Chapter Ten

---

Author's Note: I've been gently poked by my two betas, ladyofthemasque and Southern_Witch_69, to wake up and write, and as always I listen to them. Thank you, girls!

Disclaimer: My thanks to JK Rowling for having such a splendid imagination and for allowing us to play around with her characters in the fanfiction universe. She gets all the credit for anything you recognize; the plot for this story is entirely mine (though I don't get paid).

---

Chapter Ten

"I need to let you know that your life is in danger..."

Curses slicing through the fog of a battlefield. Dark, hooded figures with grotesque masks, bone-white, a nightmare come to life. Turning this way and that. Aiming her wand. Voiceless commands. Spells racing to meet their targets.

"...and I believe it might be from the very man who just left your shop."

Fog molding itself, forming images of men, women, Death Eaters ... Mr. Burke. Once benign features transforming into malignant, bone-sharp angles. Lips curled back, a deformed sneer. Her aimed wand shook. Fear froze her throat. Words failed her.

A gnarled stick, producer of spells, aimed at her head. A breath. Mouth forming words meant to injure, to maim ... to kill.

And then ... an arm about her waist, holding her tight, pulling her out of harm's way. The spell skimming past her robes so close she could feel its energy jar her very bones. Sharp words she could not understand...muffled, distorted. Light spinning towards her attacker, traveling quickly, finding its target.

She turned in the arm that still protected her. She was safe. He held her tighter, their bodies joining as one, repelling the evil which surrounded them. Her savior.

She looked up, but the fog was so thick she couldn't see his face. Who was he?

~ o ~

Hermione awoke feeling as though she hadn't slept at all. She had stayed up late, her mind churning over the strange events of the day, unable to fall asleep. When she finally had fallen asleep, dreams plagued her. Strange dreams. Dreams of vague battles where the players were equally vague. Dreams where she was the target, in danger...

The strange, hooded man had told her she was in danger. But from whom? He hadn't seemed to think that it was important to let her know; that she was in danger was enough. "What matters is what you do with the information I've already given you." What was she supposed to do with so little information to go on?

What plagued her thoughts most was that she didn't know who the dark-cloaked man was. She didn't know who Mr. Burke really was either, for that matter, but that didn't seem to bother her as much ... though that did not say much for sorting her priorities. Not having been able to see the dark-cloaked man's face, not having been able to discern anything at all about his identity ... it made him a complete unknown, a mystery. She had always loved mysteries, but this one seemed to be a mystery that needed to be solved, and soon if her life was supposedly in danger. The sooner she knew who he was, the sooner she'd be able to find out who her attacker was.

He had saved her once ... but what if something else were to happen? Considering the multitude of information he had imparted before he had left her the night before...well, how would she know what to be on the lookout for?

His voice had been indiscernible, low, a near-whisper. Still, there had been bass undertones that could not quite be hidden. She assumed that his voice at full volume would be low in range, full-bodied, resonant. The softness of his words was meant to throw her off. He had been hiding his voice. But why? If he had spoken aloud, would she have recognized who he was?

Hermione formed a picture in her mind from what she could recall: He had been tall and not overly heavy, though she couldn't really tell for sure since he was cloaked. Other than that, since they had had no contact, she couldn't even venture a guess as to his stature. His hand...the only part of him she had seen when he had drawn his wand...had been pale, fingers long and thin, and he had held his wand with a certain grace and deftness.

Then there was his limp and the cane he used to aid his step...a black cane with a plain, round, silver head. A wizard having a limp was not unheard of...after the war there were several injuries that couldn't be completely healed by the Healers since dark spells sometimes caused permanent injury...but she did find it strange that she had seen two wizards with a limp in such a short period of time. Thoughts returned of a customer just last week with a similar limp. If it was the same customer who had come to her aid, however, she couldn't fathom why he'd have a reason to cloak himself last night.

Suddenly, she realized she was obsessing over the same exact things she had obsessed over before falling asleep the night before. She really had to stop this, get out of bed, definitely get some coffee...sod it, she shouldn't drink coffee anymore...make that herbal tea.

Mysterious strangers ... odd dreams ... no coffee ... She felt grouchy.

~ o ~

Not fifteen minutes after she had opened the shop, trying to pretend her herbal tea was coffee while reading the latest Daily Prophet, an owl came swooping through the small swing door she had installed for just that purpose. It dropped a thick stack of parchments, which thudded dully on the counter, and looked at her haughtily, apparently awaiting something.

Hermione peered at the topmost parchment, which read:

To: Miss Hermione Granger

Owner: Strega Letteraria

This is to notify you that an offer has been made as per your ad in the Daily Prophet on April 19, 2004. In lieu of a direct purchase of the establishment, Strega Letteraria, my client offers the opportunity to enter into a joint venture agreement in which he would join resources and efforts with you for a span of ten years. During this time, you would be co-owners of said establishment.

The following are the legal papers to set up a joint venture agreement. If you agree to the offer my client has put forth, please sign in the highlighted areas and return by owl at the address provided. If you do not agree to this, please return the forms unsigned.

Yours truly,

Edmund Everhart, Solicitor

Wright, Talbot, and Sharpe LLP

The following page began the legalese, something which she never truly had the mind for, though at least somewhat understood. She skimmed through the myriad pages, wondering who would offer her the opportunity to essentially keep her business. She had never thought of this possibility. Partner with someone for a set period of time, enough to get her feet back on the ground. Perhaps with their combined assets she could finally advertise the bookshop as she had always wanted to, but never had been able to afford. A ray of hope brightened the darkness she had been living in for so long.

She paged through, looking for the highlighted areas in which she needed to sign. There had to be a place somewhere where the other person also needed to sign. She checked off nine areas where she needed to sign and two where she needed to initial ... and finally, at the very end, there was a line with a name printed neatly beneath where the man offering to enter into the joint venture with her had yet to sign.

_________________________

S. Prince

She blinked. That name sounded very familiar. Where had she heard that name before? Prince ... yes, of course. Sixth year. Harry's borrowed Potions textbook. Prince was a name of a somewhat known pureblood family, but the familial line had ended when Eileen Prince had married Tobias Snape and ...

It couldn't be. But there was no other explanation. It had to be him. It had to be Severus Snape.

Severus Snape had been a wanted man by the Ministry ever since the death of Albus Dumbledore. When it had come to the Ministry's attention that the ghostly apparition of Professor Dumbledore's ghost had been seen roaming the grounds of Hogwarts, an official had naturally been sent to question him about his murder and the whereabouts of his murderer. The ethereal Dumbledore, much the same as the corporeal Dumbledore, had given a vague, enigmatic answer: "All will be known in due time, my dear sir, in due time."

They hadn't returned until after Voldemort had been defeated, after Ron had insisted to all and sundry that he had either injured or killed Snape. When no body had been found, the Ministry had thought it time to question Dumbledore's ghost yet again. The official whom the Ministry had sent had been relatively new to the job and had offered up with very little prodding from Albus what had supposedly transpired between Ron Weasley and Severus Snape on the battlefield. Professor Dumbledore had affected a serious, concerned mien and had wandered off where no flesh could follow, leaving the poor official in the lurch. As far as Hermione knew, it was still an open case in the Ministry's eyes.

She noticed the owl was still there when it started pecking on her oak counter. It had left a present for her as well ... Damn bird. She tossed it one of Ginny's biscuits and told it that she didn't have an answer yet and it could leave. The bird thankfully took off through the swing door, and Hermione pulled out her wand to clean up the bird's mess.

She wanted to jump at the chance. She wanted to sign the papers and have the weight of making this all work without the proper help or gold behind it taken off her shoulders. But if S. Prince was who she thought it was ... to just sign the papers on a whim like that would indeed be rash. She wanted answers first.

Pulling a parchment from a stack by her computer, she decided to request a meeting with this Mr. Prince. That would be the logical thing to do, the right thing to do. After all, no business decisions should be made without a face-to-face meeting at the very least. With the note to the solicitor finished, she went to attach it to the owl's leg ... only to realize that she had let the damn bird go. Now she'd have to make a trip to the post office over lunch.

~ o ~

It took three days for a reply to come from Mr. Everhart, the solicitor representing Mr. Prince. She had begun to doubt whether the owl had indeed reached its destination and had decided that if she hadn't heard anything by five o'clock, she would owl him again and this time request a receipt notice. She didn't want to sound impatient, however. If she sounded too eager, Mr. Prince might deduce that she'd been having a difficult time drumming up business and back out.

This undoubtedly meant that she had effectively made up her mind, she realized. After having a few days to think about it and read over the thick sheaf of parchments, not to mention showing it to Alpin, Ginny's husband, who knew the various ins and outs of everything legal, she was ready to go ahead with the joint venture. The only thing stopping her was that she needed to know who exactly she was going into business with.

When the same haughty brown owl flew through the swing door just as she was worrying over the solicitor's non-response, she sighed heavily to dispel the nauseatingly twittering butterflies in her stomach.

She snatched the note from the owl's leg and perfunctorily tossed it a biscuit to keep it occupied.

To: Miss Hermione Granger

Owner: Strega Letteraria

After due consideration, since he is a very private man, Mr. Prince has decided to meet with you. However, it must not be in a public locale. This letter has been charmed into a Portkey, which will transport you to his location at exactly 9:00 p.m. this evening.

Yours truly,

Edmund Everhart, Solicitor

Wright, Talbot, and Sharpe LLP

Butterflies became fire-breathing dragons, and she had to take a biscuit, much to the owl's annoyance, who thought it had been meant for it instead of her. Of course, this posed another dilemma. The Stranger did warn her that her life was in danger. What if meeting this Mr. Prince wasn't such a good idea after all? He was asking that she meet him under his terms in an unknown place. What if he was the one she needed to beware of?

She couldn't believe she was actually waffling over whether or not to meet Mr. Prince when for the last three days she had been worried over his response. If she wanted to make a better place for herself in the business world, then she'd have to take chances.

But that did not mean that she didn't have to come prepared. A search in one of her drawers turned up a little Chinese figurine her mother had sent her a couple months back when they were still in China. Breathing a few words over it, it became a Portkey as well, ready to transport her back to the safety of her flat above the bookshop.

It was pure torture waiting for nine o'clock to roll around. Numerous times she had checked her appearance, determined how much time remained, patted her pockets for her wand and the little Chinese figurine-cum-Portkey. She had tried to contact Ginny through the Floo Network this afternoon, but no one had been home. A quickly penned message had to serve instead, a short note letting Ginny know that she was going to meet the man who wished to become her business partner and that she had no idea where the meeting was going to be, but here was the solicitor's contact information...just in case something went wrong.

She hadn't heard back from Ginny. She only hoped that little Molly or William hadn't gotten a hold of her message before Ginny had. In any case, it was too late to worry about that now. The solicitor's mail lying on her desk would have to suffice as evidence in the event that she did not return.

At two minutes before the Portkey was to activate, Hermione secured the shop with its usual locks and wards ... and waited.

~ o ~

The lights of the bookshop dimmed. To the casual observer, the Strega Letteraria was closing up for the night. The Stranger, however, knew that it was still a few minutes to closing time. It was extraordinarily unusual for Hermione Granger to close her bookshop early...even by a couple minutes.

He waited, naturally cloaked in the shadows, fingering an old silver spoon in one hand. At one minute of nine o'clock, the antique piece blinked out of existence, pulling the Stranger along with it through another dimension to a small house in a rather dingy part of London.

The Stranger positioned himself at the top of the steps leading to the entrance of the house. The hood of his cloak was down this time, his appearance unglamoured. He leaned upon the ebony cane heavily ... and waited.

At precisely nine o'clock, the air wavered, twisted, and deposited a woman just meters in front of him. She didn't notice him right away as she scanned the surroundings, and then her head turned.

Held breath expelled forcefully, half anxious, half curious. "It is you."