3: The Address

CHAPTER THREE: THE ADDRESS

Hermione had left Azkaban for the second time in only two days. She knew that if the Dementors had still been there, she'd have been feeling the effects by now. She took a moment to check her pocket watch, wondering if she had time to visit the school today. She was somewhat disappointed when she discovered that it was already nearly five o'clock. Despite her lack of outward enthusiasm, she found herself eager to find more evidence. Why, exactly, she didn't know.

At first, she'd felt a sense of obligation. To simply continue the work that first Dumbledore and then Harry had. Now? She had a real passion for the evidence she'd already seen. She wholeheartedly believed that he had acted on Dumbledore's own wishes, and therefore deserved to be free.

With that thought on her mind, she Disapparated from the familiar shore out from Azkaban, barely bidding Tonks a goodbye wave. Her mind was filled with a million thoughts, all flying into one another and crashing before new ones were born, taking over instead. She had every intention of going back to her flat in London, but had changed her mind at the last possible second. With the familiar whoosh of Apparation, she came to a halt in the town of Hogsmeade.

She always enjoyed Apparating into Hogsmeade; one never had to be conscious of where they ended up. The town was exclusively wizards and witches, so she usually encountered a few startled gasps, then the residents moved along as though it were nothing. She quickly straightened her robes before walking down the main cobblestone street, heading toward the end of town where the road twisted up toward Hogwarts.

It wasn't a long walk, but felt slightly unfamiliar. After all, it had been over a year since she'd taken this path. She fought to not slow her steps and enjoy the scenery, the slightly chilling air of the coming dusk, and the soft sounds coming from the forest along one edge of her trek. Keeping her pace steady, she made it up to the front gates and promptly managed a strong Patronus. The silvery wisp was long and curling, gone in a flash before she could even get a good look at it.

One thing was certain -- it was not the scuttling otter that normally formed out of her wand. She frowned, curious as to why her form had seemingly changed. She had a good idea, and it was one that she'd prefer to not think about. The stress and trauma she'd been through months ago had more than likely forced her form to remind her of those events, and that wouldn't have been a good purpose for an effective Patronus.

She waited, bouncing on her heels before shifting her weight, then leaning against the gate. Every five seconds she fidgeted or changed positions, unable to remain still. It wasn't until she heard frantically scuffling feet that she turned to see Headmistress McGonagall coming down the path, her wand at the ready. "Who--" she began, then slowed as she peered ahead in the dimming light.

"Miss Granger?" she asked, voice raising an octave. "What in Merlin's name...?"

"Professor," Hermione greeted, giving her a weak smile and a bow of the head. "I'm sorry to have come without any sort of notice, but--"

"Miss Granger, your Patronus frightened every single first year at supper!" she cried, working through the intricate spell work of the front gate. Hermione frowned, her brow furrowing in slight confusion. "When in Merlin's name did you decide that that was a proper-- well, no mind, no mind, you've not control over what it is, I suppose. Come in, child."

She opened the gates and ushered her in, causing Hermione to stare at her, nonplussed. She was half-tempted to ask her what she was talking about; or better yet, ask just what form she'd seen. However, asking what her own Patronus form had been would have sounded utterly ridiculous. She should have known those things.

"What can we do for you, Miss Granger?" she asked, gathering her robes as she began walking back up the path toward the castle. Hermione pocketed her wand and followed, feeling slightly intrusive. Life was going on as usual at Hogwarts, and she just burst in with no prior warning or notice. It wasn't like her; that was sure.

"I'm here to do a bit of research, if that's all right," she replied softly, looking up at the dazzling castle windows, trying to keep her mind occupied.

"Of course, Miss Granger!" she replied happily, nodding. "You know that our library is always at your--"

"Not," Hermione interrupted, looking to her quickly, "in the library. I apologize, I didn't clarify." She fidgeted slightly with the hem of her sleeve, before crossing her arms tightly to resist the urge to fidget further. "I, ah, I am here on the behalf of Severus Snape."

McGonagall's eyes turned to her sharply, lips tight in a pursed line. "Miss Granger, I do not believe you'll find anything here regarding Severus Snape," she replied quickly, nearly biting out his name. "All of his belongings were shipped to his home after they were carefully combed through to detect any dark magic."

"And was any found?" she asked quickly, almost indignantly. Her eyebrows rose as she regarded her former Head of House, waiting for a response.

McGonagall, looking slightly miffed, shook her head slowly. "No. No, there wasn't." She turned back and stared at their path for the remainder of the journey, Hermione doing the same. The wheels in Hermione's head were turning, pondering over how much she hated these times. Everyone in the world was against Snape. The only person who had ever trusted him was gone, and now that she'd taken up that duty she as alone.

"I won't be in the way," she added softly, slipping into the big heavy doors behind the Headmistress. "And I won't be long."

McGonagall gave her a bit of a sad nod, as if to show how disappointed she was in her formerly prized pupil. So disappointed that she was entering those hallowed halls with the purpose of clearing a murderer's name. Hermione pointedly ignored the small stab that look gave her and instead nodded politely before heading down the main corridor toward the path to the private stores.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione turned quickly, her footsteps pausing for just a moment as the Headmistress wrung her hands in front of her. "Come to supper. If you'd like."

She gave a sharp nod before turning and walking toward the Great Hall. Hermione watched her for a moment, thankful for the kindness -- yet she knew that it was nothing more than an obligation to be cordial. She took a deep breath and continued on her trek to the storage facility, heedless of the good time that was no doubt occurring in the Great Hall.

She was on a mission and couldn't let the temptation of good food and warm atmosphere distract her.

It took a few twists and turns before Hermione had stumbled across the familiar corridor that his private stores were on -- his. A small smile came to her lips. She had never stopped thinking of the storage closet as his. Never stopped considering Potions his class. Not even when Slughorn took over in her sixth year had she been able to brew her Potions without wondering if what she did would please him. It was strange, really.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and slipped inside, before closing and locking it behind her. She was instantly disgusted at the lack of organization the current Potion master exhibited; jars and bottles were dusty and turned at all different angles. Frowning, Hermione sighed and moved toward the tall ladder and tested it warily. One foot was firm on the bottom rung, before she pulled the other up to match. Carefully, she bounced, swayed, and pulled her body back. When the ladder held firm, she took a deep breath and climbed upward.

"...Nine, ten, eleven," Hermione counted, concentrating on the number of shelves she passed instead of just how far up she was. She forced herself to not look down -- the nerves would no doubt get to her and cause her to either lose her balance or grip on to the ladder fearfully. As she reached the proper shelf, she carefully reached out and took down the jars, placing them on the shelf below. She moved back three rows until a flat surface could be seen much further up than the back wall.

Her heart pounded as she reached in and gently gripped a rusting metal box, pulling it out and being extra careful to not bump any jars or lose her balance. Once the box was securely cradled in her grasp, she shakily began to make her way back down the ladder. She was positively thrilled to have yet another bit of evidence, hints, little riddles to follow. If it weren't for the fact that this entire ordeal was so serious, she'd have found it fun.

She was almost unable to wait. Every fiber of her being wanted to sit there on the floor of the Potions store room and go through that box. In fact, she almost sat -- but then had second thoughts and figured that it wasn't the best place. The room was quite warm and without ventilation, and some of the pickled animal parts gave a slight stench.

Making a decision, she promptly exited the room and stalked down the hall, feeling chilled by the difference in the air. She walked until she was in the middle of a corridor filled with classrooms. Picking one at random, she entered and cautiously looked around. The faintest, genuine smile came to her lips as she confirmed that it was empty. With ease and silence, she slid the door closed and eagerly sat down on the floor, her back leaning against it.

Thankfully, she just so happened to choose a room with enough moonlight filtering in that she had no need to cast Lumos. Unless, that was, she found something that needed extra light. Almost shakily, her hand fished into her robe pocket until she gripped the key. With a hard swallow, she retrieved it and watched with a strange intensity as she entered it into the rusty, old lock. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer before giving it a turn.

When the lock clicked as though it were brand new and the lid to the box popped open, her face was lit up with the brightest smile that she'd worn since ... since over a year ago, she'd say. Before the loss, before the final few battles -- before Dumbledore had died. That long ago, she thought, shaking her head of the saddening thoughts.

Her excitement returned when she remembered that a box of clues awaited her. She quickly placed it on the floor, trying to be as silent as possible, and opened the creaking, rusty lid the rest of the way. Much to her dismay, the box was full of things that she could do absolutely nothing with to instantly gratify her desire to find out more.

Two more keys, a slip of paper, and about half a dozen more vials of what she assumed were memories.

Hermione frowned slightly, disappointed to see that she could not investigate further, right here in the middle of the floor. She fished through the box further, making sure that this was all there was, before sighing softly in defeat. While it was true that the items in the box would be of use, she was still let down that she could not do anything at the present time.

With a sigh, she pulled the slip of parchment out and unfolded it. It was rather old, with raw edges and smudged ink across the grain of the paper. She read the scrawling script, her eyes widening slightly. Oh... no. No, no, no...

The thing that she had dreaded earlier was slowly becoming a reality. She should have expected it, really; it was going to have to come to this at some point. She frowned, reading it again, as if to be sure that it really said what she'd read the first time.

264 Spinner's End W., Manchester

Hermione's tiny bit of evidence had led her to Severus Snape's home.

*****

Hermione woke the next morning with the strangest feeling. She was up and about like a child on Christmas morning, ready to dig into the presents and sate their boundless curiosity. Yet she also had an uneasy fluttering in her stomach, as though she were preparing to walk into a horrendously difficult examination. Excited, yet unnerved.

She silently bustled around her flat, getting ready to make the trek to the address she had read the night before. As she'd never been anywhere in the area, she would have to take Muggle transportation. That eased her nerves slightly, to know that she would at least have the comforts of a train, and possibly the tube, depending on where her final destination was. She'd not even had the time to research and get herself a proper map -- which only added to her nerves.

Her journey wasn't terribly long, but by the time she had arrived in downtown Manchester, it was nearly noon. She gripped the map she held and looked up, frowning at the overcast sky. The house wasn't far, and she'd opted to walk; yet, now it looked as though it would surely rain. She frowned and took a deep breath before turning and twisting the map, facing a different direction, and figuring out exactly where she was. Positioned at last, she took quick, rushed steps in her designated direction.

She had nearly three blocks to go before heading east, and her surroundings were slowly growing less shiny and more run-down. She tugged her coat around her more tightly, her hand concealed in her pocket as she gripped her wand. As she turned in her new direction, her eyes took in even more dilapidated buildings and homes. It was slowly becoming less crowded, but the industrial side of the city could still be seen. Some of the yards had grass and a few shrubs.

Spotting an aged street sign that read 'Spinner's End,' she promptly hurried her footsteps. The tiniest sprinkling of rain could be felt, and she was in more of a hurry now than before. However, as she surveyed the homes along the street, she wondered if she'd be so anxious to enter when she arrived. None of the houses looked inviting or warm. Most had bars on their windows and door, and she'd have assumed they were all abandoned if she hadn't seen flickers of light inside.

A low rumbling of thunder accompanied her gasp the moment that she spotted the wrought iron numbers on the mailbox. Double checking her slip of parchment, she nodded and quickly walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front door. This home certainly had a different feel -- whereas the others looked empty, this one felt it. Retrieving the two keys, Hermione took a deep breath. She first tried the larger one, then switched to the smaller as the first wouldn't even slip into the lock.

The smaller one, however, did; as she turned it, she felt the familiar anxiety of unlocking the box she still carried. With soft clicking, the lock turned over and the doorknob was free to turn. Hermione smiled and pushed, the door creaking open ominously. It was, perhaps, the last thing needed to complete the eerie scene -- rain outside coming down more freely, thunder rolling in the distance, a dark and empty house, and now? A creaking door.

She entered and closed the door behind her, instantly grateful for the fact that he kept oil lamps all around. It looked as though the electricity had long ago been shut off. Hermione pulled her bag from her shoulder and removed her coat before using her wand to light the lamps. The room instantly flared to life under the soft glow of the flames, but it was still drab and unkempt.

Her breath caught as her eyes surveyed the walls of his sitting room. Absolutely covered with books. She fought herself to not go to them and absolutely lose herself in his massive collection.

Keeping to her work, she pulled the box from the shoulder bag she had carried and set it down on the peeling, unsteady coffee table as she sat on the dusty couch. She opened it, and stared at the contents with a small sigh. She wasn't sure what she thought she'd accomplish by coming here with the box, but she kept everything together just in case. She'd even thrown the smaller items from his personal effects into the box -- everything except his garments.

She slowly realized that if she hoped to accomplish anything, she'd have to snoop around his home.

Standing, she comforted herself with reassurances that he'd known she'd have to do this. He'd expected it, right? She sighed, rubbing the heel of her palms against her eyes in aggravation. She didn't want to go through his belongings. She'd not even been able to go through that small sack without feeling as if she'd invaded his privacy. And now, investigate his home? It was impossible.

With a groan, she thought back to the evidence she already had. Anything to prolong the actual process of going into other rooms with the purpose of nosing around. The vials -- surely, she could look at those first? Oh, but that would be such a waste to go back to the Ministry to look at the memories when she was already here--

Hermione straightened, looking back to the open box. Surely... Someone with so many vials of memories must own a Pensieve?

She swallowed, her heartbeat quickening. Of course he did... Harry had mentioned him having one, but would never tell them how he knew. Just mentioned seeing it. With a small, excited smile, she began pacing the tiny sitting room. Where would he have kept it, though? She'd have assumed in his office at Hogwarts, but McGonagall had mentioned his belongings being sent away. To his home.

With a renewed energy, her fear of snooping through his belongings left her. She quickly stepped through the hallway, into the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, there. She was looking for boxes, things that had merely been dropped off and left. Surely his things wouldn't have been unpacked after they were delivered. She moved back through the hall and wandered deeper into the house, opening each door she came to.

First was the small bathroom, then a linen closet, and a small bedroom -- which she immediately moved past -- and at last, a very tiny, cramped study.

More books lined the walls here, though they were all more directed toward his line of work. Potions, medicinal herbs and animal parts, and a few empty spots. She wondered briefly if his home had been detoxified as well; it would explain missing books that had more than likely been on the Dark Arts. The desk was clean and organized, if a bit dusty, and another oil lamp sat on the edge.

However, the most noticeable difference in this room compared to the others were the boxes in the floor. At least five large boxes, all taped and labeled with his name and a stamp that simply stated 'Clean.' Feeling anxious, Hermione quickly used her wand to slice the tape and open the boxes before she knelt in the middle of them, digging in quickly.

The first two held more books, the third and fourth his private ingredients, and the last his personal belongings. Quills, rolls of parchment, paperweights and desktop gadgets that looked to be long-forgotten gifts from Dumbledore, and in the very bottom... A smooth, porcelain basin. She quickly pulled it out, handling it carefully and letting the other objects settle back down into the box.

A small envelope rest in the basin, and she almost left it behind as well -- however, the neat manuscript caused her to read it again. 'The Pensieve,' it stated in neat, elegant writing. She swallowed and stood, cradling the basin to her as she made her way from the study, back to the sitting room. She sat on the couch and placed the Pensieve on the table next to the box of vials. Her hand shakily retrieved the letter and opened it, feeling much more invasive now than before.

The same script that had been on the envelope continued on the inside:

The Pensieve is a useful tool, one that is to be guarded and kept with the utmost care and respect. It is for this reason that in case of any absence, I leave this Pensieve to Severus Snape.

Hereby signed, Albus Dumbledore