Chapter 9: Death and the Maiden and the Grouchy Ghost

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Chapter 9: Death and the Maiden and the Grouchy Ghost

Spring had finally sprung in Hogsmeade. The sun shone. The birds chirped. The scent of lilacs filled the air. The Whomping Willow stretched winter-weary limbs sporting new leafy growth. And Severus Snape was in hell.

Actually, he resided in a cozy flat with an extensive, diverse library, but at the moment, he considered it purgatory. On any other day, he derived immense pleasure from reading, but Hermione's resurrection research felt like punishment for past sins, likely those unflattering comments he had made regarding her looks and her bookish nature back at Hogwarts.

He certainly couldn't object to the subject matter: death. After all, he was dead, and he'd been surrounded by death his entire adult life. Before and during the years Snape taught at Hogwarts, many a Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor had met a most unhappy ending, and Death Eaters were renown for their short – sometimes violent – lifespans.

It wasn't as though he'd never read funerary text before. The Handbook for the Recently Deceased had good intentions, to prepare the neophyte dead for the afterlife, but that poorly written book – it only qualified as such because it had a hardcover, bindings, and numbered pages – had no discernible organization, and it read like stereo instructions.

No, no. His torture was the sheer volume of her notes. Those notes... those painstakingly detailed notes! Perhaps her copying spell had gone awry, recording an entire book rather than key passages, or it worked exactly as Hermione had intended, recording an entire book rather than key passages. Either way, the review of her findings was pure torment for him. It was as though he were back in Hogwarts, marking her mile-long essays. Déjà vu for the damned!

That morning, after he had filled Hermione's stomach with a full English breakfast and sent her off to school, he had settled down in the kitchen and begun to review her copious notes... from the beginning, the place where all punctilious scholars begin. Up first, the Book of the Dead. Yes, that one. The Book of the Dead, the be-all and end-all of funerary texts written by ancient Egyptians. Hermione's facsimile was spot-on, a dead ringer, so to speak, faded hieroglyphs on tattered papyrus; her translation was comparatively mundane, red and black ink on fine quality, lightly scented parchment. The Book qualified as magical, consisting of numerous spells to help the dead in the tortuous journey through the underworld and into the afterlife; the path to eternity was populated by fearsome creatures hellbent on destroying the dead, but spell after spell gave the deceased the ability to overcome these obstacles. There were even spells specific to the "Weighing of the Heart" ritual, ones to prevent the heart from bearing witness upon the deceased and confessing to Osiris every sin committed in life: if the heart spoke too freely of a wicked past, casting too many aspersions about one's character, the dead would be deemed unworthy of eternal "life" and the gods would then toss the heart to a voracious monster as a light snack.

Snape appreciated that bit of suppressive magic – if he had lived and died in those days of yore, he would have likely cast that spell quite a bit based on the myriad sins he had committed during his actual lifetime – and found the Book generally informative and entertaining, but nowhere could he find a spell suited for his needs; several spells gave the deceased the power to breathe air, but not for any appreciable length of time. Apparently, ancient Egyptians had no fear of pegging out and viewed life as a brief diversion on the way to an extremely long and prosperous afterlife.

He fared no better with the Bardo Thodol – commonly known in the West as the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Its full name, Liberation Through Hearing During The Intermediate State should have been a red flag to Snape, but he poured through it anyway, word by (meticulously duplicated) word. And it was, as he suspected, yet another funerary text guiding the dead through the afterlife, the intervening state between death and rebirth in this particular context. The Tibetan lamas had lofty goals for the souls of the dead: attain enlightenment and liberation, thus bypassing the cycle of birth and rebirth.

Reincarnation intrigued Snape, but that wasn't the same as resurrection. The thought of coming back as a nonhuman – especially a snake – sent icy shivers through his already cold and ghostly form. In the end, the Bardo Thodol was not the "spiritual" enlightenment he had in mind.

The Ars Morendi or "The Art of Dying" offered no solutions either. A short treatise, it served as a "how to" guide for the almost dead, showing the perfect way to shuffle off this mortal coil in order to avoid messy complications in the afterlife, the type which Snape was currently experiencing. Perhaps if he'd spent more time repenting for his lousy life and less time giving Potter instructions for his own demise, then he wouldn't have been in such a pickle.

He'd spent the entire morning and a good portion of the afternoon reading funerary texts – altruistic, soul-saving claptrap, in his expert opinion, as one who had experienced death firsthand – and all he had to show for it was a headache of monumental proportions. In all those words on all those pages, he could not find one reference which would remotely help his cause. Hermione's stringent attention to detail would be the death of him, if he weren't already dead. He would humbly request (or piteously beg for) a York Notes version of her epic-length research after she returned home, yet not before he could chase away the pounding in his skull with copious amounts of brandy and frothy chick-lit.

Hermione arrived hours later as the setting sun cast a rich golden light upon the library-cum-lounge, which is where she found Snape sprawled out on the settee, clutching a sunset-hued brandy in one hand, Bridget Jones's Diary dangling from the other. Abandoning her book bag in the foyer, she rushed in, youthful exuberance tempered with nervous anticipation, and pounced on the sofa, awakening Snape from his literature- and liquor-induced stupor.

"Severus!" she cried, "you're taking a break from reading my notes? Does this mean you've found something?"

"Yes," he replied drolly, "the inside of my eyelids are surprisingly free from imperfections, and your attention to detail would drive Dolores Umbridge to distraction."

"I'll forever savor that squishy, sweet compliment buried within its hard and bitter insult," she declared with a sincere sarcasm to rival Snape himself. Hermione then snatched the snifter and book from his hands, grabbing his attention as well. Snape rose to his full height and loomed over the cheeky witch, but his stony glare failed to intimidate as it had in the past. "How far did you get, Severus? Glean any kernels of knowledge, did you?" she asked, smiling eagerly.

With practiced stoicism, equal parts Occlumency and years of holding his tongue when he had dearly wanted to speak his piece – hello, manipulative masters and dunderheaded charges – he answered, "I read three funerary texts and learned, in a nutshell, that clean living leads to a cushy afterlife."

Hermione's bright face clouded, disappointment so readily worn upon her Gryffindor sleeve. Feeling failure, like a snake bite to his miniscule black heart, Snape gracefully crumpled to the couch. "I wish I had better news." Oh, how I wish. "But I did not get as far as I had intended..."

She cut him off with a strangled cry, really a mixture of growl and exasperated sigh. "Dammit! I never thought I could be too thorough, spewing out more information than absolutely necessary, but I've figuratively drown you in minutiae... once again."

Snape's ghostly placation was futile as always: his pearly, pale hand passed through Hermione's own, with just her mild shudder to reward his attempts at tenderness. "In my previous life, I stood first in line to deride your word-for-word textbook-spewing answers. Now it might mean the difference between death and life... again. I rather applaud your efforts, but perhaps..." He paused, waiting to hook the curious witch and gain his segue.

"Perhaps...?" she repeated, her voice a breathy, anxious whisper, her eyes fixed on his.

"You could distill a brief synopsis from your magnum opus of research?"

"Yes, of course," she answered, quick as a Niffler on a shiny Knut. "As you know, I started with the funerary texts, but the real research began with my travel plans. I went to..."

His pearly hand, mere inches from her face, interrupted what would have likely been a very long exposition, the wizarding equivalent of Lonely Planet's entire library of guidebooks. "You look a little peaky, and that means something coming from a ghost. I think a bit of dinner is in order before you get too caught up in your tale."

"Now that you mention it..." She sprang up from the sofa and headed directly into the kitchen.

"There's leftover cottage pie," Snape reminded her, floating closely behind. He eased his lanky, pearlescent body into a dinette chair. He had to crane his neck to see above the enormous tome – better known as Hermione's resurrection notes – planted in the center of the kitchen table.

"I'm way ahead of you, Severus," she said, pulling a ramekin from the refrigerator. Hermione apparently had her wits about her today, for she placed the little crock on the countertop before applying a judicious Warming Charm with twirly whirls of her wand. She inhaled the fragrant spirals of steam rising from the pie's lightly browned crust, and a smile played upon her lips. Her revelry was then broken when Snape cleared his throat with an inelegant cough.

Maneuvering around the elephant in the room, or rather on the table, he gestured to the chair opposite his. "You can just as easily sit as stand for the same price," he said, smirking. "I promise not to steal your supper." Spots of pink – from embarrassment or proximity to the steamy meal? – colored her cheeks, vanishing as quickly as they'd appeared.

She slid into her seat and dove into her meal with a ladylike daintiness, chewing each forkful thoroughly before moving onto the next. Minutes passed in near silence as the dining ritual continued: scoop, lift, insert, chew ad nauseam, repeat. Snape watched her in fascination: he had never seen anyone eat as slowly as Hermione. He thought that for someone so eager to speak, she would have devoured dinner in under sixty seconds. He himself had spent significantly less time carefully consuming one of Hagrid's rock cakes, a tough meal for anyone to endure.

Hermione finally finished eating, scraping the last morsel of meat and mash from the crock and licking the fork clean. "That was amazing, Severus. Even on the second day, the mash is tender and moist, and the meat hasn't a spot of greasiness. You've outdone yourself again. Think I'll have another." Her mind seemed lost in an epicurean haze; any thought of her all-consuming research had been Obliviated by her stomach.

She was rising from her seat when Snape again cleared his throat, gaining her divided attention once more. "Why don't you give your digestive tract some time to process the first pie, and..."

"Do you think I'm fat, Severus Snape?" Now she jumped to her feet, and the only thing protecting him from her oft-used accusatory finger was a small pine table and the enlarged notebook that laid upon it.

He sighed inwardly. Merlin, save me! The brightest witch of her age is insecure? I'll put a stop to that. "Not in the least, but I haven't seen you properly in months. Perhaps after you shrink your magnum opus," he gestured at the oversized tome, "to a more manageable Reader's Digest version, you'll lift the moratorium on voyeurism and grant me leave to look."

Hermione blushed for the second time that evening, an intense red flowing over her face and neck and likely traveling to her toes. In a flash, she dropped into her chair and wiped invisible dust from the cover of the huge book, steadfastly avoiding all eye contact with her flatmate. "Right, a synopsis," her voice cracked.

Snape had always enjoyed pushing her buttons, but ever since they reached their understanding months ago, those opportunities to set her off balance were few and far between. He was disappointed to see the flush fade away as she regained her composure.

"As I was saying, the real research began with my travel plans. First, I went to Edinburgh's Central Library and came up with a list of funerary texts and the corresponding cities where I could find the original materials: Book of the Dead in the Egyptian National Library and Archives in Cairo; Bardo Thodol in the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives in Dharamshala, India, interesingly enough; Ars Morendi in the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek in Leipzig; the Funeral Oration in the National Széchényi Library in Budapest, and so on. Next, I visited the magical branch of the Bodleian to..."

His raised hand halted her story. "As one who despises interruptions and incessant questions, I humbly apologize. But why bother traveling far and wide to access materials that are readily available through the World Wide Interweb?"

Her eyebrows raised, more likely from surprise rather than irritation. "I'm impressed. I didn't know you stay abreast of modern technology."

It didn't seem possible, but Snape's ramrod posture straightened up a bit more at Hermione's compliment. "Despite my confinement, I'm rather up to date in both Muggle and wizarding worlds."

"However, the proper terms are World Wide Web and Internet," Little Miss Know-It-All said matter-of-factly, correcting his minor malapropism with a sincere smile.

The now-deflated Snape squirmed in his chair, rolling his eyes but resisting the usual concomitant sigh. "My question...?"

"Right," she began, seemingly ignorant of his annoyance. "It would have easier to review the online texts – so much less time consuming, for sure. But I feared the materials could have been compromised, misinterpreted or mistranslated. Copying and translating the originals took those potential errors out of the equation. Plus, traveling to those far off places gave me the opportunity to visit more wizarding libraries."

"Dare I ask how a teenager without A-level qualifications gained access to ancient, rare, priceless documents?" He had a sneaking suspicion his by-the-book Gryffindor flatmate had employed some Slytherin tactics, but if she would admit to as much, the drudgery of reading her prodigious notes would be offset; that he might find the solution to his little problem was beside the point.

She was speechless for the first time that evening – well, other than those few brief minutes when she was all but making love to her cottage pie dinner. After several moments of studying her clean, unadorned fingernails, she finally spoke. "Well, you have to understand that desperate times call for desperate measures."

He extended his hand forward, making no attempt to bypass the beastly big book before him. "Hello. My name is Severus Snape. Have we met before?"

"Oh, ha bloody ha," she said brightly, her brow tinged with a soupcon of irritation. "Do you want me to continue, or would you like to joke some more?"

He twirled his hand imperiously, the universal signal for "get on with it now."

She leaned in close to regale him with her tale of deception, speaking in low tones to Snape as though he were an active co-conspirator. "It's astonishing how far glamours, translation charms, falsified documents, and Confundus Charms will take you. I posed as a humanities graduate student, my dissertation being on death and burial rituals in pre-modern times, and my university was conveniently located on the opposite side of the globe within a wholly inconvenient time zone. I carried a letter – on 'official' letterhead, of course – from the institution's reference librarian to my 'program head' granting me unlimited access to any materials I requested."

He raised one doubtful eyebrow. "So, a never-before-seen girl..."

"Young woman," she corrected with humorless, indignant tones.

He nodded and raised his hands. "Excuse me... a never-before-seen young woman walks into the greatest reference collections in the world and expects to be given carte blanche entry to invaluable, irreplaceable history. Did no-one challenge your feeble story?"

She leaned in once more, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. "Of course they did. But I always arrived on the weekends, when the reference librarian was off duty. If the veracity of my letter was questioned, I would suggest contacting the curator. Who in their right mind would bother their boss on the weekend? Besides, my travel-weary appearance usually garnered their sympathy, but if that didn't work..." She produced her wand, pointed it nowhere in particular, and behind her hand, she whispered, "Confundo."

Snape proudly smirked at that revelation. While not considered an Unforgivable Curse by any means, it still had significant moral and ethical implications. Oh, if McGonagall only knew what her prized cub has been up to. She would surely suffer a conniption... or choke on her shortbread.

But he wasn't about to reward Hermione with a BAFTA quite yet. "And speaking of travel, how did you get to these distant destinations so quickly, with only forty-eight hours in a weekend? Egypt, India, Germany, Hungary..."

With a sly grin and cool demeanor, she explained. "I don't have a Time-Turner anymore, if that's what you're implying. But long-range travel was no problem whatsoever... after a quick lesson in world geography and illegal Portkey manufacturing." When she finished her story of deception and felonious crimes, she sat back in her chair, a huge grin upon her young, innocent face. She looked like a Kneazle that had swallowed a flight of conjured canaries.

Snape was pleased as well, smirking at her dubious accomplishments. "Please continue. I think you were last at the magical branch of the Bodleian."

"Yes. I have unlimited access to the restricted section at the Hogwarts library now, much to Madam Pince's dismay, yet I found their selection of necromancy texts and uncensored grimoires to be lacking or nonexistent, really. So I visited Oxford's magical collection of reference books. And you'll be happy to know I entered through my own achievements: Hermione Granger, Charms apprentice, war veteran, holder of eleven N.E.W.T.s." With each pronouncement, she puffed up a bit, and her skin took on a luminous sheen.

"Bravo!" he exclaimed with mock-excitement. "I would place a gold star on your forehead, but I'm afraid my ghostly hand would pass directly through to your brain and cause irreparable damage."

"Ha bloody ha... again," she said, cool and detached.

Snape softened the blow with the whisper of a smile. "While your accomplishments are laudable, I'm more impressed with the elaborate deception you described before."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "It was sort of fun, bending the rules for once instead of following them."

He smirked. "Of course, because you always followed the rules at Hogwarts."

"Oh," she repeated sheepishly, like the proverbial biscuit thief caught in the act.

"We can discuss your history of arson and thievery at some future time, but now..." He waved for her to continue.

"I located many a grimoire there, a few containing spells for summoning spirits and supernatural beings, and one..." With a resounding thud, she heaved open the gargantuan book before her and leafed through page after page after page, searching. "Hmmm, that's odd. It should be here," she repeatedly jabbed a petite finger at the exact replica of a yellowed parchment, "right after the funerary texts." She continued sifting through the book, forward, back, then forward again.

About a minute into her fruitless search, Snape let loose a barely audible sigh. "You do remember you're a witch, don't you? Quite handy with charms, or so I've heard." His ever-present smirk appeared once again.

She glared at him, one of those icy, yet smoldering, looks. "Promo Glibly's Moste Practical Magik for Terrible Times." The book slammed shut, then flipped open, the pages whirring so fast it looked as though the ginormous volume could take flight at any second. Then the turning pages came to an abrupt halt, revealing a facsimile of a decrepit-looking grimoire. Black-green mold regularly adorned the tattered pages, and it seemed to emit a musty smell of authenticity. Surely, the magical librarians at the Bodleian had used some industrial-strength spells to stop the deterioration of the original book. Hermione scanned the table of contents, then located the spell titled "For One Who Perished in an Untimely Manner."

She beckoned Snape to stand beside her and read as she expounded her finding. "At first, I thought this was it! How lucky to happen across a resurrection spell in my first journey outside Scotland? Not just for any dead person but for one who died before his or her time. Then I read the list of ingredients for the accompanying potion..." She pointed to one item in particular.

"'Flea-infested black rat, preferably living,'" he read aloud.

"And the conditions for the deceased...," she added, directing him to the instructions.

"'Perform this spell, you must, before the sun rises on the second day of the... Black Death.' Hermione, disregard this was written, I suppose, in the fourteenth century. It's specific for bubonic plague. I died from snake toxin and blood loss."

"Yes, I know," she sighed wistfully, caressing the pages of reproduction parchment. "Finding a diseased rat wouldn't have been much of a challenge, given that Yersinia pestis still exists today. The most significant problem is the time of your death, almost twelve months ago; this spell only works for the newly deceased. And when you reach the finely printed footnote, you'll see that best results are achieved when the spell is performed by a close blood relative."

He had none of those that he was aware of – not living at least. Snape nodded mutely and returned to his seat, his slightly slumped shoulders the only sign of dejection. If Hermione noticed his disappointment, she politely overlooked it.

"The point to take away is this: I found a resurrection spell! They do exist! And if the Bodleian had one, I would surely discover more in other magical libraries around the world!"

Silent seconds ticked by. Her expectant smile grew strained, and incessant blinking soon followed. She seemed to be waiting for an equally enthusiastic response – any response really – yet Snape offered nothing. He wore his workaday indifferent expression, a suit of armor to protect his emotions. He would give her no affirmation when the situation appeared so bleak, so hopeless. After a while, he could not withstand her pregnant pause, and his single arched eyebrow impelled her to continue before that rapid fire eye flutter led to a seizure.

"Sooo, I had my itinerary all mapped out," she began somewhat hesitantly before gaining momentum, "but it wasn't so rigid or precise that I couldn't change my plans. The first stop was Durmstrang in Norway. They gave me full access to their collection, but it was an exercise in futility. So many of the really juicy books had entire sections blackened out, censoring charms so intricate and layered that I didn't have the time or patience to dismantle them."

"Apparently, they are still embarrassed by Karkaroff's connection to Voldemort," Snape spoke the name smoothly enough, even if his voice did crack a bit, "but this wholesale elimination of the Dark Arts in the name of political correctness is extreme."

"I abhor censorship, but I had left my soapbox back at Hogwarts, so I just moved on. I couldn't allow that to discourage me when I had endless possibilities before me. Then I visited Germany and Hungary, as I mentioned before. Ran across a few obscure spell books in their magical libraries and copied those. Next was France. Oddly enough, things were pretty sanitized at Beauxbatons, too, even though they never had the taint of Voldemort on them."

Snape sneered. "You seem surprised by this. Not all magical schools are created equal, Hermione. Some are merely smoke and mirrors and glitter disguising a substandard education. Did you know that Beauxbatons had mostly finished in last place in the early years of the Triwizard Tournaments?"

"Now that I think of it, Fleur did finish last in every challenge. Hmmm... Well, to continue... I thought a change of scenery, continent really, was in order next. I went to the Americas. Their ancient native cultures held a strong belief in the afterlife. I found funerary text for the Incas in Cuzco, the Mayas in Guatemala City, and the Aztecs in Mexico City. I saved the Caribbean for later so that I could compare Haitian Vodou with West African Vodun. In between, I went to the United States. That's where I deviated from my proposed travel plans. I started at the Salem Academy of Witchcraft. No joy there, I'm afraid, just more of those abridged collections like the other schools have. But the librarian gave me two leads, and since Arkham is so close to Salem, I veered off course a bit and visited Miskatonic University. The chief librarian, Doris Horus – who names their child that? – looks dusty and ancient like the collection she oversees, but she's feisty as a Fire-Crab and sharp too. Steered me toward some of the more nefarious works, namely the Necronomicon."

She leafed through her gigantic notebook again and demonstrated yet another copy of a tattered and stained grimoire; no translation needed this time, as it was originally written in English. "No luck there either, I'm sorry to say. It has spells to 'awaken' ancient deities – monsters, really – but none to resurrect the human dead. However, Miss Horus told me about a derivative collection, Necronomicon Ex-Mortis. Miskatonic didn't have a copy, but using a locator spell, I found it... in a deserted cabin, of all places, in the remote hills outside Knoxville, Tennessee. Now, I've been to creepy places before – hello, Borgin and Burkes – but this was pure evil coated in a thick, creamy layer of evil. It wreaked of horror movie cliché. And the book turned out to be Naturon Demonto, a Sumerian version of the Book of the Dead. Unfortunately, the one resurrection spell within it targets Kandarian demons. Another dead end." She winced, apparently realizing her slip a bit too late. "Didn't mean that. Sorry," she apologized earnestly.

Snape waved it off, his face paralyzed with an unreadable expression, as though his muscles were doused with Clostridium botulinum toxin. Hermione's face, however, remained pinched, her body taught, as though she were remembering that hideous hideaway in vivid detail. Snape decided a refocus was in order. "What of the Salem librarian's other recommendation?"

"Right!" she exclaimed, exhaling the proverbial sigh of relief as the anxious lines on her faced disappeared. "It wasn't a school or library at all. It was a tiny 'New Age' emporium in New York City owned by this Muggle, Zelda. Supposedly, she brought her own sister back from the dead. I think she might have the gift of Inner Vision."

Snape scoffed and rolled his eyes. He had known one self-proclaimed Seer; in the years of their acquaintance, she had predicted thousands of irrelevent prophecies, but only two meaningful ones. That those two were highly significant never changed his low opinion of her.

"I'm serious," Hermione defended. "That means something coming from one who believes Divination is utter Thestral shite. Anyway, when I asked to see the shop's collection of grimoires, Zelda brought me just one: The Wisdom of Catagonia." With a furrowed brow, some twirly, whirly wand work, and a non-verbal spell, Hermione searched her voluminous notes for the title in question. The giant book convulsed and sputtered, shaking the kitchen table like a finely targeted earthquake, and after seconds of unnecessary histrionics, it opened with a whimper.

"I had a true visceral reaction when I touched this book, more than my usual bibliophilic excitement. It gave me goosebumps, chills... in a good way. I had such high hopes..." She inhaled deeply and blew out a weary sigh. "A Spell to Conquer Death: this must be cast a year to the day of the target's premature death; astrological conditions apply – the Earth, Moon, and Dog Star must form a perfect isosceles triangle; the invoker must possess a love that is utterly pure; the target must have purity of soul..."

"Well, that disqualifies me," he interjected, his voice both bitter and humorous.

Hermione picked up again without missing a beat, but her tone was rote and mechanical. "And, after the bodily resurrection, find true love before the next full moon or face returning to the spirit realm." Another lung-deflating sigh, rivaling any of Snape's petulant exhalations. "So I checked the alignment for May 1st... It's more of a scalene triangle."

"Astrology is the least of my worries, Hermione. Time to face reality. I appreciate all you've done, but it's a waste of time. You could search the entire planet, and you'll never find a spell specific to my needs because...," his pause took on epic proportions, punctuated by his own dramatic alveolus-crushing sigh, "it doesn't exist."

There. He said it. With three short words, he summarized months and months of futile travel and research, a fruitless journey which had squandered Hermione's precious time and effort. It. Doesn't. Exist.

"It doesn't exist," she repeated, her voice soft and small as though defeat had already seeped into her every cell and fiber. "It doesn't exist," she said again, her head hung low, her face obscured by her riotous hair. "It doesn't exist," she uttered once more, her voice gaining strength and volume. She jerked her head up, and the look in her eyes surprised the subdued spirit; they were not dull and defeated, nor glistening with unshed tears, but filled with piss and vinegar and determination. She sprang from her chair and began pacing around the table like a ferret dosed with Pepperup Potion, effervescence amplified tenfold. "It doesn't exist," she spoke with firm conviction.

"Exactly," Snape agreed with a grim finality befitting his perpetual bad luck.

"It doesn't exist," she repeated yet again, this time on the verge of shouting.

"Hermione," he ground out behind gritted teeth, "we have already established that ad nauseam."

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks, her voluminous curls still bouncing even after her body had ceased moving. "Because I haven't created it yet!" she announced, triumphant.

"Wh-wha-wha-what?" he stammered at her unexpected change in direction.

Hermione knelt before him and fixed him with a gaze full of faith and ambition, a gaze so intense it pierced through him and sparked a shred of hope in his dead, parched soul. "Think about it, Severus. None of the spells we know and use today existed before someone created them. So what's to stop me from creating a tailor-made spell for you?"

She had done a one-eighty, but that didn't mean Snape had caught up to her yet. All those rapidly changing emotions made his head spin. He had just become accustomed to indifference and despair once again, and then Little Miss Optimist went and came up with this latest harebrained scheme. Create a spell of her own, indeed! If it failed (and it most certainly would despite her brilliant mind and steadfast work ethic)... How much heartache could a ghost endure?

"Allow me to play devil's advocate, a role I am well acquainted with. To begin with, it could be dangerous, a threat to life and limb, lethal."

"Pah," she scoffed. "No more dangerous than reciting a spell under ideal astronomical conditions." Even the threat of danger would not deter her. This was a witch who had offered to accompany Harry Potter for his final fateful face to face with Voldemort. She ate danger for breakfast. So of course, she laughed in its face or at least dismissed it derisively.

"You might have trouble finding rare and unusual ingredients," he offered, grasping at another feeble excuse.

"More rare than a black rat infected with the Black Plague?" She stood up and stood her ground, hands on hips and looking Snape squarely in the eye. "Don't worry about this, Severus. I have it all under control. I will bring you back to life. Just wait and see." She smiled, a dazzling toothy, white grin seemingly meant to allay his fears and instill confidence. He answered silently with a compulsory twitch of his thin gray lips. Then she swished and flicked her wand, and the megaton tome of research notes shrank to a more manageable size, lifted off the table and followed Hermione as she left the room.

The ghost in the kitchen was left behind to clean up yet again.

A/N: This chapter is lousy with pop culture references. Necronomicon and Miskatonic University come from the brilliant mind of H.P. Lovecraft. Necronomicon Ex-Mortis and Naturon Demonto are from the movie The Evil Dead, written by the demented, but nevertheless entertaining Sam Raimi. My favorite "sample," The Wisdom of the Catagonia, comes from that cheesy 80s movie, Hello Again, starring Shelley Long and Gabriel Byrne. The title of this chapter is a takeoff of a play (and later a movie) from the 1990s called Death and the Maiden. The serious subject matter of that has nothing to do with this frivolous fluff.

Along with the fictional works, I've also mentioned actual, honest-to-goodness, real funerary texts: Book of the Dead, Bardo Thodol , and Ars Morendi.

Next up: Action! The resurrection ritual is put to the test. How will that turn out?