Research Methods

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe is the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. Anything you recognize belongs to her. I am not making any money from this.

**My deep appreciation goes out to Larilee for her excellent beta reading and amazingly-fast turn around time.

When Hermione woke on the morning of September nineteenth, her first thoughts were not encouraging. Eighteen. Some 'special day' this is going to be, she moaned internally. She knew this train of thought was futile, but knowing didn't make her feel any better or keep the regrets from playing repeatedly in her head. No friends. No Mum and Dad. Bugger! She was reluctant to get up, preferring to delay the start of the depressing birthday she envisioned. Still, after a few minutes, her incessantly busy brain had come to the conclusion that, at the very least, she should not give Snape or Malfoy any ammunition to mock her. She would have to do her best to hide her feelings for today. Just as she reached this conclusion, Snape emerged from the loo, having completed his morning ablutions (such as they were). Hermione wondered idly if he ever really washed that hair of his during his daily shower. Even fresh from bathing, it was still lank and unappealing.

"Planning on joining the upright segment of the population anytime soon, Granger?" he sniped at her.

In spite of Snape's caustic tone, Hermione knew he was only twitting her; she'd learned to read his face a bit, and the rigid coldness that presaged real anger was absent. He'd been like this for several days, ever since their fireside chat. His comments to her were as pointed as ever, but lacked the real venom she remembered from her school days. She had responded to him in kind, taking his unspoken acceptance of her compassion for what it was worth: the tentative beginnings of conditional friendship. She knew that the balance of power was tipped too far in his direction for the real equality needed between friends – he was after all, still her tutor and captor (or guardian, as he saw it). But she recognized the changes and tried to reciprocate in a restrained manner. The most overt thing he'd done was to suggest a small adjustment to their daily schedule. Before their afternoon lesson, generally the warmest period of the day, they now took a daily walk on the extensive grounds that surrounded the cottage. And although she was bound to him by the Tether Charm, she reveled in the quasi-freedom that fresh air and open sky imparted. She found their outings invigorating and had the added satisfaction of noting that he was always more relaxed afterward as well.

On this day, however, she merely gave him a curt acknowledgement as she rose from her camp bed and headed off to brush her teeth and clean up for the day. She was half-way through combing out her hair when she realized that she'd come to the bathroom clad only in the items she'd slept in: tank top and knickers. What's more, she'd been so distracted with brooding that she'd failed to bring fresh clothes in with her. Well, she decided, I'm not going to walk past him half-dressed again. I'll just have to wait until he goes downstairs before I get my clothes. After six years of dormitory-style living, she was relatively unfazed by a lack of privacy. Snape, on the other hand, maintained a rigid decorum in matters of physical privacy. In fact, he wore his clothes like armor, only appearing in his nightclothes when he was ready to slip into bed. Oh well, Hermione thought, what's done is done. If he's offended, that's just too bad! I've got enough on my mind today without worrying about what Snape, or Malfoy for that matter, thinks of me. She silently resolved again to keep her emotions under rigid control this day.

Snape wasn't offended. He was, however, somewhat surprised. He wondered briefly (and a little hopefully) if this was a demonstration of trust towards him on the girl's part. But then, his observational skills kicked in and reminded him of her uncharacteristically terse greeting, and he surmised that she was either too grumpy or sleepy this morning to care about how she looked. Nothing unusual, as he felt that way most mornings himself. Shrugging it off, he went down to get breakfast. By the time Hermione joined him in the kitchen, he had forgotten the incident.

Most unluckily, the house-elves had prepared crepes for breakfast that morning. Hermione stopped short a few feet from the table, her eyes wide with dismay. Oh shit! Not today! She turned swiftly and headed toward the parlor.

"No breakfast today?" Snape asked in a puzzled voice.

"No," she retorted shortly. "I'll be out in the parlor when you're ready."

Hermione sat on the sofa, attempting to quell the tears welling in her eyes. Stop! Crying won't change anything, she reasoned with herself. Her vision became blurry as her emotions won the round, leaving her reason slumped in a corner of the ring. Her mother always prepared crepes as a 'special breakfast', particularly for birthdays and anniversaries. Strawberry with whipped cream for her Dad's birthday; white chocolate-raspberry for Hermione's. She let the tears fall for a minute, remembering their last special family breakfast together: fresh peach and sour cream crepes, sprinkled with powdered sugar and infused with love. It had been early this summer, for her parent's wedding anniversary. All three of them had helped create them. Cooking was one thing that had helped Hermione maintain a connection with her parents – a dependable, enjoyable activity, filled with their family traditions. I have to stop thinking about them or I'll be a basket case all day! she scolded herself. Sniffling, she retreated to the downstairs loo to splash her face and recover her composure.

When Snape finally joined her, she was perfectly collected, if atypically quiet. Unfortunately, her concentration was nowhere near its usual level. Advanced Transfiguration, the topic of the day, took a great deal of focus as well as innate power. In her present state of mind she was unable to initiate even the first stage of the transformation she was supposed to be learning. Snape was not amused. "Granger, you're not focusing on the objective," he warned her. "You need to clearly visualize each step of the process before you attempt the incantation. The sequence must flow seamlessly, or you will get an incomplete transfiguration."

"I know," she mumbled. "I'll try again." But her subsequent attempts were no more successful than her initial ones.

Snape watched as the girl went through the motions of the spell. After sixteen years as a teacher, he identified her problem without difficulty: her mind was elsewhere. After she had made three uninspired efforts, he reached out and snatched the wand from her hand. Surprised by his sudden movement, she met his gaze. "Granger," he growled, "what is wrong with you today?"

"Nothing, sir," she said, looking down. "Um, maybe I should read the theory behind this type of transfiguration again – so I understand it more thoroughly," she suggested hesitantly. "Then I could try again tomorrow. I'm sure I'd do better then."

His eyes narrowed as he watched the girl dissemble. It was clear that something was bothering her; she was abysmal at hiding her emotions. A sudden idea occurred to him. "Has Draco tried to assault you?" Her eyes widened and she shook her head negatively. "Has he threatened you again?" Snape pressed, his eyes boring into hers.

"No. I've barely seen him over the last three or four days," she assured him. "He's done nothing."

She appeared to be telling the truth. He considered for a minute: he was relatively certain that she wasn't distressed because of him. He had made enough students unhappy to know the nonverbal signals of hostility, fear or offended feelings. So, if neither Draco nor I is the problem, then what is?

Another completely different notion occurred to him. "Granger," he began cautiously, "if you are experiencing... discomfort again, I could prepare an analgesic potion for you."

She looked puzzled. "Discomfort? I'm not in any pain. And what do you mean 'again'?"

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Well," he said wryly, "the last time you skipped breakfast you claimed to be too uncomfortable to eat."

"Oh!" she cried, finally catching his unspoken meaning. "No, I definitely don't need a potion," she asserted. When he continued to regard her with an expression of skepticism, she elaborated. "Really! I'm not even into the chocolate-craving phase yet," she said with some asperity.

A chocolate-craving phase? In spite of his annoyance, Snape was amused. But he still hadn't discovered what was on the girl's mind. And when it came to gaining information, he was nothing if not relentless. He met her eyes, holding her gaze until she became uncomfortable and attempted to look away. He reached out, tilting her chin back up, forcing her to meet his stare. "You realize," he informed her softly, "that I could use Legilimency to find out what you're hiding from me. But," he continued, "I would prefer if you just told me what is wrong."

Hermione bit her lower lip as she reflected. He had shared his secrets with her the other night – given her his trust – or at least he'd suspended his antagonism. He deserved reciprocal confidence from her if they were to maintain their tentative friendship. "Yes, alright," she agreed, nodding. But what to tell him without sounding childish?

Snape waited expectantly. "I suppose," she began slowly, "it all comes down to loneliness. I'm feeling distracted and unhappy because I can't stop thinking about my friends and my family. I had planned to spend all day with my parents today..." She broke off, once again close to tears. After a few steadying breaths she was able to continue. "I'm not sure how much you know about Muggle customs, but in the Muggle world, a person comes of age at eighteen. It's a big deal for most people – becoming a legal adult. For me, today was going to be something important that I could share with my parents – they've been excluded from a lot of my life since we found out that I was a witch. I know it's futile and you'll think I'm foolish, but I can't stop thinking about them," she said in a quavering voice, not meeting his eyes.

Snape could see that she was clearly on the edge of tears. She was gnawing on her lower lip as well, a sure sign of distress. He gave the mental equivalent of a sigh, knowing he was no good at offering comfort. And she's right, he thought, it is futile to dwell on the situation. Well, he smirked to himself, I may be dismal at sympathy, but I probably qualify as an expert at diversionary tactics. Reaching a decision, he stood. "I do not think you are foolish," he said brusquely. "It's completely understandable that you should miss your family. However, I believe you're right: we should leave the Advanced Transfiguration for another day. Come with me," he ordered.

She followed him to his laboratory where he strode to a cupboard and removed a bottle filled with a viscous, light blue fluid. He motioned her closer and lifted the fluid toward the light so they could examine its attributes. "This base," he informed her, "should be a cobalt blue, with iridescent properties when exposed to the light. As you can see, its color is so pale as to be almost pathetic. It also lacks the necessary reflective trait. I have, as yet, been unable to determine the precise error responsible for its flaws."

"You mean, you brewed this incorrectly, but you don't know what's wrong?" Hermione asked incredulously. She was so taken aback by his apparent admission that she spoke without thinking. His sour expression enlightened her to the insensitivity of her words, and she stammered, "Oh! I didn't mean... I'm sorry, I..." He held up a hand, cutting short her stuttering.

"You are essentially correct, if lacking in discretion," he commented dryly. "To elaborate, I prepared this base from a translated text. While I am certain that I followed the directions accurately, there may be some imprecision in the translation of the technique or even in the ingredients. I have tried modifications to both these variables, but without notable progress." He waited, knowing the question she was likely to ask next.

He wasn't disappointed. "What kind of potion is it supposed to be?" she asked, eyes wide in unfeigned interest. "And what effect is the base designed to enhance?"

"It is a strengthening base, for an ancient and possibly fictitious brew," he informed her. "Which you will not, at present, be privy to. In any case, you don't need to know what the final product is to work on refining this base."

Catching his meaning immediately, Hermione gasped in surprise. "You want me to perfect the base?" she inquired in amazement.

He nodded. "Yes. Or more exactly, I want you to make an attempt at it," he responded sardonically. "I trust you remember Borage's Theorem on Magical Bases and Scarpin's Revelaspell? You will need to begin by separating the base into its component ingredients, then analyzing the interactions between them."

"Yes, of course," she acceded breathlessly.

Snape turned away to gather his own materials. He would continue his experiments with minced dragon heart, while simultaneously keeping an eye on the girl.

Two hours later, Snape watched out of the corner of his eye as she scribbled detailed entries in the notebook he'd provided. She now had a large array of vials in a rack, each containing an individual component derived from the base. He turned away from the girl, hiding his smile of satisfaction.

Late that evening, Snape emerged from the bathroom, his robe knotted tightly over his nightshirt. Granger was still sitting before the fireplace, re-reading her Transfiguration text. He slipped off his robe and slid into bed. He observed her surreptitiously and, truth be told, somewhat smugly. He'd been right to bring her into his research project today. Not only had he successfully distracted her from her unhappiness, but she had brought a fresh perspective to the problem. He waved his wand toward the candles, causing them to extinguish then relight a second later. The girl promptly took the hint and closing her book, made her way to the cot. "You made significant progress with the strengthening base today," he commended her. "We shall continue working on it together from this point."

A bright smile accompanied her softly spoken, "Thank you, sir," as she slipped under the covers.

He extinguished the candles for the night and placed his wand on the bedside table. "Granger," he said as he pulled the covers up to his shoulders, "congratulations on reaching your majority."

-----------------------------

Remus sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes. After seemingly countless hours in the National Wizarding Library of London, he still had little more than sketchy, ill-defined descriptions of what he was looking for. He needed spells capable of deactivating and/or destroying powerful Dark objects, specifically, Horcruxes. I must be going about this the wrong way, he thought morosely. He pushed the stack of books he'd just perused off to the side and slumped down onto the table, his head on his forearms. I wish James or Sirius were here to help me, he moped silently. Remus knew that he was a plodder. His achievements in life had always come through hard work and determination, whereas his childhood friends had succeeded using equal parts inspiration and daring. He missed their reckless brilliance. Hell, I miss everything about them right now, he thought. It was one of his life's great ironies that he had regained Sirius' friendship only to watch him die two years later. Although, if he was truthful with himself, he had to admit that Sirius had been desperately unhappy for many months before his death. Remus remembered the day the two of them had returned to the Black family home: the look on Sirius' face had reflected his revulsion and hatred for all the things his family had believed in. He had rejected their Dark Wizardry and pure-blood mania when he was sixteen, vowing never to return.

Remus sighed again. Woolgathering would not get him the answers he needed. Enough, he told himself sternly. Sirius and James are dead. I have to do this on my own. Picking up yet another book on counter-curses, he flipped to the Table of Contents. "Curses utilizing blood... time-released hexes... familial curses..." he murmured as he skimmed the listed topics. Abruptly, he stopped turning the pages, and his eyes snapped back to the section on familial curses. "Family... Sirius' family..." he declared. "They were Dark wizards for generations! How could I be so obtuse!" he berated himself aloud. If you want spells to deal with Dark Magic, ask the Dark wizards! he thought triumphantly.

A distinct "Ahem" caused him to look up. A severe-looking librarian was giving him a significant glare. After a moment, she pressed a finger to her lips to emphasize her point. Remus nodded his acquiescence and looked down, smiling to himself. Librarians were the same no matter where they worked, it seemed.

He gathered his books and deposited them in the reshelving cart on his way out of the library. He needed to find Dora. Perhaps she would agree to accompany him to number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He had high hopes for the Black family library!

*****

Tonks hated having to return to their old headquarters. There were so many negative associations for her. First off, because her father was a Muggle-born, Sirius' parents had refused to even acknowledge her birth! They had even gone so far as to wipe her mother's name from their family tree. Second, going there reminded her of Sirius, which in turn made her feel sad, especially for Remus' sake. Last, but not least, there was the shear depression-factor the house itself seemed to provoke in her. It was dirty, musty, drab and full of nasty reminders of the worst of the Blacks. "God, I hate those elf heads, Remus," she muttered as they ascended the front steps.

"Then close your eyes as we pass through the hall," he replied. "Here, take my hand, Dora, and I'll make sure you don't trip while your eyes are closed."

"If I didn't love you, I'd hex you for using that nickname, Moony," she returned with artificial sweetness.

"Really, my dear," he quipped, "you can't expect me to use your surname anymore. I think we've advanced to a more intimate level of interaction, don't you?" he said with raised eyebrows.

Tonks smiled happily in return and gave up the dispute as a lost cause. She really didn't mind 'Dora' from Remus' lips. But he was the only one she allowed to get away with it – aside from her dad. He captured her left hand, leaving her wand hand free, then opened the front door so they could slip inside.

The moment they stepped in, a heavy, fetid stench assaulted their senses. "Ugh!" Tonks cried in disgust. "What the hell is that?"

"It smells like something died in here," Remus answered, gagging slightly in the putrid air. "Maybe an animal got inside and starved to death? Here, let's open some windows," he suggested, spinning around and opening the small louver set into the highest panel of the door. "I'll go up to the parlor and see about getting a window or two unlatched, Dora. You do the ones in the kitchen."

"Okay," Tonks agreed.

Remus hastily climbed the steps to the first floor and entered the parlor. The windows proved quite stubborn, refusing to open until he applied a strong Releasing spell. He gulped several lungs full of fresh air and made his way to the kitchen. As he entered, the intensity of the smell seemed to triple. It was apparent that the source of the odor was somewhere in the kitchen. The windows, as well as the back door, were wide open. Remus spotted a figure in the back garden, retching. Dora! He sprinted through the room and jumped down the steps. In a moment he was smoothing her hair (now a sickly green color) back from her face as she emptied her stomach.

"Bloody hell in a hand basket," Tonks moaned a minute later as she straightened. Remus, supporting her with an arm around her waist, led her to a low stone fence where they could sit down. "When the air in the kitchen clears a bit, we need to investigate in there," she stated unnecessarily. Her companion merely nodded.

Some time later, they rose and steeling themselves, reentered the kitchen. A quick visual inspection failed to reveal anything obvious. "What do you think, should we check inside the cupboards?" Tonks asked.

"I suppose so," he answered resignedly. But to their surprise, there was nothing in the cupboards except dishes. "There's the pantry still," Remus said, with a grim expression. He strode to the door and pulling it open, found the origin of the smell at last. It was not an animal.

There, in the boiler room off the pantry, lay Kreacher's body, curled up amid a pile of filthy rags. He'd died in his 'den', with his broken and purloined mementos of the Black family scattered about him. "Mobilicorpus," Remus whispered, levitating Kreacher's body out of the house and into the back garden. Tonks followed, her expression a strange mixture of pity and revulsion. Still not touching the elf's corpse, Remus and Tonks inspected it for signs of what had killed the miserable creature. There was no blood or obvious wounds. "What do you think, Dora?" Remus queried, turning to the young Auror.

"If you want my professional opinion," she responded, "I'd say he died of natural causes. There's no evidence of violent death. Let me check for residual curse energy," she added. Extending her wand over the body, she murmured a soft spell. Her wand tip glowed green. "No. There's no indication of a curse, Remus. It appears he died of old age, probably in his sleep."

"Let's cremate him," he suggested. "Now." She nodded.

Pointing their wands at the body, they spoke the incantation simultaneously. "Aduro Maximus." White-hot flames engulfed the body, reducing it to ash in mere seconds. They lowered their wands. As if on cue, a light breeze rose, scattering the ashes, leaving behind only a scorched circle in the grass. They turned solemnly toward the house.

"I'm going up to the library," Remus informed Tonks. "It shouldn't take me more than a couple of hours. The Black family collection is not that extensive."

Tonks' eyes widened with interest. "What exactly are you looking for?" she asked curiously. "Maybe I can help. We did study a bit about Dark Magic during Auror training, you know.

He shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll manage, Dora." At her look of disappointment, he relented. "I can't tell you the details," he explained. "I gave my word to keep this matter in strict confidence. But I can tell you that it will be vitally important in the fight against Voldemort."

Tonks gazed into his eyes for a moment. "Okay, I understand," she said with a smile. "I'll make some tea and keep watch so we don't get a surprise visit from any Death Eaters."

Just under two hours later, Remus found Tonks in the kitchen, a cup of tea in her hand and a small burlap sack on the table by her elbow. "Any luck?" she inquired cheerily.

"Unfortunately not." His brows contracted as he eyed the sack. "What's in that?"

"Oh!" Tonks laughed. "Remember back when we were disarming the house, how Kreacher had a habit of snatching anything and everything he could get his hands on? I thought it would be a good idea to clean out his den, just to make sure something really nasty didn't get left behind, you know? I found mostly junk, like broken stuff and pictures, except for this sack. There are a few odds and ends in here that we should check over for Dark Magic before we dispose of them."

Curious now, Remus upended the sack onto the table. He assessed the items quickly: a small musical box, a gold pocket watch, a silver salt shaker bearing the Black family crest and a heavy locket. Merlin's beard! A locket! he thought, as he mentally recounted the story Harry had related about Sirius' brother Regulus. Could this be Slytherin's locket? He stared open-mouthed for a few seconds before coming to his senses. Without touching any of the items, he levitated them back into the sack. "You're right, dear," he told Tonks. "These definitely need to be tested. Some of the things around here were downright lethal. We wouldn't want a Muggle coming across anything dangerous by accident." He tucked the bag into an inner pocket of his robe and held out his hand to pull his companion to her feet. "Let's go," he said with a smile.

*****

That evening, Remus showed the items to Harry and Ron. "These two," he declared pointing out the music box and locket, "definitely have signs of Dark Magic; Moody and I tested them."

"I remember seeing both of those when we cleared out the drawing room," Ron offered. "That music box saps your strength when it plays."

Harry agreed. "Yeah, I remember it too." He regarded the locket for a moment then turned to Remus. "Does Moody have any idea what the locket may be?" he asked quietly.

"No. We simply looked for evidence of the common motifs used in Dark Magic," Remus replied. "And I've no idea myself how to ascertain if an item actually is a Horcrux. I suppose when I find the spell to do that, I'll also have found the one that can destroy a Horcrux."

"No luck on that yet?" Ron asked. Remus just shook his head, looking glum.

Harry, however, was smiling. "You'll find the spell we need eventually, Remus," he assured the older man. "In the meanwhile, I have an idea how we can positively identify that locket." He looked toward Ron saying, "I think it's time for another trip to Knockturn Alley; we can introduce Remus to our expert on ancient artifacts!"

-----------------------------

Harry grinned with satisfaction. Ha! That was easy. Good job, me! he silently congratulated himself. If not for his location – the National Wizarding Library – he would have let out a whoop of glee. Instead, he gathered the parchment before him and took it across the room to the Duplication Desk.

The clerk gave him a bored look and droned, "How many copies?"

"Just one," Harry answered.

Rifling through the parchment, the young man began muttering inaudibly to himself. After a moment, Harry realized he was counting pages. The clerk looked up. "That will be two Sickles, two Knuts, please," he said in the same monotone. Seeing the slight rise of Harry's eyebrows he explained, "It's ten Knuts a page, sir."

"Right," Harry agreed, as he fished the coins from his jacket pocket and handed them over. The clerk waved his wand over the top page and intoned the Duplication Charm. Harry waited patiently (although he was certain that he could have done the job in half the time himself) until the remainder of his copies were finished, then departed for his afternoon Potions lesson at the Ministry. On the walk, he allowed his thoughts to wander back to the events of the day before.

-----------------------------

Two days after Tonks and Remus had recovered the artifacts from Kreacher's den, they had made the trip to Borgin and Burkes' dodgy little shop in Knockturn Alley. This time, Remus rather than Bill had accompanied Harry and Ron. Although not as tall as Bill, Remus proved to be even more impressive as a bodyguard, due mostly to his frightening disguise. He had charmed himself to look like Sanguini the vampire, pointed teeth and all. Shoppers instinctively shied away from them as they made their way down the narrow alley and into the dark shop to consult with the aged Mr. Borgin.

"Ah, Mr. Electis, how good to see you once again," Borgin crooned, bowing slightly to Harry. "I see you've taken to wearing your ring. A wise decision, sir, if I might be so bold as to say so," he continued in his ingratiating manner. His eyes flicked to the silent figures backing his wealthy (and therefore valued) customer, widening ever-so-slightly at the feral grin displayed by the vampirish thug at his left shoulder. Surely even an undeniably questionable 'collector' such as Electis wouldn't employ a Vampire! Borgin thought, horrified.

"Borgin," Harry said tersely, inclining his head fractionally. "I have acquired an item of dubious origin that I would like your assistance in identifying. I would, of course, offer a suitable compensation for your efforts."

"Of course you would, sir," Borgin mouthed automatically. It was a game. Harry knew it and Borgin knew that he knew it. They played their parts flawlessly. "If you would follow me..." the old man urged as he led them to a private room to inspect the item in question.

Once privacy had been assured, Harry pulled out a velvet pouch and extended it to the shopkeeper. "When I purchased this, I was convinced that it had once belonged to a famous wizard, but I am no longer certain if that is the case. Do you recognize it?" he inquired.

Borgin opened the bag's drawstring and tipped the contents onto his palm. Immediately, he gasped in astonishment, his wide eyes a dead giveaway that he did, indeed, recognize the locket that lay in his hand. In truth, Harry could have left at that point, having gained all the information he needed, except that he was obliged to complete the game. Borgin turned the locket over in his hand, then performed one of his own specialized Authenticity Spells. Satisfied, he reverently put the locket back in the bag and returned it to Harry. "I don't know what you were told, Mr. Electis," he commented in a voice devoid of its usual unctuous quality, "but that is an exceptionally valuable piece. As you may have deduced from the lettering on the back, it once belonged to Salazar Slytherin, one of the four revered founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I last encountered it nearly seventy years ago; my former business partner had purchased it. We sold it shortly after that to a collector such as yourself." He gave Harry his typically oily smile, saying, "I am gratified that it has come into the hands of someone able to appreciate its antiquity and unique history."

"Yes," Harry remarked dryly, "its history is of the utmost importance to me." Having played out his part, Harry was eager to get away. He paid Borgin handsomely, firmly pressing twice the amount the shopkeeper requested into his hand as they headed off to the Leaky Cauldron.

Back in Ron's bedroom, behind formidable silencing and privacy wards, Ron voiced what they were all thinking. "We've really got it: Slytherin's locket! We know the location of two out of the four remaining Horcruxes. All we need are the spells to team-up and destroy them."

"I'm going to the library in London tomorrow morning," Harry informed them. "Moody gave me the names of a few books that cover power melding. He's not too happy about me using them, though. Says it's dangerous to give up control to someone else!"

"Some things never change," Remus laughed. "If Moody stopped being paranoid, we probably wouldn't know him!"

"Any ideas on your next move, Remus?" Ron asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes." He smiled mysteriously. The younger men both looked at him expectantly until he broke out in a chuckle. "Before I tell you about it, I need to talk logistics with Kingsley – see if my notion is feasible. Then I'll fill you in."

Remus had a crafty gleam in his eye that reminded Harry of the Professor Bogart-Snape incident back in his third year at school. There was no hiding it – Remus was up to something.

-----------------------------

October entered with iron-grey skies and howling winds. Although the little cottage stayed snug, out-of-doors was another matter entirely. Hermione wished again for her thick, warm Hogwarts cloak as she and her companion threaded their way through a copse behind their hideout. The air was thick with swirling leaves ripped from their branches. Her cloak, which was actually Snape's spare cloak, magically altered to fit, was plastered to her chest in front and streamed out behind her with the force of the wind. When they had set out forty-five minutes ago, it had been merely breezy. The rising gale indicated that they were in for another storm tonight. By the time they neared the front path to the cottage, Snape was grasping her arm firmly so she could keep pace with him. As he steered her through the doorway and into the front room, he felt an involuntary trembling pass through her.

"You're shivering," he observed. "We should not have stayed out so long. Perhaps these walks should be curtailed in the cold weather."

"No!" she objected vehemently. "It's just the wind-chill that made it less than pleasant. I'm sure tomorrow will be better." Although she knew it was only likely to get colder, she was loath to give up the feeling of freedom she enjoyed during their outings.

Snape regarded her for a few seconds, a calculating look in his eyes. "We shall see," he said shortly. Swinging his cloak from his shoulders, he released the Tether Spell and headed off to the lab. Hermione followed suit. Snape allowed her to spend two hours each afternoon working on the strengthening base with him, regardless of the topic of the day. They had managed to achieve a beautiful deep azure, but the base still lacked an iridescent sparkle. The intensity of her concentration soon pushed all recollections of the cold and wind from Hermione's mind.

Much to Hermione's dismay, Snape refused to go out walking the following day, citing the frost on the windows as proof of the frigid weather. Hermione spent the entire afternoon in a dejected mood.

Snape disappeared early the next morning, instructing Hermione to review the current Herbology chapter in preparation for a quiz. When she next saw him in the early afternoon, he abruptly ordered her to come with him. Once in their room, he silently passed her a large bundle covered in brown paper wrapping. "What's this?" she questioned.

"Open it," he replied, his face expressionless.

She removed the paper, revealing a deep forest green cloak bearing a circlet of silver stars about the hem and throat. The wool was of the finest quality, close-woven and soft to the touch; the inner surface was fully lined with sleek, silvery fur. She gaped at the garment, completely unable to think of anything appropriate to say.

Snape broke the silence, drawling, "I believe that should keep you sufficiently warm on our daily outings."

His words shook loose her tongue and she finally managed to choke out a response. "Where did this come from?" she gasped. Not the most graceful of comments, she knew, but she was at a loss as to what to say. The cloak in her hands was positively extravagant; he couldn't possibly intend for her to wear it in the woods. He couldn't really mean to give her – a Mudblood – something like this. She met his eyes; he was still watching her with that expressionless mask. "Who does this belong to, sir?" she asked urgently.

Snape pressed his lips together into a thin line for a moment before saying, "It was my mother's. It has been sitting uselessly in a Gringotts vault for many years. I'm pleased to finally get some use out of it," he reported indifferently. Hermione continued to stare at him incredulously until he, losing his (admittedly limited) patience, snapped, "Come, girl! Put it on! We're already late for our daily walk."

Hermione swung the cloak around her shoulders and fastened the clasps down the front. He noted with satisfaction that it was just the right length. As she extended her arm so he could perform the Tether Spell, she met his eyes and whispered, "Thank you, it's a beautiful cloak."

Giving a curt nod, he led her downstairs and out under the grey canopy of sky. It was cold. A wind that had sprung up in the night was blowing keenly from the north. She shivered beneath the starry mantle.

"You are cold?" Snape asked, sounding surprised.

"No," she assured him, "just adjusting to the temperature change." She smoothed the fine wool down over her arm and giving him a sincere smile, declared softly, "It's very warm."

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Author's Notes:

1. Scarpin's Revelaspell: in canon (HBP), this spell apparently allows for the identification (possibly by sequential separation) of component ingredients of a potion.

2. Borage's Theorem on Magical Bases: Libatius Borage was the author of Advanced Potion-Making in canon (HBP). I extrapolated the cannon information to infer that he was an active researcher as well as a textbook writer. (Don't all researchers want to name their discoveries after themselves?)

3. Aduro Maximus = Burn Totally (via an online English-Latin translator)

4. Harry's alias, Electis, is a play on his unofficial title, the Chosen One (from the Latin word electus = chosen).

5. At last, another quote from The Lord of the Rings! This one is present in the final scene of this chapter, when our nebulous ex-professor gives Hermione his mother's cloak. "It was cold. A wind that had sprung up in the night was blowing keenly from the north. She shivered beneath the starry mantle." This quote is from The Return of the King (The Steward and the King), in which Faramir gives Eowyn his mother's cloak. The last sentence is paraphrased a bit. ** I am not equating Severus Snape with Faramir son of Denethor! (Although they do share intelligence and strength, Faramir's character was noteworthy due to his nobility and wisdom, whereas canon Snape is portrayed as petty, nasty, and self-serving.) I simply borrowed aspects of the LOTR scene in order to provide a connection to Snape's past and show his evolving relationship with our heroine.