She Said She Said

She Said She Said

She said, 'I know what it's like to be dead

I know what it is to be sad'

It took Hermione just under a week of concentrated effort to whip Spinner's End into shape for habitation. Ron and Harry, on fire to examine the ins and outs of Snape's former abode, volunteered to help her clean and were disappointed to discover that the house was free of arcane implements and dribbly candles. Hermione set them to work in the back garden while she blitzed the interior, following up the standard household spells with a good, old-fashioned hoover and dustcloth. Moving in and unpacking was easy after that, although she was startled to learn that even her extensive collection of books didn't begin to fill the available shelving. She decided to decorate the empty space with pictures and potted plants.

Though she would have preferred a few days to get used to living in her new house, the following Monday saw Hermione back at work – at least, if her current occupation could be called 'work.' Research was the activity she enjoyed most, and she considered that getting paid for it was more like a reward than a wage. Inspiration for her current project had come upon her at some point during those interminable weeks she had spent wearing Voldemort's awful locket around her neck. When the aftermath of the final battle had at last faded to memory, she had remembered her idea and holed up in the Hogwarts library for three days drafting a research proposal, which she'd then submitted directly to Kingsley Shacklebolt on Harry's recommendation.

'What is this?' Kingsley had asked, leafing through the neatly written sheets of parchment in the shambles that had once been the Minister of Magic's office. 'You want to study Horcruxes?'

'I think somebody ought to, yes. If we had known more about them to begin with, we might have been able to prevent so much of what's happened in the last few years.' She had paused to gather her courage, then continued: 'There's nobody left alive in Britain who knows as much about Horcruxes as I do, except for Harry and Ron, and they're not exactly research types.' She had kept her gaze direct and confident.

'What is it that you want from me?' Kingsley had asked, confused.

'The Ministry ought to be sponsoring this project, in my opinion. You can give me access to any documents the Ministry have on the subject. You can get me unrestricted passes for as many libraries as I might need to consult. And... there's the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. I'm sure it'll turn out to be pertinent.'

Hermione had felt almost faint after reciting her list of demands, but Kingsley had simply nodded. 'What you're asking for is unprecedented,' he had admitted, 'but not impossible. It's a good idea. Give me a week or two to do some convincing.'

'There's just one other thing,' Hermione had said, floating through a high of both terror and boldness. 'Funding. I know the Ministry's finances aren't what they should be, but...' She had trailed off, shrugging.

To her surprise, Kingsley had grinned smugly and leaned back in his chair. 'Now, there,' he'd said, 'I think we can set you up without a problem.'

Ten days later, the letter from the Ministry had arrived. All her demands met, everything she'd asked for granted, a small office thrown into the bargain, and all the money she could possibly spend. She'd Floo-called Kingsley from Grimmauld Place almost immediately.

'What's the catch?' she demanded. 'This work isn't exactly pressing. Why all the generosity?'

The expression of smugness had reappeared on Kingsley's face. Without preamble, he'd explained, 'The money is coming from an American dilettante. He contacted us two years ago, after the death of Sirius Black was publicised, and asked to set up exactly this sort of project.' He had rolled his eyes. 'As you can imagine, nobody was in any position to indulge him at the time. I thought of him as soon as I read your proposal and gave him a call. He was thrilled to give you a grant.'

'And what does the Ministry get out of it?'

Kingsley had grinned. 'Sacks and sacks of gold.'

So, with an unlimited number of Galleons at her disposal, Hermione had commenced work. She had started with a series of empirical observations.

Item: The commission of murder damages the human soul by tearing it.

Item: Death only occurs under the following conditions: (a) the individual possesses one piece of soul, whole or damaged; (b) that piece of soul resides within his body; (c) the biological life of the body is extinguished.

Next, she had made a list of possible conclusions to be drawn from those observations.

1. The human soul is divisible.

3. The soul can exist outside of the body.

Finally, she had written down a series of unsubstantiated assumptions.

Item: The damaged soul is 'unnatural.' Intentional damage to the soul is of itself, as well as a result of, an act of 'evil.' (cf. Dumbledore)

Item: Destroying an object in which a piece of soul is housed – either a body or a Horcrux – releases that piece of soul from the earth-plane.

Her lists had raised more questions in her mind than they had answered, but as far as Hermione had been concerned, there had been one particular question she would have to address before she could even begin work on the others: what is a soul?

She had inveigled a pass to the Bodleian Library and gone to stay in her parents' house in Oxford. Living there without her mother and father had depressed her, but the furniture needed to be sold and the house cleaned before the new owners closed escrow. She had completed these tasks in between visits to the library. There, surrounded by the oiled wood and leather tomes of the Lower Reading Room, she had immersed herself in philosophy: Plato and Aristotle, Avicenna and Aquinas. She had made detailed notes; she had consulted dictionaries and commentaries. The atmosphere in the reading room was perfectly suited to her needs: the warm air freshened by gentle spring breezes through the open windows, the silence interrupted only by quiet footsteps and the scratching of pens.

The scholarly atmosphere in Oxford had suited her too with its tranquil, sandstone colleges and secluded, elegant gardens. In the evenings, as the days grew longer, she had taken walks up and down the river, stopping at a pub every now and then to drink a glass of cold white wine. On Sundays, when the library was closed, she had rented a punt and spent hours drifting through the leaf-dappled sunshine, her notes spread across the bottom of the boat. Those weeks had been largely solitary, as she had dealt with her grief and come to terms with life out from under the shadow of Voldemort. She was not unaware that, in beginning this research project, she had provided herself with a new goal now that the sense of direction offered by her efforts to protect Harry and end Voldemort's reign of terror was gone. She was also displacing her feelings of mourning, but she considered this to be healthy; nobody, in her opinion, ever felt better from wallowing.

Soon enough, however, she'd returned to London, moving into Grimmauld Place permanently, or so she'd thought at the time. She had written up her notes and sent them off to her patron in America. She had been afraid that her work so far would disappoint him. Her philosophical enquiries into the nature of the soul had led her, inescapably, to believe that most of the ancient philosophers, while of course employing impeccable logic, had drawn some seriously inaccurate conclusions. Using her lists and the information she had gathered in Oxford, she had drawn up a brief summary:

The soul (psyche or anima) is one of three parts of the human being, the other two being the body and the spirit. It is the essence of basic humanity and is the part from which self-consciousness derives. It provides the human being with will, consciousness, and personality. The soul is incorporeal and, therefore, separate from the body and able to subsist without it. Because the soul is subsistent and not composed of matter, it cannot be destroyed through any natural process. It is divisible, however, though how this is possible without a material nature is unclear. The soul is anchored to earth when it resides in the body or within some designated object. When these residences are destroyed, the soul remains in existence but departs from the earth-plane. Although the soul can subsist without the body, it is not clear whether the converse is also true: that is, whether the body can subsist entirely without the soul. Most authorities agree that the soul is not the animating force of the body – this function is usually reserved for the spirit (pneuma or spiritus) – but this theory is by no means proven.

It was terse, dry, and to the point, but uninspiring to say the least. She had waited to find out whether, having evaluated the meagre returns of his first month's funds, her patron would withdraw his support in disgust or, perhaps, boredom. Hermione could not imagine anything more disheartening.

She should have let her imagination work a little more freely; when, just a few days before she learned of Snape's bequest, a letter from America had arrived at Grimmauld Place, she had discovered that there was indeed something worse than losing her funding.

Dear Miss Granger, the letter began:

I read with interest the summary you provided of the research you have undertaken so far. It has, no doubt, suggested to you, as it has to me, abundant lines of further inquiry. As it happens, I will be coming to Britain very soon for an extended stay. It would please me very much if you and I could arrange to meet regularly while I am in the country to discuss your progress. I am myself something of an academic and would be delighted to assist you in whatever small tasks you think appropriate. There are, in addition, certain specific topics in which I am personally interested that I believe would fit well into the scope of your investigation. Do not send a return owl; I will come to see you at your office in the Ministry when I arrive. I look forward to meeting you a great deal.

Edward Teach

Hermione, though perhaps naïve, was no fool; she had read between the lines of the letter and seen the clear message shining through the polite words: interference. This man is going to stick his nose in. How like an American. An 'extended stay' promised a lengthy project as well. She had not planned to devote any longer than the summer to this endeavour; there were her N.E.W.T.s to consider, after all. She could probably put off her exams – who would deny the Friend of Harry Potter anything? – but she disliked the idea of doing so indefinitely, especially for the sake of satisfying some stranger's whimsy.

There was also the matter of Severus Snape's will to consider now, which had been preying on her mind since learning of her inheritance, and it was this investigation which occupied her first day at the Ministry since moving into Spinner's End. She had permission to look at any files she wished; straight away on Monday morning, she strode into the Records archive and Summoned Snape's last testament.

The document was incredibly straightforward, written on a single piece of parchment in Snape's familiar, slanting hand.

I, Severus Snape, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath the following items to the designated beneficiaries:

To Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, any further assets such as may remain.

It was dated the previous September. Hermione understood, with disappointing clarity, why he had felt the need to include secondary and tertiary beneficiaries: there had been a very real chance that none of the individuals named in the will would survive him. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. How hopeless he must have felt! And how alone – imagine having to consider leaving your personal stuff to Oxfam! Wiping her cheeks, she returned to her tiny office, slightly ashamed of having used her research privileges to invade the privacy of a dead man, and opened her notes once again.

The previous week, in between strenuous cleaning, she had taken down accounts from Harry and Ron of their experiences wearing Voldemort's locket. She was tallying these with her own hastily written memories in order to put together a definitive, first-hand description of the effects of extended contact with a Horcrux when someone knocked on her door.

'Come in,' she called out distractedly, shuffling through her parchments in search of a particular piece of information. When the door opened, she looked up to find a man in a Muggle suit standing there.

Her first thought was: Wow, I've never seen a monochrome man before. His skin was light brown. His hair was light brown. Even his eyes, she noticed, were light brown. Her second, slightly less analytical thought was: He's terribly good-looking, nevertheless...

'Miss Granger?' he asked – in what was obviously an American accent. 'Edward Teach.' He extended his right hand, smiling.

She stood hastily and shook his hand, stammering, 'I'm so sorry, Mr Teach, I wasn't expecting you so soon. Won't you sit down?'

Still smiling, he hitched up his trousers at the knee and settled comfortably into the one chair she had provided for visitors. 'I see I've interrupted your work,' he said politely.

'No, no,' she protested, cheeks reddening. He raised one eyebrow and looked pointedly at the parchments strewn across her desk. 'Well, yes,' she amended. 'But it's all right, really. How was your journey?'

'Fine, thank you. Got in yesterday morning, in fact, so I'm all rested now.'

His teeth were perfect, she noted. He looked well-muscled under his suit, too. Suddenly, Hermione felt unkempt and shabby in her rumpled robes. 'Are you staying in a hotel?' she asked, casting around for something to say.

'No, I've rented a flat, as you call it.' He shifted, crossing his legs and leaning one elbow on the arm of the chair. He glanced briefly around the small, bare office and commented, 'I thought they'd give you a bigger space.'

'Well, I do most of the work elsewhere,' she explained. 'I'm only in here today because what I'm doing at the moment doesn't require the use of a library.'

Teach twitched his lips into a knowing smirk. 'I'm told you're right at home in libraries.'

Hermione blushed. 'That's true,' she admitted.

'So what is it that you're working on at the moment?' he enquired, pointing to her notes.

'I'm putting together a preliminary account of Horcruxes. I have a bit of personal experience with them,' she added modestly.

'That's right – you carried Voldemort's locket around for months, didn't you?' He leaned forward eagerly. 'What was it like?'

She blanched at the keenness in his tone. What does he think it was like, wearing a bit of malevolent soul around my neck day in and day out?

He noticed her hesitation and sat back hastily, looking remorseful. 'Oh, I'm so sorry,' he said apologetically. 'I've put my foot in it. Sometimes my interest just gets the better of my manners. Please, Miss Granger, do forgive me.'

'No, please, it's all right.' She shook her head ruefully. 'It wasn't the greatest experience, I'll admit, but I'm okay, really. That's what I'm putting in the account, actually. Just let me finish writing it up properly, and you can read it.'

'Good,' he said earnestly. 'I look forward to it. Let me apologise again for interrupting you – I just wanted to drop in and meet you briefly. We can schedule a real meeting for later.'

'Of course,' she said, pulling her planner out of her desk drawer. 'What would be a convenient time for you?'

'A week from today?' he suggested. 'I've still got some settling in to do.'

'Is ten o'clock all right?' she asked, making a note with her quill.

'Absolutely. See you then.' He stood and offered his hand again, which she shook dutifully, then departed with a brief wave.

Hermione leaned back in her chair and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. A week isn't so bad. From the look on his face when I mentioned the Horcruxes, I thought he was going to ask to move into the office with me. She would be able to finish this section of work in peace and maybe even have time to plan a party for Harry, whose eighteenth birthday was in three weeks. Her first thought had been to ask Molly if they could hold the party at the Burrow, but now the desire was growing in her to host it at Spinner's End. She could put streamers and balloons in the back yard, perhaps get in some plastic garden furniture... She had no doubt that everybody would be dying to see the inside of Severus Snape's old house. Well, that was fine by her; their curiosity would raise the subject of Snape himself, and she might be able to pick some brains about him in the process. Yes, pick some brains. And see if anybody might know how to get into that basement.