Where My Own Nature Would Be Leading

A/N: The world continues to be Ms. Rowling's, the poetry continues to be Ms. Brontë's, the expert beta work continues to be sshg316's, and whatever mistakes remain continue to be mine. Shug, I love you, and I'm blatantly ignoring one (probably very wise) suggestion in this chapter, so that one in particular is my fault!

CHAPTER NINE

"Where My Own Nature Would Be Leading"

Hermione watched the boat landing disappear from Black's Harbor, a place she'd had to consult a very detailed atlas to even locate. The coast had a lot of nerve calling the vessels that touched in from time to time an actual "service." She wondered how the few hardy souls who made their homes on the handful of islands tossed out at the edge of the international boundary line could manage to eke out a marginal existence here.

The boat that had brought her from the mainland--whose name seemed to be The Grace--chugged up to the sketch of a dock on one of those islands. The crew threw out a few heavy ropes to hold it briefly in place.

She descended onto the severely weathered timbers at the water's edge with just the barest modicum of poise. Truth be told, she more or less fell out of the boat onto marginally dry land. The Grace's crew--both of them--had already begun the energetic transfer of miscellaneous crates and barrels to the dock. Their speed suggested an only mildly disguised panic that the winds might shift at any moment and substantially alter their plans for the rest of the day. They were obviously determined to beat the weather.

Hermione looked around. To even call this a port was to be deeply generous. She counted perhaps four buildings of any size, and she wasn't actually certain that the grey hulk off to her left qualified. She glanced at the closest hut and was just able to make out a figure almost exactly the same shade of grey as his backdrop. He was eying her with an equal measure of curiosity and diffidence.

She hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped toward the figure. The boat's crew had already begun to unhook the untidy mess of ropes that bound their vessel to the dock and fired up the sputtering engine, pushing on to the next port of call.

She stopped a few feet from the man watching her, who had not moved at all as she approached. She cleared her throat. "Are you Riley?" she asked. She had not been able to determine whether that was a first or last name, but it was the only one she had.

The man continued to gaze at her, then slowly tipped his head to one side. She supposed that could be taken for acknowledgment. "I understand you play chess, Mr. Riley," she said.

Riley continued to stare at her. At last, apparently deciding she was not a real threat and had already been stranded by The Grace and her crew, he gestured to a low stool next to him.

Perched on that stool was a small, cheap, wooden chess set, battered but still sporting a bit of red and black paint.

Hermione shivered. He was here. She was sure of it.

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On the mainland, as the last light of the dismal day faded into twilight in Black's Harbor, The Grace chugged back into port, vested of her deliveries for the day. The odd collection of human beings carrying on various duties or lounging about pointlessly paid her little attention.

Save one tall figure with a long, pale, twisted face. He watched the boat pull in, emptied of the only passenger she had carried that day. He considered how he would be able to continue to follow her without resorting to magic, but he had a feeling his search was nearing its end.

He leaned back against the side of the shed, letting the shadow of its overhang disguise him further. He could wait. He had nothing but time. If Snape was still to be found, Hermione Granger would do the work for him.

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Snape had not been in the cottage when she finally located it. He had seen her approaching from a long way off. The lonely sweep of moors had provided the kind of visibility he found necessary to maintain his isolation. He should have just hidden from her, waited for her to leave, and then found a new place of exile. For some reason, though, he continued towards her. Perhaps it was because it was her, of all the people it could have been.

When he was close enough to see her face clearly, he stopped. For a moment, neither spoke.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. She spread her hands, almost in supplication.

It was not what he had expected her to say. "For finding me?" he asked at last.

She shook her head fractionally. "For leaving you."

He raised an eyebrow. "I was dead." His voice was dry. "And I still am."

"Not to me," she answered, drawing in a shaky breath. "Never to me."

He looked at her steadily, refusing to try to understand her words, but uncharacteristically, she did not say more, simply studying his face.

Finally, he took a deep breath and lowered his head. "Go away, Miss Granger," he said quietly, with none of the venom he had intended. "You have, once again, satisfied that insatiable curiosity. Now, go away."

She wouldn't, of course. He knew she wouldn't.

"You know better," she answered. The wind rose to a howling pitch and then blew past them. For a moment, neither spoke.

At last, he simply shrugged. "Come inside, then," he said wearily, making the invitation sound as indifferent as possible. Without looking to see if she was following, he strode past her and opened the door to the place that had become his home.

She noted that there were no wards on the door, no sign of magic anywhere. There was not even a simple key in the lock. She closed the door behind her, put down her backpack, and looked around curiously. It was shelter, barely more than protection from the elements.

He knelt at the stove, setting kindling with a practiced skill that made it seem as though he had always laid a fire with his hands, never using the shortcut of a wand. He struck a match along a sharp metal edge and set it to the twigs he had arranged, and the fire began to crackle into life. Then he rose in one fluid motion and turned to face her, clasping his hands behind his back, still and vigilant.

She finally broke the silence. "You aren't surprised to see me." It was not a question.

His expression did not change. "You. Someone. I'm only surprised it took so long."

"You covered your tracks very well," she acknowledged. "And there was a lot to do. I..." She wanted to tell him about all the funerals, all the near deaths, all the injuries that had needed immediate attention. She wanted him to know that she had started the search for him even as the last corpse was being laid out in the Great Hall, that he had never been a second-level priority for her, just a particularly difficult puzzle to crack.

"I didn't ever give up," she said at last and let the rest go unsaid. There would be time later. Or it wouldn't matter at all. "You were, as you say, dead."

"Indeed," he drawled. "But apparently not dead enough."

"We went back to look for you. We had to."

His eyes narrowed suddenly. "He showed them to you, didn't he?"

She blinked. "Who?"

"Harry bloody Potter," he snarled.

She opened her mouth, shut it again, and then said slowly, "You're talking about the memories you gave him."

Snape cocked his head at her but said nothing.

She continued, "They changed everything for Harry, you know."

"Yes," he replied harshly. "I believe I showed him that Albus always expected him to die. I thought about sharing that little revelation with him several times."

Her mouth quirked. "Actually, no. Dumbledore didn't demand Harry's death, just his willingness to make the sacrifice. You showed him what he needed to know at that particular moment in the fight. Your timing was perfect."

He looked at her steadily, his face impassive.

"And apparently," she went on, "you showed him a lot more than that. More than you needed to. More, maybe, than you know."

He hissed. "It was a private matter, Miss Granger. You may believe yourself entitled to shove your nose in it, but you were not invited."

"I didn't need to be invited," she replied somewhat archly. "I was already there." She took a deep breath. "But he didn't share your memories. He told us, just Ron and me, about them, but he never let us see them for ourselves." Her mouth quirked slightly. "So, once again, we learnt everything important through 'the Harry filter.'"

He frowned at her. He was not going to ask. What, after all, did he care?

She watched him struggling to keep silent and smiled. "Since you so evidently want to know," and she waved a dismissive hand at him even as he was opening his mouth in denial, "that's what I've come to call it. So much of what we knew about you before the end, and about Dumbledore, for that matter, came from what Harry told us. And he so rarely got it right. We saw you through the filter of his perceptions, and it took him forever to start to see you clearly. He did in the end, though. After he'd looked at things through your eyes. Literally."

He sneered at her. "If you never saw them yourself, how do you know he finally got it right?"

She tilted her chin at him. "Because I've had time for some independent verification, that's why," she answered. "I've finally had time to do my own research. Not that I ever took what he told me at face value. Do you know how often I defended you? How many times I gave you the benefit of the doubt when Harry would not?"

"Always the Gryffindor," he replied disdainfully.

"Harry was a Gryffindor, too," she answered easily. "But he always assumed the worst when it came to you. Then again, you gave as good as you got."

"I assumed nothing," he replied silkily.

"Really," she shot back. "And you knew what about Harry Potter that first day in class?"

"I knew that he was a pompous brat who had used his celebrity to gain favors to which he was not entitled," he snarled. "I knew that he was famous simply because he hadn't died. What an accomplishment."

"Oh, come on now," she said with gentle amusement. "Avada Kedavra is usually pretty damned effective. And that isn't even the point. You didn't know anything about Harry as a person. You didn't know how he had been living before he came to Hogwarts. You didn't know what he was like or what he was capable of." She paused, and her voice dropped. "You just hated him because he wasn't your son."

His head whipped up, and he drew in a sharp hiss of breath as his eyes bored into hers. "Never forget, Miss Granger," he said, his voice a razor-sharp whisper, "I have proved myself capable of murder."

She shuddered despite herself, but she kept her voice steady. "I have never thought otherwise," she murmured. "But I believe I know in exactly what circumstances you would commit it. And when you would not. And why."

He stared hard at her, obviously evaluating her words.

Eventually, he said scornfully, "Such a shame that I will not have the chance to hear all your complicated and pitiful theories. So nice of you to drop in. So sad that you must now be on your way."

"There isn't another boat off the island before next Tuesday," she stated firmly. "You're stuck with me until then, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense, Miss Granger," he replied. "You have your license, I presume. Return to the boat dock and then Apparate back. It will take no time at all."

"No," she answered calmly. "Not if you're really serious about keeping in exile."

He raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"I'll stay until the boat comes back," she continued. "That will make it harder to trace my movements. Muggle transportation seems to confuse many people in the wizarding world. It was part of the reason you were so hard to find in the first place. I at least knew a few of the options you had available."

He let out a very deep breath and lowered his head. "I had forgotten the force that is Hermione Granger," he muttered darkly, missing the delighted smile that his remark elicited.

"Besides," she went on briskly, "this will take some time."

His glare sharpened into suspicion. "Oh, I see," he said silkily.

"See what?"

"I have become another one of your projects. Lucky me."

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A/N: "The Harry Filter" is the brainchild of JOdell of Red Hen Publications fame. If you've never read her long, insightful, and very funny (sometimes scathingly so!) essays on all aspects of the Potterverse or seen her gorgeous illustrated layouts for certain choice writings, you simply must check out www.redhen-publications.com/

Articles.html and see for yourself.