,’ she greeted him nervously.

‘Hermione,’ he replied gravely. Putting his hand gently under he elbow, he guided her toward the doors of the lift. ‘I thought we might walk and talk. It’s not every day we get afternoon sun in winter.’

They stood in silence as the lift rose and opened into the telephone box on the street above. Kingsley guided her through the narrow streets until they emerged into the sparkling, frozen green of a nearby park. It was some minutes before the Kingsley said at last, ‘Hermione, I trust you more than most people. I find it difficult to believe what Teach has told me of your research activities. Then again, it’s been weeks since you sent me any updates. I know it’s been the holidays, but according to Teach, that’s when these dubious events took place. Please tell me your version.’

If she’d had any serious intention of brazening it out, Kingsley’s opening statement would have squashed her resolve. Instead, Hermione took a deep breath and told the truth. Even the parts about Draco. She didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that Kingsley was utterly appalled.

When she’d finished her tale, she seriously believed he would Obliviate her. After a few moments, however, his confrontational posture melted away, and he relaxed his grip on the wand in his pocket. ‘I don’t need to tell you,’ he said with meticulous calm, ‘the kind of trouble this could cause. I’m not even sure “trouble” is sufficient to describe what might happen if anyone,, good intentions or ill, got their hands onto this kind of magic. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever done such a thing before. This is a dangerous innovation, what you’ve done.’

‘Yes, Minister,’ she said quietly, knowing what would come next.

‘Frankly, I expected better judgment from you,’ he said. ‘Your studies at Hogwarts were meant to teach you responsibility…’ His father-lecture carried on. Half-listening, Hermione gazed across the park. The sun had dropped behind the level of the buildings and trees, and ice had begun to crinkle at the edges of the duck pond. The first of the evening commuters had begun to hurry along the pavements; some of them cut through the park, their tired faces distracted with thoughts of home. She turned her attention back to Kingsley.

‘…to say, I’m putting a stop to this line of research. I doubt Teach would continue to fund it anyway. And although I’ll spare you the indignity of memory modification, you’ll gather up every last piece of evidence of this and bring it to me tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Minister,’ she agreed dully.

‘A good evening to you, then,’ he said, somewhat more gently. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione.’

She nodded. He walked away briskly, back in the direction of the Ministry. Heavy-hearted, she had no particular desire to rush home and rehash the conversation with Snape, so she left the park and found a shady archway where she Apparated. It was full dark when she climbed up the embankment from beneath the Donnington Bridge and trudged up the Abingdon Road into Oxford city centre. Hilary Term had just begun at the university, and the streets and pubs were filled with students. The familiarity of it all brightened her mood, so she loitered there throughout the evening until her stomach began to growl. When she left for York, a beautiful speckling of snow had begun to fall.

***

’Where is my fucking journal?

Snape’s rage, filling the room like a thundercloud, blasted her out of her tranquil mood the instant her feet landed in Spinner’s End. Unfortunately, the awesomely cold fury with which he had intimidated two generations of Hogwarts students didn’t have the same effect on her as it had when she was in school; Draco’s pointed face was more suited to petulance. Unconsciously aping her mother, she asked, ‘Where did you see it last?’

‘Where did I see it last?’ he echoed incredulously. ‘On the bloody table, where it always is! What did you do with it while I was out?’

‘I’ve only just got back.’ She hung her coat up and strode to the dining room table. Since he had taken up residence, the tabletop had been obscured by piles of books and papers. Rifling through these now, she saw that journal was, indeed, not there. ‘Perhaps you left it in the kitchen. Or the basement.’

‘I know where I left it,’ he hissed, but she was already pulling the bookcase forward and walking into the kitchen. He had been at the shops; plastic bags of fresh winter vegetables sat on the worktop. A parsnip had spilled from one of them onto the floor, as if he’d dropped the bags in a hurry. A quick glance showed her the journal wasn’t there, either, so she headed down the basement stairs. He didn’t follow - sulking, she supposed.

The lamp by the sofa was on when she emerged into the chilly room. He hadn’t turned the furnace on for the evening yet, and she crossed her arms over her chest. Already, she was wondering whether he’d taken the book up to the bedroom when she turned around to inspect the lab. There, she had the surprise of her life, or at least that part of her life since the war: everything was gone.

Everything.

Books, papers, ingredients - the research she’d done, the bottle of potion, Mark’s textbook, had all disappeared. The ingredients cupboard hung open, empty.

Before she knew quite what she was doing, she was pounding back up the stairs, heedless of the wood creaking beneath her. ‘Snape!’ she cried when she reached the kitchen. ‘My stuff is gone! My God, we’ve been burgled!’

He was standing by the window. ‘Hermione…’

‘We’ve got to get the Aurors!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll go to Grimmauld Place and bring Harry back with me - what?’ she interrupted herself. He’d made a dismissive gesture and faced the window. ‘What is it?’

‘No one has stolen your work,’ he said roughly.

‘What?’ She moved to stand next to him and, out of habit, looked out of the window, too. Just beyond, in the darkness of the back garden, she could see an indistinct black shadow in the grass. ‘What is that?’

Pulling her wand from her pocket, she stepped stealthily toward the back door, eased it open silently, and slipped through into the cold. The shadow didn’t move as she approached. There was a strange smell in the air, almost like incense…

And then she realised what the shadow was: the burnt, blackened remains of her research. No heat emanated from it; he must have thrown everything on the fire the moment she’d left for her meeting with Kingsley. A few flakes of snow had settled in the withered grass around the pile of ash and misshapen glass. Numb, Hermione went back into the kitchen. She was shaking and speechless.

Snape had begun chopping the vegetables for their meal and didn’t look at her when she dropped her wand onto the worktop next to him. ‘You did that,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘I promised Kingsley I would turn all of it over to the Ministry, first thing tomorrow.’

‘That’s too bad for the Ministry.’

Well, he had told her to burn it, hadn’t he? And she’d refused, so he’d taken the first opportunity to do it himself, and to no great effect, either. She remembered it all, and she had no doubt that Teach did, too. Lucius Malfoy, if he ever got out of prison, would be furious: two of his rare books had now been sacrificed to the flames.

Coming back to herself, she watched Snape continue shopping for a minute before asking him: ‘If your journal wasn’t in that bonfire, then where could it be?’

He put down the knife and regarded her with large, grey Draco-eyes. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’