Dead Muggle Walking

A/N's

Blue heeler – generic name for the Australian Cattle Dog (registered breed)

Any resemblance between fictional Muggles and real ones, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

Canon characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and I make no money from them.

Big "thank you's" to beta Justice.

"Not now, Albus." Minerva wearily rose from her chair and gathered a shawl about her shoulders. Almost mechanically, she moved towards the door leading out of the Headmaster's office. Except it was the Headmistress' office now, according to the Ministry. A week had passed since Voldemort's fall, and it was the first time she had been able to stomach the idea of entering her new rooms. She had not been down to the dungeons at all, nor had she been to inspect the library where Madam Pince methodically fussed over recent additions from Severus' quarters. As Headmistress, Minerva knew she would have to face these duties eventually.

When I am good and ready, she thought. She glanced back at the ever-growing pile of parchments on the desk, the latest bearing the seal of the Department of Mysteries. Her eyes narrowed at the thought of yet more demands. As far as she was concerned, the Unspeakable could join the queue as well. Although, she considered, this particular Unspeakable's missive had been the most polite correspondence she had received all week. Minerva felt herself relent, just a little. She decided to send a reply in the morning. A meeting with him would be a chance for her to put in a good word for Severus – the subject of the Unspeakable's enquiry. She felt a lump come to her throat as she thought of the solitary wizard and his secret, unacknowledged endeavours. She wished she had put in a good word for him a long time ago. Hindsight was proving to be a merciless reminder.

"Minerva, wait." Albus' portrait form was as close to pleading as he ever came. "His body has not been found..."

Minerva turned in a swirl of tartan, eyes flashing fire as she wrenched the door open. "This tells me nothing conclusive, Albus. I would thank you not to try placating me with circumstantial reasons for hoping Severus is still alive. It has not escaped my notice that you are completely unrepentant of the way you used him."

"Severus agreed to..."

Albus' words were cut short as Minerva left the office and slammed the door behind her. Feeling a need for exercise, she took an extended route to the destination she held in mind. During a short committee meeting the day before, Minerva had requested suggestions for the on-going restoration. The window through which Severus had made his escape from Hogwarts was the last item on the list. After a short, uncomfortable silence, someone suggested a stained glass replacement depicting a giant bat. The resulting outburst of laughter was suddenly silenced as Headmistress McGonagall shot to her feet, bristling with wrath. "I will make this clear to all of you once and once only," she said quietly. "I will not have the name of Severus Snape, or his memory, turned into a subject of mirth and ridicule. I shall look after this project personally. Good day." With that, she left the table, nodding to Filius as he hastened to open a door for her.

The moon had reached its highest point in the night sky when she arrived at the window. She was pleased to see the Repair and Restoration team had replaced the glass according to her exact specifications. She had scorned the ornate and colourful in favour of clear glass and a simple design. A large pane cut in the shape of a gothic arch held place in the centre, flanked by sixteen small panes cut to fit to the surrounding stone. All were bevelled at the edges and held in black frames inlaid with silver. Minerva looked out across a landscape softened by moonlight, utterly still and solemnly beautiful. A scene the finest glazier could not capture, no matter what charms were used to bring life and colour to glass. "It was the best I could think of, Severus," she whispered. "I even think you might approve, though you would never say so."

She turned to one side and saw a suit of armour standing at ease a few feet away, its newly mended and polished breastplate gleaming softly in the blue-grey light. Minerva's eyes stung and watered as she remembered the last time she saw Severus. She had attacked him with undisguised ferocity and, while he had many opportunities to hit back in the chaos of the fighting, he did not retaliate in the way she knew he could. She did not want to recall the last words she had screamed at him. With a flick of her wand, the armour clattered to attention, sword presented in salute.

Severus occupied a sunny spot on the lowest of the front steps, armed with a circular whetstone and a bottle of honing oil, applying his blade-sharpening skills to the now functional axe. He flipped the stone over in his hand to the finer grain of the finishing side and gave the blade some final strokes. Alerted by a soft pop in the room behind him, he turned just in time to get out of the way as a silver otter streaked down the stairs and skidded to a stop in front of him, staring up with anxiety in its liquid eyes. Severus turned back to the door at the sound of a muffled thud. Not letting go of his instinctive caution, he ignored the otter and listened intently before entering the room. Hermione sat on the floor, looking very green.

"Hello, Severus, sorry I took so long," she said shakily, as he divested her of a Beaded Bag and all but carried her to an armchair.

"It's only been a week," he said, filling the kettle. He eyed her critically as he selected one of two labelled jars in the cupboard. Hermione leaned back with her eyes closed, breathing deeply for several minutes as the worst of her symptoms subsided.

"Is everything all right, I mean, you haven't had any difficulty here?" she asked, paling again as she tried to sit up.

"No, should I have? Though I do have some questions for you when you have recovered."

Hermione smiled queasily. "I wondered how you were getting along without magic."

Severus shrugged. "I'm used to it. During my Potions apprenticeship I was often out on fieldwork for weeks at a time. As you are aware, some specimens need to be collected without the use of magic, so being able to rough it Muggle-fashion came with the training. Thanks to your thorough preparations, I'm having a very easy time of it. Now, drink this." He handed her a mug of steaming liquid.

Hermione did as she was told, surreptitiously studying him between cautious sips. His tone had been almost conversational. He was almost sociable, at least, as far as his demeanour of aloof dignity would allow. The prospect of a sociable Severus was a fascinating conundrum.

She sneaked another look. He still wore his black trousers and boots, though in response to a warmer climate, he had dispensed with his outer layers of heavy clothing in favour of his shirtsleeves. Maybe less formal equals more affable, she mused. Evidently, he had spent some time outdoors. He also sported a sable dusting of surprisingly fine facial hair. In sharp contrast to his appearance at Hogwarts, he looked healthy and rested. Hermione decided this was the most likely reason for the sudden display of niceties. She called herself to order; whatever he had given her was doing an amazing job. The nausea and dizziness subsided with a comforting sensation of warmth in her stomach. She could taste ginger, honey, a hint of cinnamon, something not unlike cloves – probably Tulsi, and a trace of something else she could not identify. She looked up to find herself the object of evaluative study.

"Your colour has returned to normal. I trust you're feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you, absolutely. This is seriously good." Hermione tasted the brew again, puzzling over the unidentified ingredient.

Severus answered her unasked question. "You have a fine specimen of Duboisia in the gully with the fig trees. Muggles cultivate it as a ready source of compounds used in remedies for motion sickness, among other things. Though, in my opinion, the cultivars are never as potent as their wild-growing counterparts."

Hermione held the china mug as though it were the Holy Grail. "Motion sickness? I've never been car sick in my life." She considered this for a moment. "Though I have been seasick occasionally, only when the sea was rough."

Severus began to pace slowly, brows knitted in concentration. After a moment of hesitation – and to Hermione's astonished delight – he explained the theory behind the remedy she reverently held in her hands. "Magical travel options nearly always involve three rotational motions." He illustrated with hand movements. "Roll, pitch and yaw. I worked on the assumption your inner ear is not compensating quickly enough. It is therefore not synchronised with your visual perception, particularly when motional changes are sudden and unpredictable: as occurs in Portkey travel, for example. In Muggle car travel, the rotational movements are not as extreme and are predictable if you can see where you are going. No doubt you have read about Flying Ointments?"

Hermione nodded, responding to his lecture mode immediately. "They were not used very often as they had to be applied to the entire skin surface. In addition, they gave maybe two hours relief at best; their effectiveness was variable, and the Henbane often resulted in nasty side-effects."

"Correct, Miss Granger. Tedious to prepare, inconvenient to use, and more often than not, dangerous. Flying Ointments were never improved upon, as motion sickness is too rare an occurrence in Mediwizardry to be regarded as an important project. Finding the Duboisia prompted an idea for a different solution: one that may be taken orally and will last approximately six hours."

He went on to describe, in meticulous detail, the harvesting and preparation procedures. He stressed the importance of using the indigenous people's tradition of cold water extraction, improved upon by using a precise stirring method best conducted in the cooler hours before sunrise. The extract could then be stabilised in honey, after which it could be exposed to heat, but not direct sunlight. Finally, he described the sequence in which the other ingredients should be added, the best way to combine them, how long the potion should be allowed to reduce, and to let it rest in a dark place for one hour before use.

Hermione watched him as he lectured. If only he had taught like this at Hogwarts, she thought, recalling the annotations in his old textbook with mixed admiration and envy. The Half-Blood Prince himself, talking through one of his ideas. This is pure gold! Hermione, he's staring at you. How long has he been doing that? Say something! "I always thought it was something to do with vertigo."

"Perhaps vertigo is merely a result of your affliction, not a cause." He handed her a jar filled with orange-brown syrup, instructions for use detailed on a label taped around it. "If you take one spoonful in hot water before Portkeying or flying, it should prevent your symptoms from occurring. I'd be interested to know if it works. Keep it with you; there is another in the cupboard."

Hermione read the label carefully, noting he had printed the instructions. He had anticipated the chance someone might see her preparing a dose. Anyone familiar with his cursive script might recognise it and ask questions. Hermione could not recall ever seeing Severus write in print. It was a fair assumption nobody else had either.

Severus ceased his pacing and straddled one of the benches at the table. "Obviously, I made use of your facilities. They were adequate for the task."

"Ah. Yes. About the... er..."

"The items so kindly donated by the Hogwarts Potions Store?"

Hermione blushed and stifled a groan. She knew he would have found the contraband sooner or later. Risking a quick glance, she took courage from a hastily removed smirk and sidestepped the uncomfortable issue. "You said you had some questions for me?"

Without preamble, Severus related his observations of the previous Sunday, missing no detail in his description of the man and the horses. He voiced his conclusions the man was either a wizard in hiding, or a Muggle in possession of a powerful magical object.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, perplexed. "I surveyed the immediate area when I first came here – and whenever I could after that. I'm sure there are no other wizards or witches around. There's not many Muggles either, perhaps three hundred in town. I haven't detected any sign of magic anywhere. No wards either, apart from my own. The gravel road leads down the other side of the range. There is a Clydesdale stud where the flat land begins, owned by one Douglas Fardon. He does not match the description of your man, though. Mr. Fardon is like a smaller version of Hagrid, with blond hair.

"I have seen the horses in working harness before, during a gathering of the Medieval Re-enactment Society. They use Mr. Fardon's paddocks every year, I was told. He doesn't charge them anything for it." Hermione smiled at the memory of horse paddocks sprouting a medieval village overnight. "The entire population of Hogsmeade could have blended in with the crowd easily: robes, owls, and all. But I know you could have shown their alchemist a thing or two. I digress, I'm sorry. On the few occasions I have seen the Clydesdales, there was nobody with them who could be the man you saw last week." She stood up and wandered around the room. "You said you heard him talking about coming back up here?"

"Yes. I heard him say 'one more run up here next Saturday'. He was talking to the horses," Severus added, disdainfully.

"Why shouldn't he talk to horses? Most people do. Merlin, that's today! He showed up around three in the afternoon? Good! It's barely nine o'clock; we have time. Accio broom! I'll place a Tell on the road leading up here," she explained to an open-mouthed Severus.

"You're not going to try that now?" he exclaimed in alarm, as he followed her out to the veranda.

Hermione pounded down the stairs, broom in tow. She turned and grinned cheekily at him. "Of course I am. You said you wanted to know if your latest creation would work."

"Not like this!" Severus charged after her, too late to stop her as she took off in a recklessly steep climb. "I thought you'd at least...," he shouted, wincing as she made a swooping turn and disappeared through, rather than over, the tree tops. "Practise. First."

Severus spent a good five minutes anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, quietly cursing all things Gryffindor. After ten minutes, he was beginning to worry. As soon as he decided to collect the medical kit and go searching for her, a shriek and a laugh caused him to look skyward with an oath of relief, just in time to see Hermione career to ground level and pull up way too hard. The broom shuddered to an instant vertical stop and dropped her neatly on her back.

"I really have to work on my stops," she gasped, as he hurried over to give assistance. "That was better than the last one! The broom stopped, but I kept going," she explained, turning her hands palm-upwards to reveal gravel-filled gouges and grazed forearms. She began to laugh again, falling back onto the grass and looking at him with delight. "That was amazing! I've never flown without feeling sick before! You, sir, are incredible!"

Severus took in the scene before him. A wild-haired, bright-eyed, poppy-cheeked witch, sprawled on the grass, robes askew, covered in leaves and twigs – breathless, smiling, and telling him he was incredible. He really did not know what to say, what to do, or where to look. After an awkward moment of complete helplessness, he slid the toe of his boot under the broom and flicked it up into his hand. "Come on," he said, indicating to the indoors. "Unless you're waiting for Fawkes to come and help you."

Hermione cringed a little as her cleansing charm swept tiny pieces of gravel out of her left hand. Severus watched with reserved interest as she switched wand hands and repeated the procedure for the injuries to her right hand. "It took a while to master left-handed wand waving," she said. "I can only do the more simple movements – and some hexes." Her expression darkened as she recalled the Battle of Hogwarts.

"A skill that has saved your life, I gather. A useful one to have, particularly if your assailant does not know you have it." Severus searched the contents of the medical kit. Hermione reached for her Beaded Bag and fished out a small bottle of Dittany.

"I had this with me when we were... on the quest of the Horcruxes. Even this amount proved difficult to get."

"That's what I was looking for," he murmured as he took the bottle from her. He picked up a wad of cotton and sat opposite her. Without a word, he firmly grasped her right hand and inspected her injuries.

"I feel like I'm having my fortune told," she commented after a moment, as he carefully treated the cuts on her palm.

He snorted. "I haven't said anything. Even if I did come up with something, I wouldn't trust it. Divination was not my subject. I heard it was not yours either, courtesy of the staff meeting-become-gossip-session. Hermione? Are you unwell?" Severus paused in his ministrations as the colour left her face. Her eyes betrayed both distress and a very deep sadness.

"No, I'm fine, really. It's... it's something I need to sort out for myself. I just haven't decided how to do it yet." She blushed deeply before blurting out, "It's something Professor Trelawney said, before I walked out of her class."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Something Trelawney said prompted you to flounce out of her classroom in high dudgeon?" He regarded her coolly. "How on earth did you manage to keep to your seat in Potions?" Not waiting for a response, Severus resumed his application of Dittany, working his way along the grazes to her forearm. "Occasionally," he muttered resentfully, "Trelawney would come up with something worth taking notice of. Such occasions were exceptionally rare and never the result of conscious effort on her part. Most of her consciousness was, after all, permanently stewed in cheap sherry. Because of her often diminished state of mind, she was rarely taken seriously. If Trelawney has indeed presented you with a quandary worth pursuing, I am sure you will reach a thoroughly researched solution." He reached for her left hand. "Now, is there a reason you do not frequent the workshop?"

Hermione blinked at the sudden change of subject. Caught off guard, she dithered while she ordered her thoughts. Severus did not take his dark gaze off his self-appointed task.

"I... well... I don't know what most of the tools are for, or how to use them. I don't have any reason to go in there." She chewed her lower lip. "I find it such a sad place. It was Grandad's workshop. He was a cabinet maker by trade, and he could make the most wonderful wooden toys. He used to make them for me and send them over to England. The rocking horse was the best – it had a real saddle and everything. We only visited here a few times. I was seven when we last came over, but we kept in touch with letters. He had a stroke eight years ago and never touched his tools again. Grandma said it was like he had forgotten what they were. He died two years later, I never got to see him... to say goodbye."

"The tyranny of distance," Severus commented, meeting her eyes at last. "For Muggles at any rate. Why did they choose to live here? It is somewhat isolated."

"Grandad took it on after he came back from service in Papua New Guinea, at the end of World War II. The government had a land grant scheme for ex-servicemen. He chose this property because his uncle came from the district and is listed on the war memorial in town: Private A. F. Granger. He fell at Pozièrs in 1916. The workshop is all that's left of the original buildings. The rest were destroyed in a bushfire twenty years ago. As you can see, the rebuilding was never fully completed." A thought suddenly occurred to her. "Severus, have you been to this continent before?"

"Where do you think the crocodile hearts came from?" he asked, stoppering the Dittany. "The beasts are farmed for meat and hides in the northern tropics. It was much easier, and less parchment-work, to source organs for educational purposes from the crocodile farms. It also provided the opportunity to collect reagents available nowhere else in the world: platypus venom, Wollemi cones, and fruit of the Blue Quandong tree, to name a few."

"Blue Quandong? What do you use the fruits for?"

"Anti-rheumatic Draught." Severus gazed out of a window. "Argus found it to be very effective."

Hermione examined her hands. He had done a very through job. "Thanks for this," she said. "I don't think I'd have got all of them."

Severus gave what might have been the beginning of a smile. "You're welcome."

Severus eyed the Beaded Bag with curiosity. Hermione had used it to bring a veritable feast, among other useful things. While he bridled at the thought of saying so, he was quietly impressed at her – imaginative – use of an Extension Charm. Undetectable, no less. He looked around the room, considering everything Hermione had done to prepare for whatever the outcome of the War may have been. Secretly, he thought her efforts were both outstanding and remarkable. He idly pushed a chicken bone around his plate.

Hogwarts had become an unofficial half-way house for house-elves who found themselves without families, houses, or both. With the restoration in full swing and swarms of sightseers from all over the Wizarding world, they were as busy as they could desire to be. They were only too pleased to provide Hermione with edible bounty at any time, under any circumstance, no questions asked. Hermione eyed the last pork pie, resplendent with gelatine and brown pickle, and decided she really could not accommodate it. She nudged the plate towards Severus, who shook his head and drained his pint of Hogwarts Midnight.

"Albus was really fond of this," he said, nudging the wooden keg at his elbow. "Though how he could drink it immediately after lemon drops was beyond me. How did you know I'm partial to it?"

"I once heard Professor Dumbledore plying you with 'a keg of double stout and a game of chess', as we left the Great Hall after dinner. I've had the run of the castle, lately, including the cellars."

"Minerva's favourite cub! So you stole one, concealed it in your Beaded Bag, and fled the country with it."

"Shall I return it?"

"No."

The next hour or so was spent debating how long it would take for some normality to return to Wizarding Britain. Severus was of the opinion too many had died and too much had been lost for things to ever be truly normal again. Hermione was optimistic that people and places would eventually recover, with significant improvements from which all would benefit. Eventually agreeing to disagree, Hermione had just begun to describe Harry's attempts to make an appointment with the Wizengamot administrators when she sat up with an exclamation.

"The Tell, someone's coming! We have enough time to walk down; I put the Tell where the road begins to slope upwards."

They walked in silence though the afternoon sunshine, both a little anxious about who, or what, they might discover. When they reached the north boundary, Hermione suggested concealing themselves closer to the road for a better view, pointing out a dense thicket of pavetta with a healthy tangle of invading vines. Severus reluctantly agreed, but only after she had cast a Disillusionment Charm on them both.

As before, Severus heard man and horses approach steadily along the gravel road. The scene was almost identical to his previous observation: the same horses pulling the same cart, loaded with the same timber. The man called the animals to a halt and proceeded with his evidently routine checks. Severus glanced at Hermione, who slightly shook her head; she had never seen him before. Her eyes widened as she flexed her fingers, a faint tingling in the pads of her fingertips told of something magical. Evidently, Severus was more sensitive to it. He had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow, and she could see the hairs on his forearms bristling.

A distant drone warned of a vehicle approaching from the opposite direction. The man straightened and tilted his head as he listened, then expertly manoeuvred the horses a little further off the road. He walked to the side of the cart and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. If Hermione had thought the posture was familiar, she nearly gasped when the man took his hat off to run a hand through his shaggy thatch of iron-grey hair. In profile, his prominent nose and the set of his brows were as good as identical to those of the wizard beside her. She noticed, with a twinge of fear, Severus was tense to the point of holding his breath. He buried his fingers in the grass, gripping until his knuckles were bloodless.

A mud-spattered four-wheel-drive utility rumbled into sight, a blue heeler prancing happily in the cargo tray, and pulled up at a reasonable distance from the horses. Not sure if she was taking a foolish risk, Hermione covered Severus' hand with her own, giving a gentle squeeze. Thankfully, he didn't jump or speak. She looked him intently in the eyes, then indicated the dog with a slight movement of her head. In response, Severus became more still and silent than she would have thought possible for someone with life and breath. The driver cut the engine and heaved himself out of his seat, slamming the door shut with exaggerated ire.

"There ya are, ya miserable old bastard! Bin lookin' for ya everywhere!"

The miserable old bastard hung his hat on the brake lever. "Reckon you found me," he growled, by way of greeting.

"What's this get-up for? Christ, mate, ya look like yev walked outta the eighteenth century."

Hermione winced. Eddie, for such was the newcomer's name, was used to making himself heard over a stockyard full of angry, half-wild steers. She had spoken with him in town several times, distracting herself from the ringing in her ears by focusing on the badge adorning the front of his hat: "Danger, falling hair", it read. She had soon deduced that even a discreet Muffliato was out of the question. Anything less than one hundred and thirty decibels out of Eddie, and the whole country would want to know what was amiss. She bit her lip as the cattle dog snuffed the air, whined, and looked right at them, tail waving proudly.

"Diesel! What's with ya?" Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded his dog with a frown, his eyes following the dog's line of sight. "Nothin' there, mate. Lie down."

The concealed witch and wizard mentally sighed with relief as Diesel obediently dropped to the floor of the cargo tray. After a moment, he raised his head and rested his muzzle on the side-panel, ears pricked, brown eyes trained on them.

"Fox, prob'ly," Eddie's taciturn companion offered.

"Those feral bloody... nah, he'd get his back up if it was. Dunno, mate, he usually does that when it's people. Ya know, I never seen anyone in there, not since old Granger died, poor bugger. His missus shot through to the U.K. soon after. Their granddaughter owns the place now. I seen her a few times, but she don't live here. Me mind's goin', I reckon – can't recall a bloody thing about her." Eddie nodded towards the gate. "Wonder what she'll do with the place, if anythin'. I'm not gonna check it out, though. Could be some squatter in there waitin' with a twelve-bore. Me 'phone doesn't work 'round here neither. Bloody thing's fine everywhere else." Eddie approached the horses and gave their ears a rough scratch. "G'day Carbine, Carlton. Not workin' yez too hard, is he?"

"They're up to it, Eddie. I'm gettin' 'em fit for a job in the National Park next weekend."

"Ya kept that quiet!" Eddie shrewdly eyed the load of timber. "Is it for the viewin' platform? The one to stop half-wits fallin' off the cliffs?"

"Yeah, that'd be it. The rangers' quad bikes can't take the materials up there. Trucks are too 'eavy. They'd carve up the trails. Clydesdales are the perfect solution. I reckon if they can pull a load up 'ere, the Park job should be easy for 'em."

Eddie nodded sagely. "Speakin' of weekends, are ya free the one after next? The Ipswich mob finished the boiler for the wool scour, trucked it in yesterday. The Heritage crowd wants to set up the whole shebang in Daley's shearin' shed, over the other side of the valley. If we can fit it in with the rest of his bloody steam engines. Can't fault him though, it's a bit of a money-spinner. Anyway, we could use yer know-how to get the mongrel thing workin'."

"Sounds good. It's a while since I worked on anythin' big. Yeah, I'll be there."

"Good on ya, Toby! I'll let the others know. Best let ya go, then. Don't wanna keep 'em standin' too long," Eddie said, scrutinising the horses.

With a parting bark from Diesel, the utility trundled away. Toby scanned the front fence for a short time. His grey eyes passed over Severus and Hermione's vantage point without pause. Frowning, he returned to the horses. His commands were given in a quieter voice as he released the brake and directed them on their way.

Severus stood uncertainly, his breathing ragged. Hermione watched him anxiously, knowing something momentous had happened – and it was not altogether good. Unsure of what to say, she waited for Severus to speak first.

"He's dead." Severus was very pale, and he spoke in little more than a whisper.

Hermione racked her brains: and then she remembered. When she had searched for the identity of the Half Blood Prince, she had not only found out who he was, but also the names of his parents. The physical resemblance, the name, and Severus' obvious discomfort, were more than mere coincidence.

"I stood in front of the graves, I saw the names on the stones, and I read about it in the Muggle news. He's supposed to be dead." Severus rubbed his eyes as he spoke.

"How did you find out... about...?"

"I was still a student at Hogwarts. Lucius took me to the Room of Requirement and told me. He got permission from Dumbledore for us to go to Malfoy Manor that evening. He... he said the Dark Lord... Riddle... had dealt with them the same way he had dealt with his own... parents. The traitor witch and the filthy Muggle, he called them. The... Riddle, had ordered the execution to show everyone I was in his favour. They made it look like a murder-suicide. I took the Mark not long afterwards."

"Favour? By murdering your parents?" Hermione stared at him with disbelief and horror.

"Not all parents are worthy of the title," he snarled, advancing on her. As though suddenly disembodied, he saw Hermione back away, her hands held up in supplication. He saw himself, barely contained rage seething in every movement – eyes cold and expressionless, like black ice. The stream of invective he was about to release lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat as a memory flashed through his mind. A small part of history threatening to repeat itself. I pushed Lily away, and regretted it ever after, he thought. I will not make that mistake again. He stood still and took several deep breaths, hands fisted by his sides. "I apologise," he mumbled stiffly, not looking directly at Hermione. He sat down with his back against a tree. Absently, he gathered up a handful of fallen leaves and began ripping them into pieces. After a moment of trepidation, Hermione sat next to him.

"If you never want to mention it again, I promise I will not breathe a word of it," she told him.

Severus stared at the small pile of leafy fragments in his hand. "Riddle knew I wanted nothing to do with them ever again. He knew how much I detested them. He also knew that I, when the mood took me, wanted retribution."

Hermione suppressed a shiver. A soon-to-be Death Eater wanting retribution was not a pleasant thought. She almost jumped when he spoke again.

"As much as I'd like to let sleeping dragons lie, I'm afraid that option is not available. Regardless of his identity, there is still the matter of the magical object. Something so powerful should not be in the hands of a Muggle."

Hermione frowned. "Are you sure it is an object?"

"Absolutely sure. Believe me, if it really is him, he does not have a magical cell in his body."

"Would he have got it from your mother?"

Severus glared in the direction of the gate. "He probably took it by force, to pawn it for drinking money. She was too pathetic to defend herself. Or anyone else."

Hermione drew a long breath. This was going to be difficult. She chose to do as she had always done in challenging circumstances. She summoned up a generous helping of logic. "We need more information then, if he is to be tracked and the object recovered."

"We, Miss Granger?"

"I was sitting there looking at him too, Severus. It will be much easier for me to do some research. Unless you like the idea of wandering into town and asking questions of people who've never seen you before."

"Have some standing there, do you, Hermione?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I have a forbear on the memorial. And Diesel likes me. He has a sixth sense about people. I hear he's never been wrong. In this community, those two things carry a lot of clout."

Severus rolled his eyes. "This community, where people converse with horses and value the judgement of dogs." He sighed in resignation. "How do you propose to acquire the information?"

"O Master spy," Hermione intoned with a theatrical flourish. "In any small country town where are the best places to listen to, and participate in, local gossip?"

"In order of usefulness: the pub, the hardware store, and the butcher," he replied promptly.

"Very good, Mr. Snape. Five points to Slytherin. I hope you like beef. In large quantities." She took heart as he huffed impatiently, raising an eyebrow at the mention of meat. He was down, but not out, and recovering quickly. "Well," she continued, "it's not the wisest thing for an unattended female to walk into a public bar. Not in places like this, anyway. It would attract too much attention. As I don't need any hardware, the butcher will have to do. I'm sure I'll get more than a few leads from him. That is, if I have your permission to make enquiries?"

Severus thought for a moment in silence, his features alternately clouded with anger and bewilderment. Appearing to have made a decision, he got to his feet and, to Hermione's surprise, offered his arm. "May I escort an unattended female back to the house?" he enquired smoothly. They were nearly at the front door when she released his arm, and he quietly said, "Find out as much as you can."