Chapter Three

Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR. No profit is being made.

A/N: Ari asked for a rakish Snape, and what Ari wants, Ari gets. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a rake is "A fashionable or stylish man of dissolute or promiscuous habits," and "rakish" may also mean "raffish, jaunting, dashy." My Snape is not a rake in the true, Austenian sense of the word (see: Wickham), but nor is he the stuff of more typical fanon personas, if there is such a thing. I'll refrain from offering an essay on how every fanfic features an OOC Snape, as we all offer a mere interpretation of JKR's creation, but as this Snape is perhaps not the sort that you're used to, the terms of Ari's prompt bear repeating.

I apologize for how terribly late this update is. I have several major life Life Changes® coming up, not the least of which is marriage, so your patience is enormously appreciated.

And last but not least, many thanks to the wonderful team behind this chapter: Shug (sshg316), Subversa, tonksinger, machshefa, and richardgloucester.

He was here. The ghost whom Pip insisted didn't exist, the ghost who looked so like him, the ghost who had no name...well, apparently he had a name. Edmund Prince.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, willing her voice not to shake, hands frozen at her sides, too self-conscious to wipe at the tears she knew were drying on her cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

He arched an eyebrow, and sweet Merlin, she had to look away, to look at anything but him, but the tears came in spite of herself.

"I might ask the same of you," he said, and she shut her eyes. Gods. She...she couldn't look at him. Curiosity warred with cowardice. He looked, he sounded ...

"Though the last thing I wish to do is inquire about your private life, it seems you are in distress, Madam."

She inhaled sharply and stared at the fire, which seemed to be crackling even more than it had before, if such a thing was possible. She turned slowly back to face him and focused her attention on the small details: the silver trousers, the embroidery on his otherwise simple waistcoat and frock, the hair pulled back in a queue. Anything to avoid his eyes.

"You look like the man who owned this house ... before," she said quietly. "The resemblance is rather disconcerting."

"I am his ancestor, Miss Granger," he said, and something in her broke.

"Don't say that," she said, rising from her chair and staring at him angrily. "He called me that and ... and ... you sound just like him and you look just like him and you aren't him because I watched him die, and when I went back for his body, it was gone," she said, trembling. She took a deep breath. "Please never call me Miss Granger again."

She met his eyes, finally, and though they were the eyes of a ghost, there was something fierce in them, something that almost looked like the crackling fire.

"You hated him so much?" Edmund asked, inspecting his fingernails as he leaned casually against a bookcase.

Her lip trembled. "I respected him. I respect him still. I regret his sacrifice, the price he had to pay. I regret that I didn't go back for his body sooner ..." She trailed off, closing her eyes. "Forgive my behavior. You just ... you look and sound ... gods, I am sorry. We got off on the wrong foot," she said.

"Well, if I am not to address you properly, what am I to call you?" he asked.

"Hermione," she said slowly. "Just Hermione. And you? Do you want to be called Mr. Prince?"

He waved a hand. "I've had a few centuries to overcome the need for pomp and circumstance."

"And you was never liking it in the first place," Pip said, walking into the room. "You was sounding sad, Miss Hermione."

Hermione managed a smile. "I'll be all right, Pip. Edmund here caught me off guard, that's all."

"Was he making you sad?"

She crinkled her brow. "No..."

Pip nodded and quickly left the room.

"Odd, that one," Edmund said.

But Pip's presence had reminded her. "Why did Pip say there wasn't a ghost in the house? He obviously knows you."

"I am rarely here," Edmund said. "I am ... bound, as it were, to another property."

Her eyes lit in curiosity, and he grinned. "I won't tell you which property. But to answer your earlier question as to what I'm doing here: I saw you the other morning and was curious about the new tenant." He paused. "Would you like to take a seat, Mi ... Hermione?"

She sat back in her chair, feeling silly for having forgotten that ghosts didn't really sit, her insides still in upheaval. "I moved in a few days ago. I'm leasing Lyonesse for three months, after which I plan to purchase it."

"Then why the lease?" he asked.

"The Ministry of Magic seems to think that the house will react badly to me, seeing as I'm Muggle-born," she said, inwardly hoping that this wasn't a problem for Edmund.

He snorted with mirth, and she couldn't help but smile. "The Ministry hasn't changed. They still know nothing," he said.

"I should like to hear your observations of the Ministry's history sometime," she said.

"Presuming, of course, that I visit again," he said, something between a smirk and a smile on his face, and she found that she liked that expression. He didn't look as much like her professor.

"I hope you do," she said. "It'd be nice to have someone to talk to."

"Are you resorting to a ghost and a house-elf for company? Is there no one here with you, no regular visitors?" he asked, and even though she knew the question shouldn't bother her, it plucked at her heartstrings a little.

"One can be alone without being lonely," she said, staring at the floor, debating what to say next. Deciding that the truth was best, she looked him in the eye. "When I work out what's drawing me to this place, I'll let you know."

He nodded slowly. "So you are drawn to the manor and are in need of solitude or peace or what have you, yet you were in distress before I approached you."

"Isn't that a rather impertinent observation?" she asked.

"Your initial treatment of me was most impertinent. Fair's fair."

"Have you no manners?" Hermione asked, and his grin widened.

"Manners are a dreadful nuisance when one is a ghost."

She didn't know whether he was being serious or humorous or both. "You really want to know why I was crying? You're a complete stranger, and more to the point, you're male, and you still want to know?"

He shrugged. "I've nothing better to do with my time."

Perhaps it was the desire to talk with him, or perhaps the need for connection was too great, but for some reason, Hermione chose to overlook the slight inherent in his words. Taking a deep breath, she started, "I didn't realize how truly daunting the task of renovating a magical manor was. The Ministry didn't tell me, and the books I've been reading make it sound as though it should be as easy as a swish and flick." She laughed, but the sound was hollow. "I've been questioning every decision I've made in the last few hours."

"Do you wish to leave?" he asked softly.

She looked him in the eye and saw compassion rather than condescension; surprising, that. "No," she said. "I don't. But I don't know how to continue, either. Pip can only do so much, and the books I have are of no help in this matter."

"There are some tomes in this library that could be of assistance," he said, and she looked up eagerly. "Renovating a magical manor is a complex process. It taps into the magic from which the manor itself was wrought; it is not merely a cosmetic swish and flick but a process of redirecting magic itself. Learning to work with a particular manor's brand of magic is difficult, even for the most accomplished of wizards. It is not work to be taken lightly."

"So I am finding out," she said, looking up at him. "Is it impossible? Is this manor too ... damaged?"

"Nothing is beyond repair," he said, holding her gaze.

She bit her lip.

"But I must be going," he said. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'll be by to check on your progress."

He turned to go, and she called out "Wait!" as she stood, surprised by his sudden exit. "What makes you so sure I'll continue with the restoration?"

He paused and turned back to look at her, hands in the pockets of his breeches, and she suddenly realized how striking he must have been when alive. "I recognize a Gryffindor when I see one," he said, and turning, he disappeared from sight.

**

She didn't know how long she'd stayed in that chair after he ... after the ghost left. Even though it was early afternoon, she felt like taking a nap. She was bloody exhausted from her failed attempts at restoration earlier in the day, from even thinking about the restorations, and, perhaps most of all, from the shock of seeing a ghost who resembled Severus Snape far too much for her own liking. But he hadn't been like her professor, not entirely. He'd smiled. Laughed, even. She was sure Severus Snape had smiled and laughed in his life, but probably not with someone he was just meeting, and certainly not with his students.

It was pointless to speculate. There was much she would never know about Severus Snape. Edmund Prince, on the other hand, was a fascinating introduction into life at Lyonesse. At the very least, he used proper grammar. She winced at the judgment; she already cared for Pip, but Pip was not one for good conversation.

There were so many questions she hadn't asked Edmund. His clothing suggested eighteenth or nineteenth century; she'd have to find a genealogy book before curiosity ate away at her innards. Her excitement was rolling over her in waves, which only exacerbated her exhaustion, but the excitement demanded satiation, so she supposed that she should set about finding any family documents that mentioned him ... and she should probably search for those books about the restoration of magical manors while she was at it.

She was on her feet before she knew it. Thinking on what she most desired, she took out her wand. Following its direction, she wove her way through the numerous shelves; the library was far denser than it first appeared, and she had a fleeting thought that a reduction charm had been placed on the room.

The book would have been impossible to miss. She grinned when she saw it. It was an enormous tome, leather bound with gold filigree woven through the binding. Striking, tasteful, and outrageously expensive. She tried to open the book and frowned in consternation when she couldn't. The pages...so old as to look like papyrus...were seemingly stuck together, refusing to admit her entry.

"Pip!" she called. "I need your help!"

Pip appeared at her side in an instant. "What is Miss wanting?"

"I can't open this book."

Pip's eyes widened when he saw it. "That is being the Prince family genealogy, Miss Hermione. If it is not wanting to be seen, you is not being able to see it. I is being sorry, Miss."

"Is there any other book or place in the house that contains a record of the Prince line?" Hermione asked, disappointed but undeterred.

Pip thought, and a smirk spread across his features before he looked up at Hermione with a grin. "There is being one place that is being forgotten by the family for a very long time."

"Where?"

Pip grabbed Hermione's hand, and she felt the tug of Side-Along overwhelm her.

When she opened her eyes, she stood in what looked to be a musty attic.

"This is being the room over the stables," Pip said. "The stables was being burned down years ago, but the magic of the tapestry was saving it."

"Tapestry?" Hermione asked, watching her step as she followed Pip across the dusty, debris-ridden room. Suddenly, she slid. "Bollocks!" she exclaimed, catching herself. "Pip," she started, exasperated, "you could have told me we were on a downward slope."

But Pip didn't respond. "Over here, Miss Hermione!"

She shook her head and dusted herself off before slowly walking to where Pip stood. "Lumos," she muttered, and she gasped when she saw what was on the wall.

It was a tapestry, like the one at Grimmauld Place but older. Her eyes immediately trailed to the end of the tapestry; the last members recorded on the tree were in the mid nineteenth century. Her eyes trailed up two generations before settling on a black mark.

"A second child is blacked out here," Hermione said, squatting in front of the tapestry. "Oldest child, John, born 1763. Married to Charlotte, and then their children are here," she said, her finger tracing the line down. "But this second child is blacked out. And the generation before only has three children, two of whom died young, and the third lived to be eighty, and the ghost I saw definitely wasn't eighty..." She trailed off. "Pip, was this Edmund's spot on the family tree?"

Pip stared at the spot and nodded. She inhaled. "Well, older brother born in 1763. That tells me something."

"This is telling you more," Pip said. He put a finger on the spot and the blackness immediately receded, revealing the entry.

"Oh my goodness," Hermione said. "I didn't know..."

"Elf magic," Pip said, smiling.

"Edmund Reginald Prince, birth year 1765, death year 1793," Hermione read. She did the maths in her head. "Twenty-eight. He died when he was twenty-eight. No wife, no children, either. Or..." She rested her chin on her hand. "Did he have a wife and children? Why was he blasted off the tree?"

Pip said nothing.

"Can you not say?" Hermione asked sadly. "Is that another elf magic thing, the not being able to disclose family secrets?"

Pip nodded, and she supposed that would have to suffice.

"Is you being ready to Apparate back to the main house?" Pip asked, rather abruptly.

Her stomach rumbled, and she rose, supposing that she should probably eat something. "As long as I can come back here soon."

"Of course," Pip said, reaching for her hand. "And Miss Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"The portraits is knowing much family history, and they is not being bound like house-elves."

She grinned at him. "Thank you, Pip."

**

After a quiet dinner, Hermione approached the portrait hall with some trepidation. "Hello," she said. "I know you all haven't really spoken to me yet, and I know I'm just a tenant, but I do hope to own this property one day..." she noted that some of the portraits bristled "...and I wanted to ask you about the ghost of Edmund Prince."

She was met with the expected silence and decided to forge ahead. If she wasn't intimidated by her superiors at the Ministry, what were a few dead pure-bloods?

"I know that he was born in 1765 and died in 1793. He was the younger of two sons and did something to get himself blasted off the family tree."

"If you want to know more, why don't you ask him yourself?" the portrait to her right quipped.

Hermione immediately approached the woman with curly blonde hair. "What's your name, ma'am?"

"Charlotte Frances Prince," the lady answered. "Edmund was my brother-in-law."

Hermione could scarcely contain her grin. "What can you tell me?"

"Unfortunately, quite little," Charlotte responded, pouting. "But if you really want to know more, ask him about Hyacinth Gray."

"Hyacinth Gray," Hermione repeated. "Is that a place? Or a name?"

"Can the two not be one and the same?" Charlotte responded, and she slipped out of her portrait before Hermione could respond. Hermione called out to the portrait, but the hall was silent once again, Charlotte hidden in some other ancestor's frame.

"Hyacinth Gray," Hermione said quietly. "I'll remember that."

A/N: In JKR's world, ghosts are semi-transparent, pearly white beings whom she termed "distillations" of their real life personas. I am taking liberties with her assertions in an interview that they are not thinking entities; to my mind, ghosts possess all knowledge and abilities their real life personas had and are capable of thinking critically. Moreover, some ghosts (e.g. Moaning Myrtle) can tap into the physical realm. While Snape, of course, is not a ghost, these details are ones Hermione would keep in mind as she interprets him.