Over the Mountains

A/N: Again, this is JKR's world and belongs to her, not me, and Emily Brontë's poetry has inspired this story. Once again, as well, the incomparable sshg 316 has worked her magic here, improving everything she touches (including me).

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Over the Mountains"

Harry Potter, with the full weight and power of the Ministry of Magic at his disposal and the ability to question powerful prisoners and explore the subtlest of rumors, had been of absolutely no help. There simply was no sign of Severus Snape anywhere in the wizarding world. As far as any magically endowed entity could tell, he had indeed died in the Shrieking Shack at the Battle of Hogwarts, and his body had simply vanished into thin air.

And Hermione no longer believed that could be true.

All because of a simple wooden chess set--or, more accurately, because of the lack of a simple wooden chess set.

"I know you think I've lost my mind," she told Harry. "And you might be right."

She was seated at the Potters' kitchen table, watching Ginny attempt to entice James to eat something, anything, but preferably a vegetable. It was already clear that their firstborn was a pigheaded handful.

Ginny smiled across at her, abandoning the hopeless vegetable battle. "I've no idea what Harry thinks, Hermione," she said cheerfully, "but I think there may be only one person who can figure this out, and that's you."

Harry shook his head and sighed. There was no arguing with either of them, he knew. He looked across at Ron, and the two shared a moment of silent martyrdom.

Their exchange was not lost on Hermione. "This is as much your fault as anyone's, Ronald Weasley," she said acerbically.

His face immediately morphed into a look of wounded innocence. "My fault?" he cried, rather more dramatically than necessary. "I didn't say a word!"

She rolled her eyes at him. "You were the one who told me to look for him," she reminded him.

"But did I ever say don't take no for an answer? Did I say dedicate your whole life to an impossible job?" he replied.

She put a fist on one hip. "So I'm supposed to give up, just like that? What about the chess set?"

"You're putting way too much stock in that silly thing," Harry snorted. "It's not as though you can trace a dead man through a couple of pieces of wood."

Hermione wheeled toward him. "Pieces of wood," she exclaimed. "What did happen to his wand, by the way?"

Harry sputtered. "I... I have no idea. You tell me."

She glared at him. "It's gone, Harry. No one can find it. And no one can find any trace of it, either."

Harry frowned. "Isn't that more proof?" he asked, appealing as much to the Weasleys as to Hermione. "His wand is lost. There's no evidence it's been used even once since the day he died. We'd be able to tell."

Ron nodded. "That's what Romy said, too."

"Romy?" Hermione asked, all at once alert to a new piece of news.

Ron blushed to the roots of his hair and was suddenly mute.

Ginny giggled, but her brother glared at her, willing her to keep silent as well.

"Hermione," Harry said, dragging her attention back to the original topic of conversation, "we'd know if he used it. Not where or for what, but there'd be some evidence that it had been used. And there isn't any, hasn't been any. I know, I checked for wandtrace more than once. It's been how long now without even the slightest indication."

"Maybe he's using a new wand," Hermione challenged.

"Maybe. But what happened to the old one?" Harry asked. "It hasn't been broken. We'd know that, too."

"All that proves," Hermione said carefully, "is that he knows how it works. He knows how you could find him. He knows how wizards think."

"And what makes you so sure that proves anything at all?" Harry asked, sounding suddenly very tired.

Hermione smiled sweetly across the table at him. "Because I'm a Mudblood, Harry," she replied, watching the flinches the word triggered in her friends. "I know his other world better than he does. I can find him, if anybody can."

"If he's anywhere to be found," Harry muttered softly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione had been right, after all, and she made sure they knew it. The absence of wandtrace wasn't a help, but the chess set, the simple wooden chess set that didn't do anything but sit there quietly on a table, had finally provided the single key.

Because a really good chess opponent has a price above rubies, apparently, to those who are fanatical about the game. And the Muggle Internet offered the best way to share that kind of treasure. Hermione finally found the slightest kind of sign that she had been right in a chess chat room. She didn't get absolute confirmation, of course; the anonymity of the World Wide Web was part of its appeal. And Snape himself would never have stooped to going online, she thought, even if he were hiding behind a carefully thought-out username.

Yet as she read the cryptic descriptions of the complex maneuvers and unique gambits of one particular player, she became convinced that she was catching glimpses of the man who had eluded them all for so long. One of the more vociferous online voices, writing under the moniker P2Q, was especially effusive about the dark master who had, Hermione gathered, come onto the scene at just about the right time. His occasional partners gushed about his coolness under pressure and vague air of intellectual superiority.

That sounded like the Snape she knew.

Eventually she began to get the vaguest geographical hints about this master's base of operations. Not that almost any of the online players had ever laid eyes on him, of course. Or put a name to him. Or could pick him out of a lineup.

But one or two of the tiniest of clues began to give her hope, and she started to plan her search.

Then a sudden realization gave her urgency. She charged into Harry's office one morning, pushing past Sophie, Harry's new assistant. She was lugging an enormous backpack and the full force of her determination. Sophie trailed behind her, looking apologetically at her boss. "I'm sorry, sir, I tried to stop her, but--" she exclaimed.

"I think I know where to look for him," Hermione announced as she threw the backpack onto the floor. "And I think I know why he stopped using magic. And I need something from you."

Harry stood up. He nodded reassuringly to Sophie and then pointed at the backpack, urging Hermione to pick it up again. "Let's go to lunch," was all he said in response.

"Lunch?" she asked, confused, but he was already halfway through the door. She fumbled to grab her pack and follow him. "Harry, it's early--slow down!"

In the deserted café, they waited in silence while the waitress brought two cappuccinos then disappeared back into the kitchen to brace herself before the eventual arrival of the lunch crowd. Harry had not said a word since leaving his office, and Hermione was watching his face carefully, trying to guess why.

He looked back at her, his green eyes glittering behind his glasses. "You're ready to look for him," he said at last. "You think you know where he is."

"Yes, Harry, I do," she replied quietly. "And I need your help."

He nodded. "Money?" he asked. "Or help from the department?"

She shook her head. "Neither," she replied. She took a deep breath. "I need the memories."

He frowned. "Snape's memories? I've told you all about them. But I wouldn't feel right letting you see them."

She shook her head again. "I don't want to see them," she replied. "I want to give them back."

His mouth flew open in astonishment. "What do you mean, give them back?" he asked at last, his voice strangled.

"Harry, when you take a memory out of your mind, you're actually removing it, aren't you?" She was speaking in a rush now. "You can't remember it until you see it in a Pensieve or put it back in your head. And what are we without what we remember?"

Harry stared at her. "You said you think you know why he's not using magic," he answered slowly. "Do you think he's forgotten how?"

"No!" she cried. "I think it's a conscious choice, because he doesn't know what he can't remember. And I think he needs to. I think he's lost without those memories, and he's not using magic because he's afraid of what he can't remember!"

Harry ran a hand over his face. He thought of his own experiences with a Pensieve, the time or two he had experimented with taking out his own memories and looking at them in detail. The extraction process left behind a sort of fuzzy patch. Removing a memory had always given him a slight headache, a dull throbbing behind one ear, and the sense that he'd forgotten to do something vaguely important.

He looked at Hermione. "I've only tried it twice," he said, "and I put the memories back after I had looked at them, so they weren't out of my head for very long. I don't know what it would be like to have pulled them out and never returned them. I can't even imagine how that would feel."

Her mouth was set in a grim line. "And think about it, Harry. Think about the things he can't remember now."

"Well," he answered slowly, "he doesn't have the worst one anymore. The one he never wanted me to see."

"The one that drove your mother away forever," Hermione said softly.

Harry nodded, and then his face grew pale. "And he doesn't remember...." He gasped.

Hermione's face reflected the same horror. "I know," she breathed. "He remembers that he killed Dumbledore... but he doesn't remember why."

~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione let out a deep breath and stared at the tabletop. "He might have other memories of it, of course," she said softly. "But what if he doesn't? What if he knows he was the one who killed him but has no memory of Dumbledore's order to do it? Can you imagine how that would feel?"

Harry looked a little shell-shocked. "He must have other ways to know it," he began slowly. "They must have discussed it more than once. They must have." He seemed to be trying to convince himself.

She looked up at the strain in his voice. "It's possible, Harry," she said soothingly. She wasn't so sure herself. Since realizing what Snape's memory loss might mean, she had tried to decide how much he could still have known from other memories. "In fact," she said, with more conviction than she felt, "he had to have taken time before that day to decide what memories to give you, to put them in order so you would understand. He might remember something, maybe even a lot of that."

He locked eyes with her. "He must," he whispered fiercely. "But you're right: he has to take them back. He has to remember everything."

"Yes," she replied. "That's exactly what I thought. I want to give him back what he's lost."

Harry reached for her hand. "I'm coming with you," he declared.

"No, Harry." She squeezed his hand. "I've thought about it. I'm sure he thinks you still hate him, and if he sees you coming, he may run. He just might give me the benefit of the doubt. Or at least be curious long enough for me to talk to him.

"You've got a family, Harry," she continued firmly as he started to protest. "This may take a while, you know. I've only got a general idea of where to look. I think I need to do it without magic, so I don't spook him before I get near." She grinned suddenly. "And I was always better at camping than you were!"

He smiled in spite of himself, and then his face grew serious again. "Hermione," he started, "there's something else...."

She gazed out the café window. "I thought there might be," she sighed. "It's nowhere near lunchtime. Harry, what's going on?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure, exactly," he said hesitantly. "It's just a feeling I've had recently. I don't think you're the only one looking for him. And I don't know what someone else might want from him."

Hermione looked at him sharply.

"I haven't really heard anything," he replied quickly. "But it's why I didn't want to talk about it at the Ministry." He tightened his grip on her hand. "You will be careful, please?" he asked urgently. "I don't know why, but something feels off about all this."

She clasped his hands in hers. "I feel it, too, Harry," she admitted. "But this is something I have to do. I can't leave him like this. I feel as though I already abandoned him once. I can't do it again. I just can't."