Chapter 2

Credit to JK Rowling for the universe, thanks to my beta Elizabeth for her invaluable help and corrections.

* * *

Arriving at last at the Apparation point inside Lyon, Hermione made her way to the house where she would stay. It was owned by a charming old Muggle couple, Monsieur and Madame Robichaud, who, because they had no children, were renting out their rooms to young tourists. The woman was bent over and seemed quite frail, but she was quick on her feet as she led Hermione upstairs to the bedroom. She explained a few rules of the house and imparted some history of the countryside in rapid French. But, while Hermione appreciated the beauty of the language, almost every word was lost on her. Her only regret in going to Hogwarts instead of continuing her Muggle education was that she had never had time to learn a second language.

She thanked the old woman with an uncertain "Merci", gently ushered her out of the bedroom, and locked the door. Though this was to be a relaxing trip, she had still brought some of her work with her. After all, she would have only herself to blame if she fell behind on her research.

Her quarters, however, seemed to have been built purely for the purpose of distracting her from doing anything useful. In one corner there was a bed that looked like it was made of soft, cushiony cotton alone and seemed to beg her to rest in it and read by the light of the bedside lamp.

The walls were cream-coloured, and all the antique furniture was coordinated to match. An ornate Persian rug lay on the floor beside the large and inviting bed. And a look in the smaller room off the bedroom revealed a small study area, complete with a roll-top desk and crushed velvet chair. The rooms whispered of understated opulence. Hermione mused that evidently her hosts had amassed a small fortune before retiring.

Glancing out the window, Hermione could see why.

The house was positioned on a small hill, at the bottom of which lay a large vineyard stretching back several hundred metres until it met the forest. She imagined they must have at least a hundred workers to tend a field this large, though she had not seen anyone on the premises but the man and his wife. She made a mental note to ask one of them what sort of wine they made.

Hermione's mind shifted subtly, as she realised she would have to have some way of communicating with the locals. Brilliant witch though she might be, she doubted that she could learn to speak French fluently in two weeks' time.

She pulled out her packet of parchment listing every spell and charm she had crafted to date. She was sure that she had developed at least one or two translation spells... Aha!

There they were: Auris Prudens, Oculus Prudens, and Verbum Prudens. The first allowed one to understand a foreign language by ear, the second to read it, and the third to speak it. The idea for these spells had come up one night when she was researching in one of Britain's magical libraries (which was possessed of many more tomes on nearly every subject than Hogwarts') and had come across a section of books entirely in Russian. From what she had been able to decipher, the books were vital to her studies at the time, and she had felt that a simple translating spell might leave some of the original meaning lost.

These three spells were some of her first magical inventions. She had used them infrequently, and she had not tested them on any native speakers yet, but she supposed there was no time like the present.

She pulled her wand out of her sleeve, made sure that the door was securely closed, and murmured, "Auris et Verbum Prudens. Oculus Prudens," while swishing her wand over each of the senses she wished to sensitise to the new language in turn.

The incantation had been a mouthful, but she had learnt, whilst thoroughly investigating the best method to create charms and spells from scratch, that there was a sort of spell called a compound spell. It was less a spell in its own right and more of a combination of two other related spells. Sometimes it was a simple matter of joining the spells with 'et', and sometimes it required combining the spells into a new word.

The greatest benefit of these translation spells, to her mind, was that they did not translate the foreign language into the caster's native language. Rather, they let the caster understand the language as if it were his or her native language. Hermione felt that this kept the beauty of the language itself intact, rather than possibly mangling the meaning through paraphrasing.

Necessary spells in place, Hermione stood considering her bags for a moment. She had charmed them back to normal size as she neared the house, and luckily there were only two.

I can unpack later, she decided.

She was not usually one to procrastinate when there was work to be done, but she thought she deserved a chance to explore the grounds of the winery and enjoy some of the remaining sunlight. She would have time to work tonight.

But her first order of business was to find out what her hostess had tried to convey to her earlier.

* * *

Ron was sulking, and Ginny was tired of it.

An hour ago, he had come to the Burrow with red-rimmed eyes and a great deal to say...none of it good. Hermione had dumped him, had left him alone in their house, with only a limited explanation as to why. He was crushed, he was heartbroken, he was alone in the world with nobody who loved him.

Melodramatic tosser.

He was talking again...whinging, more like...and she had to force herself to tune back in.

"She has no consideration for my feelings, Gin, none at all! I can't believe she could just leave me like that... like she never cared," he moaned, slamming his head on the table again.

"Ron, she's cared about you forever. It's just that she only cares for you as a friend, and I'm sure she did the best she could." She had repeated this over and over, but it never seemed to sink in. She was on the verge of kicking him out of the house, but then she remembered that it wasn't only her house to kick people out of. Her parents still lived at the Burrow, and Ginny herself was only visiting. It was just her rotten luck that her stopover had coincided with Ron's breakdown.

"How do you know that, Gin? You didn't see the way she looked at me. It was like...like she only pitied me! Am I really that pathetic?" He looked at her with streaming eyes, searching her face for an honest answer.

She was tempted to just have out with it and say Yes, but she didn't have the heart to hurt him any further. "No, Ron, you're just a silly sod who's crying over the wrong girl." She wrapped her arms around him and he clung to her, still weeping softly. "Now, listen to me. I want you to pull yourself together and figure out how to deal with this, because I'm going home and I don't want you bothering Mum and Dad with this."

Ron opened his mouth to wail something else, but Ginny held up her hand. "It isn't because I don't love you; I'm just done mollycoddling you. You're making too much of this. If you really can't stand losing her, then try to win her back," she finished, exasperated. "I'm going to tell Mum and Dad goodbye."

He nodded mutely, rubbing the tears from his eyes.

Win her back, he mused. I hadn't thought of that.

* * *

Hermione wandered through a row of tall grapevines, marvelling at how beautiful the day was and at how vast the vineyard appeared to be. She had discovered...with the successful use of her new spells...that the owners of the vineyard grew only Syrah grapes, which they used to make Cornas wine. The old woman had explained to her that this particular wine was normally grown a bit farther south, nearer to Valence. But they had chosen to keep their business in Lyon, because they found that a slightly colder climate made the wine sweeter.

Hermione was eager to taste this new treasure, but for the moment all she wanted was to soak up the French sunshine and explore the gorgeous terrain. It was amazing how free she could feel when not using any magic. France alone seemed to imbue the atmosphere with a romantic kind of magic all its own . . . a magic far more powerful than anything she could do with a wand.

Suddenly she found herself running through the field, intent on reaching the other side of the rows of grapevines and to enter and explore the forest. The sun was just beginning to set, bathing everything in a glow of molten crimson. She was out of breath long before she found the end of the long rows of fields, but the adrenaline and excitement of being in a foreign country with no responsibilities pushed her on until she collapsed in the cool grass with a laugh on her lips.

She hadn't felt quite so free since . . . probably since fifth or sixth year at Hogwarts. Before it was a constant fear that Voldemort would rise to power without warning, before they had even known about the Horcruxes. It was not that they hadn't been afraid of his return back then; it just wasn't an immediate threat.

Reminiscing about Hogwarts always gave her an odd feeling inside, especially when she remembered moments with people who had died in the Final Battle. Fred and George racing their brooms out of Hogwarts in fifth year... Professor Lupin teaching them about Boggarts . . . she had known all the answers to his questions even then, of course.

And then, Professor Snape. . .

Beginning in her fifth year, she had slowly grown to understand his bitterness, especially after Harry shared what he had learned from the Pensieve. Thinking of him pained her a great deal, especially with all of the rumours circulating in the newspapers. She wished that the media would let him rest in peace; he had, after all, died under awfully unpleasant circumstances. She didn't like to think about it, but...

She felt the memories leap to her mind unbidden again. Snape had been in the Shrieking Shack; Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been hiding in the tunnel. Harry had seen Snape imploring Voldemort to let him bring the boy to his master. Voldemort had explained about the Elder Wand; he was not yet the rightful owner because he had not killed Dumbledore himself. He had explained all of this to Snape, made it quite clear that his faithful servant was about to die, and then...

Nothing. Her mind was blank. The next thing she remembered was walking into the Great Hall and comforting Ginny over the loss of her brother. But that couldn't be right. Surely Harry had told them the whole story as soon as it was safe, as soon as Voldemort had gone?

But, try as she might, she could find nothing in her memories that referred to any point between what she so clearly remembered happening in the Shack and her seemingly sudden entrance into the Great Hall to see Ginny. This frustrated her to no end.

But, after the battle, she, Harry, and Ron had reached an unspoken agreement that they would not talk about the deaths of those close to them (regardless of Ron's detestation of Snape, and subsequent desire to gloat over the dark man's fall).

Hermione was worried now, as she always was when she pondered what she had come to call her 'lost memory'. Why couldn't she remember this little bit of information, which seemed almost insignificant in the larger scope of the battle? It was as though her memories had been erased, but how could that be? And why would anyone wish to take those specific memories from her?

She shivered involuntarily, wondering, not for the first time, if she was under some Dark magic. She had not often stopped to remember his death. She had focused on her work, so focused on healing from the pain of loss. And she had preferred not to think about the fact that her memories appeared to be missing.

What's wrong with me?

* * *

Next day, Hermione was ready to explore the city of Lyon. She bade the old woman good morning and grabbed a croissant on her way out, her wand hidden in her sleeve. She set off down the country road, deciding not to Apparate in favour of seeing the beautiful view.

As she walked, she didn't spot any other wineries, but there was a multitude of farms. Cattle grazed somnolently on a hill, oblivious to anything but the grass beneath them and the sun above. A few tanned men and women waved to her jovially as she passed, and with all of this Hermione felt as though she had found nirvana.

When she reached the city, she was overwhelmed by its size. She had had no idea that it would be so vast. Normally she would have found out more about her chosen vacation spot before coming, but she had forgotten to do so in the excitement and busyness of the last few days.

The buildings were tall and of similar construction, though not enough to make the city a uniform block. The city was alive with excitement; street performers danced, sang, and recited verse every few blocks, asking nothing but a few coins for their effort. Every few minutes or so she would see some distinctive building that caught her attention: a library, a theatre, a statue of Louis XIV. She knew already that, some night, she would find herself creeping out of the house to attend a midnight showing of some French play or to look through the stores of Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas at the library.

As she passed the inhabitants of the city, she found herself turning around to catch a second glimpse several times. Ubiquitously odd fashions strutted down the boulevards, as though living in Lyon entitled you to be a supermodel. She felt rather out of place in her oh-so-English tweed jacket and demure skirt; as though the people surrounding her were spectacular, colourful birds and she the homely pigeon.

She did know that the city was a centre of culture in France, which had been a part of her reasoning in making it her destination. She had heard that the Notre Dame basilica was particularly beautiful, and it was there in particular that she planned to go today. She made her way through the streets, asking directions of a few locals and never failing to notice the beauty of the city.

Finally she stood before the grand cathedral. It loomed over the street below, far more imposing than she had imagined. Two towers on either side of the façade stretched to the sky, each topped with a cross. It was a wonder of architecture that left her awestruck.

She hurried inside, eager to see its grand chapel. There was a little foyer, in which a bald priest gave her his blessing and showed her into the narthex. The main room was opulently decorated, with columns running down the aisles, at a space of several yards apart. Detailed stained-glass windows and gold-leaf were omnipresent.

Hermione sat in one of the pews, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander. Though her parents had raised her Christian, she had never been very religious. She could, however, appreciate the beauty and sanctity of this place, the purity that it represented. She basked in the reverent overtones of the chapel, her ears filling with the echoing sound of monks chanting psalms.

Too soon, a gentle hand on her shoulder woke her, and a quiet voice told her that the chapel was being closed to the public. She nodded, thanked the humble monk, and left the basilica. The sun was sinking in the sky, and she could see that she ought to be heading back. She was beginning to grow hungry, so she bought a piece of baguette from a street vendor, a lanky man with thick stubble who merely grunted when she thanked him. As she passed a grimy storefront and an alleyway, she heard a hoarse voice...decidedly male...coughing, and then...

"Mademoiselle, may I have some bread?" he begged, and she felt a gentle tug at the hem of her skirt.

Hermione spun around in surprise. Though he spoke French, his accent was English. She looked down upon an emaciated form covered in rags, with long, stringy black hair covering the face. She crouched down and handed him her entire piece of bread; he needed it far more than she did.

He took it and tore into the bread greedily, devouring the whole thing in seconds. Hermione looked down at him in pity, sad that he had to live this way. He gazed up at her, brushing his hair out of his face to get a better look at his benefactress. What he saw seemed to stagger him, made him shrink back in what seemed like fear. For a moment Hermione wondered why, but then she took a closer look at his face. Beneath the grime and the hard lines was a face she recognised. She covered her mouth to muffle her gasp.

Severus Snape sat before her in destitute state, covered in rags and dirt.

Hermione crouched lower, edging closer to him. "P-professor Snape?" she whispered, hardly believing it. He was dead. How could she be seeing him here, in France of all places?

He was silent for a few seconds, just staring at her. Then he shook his head slowly, backing away. "No . . . No . . . NO!" he screamed. He stood up and took off down the alley, running awkwardly but quickly.

Hermione ran after him, determined to find some answers. As she went, odd images flashed through her head, causing her to almost trip.

Snape lay on the floor, groaning quietly as his neck bled from where he had been bitten.

She rounded a corner, following him closely. She hoped the alley ended in a dead end.

Harry took the glass flask Hermione gave him and collected the silver essence flowing from the Potions master's body.

He was running out of breath, and so was she. She was not particularly athletic, and he was malnourished; they matched each other well in speed.

Snape looked into Harry's eyes intensely before his own black ones closed.

How was it possible? Perhaps she was wrong, perhaps the man only looked like Snape. But then why had he run from her and seemed so afraid, as if he didn't want to remember her?

She rounded another corner to find him lying on the ground at the hoped-for dead end, a fresh cut on his forehead bleeding. He had been running so fast that he hadn't seen the wall and had crashed into it. Hermione rushed to his side, feeling his pulse. He was so thin; he probably hadn't eaten in days. He was cut up and bruised all over, probably from fighting with other homeless people.

Hermione looked at the other end of the alleyway to be sure that no one was watching, and then took his hand and Disapparated.

* * *

They spun to a halt at the Apparation point near her lodgings. Hermione paused a moment, knowing that she couldn't very well walk into the house with a dirty homeless man in her arms. She Disillusioned and levitated him, so that he hung invisible in the air above and in front of her.

Wand hidden in her sleeve, she advanced down the path to the house with Snape in front of her, carefully controlling the Hovering charm holding him up. When she reached the house, she made sure he didn't hit the doorframe as she walked quickly inside. Now she just had to make it up the stairs and into her room and...

"Mademoiselle Granger!" The voice of her hostess stopped her in her tracks, and she swivelled to return the old woman's smile.

"Madame Robichaud, how nice to see you," she said solicitously, dipping her head in respect.

"I have not seen you all day, my child, what have you been up to?" Madame asked as she set the table for supper.

Hermione groaned inwardly. She needed to get Snape upstairs before he came to, or else this would be a very awkward conversation. "I was just wandering around the city, Madame. Lyon is a beautiful place."

Madame nodded enthusiastically. "It is, it is. That is why my husband and I have lived here nearly our entire lives. I married him when I was just eighteen," she said fondly, and Hermione could see a loving gleam in her eye as she spoke.

"That's wonderful, Madame. I think," she said, trying to sound casual, "I'll just go up to my room."

"Oh, dear, wait a moment." Madame paused in her arrangement of the cutlery to gaze back at Hermione thoughtfully. "I was hoping that you would join us for supper in an hour. We've hardly gotten to speak with you yet."

"I would be honoured," Hermione said immediately; she was ready to accept an invitation to come to a rave with them if it got her out of the room. "I'll just go freshen up in my room." At the old woman's nod, she quickly ascended the stairs and entered her bedroom.

"Good God," she muttered as she removed the charm from Snape's body and gently lowered him onto the bed. The bleeding had stopped now, and he was breathing evenly.

Hermione looked around for something that she could use to clean the wound, and found a box of tissues. Brilliant. She pulled out a few and laid them out, end to end, in a line about two feet long. Tapping her wand on each piece, they became one long length of bandage which she wrapped gently around his head.

She decided, after a cursory examination of his body, that she didn't have time to clean or dress him before supper, so she chose instead to sit beside the bed and read in case he woke up. Her novel of choice: Les Misérables.

As Bishop Myriel saved Valjean from being taken back to jail, a low groan made her look up from the pages. Snape rolled his head from side to side, trying to discern where he was. His eyes lighted on her, and he let out a growl.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," Hermione said tartly, closing her book with a snap.