Chapter Ten

"You know, I believe I do remember her, Steve. Rather pretty young girl, but a bit lost, if you know what I mean. I was worried about her."

Severus nodded. He was paying a call to Brighton Nick, in Sussex Constabulary. Police Constable Edward Rankin was surprisingly helpful, in spite of the Obliviate he was given over two years prior.

Wearing a Muggle-style black suit, complete with white shirt, tie and Chelsea boots, Severus had introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Steven Sims from London City, and had asked to speak with PC Rankin, hoping he was still on the force. He was in luck; Rankin turned out to be not only friendly and helpful, but of sound enough mind to enable Severus to look into the man's memory and restore part of what the Aurors had Obliviated. Severus showed the PC a Muggle-style photograph of Hermione, and after a puzzled moment, Rankin blinked, as if coming out of a trance.

"You know, she completely slipped my mind, but yes, I do remember her! Blimey, that's been, what, two years ago? Time flies, eh, Steve?"

Taking Severus' silence as impatience, Rankin resumed his recollection, all brisk efficiency. "She wasn't any trouble, mind. No soliciting, no blagging, nothing illegal. I had spotted her over the course of about a week, wandering around the old Droxell Estate on the outskirts of the town. Now that I think on it, she probably had been living rough up there, poor thing."

Rankin squinted, thinking. "It was dead winter, bitterly cold, you see. I remember about a week after I first saw her up on Droxy's Hill, I was on seafront patrol, and she was walking on the pier. Not another soul on it. It was cold as brass monkeys, and she looked quite alone, sad really. It was obvious she was homeless, and I approached her to ask if she had anyplace to go. I didn't like seeing such a young girl on her own. A nice girl like that, well-spoken, obviously from a good family. I figured she was a runaway, and some poor mum and dad were going spare, wondering where she was.

"My partner went to the car to get the address of one or two shelters in town. You know, places where she might get a hot meal, maybe somewhere to sleep, some counseling." Rankin shook his head sadly. "She didn't look, you know, strictly with it, if you catch my meaning. We've got plenty of predators around here; I didn't like the idea of her falling in with the likes of one of them."

Severus cleared his throat, feeling as if Rankin was talking about him.

The older man looked increasingly confused. "I believe we gave her the address of a shelter and she went on her way. At least, that's as much as I remember. I'd ask my partner, but he's moved to Spain. I suppose I could call him if you need..."

"Thank you, Edward, but you've been more than enough help," Severus interrupted smoothly.

Rankin nodded. "Here, Steve, this isn't a mop-up investigation, is it?" His eyes were troubled, and Severus was reminded of Arthur Weasley: protective, fatherly, caring.

"On the contrary, Edward. She's fine. Very well. Think of this as... a private matter." Severus looked at the man keenly, and Rankin coloured a bit and cleared his throat.

"Of course. Well, I must say, I'm glad to know she's alright. Nice sort of girl. I've got one that age meself," he added wistfully an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. "I know it would kill me not knowing where she was. But that's a father's love, isn't it? If we had our way, they'd be wrapped up in cotton wool until they turned thirty, to keep them safe and sound. But you have to let them go, don't you?"

Severus nodded. "Thank you, Edward. I'll just be on my way." They shook hands, and as Severus turned to leave, he stilled, frowning. Something wasn't adding up. He looked back at the PC.

"Edward, you said she'd been living rough. Can you point me in the direction of where she was staying...the Droxell Estate, I believe?"

"Of course!" Rankin replied cheerfully. He pointed west. "Now, you take the A259 toward Hove, near St. Anne's Gardens..."

Moments later, PC Rankin awoke with a start. He was sitting in his car, looking out over the Esplanade. He sat up and looked around furtively, hoping no one saw him dozing while on duty. He tried to remember what he'd been doing before he fell asleep, but for the life of him he couldn't be bothered. "Getting old," he muttered, and rolled down the window to let the cool, sea air jolt him awake.

Using the constable's directions, Severus easily located St. Anne's Gardens, and from there quickly found the entrance to what was affectionately known as Droxy's Piles by the locals, or to give it its proper name, the Droxell Estate. Rankin had explained that, although derelict and overgrown, the manor and the surrounding estate was considered historically significant, and was now owned by the National Trust. It looked as if a minor tourist trade had sprung up around it several decades earlier, and at the bottom of the hill that led up to the crumbling mess of a ruin was a tidy but dated little parade of shops, featuring a gift shop, a pub and a tea room. The gift shop was closed for the season, but the pub and tea room were open for business, but empty.

Severus looked longingly at the pub, but decided that the tea room might offer the better gossip. A bell tinkled as he pushed open the door and made his way into the warm, cozy café. It was all chintz tablecloths and baking smells, accompanied by the pungent, bergamot aroma of Earl Grey tea. For a wistful moment, Severus was reminded of the genteel shabbiness of Madam Puddifoot's tea room in Hogsmeade.

"Hello love! Welcome to the Tea Cozy!" rang out a cheery voice. Severus turned to see a plump, kindly-face woman about his own age emerging from the kitchen, dusting flour from her hands. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Mrs. Hope, owner-operator of this august establishment. We've got over fifty different teas to choose from, and I've got some lovely scones just coming out of the oven. Have a seat and make yourself comfortable." Her cornflower-blue eyes were bright and smiling, and her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the oven. "We don't get many folks here this time of year, so help yourself to any table you like."

"Thank you," Severus replied, choosing a seat at the window. He draped his Muggle-style overcoat on the seat opposite.

Mrs. Hope bustled over, hands clasped around her ample middle. "Now, what can I do you for? Some sandwiches? A nice cuppa?"

Severus seriously considered. "Fifty different teas, you say? Do you have any Lapsang Souchong, perchance?"

Her eyes grew rounder, and she clapped her hands together in delight. "Oh, you have no idea how lovely it is for someone to ask for something other than English Breakfast or Earl Grey! As it so happens, I have a lovely Lapsang." She looked at him keenly. "In fact, I was just about to suggest it. You look like a Lapsang man."

Severus nodded, a little abashed. "That will do nicely, then. And I believe I will have a scone with it, thank you."

The proprietress beamed. "It'll be my pleasure." With a flick of her long skirt, she zipped back into the kitchen.

Severus looked around, trying to imagine Hermione coming in here. Would this Mrs. Hope have taken pity on Hermione's dishevelled state and offered her a meal? Or had Hermione stood longingly at the window, looking in, too proud to ask for charity, too honest, too Gryffindor to Confund the owner and taking what she needed, even as her stomach growled emptily?

He looked through the window, up toward the hill. It was, he surmised, the hill where PC Rankin had seen Hermione. It was said to be a large, rambling estate; large enough for one small witch to hide in. Had she snuck into the old manor and found shelter there?

He was still contemplating Hermione and her last days before capture when the characteristic aroma of wood smoke wafted into the room. The Tea Cozy's owner bustled over to his table, holding a tray groaning with food and drink. The Lapsang Souchong tea, pungent and bold, overrode even the lovely scent of the fresh scones. Mrs. Hope sat the teapot down with a flourish.

"Here we are, my dear. This is freshly made from loose tea; no bag rubbish here! And I've taken the liberty of adding some clotted cream and lemon curd to your scone," she said, her round face kind and approachable. "Now, can I get you anything else?"

As he slathered lemon curd over one half of the scone, Severus replied, "Perhaps you can tell me a little about the Droxell Estate."

Mrs. Hope laughed ruefully. "Well, there used to be a bit of tourist trade here, but old Droxy's Piles are like every other stately pile in Britain...too dilapidated and too expensive to keep up. There used to be a folly there as well, but no one ventures up into those woods. It's just too hard to hike through. The entire estate sort of fell out of fashion in the 70's."

She brightened. "The lady who sold me this business told me a great story about the folly, though. All very mysterious. To me, anyway," she added, with a laugh. At Severus' raised brow, Mrs. Hope smiled conspiratorially. "Oh, it's an ever so poignant story, but I'm not even sure it's true. It sounds a bit like a very good yarn more than a true story," she added.

As Severus ate his scones and sipped his perfectly-brewed Lapsang, Mrs. Hope began her tale with the same aplomb and eagerness as an old maid imparting the latest neighbourhood gossip. Her words had the sound of an oft-told tale, as carefully molded and shaped as one of her scones.

"Well, as the story goes, a long time ago, Carlton Droxell was the owner of Droxell Estate. He was, by all accounts, a very generous and good-hearted man. Very rich, too; many considered him a great catch. As the story goes, he remained a confirmed bachelor until he met and fell in love with a society woman from London named Teresa. By all accounts, he was smitten at first glance.

"Teresa was a great beauty, but fickle, and given to flights of fancy. But seeing as old Droxell was rich and titled and landed, she flirted shamelessly with him, promising all sorts. Without even knowing her background or history, he asked her to marry him, and she accepted his engagement fast enough, but she never would set the date. Over and over, Teresa promised to come and live with poor Droxell, but she always managed to give him the slip and stay in London, surrounded by young swains only too eager to flatter and compliment her.

"Droxell's obsession with Teresa became his entire life; he thought of nothing else but bringing her to his home and making her his wife. Finally, in a fit of jealousy, he raced up to London and accused her of loving someone else. That heartless girl returned his ring, and said she wouldn't marry him because she hated that huge, old drafty house he lived in. She told him she wouldn't haunt there as a ghost. Well, Droxell was heartbroken. He returned from London dejected, but determined to show Teresa how much she meant to him. Anyone can buy his wife a house, he thought, but how many show their love by building her a palace? In his deluded state, he declared he would build a monument to Teresa, just like the Taj Mahal had been a monument to the Raj's lost wife. And to show his love and devotion, he would build it himself with his bare hands."

Mrs. Hope paused and poured some more tea into Severus' empty cup. "The locals made all sorts of jokes behind old Droxell's back. They named his project Droxy's Folly." She explained, "Now, a 'folly' is a just garden ornament that looks like a building. Sometimes they're fairly elaborate. But Droxy's Folly was something else entirely. The neighbours called him a proper fool. But Droxell believed, and kept on believing with all his heart that one day, his beloved Teresa would see what he had done for her with his own two hands, and say yes, and mean it." Mrs. Hope sighed. "It must be wonderful and terrible to love someone that much, don't you think?"

Severus felt the tea grow bitter in his mouth. Solemnly, he nodded. For a moment, The Tea Cozy proprietress and her customer were silent. Mrs. Hope continued gazing out the window, her eyes far away.

"For years he toiled. The Manor fell into disrepair and neglect while he laboured. Then one cold, January night, when the building was almost finished, he fell asleep in the wintry, unfinished hall, and the poor man froze to death. They say they found him all quiet and peaceful, like he was still sleeping. In his stiff, cold hands was a picture of the lovely but heartless Teresa, and on his cheeks were the frozen tears he'd cried over her."

She paused. There were sympathetic tears in her eyes. She caught his glance, sniffed, and cleared her throat. "The legend goes that the very next summer, cold-hearted Teresa returned to tell her faithful suitor that she was, at last, ready to marry him, but all that remained of him was the monument to her faithlessness, Droxy's Folly."

Mrs. Hope stared intently out the window, and curious, Severus followed her gaze. They were looking up the green side of the hill leading up to the estate. The ridge sloped steeply upward and crested sharply at the top, showing a pristine edge of space.

"So what ever happened to Droxy's Folly, Mrs. Hope?" Severus asked.

The woman shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. Except for the actual manor house, which is little more than a ruin, most of the estate is grown over. I suppose it could have been bombed during the war. A lot of buildings on the coast were destroyed. If it's still there, it's little more than rubble, probably." She heaved her considerable bulk onto her feet. "You know, I think I have an old picture of what it looked like." She went off and rummaged through a drawer beneath the till.

"Ah ha!" She placed the small, faded photo in Severus' hand. It was a typical summer seaside type of postcard, with lurid colours and exaggerated lines painted over the original photograph, which was probably taken around the turn of the century. It showed a stone building, perhaps thirty feet tall, with rounded turrets topped with crenelated battlements. It sat in the midst of a ring of trees, looking tidy and almost delicate, like a miniature castle, which, of course, was exactly what it was.

"Impressive," he murmured. "Especially if one believes the story that he built it with his bare hands."

"It does seem a little hard to believe," Mrs. Hope laughed, "unless, of course, he used magic."

He glanced up, but he could tell she was being facetious. Soberly, he extended the postcard to Mrs. Hope, but she waved it away. "No, you keep it. As a gift."

Severus bowed slightly and placed the postcard in his jacket pocket. "Thank you, Mrs. Hope. May I say I have enjoyed your story. It was a fine tale, and finely told."

Thirty minutes later, stuffed to the gills with tea and scones, Severus bade the cheery and aptly-named Mrs. Hope good-bye and casually walked to the corner of the parade of shops. Quickly glancing around, he Disillusioned himself, then started up the hill, his heart fluttering with excitement. He'd not felt this alive and magical since the day he'd pushed the Lupins' boat into the water and watched it float away into the treacherous North Sea.

The hill was steep, and halfway to the top, Severus removed his Muggle-style coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves and loosened his necktie.

After cresting the hill and walking deeper into the estate, Severus felt a tingle in his nose, like an electrical charge. Looking down at his arms, he watched, fascinated, as the tiny hairs rose and stood on end. He was stepping into no-man's land. Magic.

Severus looked around. From his vantage point, he was surrounded by a copse of trees. In the distance, he could see the edge of what appeared to be a stone foundation. That must be the old manor house. Something about that outcropping of stone, bleached white by time, jarred his memory, and he pulled out Mrs. Hope's gift. He stared at the photograph carefully.

The folly stood in the middle of the photo, but behind it, and to the left, was the formation of embedded stone he saw now. He looked from the photograph to the foundation and back, and he recognised he was standing in almost the exact spot the photographer had stood when the photo of Droxy's Folly was taken. All that remained was a small clearing, covered in stubby grass. Severus frowned. The folly's foundations should be as obvious as the old manor's. Where were they?

Cautiously, he walked toward the clearing, his senses on high alert. It was then that Severus felt it. A tingle of magic drifted in the air, so delicate and airy it was almost subliminal. It tickled over Severus' skin like a single dandelion seed, capricious and playful. Notice-me-not. Guilt Geas. Motion Detection, and Purging Protector, Muggle Repellent, traces of Fearful Fog, Muffliato, and a couple of strange wards he couldn't quite identify. He knew if he stayed long enough, he could unravel them, but he was too unnerved.

He at last knew the real secret of Droxy's Folly. Somehow, his brilliant witch had taken a legendary building, and made it disappear. The entire building was gone. At that moment, he was so damn proud of her he could have kissed her feet.

Severus closed his eyes, and stepped into the bank of wards. He felt the wave of magic sluice over him like warm rain, mixed with the subtle scent of incense. His skin prickled in delicious shivers of remembrance. With his emotions kicking in his gut, he leaned into the barrier, and it enveloped him in a cocoon of warmth and protection and acceptance as familiar to him as her embrace, and as welcoming as her bed.

He stretched out his hand, and ran it through the silken air, and the wards happily fluttered over it like hundreds of tiny mouths licking teasingly at his skin. They felt so sensually lush, as if they were caressing his very essence, and he was touching hers. It was so intimate, so tactile, that for a moment he seriously wondered if, wherever she was, she could sense him, encased in this downy cloak of protection. He had never felt anything so delicate, yet so luxuriously tensile. Her magic did not judge him; it could not lie.

Hermione. Her richly dense cocktail of wards was layered with power, sandwiched with geas, chiming with her intelligence and cunning and integrity. This mesh would have fooled the Dark Lord himself, and yet it still allowed Severus to nestle within it as safe as a babe. Blanketed within, he was accepted and recognised and unseen to anyone. The sudden, sweet realisation that she still loved him enough for her wards to embrace him so tenderly nearly drove him to his knees. Even after everything that had happened, her magic knew him, and welcomed him like a lover.

Severus felt that aching, sweet knowledge of her, and it was as wild and fierce as it had been when they were first lovers, trying to get close enough to merge into one skin, hungry for one another with that diamond-hard, soul-quenching passion that is the birthright of any true love.

He pictured her face, tangled with the suffering and loss she had endured, and the strength she carried, and the love and trust he had stolen. Remorse and grief assaulted him so violently the wards shimmered and cradled him, as if trying to protect him from an unseen attack.

He'd taken her to his bed. He had coveted her. He'd used his skills to steal her away and make her love him. And then he had thrown her away, believing she had done the same with him.

"Oh Hermione," he whimpered, "I lied. When I walked into the Shrieking Shack to die, I told myself it was for Lily. But the truth was that I couldn't face life without your love."

She was the only reason he was glad he survived. He still loved her. Why had he never told her so?

The desire to see her, to hold her and to confess everything to her was so strong he froze, and for the first time in his life, he was incapable of either Apparating or conjuring a Patronus.

He had to go to her, and find her, and tell her the truth. Every bitter, sour bite of it. He had to touch her, beg her, get down on his knees and lay his sorry heart at her feet. Oh, gods, he wasn't worthy of this witch's regard for him, and he wanted to be, more than anything. Whatever it took, even if, like Droxell and his folly, he used himself up in the trying, it would be better than living in this soulless world without her. He would stay in the sweet, blind comfort of her wards forever, if this was all she was willing to give him.

He had to return to London. He had to find her and make her forgive him. He had to tell her that he still loved her, more than anything, even his life.

He still loved her more than his life.

He stood, buffeted in the warm, loving current of her wards, and wept.