Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR. This is all for personal fun and enjoyment.

A/N: My thanks to snapeophile and sshg316 for their work on this story - the two of you are invaluable!

Chapter Disclaimer: I am aware that everyone is very eager for Severus to emerge, and I greatly appreciate the enthusiasm. However, I must state that he is not slated to show up in these flashbacks for a little while yet. The flashback chapters are exclusively from Hermione's point-of-view, as she is telling these stories to Rose. Therefore, Severus will only come into the story when Hermione meets him. Thank you for understanding, and with that, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

*

Present

"So you left for Paris when Ginny was using the loo?" Rose asked incredulously, dumbstruck by her mother's story. She grabbed her glass of wine and gulped it down, smacking her lips.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at her daughter's 'mature' coping skills. "No, of course I didn't."

Rose tapped her foot silently but impatiently under the table, trying to digest all of what she'd just heard. She didn't know what to be more surprised by: Ginny's opposition to the marriage, her mother's doubts, her mother's obsession with her ex-professor's disappearance, or the fact that her mother had been ready to take off at a moment's notice when she had heard of his whereabouts.

Or the confirmation that it had indeed been another man who had inspired her mother to leave the country for five years. Finding herself, indeed.

"I told you that you may be offended, Rose," Hermione said quietly, watching the flurry of emotions pass over her daughter's face.

"I know," Rose responded, folding her hands together in her lap. She looked at her mother straight on. "So, what did you do, if you didn't leave right away?" she asked, re-filling her wine glass.

"I took a Puking Pastille."

Rose nearly dropped the Chianti bottle she was holding. She stared at her mother to see if she was joking, and when Hermione met her gaze head-on, she erupted into laughter.

"You... took... a Puking Pastille?" she asked, barely able to breathe through her giggles and snorting.

Hermione joined her laughter. "Yes," she said, smiling, as she rested her elbows on the table. "I didn't want to worry anyone right away, so I took a Puking Pastille when Ginny was in the loo. She came out, and I rushed right in and promptly became sick as a dog for a good fifteen minutes."

"And why did you have Puking Pastilles at your apartment?" Rose asked incredulously.

"Your father liked to keep some handy, just in case."

Rose shook her head in pseudo-disbelief. "I can't believe you." She paused. "But how did Ginny not know you'd taken one of Uncle George's products?"

Hermione smirked. "Do I look like the sort of person who would knowingly use a Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes product?"

Rose snorted. "Point taken."

"Exactly. Well, Ginny was a right wreck – she thought our conversation was what had gotten me so worked up and upset. So, she stayed with me while I wretched my guts out, and then she put me to bed early. I insisted that she leave once I fell asleep, and once she was convinced I was sleeping soundly, she went to the Burrow and told Ron that he was not to visit me."

Rose sobered at this reminder of her father.

Hermione noticed the shadow that descended on her daughter and quickly took her hand.

"And did Dad... stay away?" Rose asked quietly.

"No," Hermione murmured. "No, he didn't."

"He caught you leaving?"

Hermione sighed. "I set to packing immediately after Ginny left. I had no idea how long I'd be gone, so I took all my clothes, my toiletries, quite a few of my books – for both research and pleasure – and, of course, Viktor's letter." She sighed. "Your father apparently came by late that night. He was the one who found I was gone."

"You didn't leave a note?"

Hermione shook her head. "I wrote one to Ginny the next morning, as I knew she'd blame herself for my sudden disappearance. I said that I was off to 'find myself' and that I didn't know when I'd be back."

Rose gaped. "And you thought they'd receive that kindly?"

"Ginny blamed herself," her mother said curtly. "And she probably would have thought that the lecture she had given me had prompted me to go... I don't know, off myself, or backpack through the Continent in the presence of strange wizards or something. So I just told her that I was safe and in France and didn't know when I'd return."

"And you didn't write Dad or Harry?" Rose whispered, a bit crestfallen.

Hermione put her hand over her heart as if feeling Rose's pain herself. "I regret not writing them that first week. Because I didn't write them right away, I... well, I decided not to correspond with them at all during my absence."

"But Dad found you were missing," Rose said, quietly insistent.

"He was worried sick," Hermione admitted. "Something I later begged him to forgive me for... I took his love for granted in those early years."

"You loved someone else."

"No, I didn't."

"You were cold and... unfeeling... towards Dad, and one hint that this bloke is in Paris, and you – you, Mother, Hermione Granger, model student, rule-following, socially conscious – you left without a word to anyone at the drop of a hat because you heard where he might be! You were falling in love with him before you even got there!" Rose exclaimed, her emotions quickly rising.

Hermione shook her head. "No, I wasn't," she said patiently. She paused. "You've heard your father talk about S.P.E.W.?" she asked, changing tactics.

"Yes," Rose said, not seeing what house-elves had to do with Severus Snape.

"Well, knowing he was alive... he became my S.P.E.W, so to speak. I was a bit obsessed with finding him, publicly vindicating him... He was a lost cause, Rose, and I was determined to find him for myself."

"But you said that the papers had vindicated him," Rose said with a distinct edge to her voice.

Hermione nodded, clearly choosing to ignore Rose's tone. "Well, it was three years after the War. Plenty of evidence in his favor had been revealed, not the least of which was the testimony found in Dumbledore's Pensieve and portrait, and Harry had spoken publicly on his last – encounter – with Severus..." Hermione's mouth clamped shut as though she had sworn.

"Severus?" Rose asked, quirking an eyebrow. She sighed and slumped in her chair. "I take it you found him, then."

Hermione nodded. "I did, though I stumbled upon him... quite by accident. It was a few months before we encountered each other."

"So... what did you do in those few months?" Rose asked, her heart racing. She couldn't keep herself from asking questions, even though she already knew what the answers were. Her Uncle Harry's voice came to her head... "She ended up doing a bit of work with Arithmancers and the like... That's what got her into law enforcement, anyhow..."

"You already know the answer, my dear. You said Harry told you."

Rose nodded slowly. "You worked with Arithmancers..."

Hermione's lips turned upward in a lazy smile. "Yes. Yes, I did."

*

17 June 2000

Hermione Granger was frustrated. She scratched lines through what she'd just written in her small, black notebook and tore out the last few pages, incinerating them with a non-verbal Incendio.

He wasn't here. Damn it, he was supposed to be here! All of her calculations had said that he would be shopping on L'Rue Sauge in downtown wizarding Paris on the seventeenth of June around ten o'clock in the morning.

He wasn't here.

And she'd been looking. She sat at a small table for two outside a charming café on a heavily trafficked street in downtown wizarding Paris – had been sitting there for over an hour, in fact, watching the crowd move to and fro, searching.... She had been surreptitiously casting all sorts of spells and charms – ones to track or locate a person, and one even to Summon them. She supposed he was good at deflecting such charms, but he didn't know she was there, in France, actively looking for him.

She hoped he didn't.

She'd made discreet inquiries with two of her French-born colleagues from St. Mungo's, Philippe and Margot. They were people she trusted to be quiet on the subject of her disappearance and where she was – Margot had been a good friend, a fellow intern, and Philippe was a visiting specialist who loathed all of his colleagues and most of his subordinates, save Hermione, for some reason known only to Merlin himself. She smiled at the thought of her weekly tea with the highly irascible and flamboyantly French Philippe Demers. The man was "far too well-dressed for his age and damned impossible to deal with!" to quote Lavender Brown, but then, Lavender Brown couldn't speak fluent French and talk about the medical theories of Leonardo de Vinci. Hermione felt a bit smug about that and silently preened herself before regrouping her train of thought...

She had asked Philippe and Margot where she would go to locate someone wishing to hide, where she could find a registry of French citizens.... Neither of her friends had proved overly helpful in the long run. Margot had spoken of 'family connections,' but Hermione had yet to meet any Caron in Paris.

Hell, Hermione had yet to find anything remotely related to Severus Snape in Paris.

Viktor had given her precious little to go on, after all. She thought of Viktor's last letter, the one she had long since memorized... and then to see him in the café, completely comfortable – and in public! And so near to Paris (he divides himself between Paris and Capois, he said)...

When she had left for France, she'd hardly given thought to how difficult – and expensive – it might be to actually find her former professor. Paris was huge, Capois was apparently small – logic dictated that she start in Capois.

The problem was, no one seemed to know where Capois was. Rather, no one was willing to tell her where it was. And no amount of spells or charms could reveal its location.

Dejected, she had set to looking in wizarding Paris, which was just about as productive as looking for someone in the entirety of Muggle London. Britain had a relatively small wizarding population, and places like Diagon Alley typically only attracted individuals claiming heritage in Great Britain. Wizarding Paris, on the other hand, was enormous, and as such it was the meeting place of wizards and witches on the Continent. It was the wizarding city with the most history, it had the largest wizarding underground Hermione had ever seen, and on top of all that, there were about four different conferences meeting this weekend alone, which made her search for Severus Snape all the more difficult. She was still learning how to route herself through Paris, and the French were a damned private lot, so she wasn't getting any help from their Ministry on locating a private citizen.

Severus Snape had certainly picked the perfect city in which to hide in plain sight.

Which was what he was doing, Hermione was certain. Snape wouldn't sit in a basement and only come out after dark: he would go about his everyday life, conducting business, being seen in public, and he'd execute his plan with uncommon levels of stealth and skill. It was what he had done for over twenty years as a double agent, and she could hardly see him changing his ways now.

She sipped her coffee and dejectedly put the pen she'd been tapping down on the table. She picked up the calculations sheet one last time to check for details... for anything she might have missed... there has to be something....

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but may I see the sheet of paper you are holding?" a voice sounded behind her.

Hermione spun around in her chair, only to lose hold of her coffee. She watched as the paper cup fell to the ground and splattered the remaining few drops down on the cobblestone.

"Oh, excusez-moi, Monsieur." Hermione reached for her wand to Evanesco the mess, but the gentleman standing behind her beat her to it.

"Merci," she murmured, turning again to look at the gentleman, who was shrinking his wand back down to size.

He was a tall man in a black Muggle suit, very stylish. Armani, if Hermione had to guess, but then Hermione didn't know designers very well. He looked to be in his fifties and had a kind, if worn, look to his face. He still had a full head of hair and a beard to match, both streaked with silver. And his eyes – she recognized those eyes. They looked very familiar....

Hermione opened her mouth, about to speak in French, when it dawned on her that he'd addressed her in English. "Do I know you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

The man smiled. "Pierre Caron, at your service. The name should be familiar," he said, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

Hermione grinned in comprehension. "I worked with a Margot Caron at St. Mungo's –" she started.

"Then you are Hermione Granger." Pierre smiled. "I thought I recognized you. The papers, you see. You are quite the celebrity in Great Britain, Mademoiselle."

Hermione flushed. "You must keep up with the Prophet. I've read very little news of Britain here in the French papers. You're actually the first person who has recognized me since I've been here." Thank Merlin, she added in her head. She paused. "How are you related to Margot?"

"I'm her father's brother," he informed her. "May I sit? The calculations you look to be doing are quite exquisite."

Hermione gestured towards the chair opposite hers. "You're an Arithmancer?" she asked, curious.

He waved his hands, deflecting her admiring tone. "Oh, not quite an Arithmancer, though I use the practice frequently in my work. My academic training centered in the field, and from what I could vaguely see of your paper, your abilities far surpass mine when I was your age."

Hermione stiffened at his mention of the paper. What exactly did he see? Calculations are impersonal, but still.... "It's a bit rude to stare at others' papers in cafés, would you not agree, Monsieur Caron?" she found herself saying.

He graciously bowed his head, conscious of the gaffe. "I apologize; it was quite rude of me. Curiosity can indeed be a sin, Mademoiselle. But I thought I recognized you," he said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs, "from both the papers and the last letter Margot sent the family. There was a picture of the two of you in it from a New Year's party, and my memory is infallible, I assure you."

Hermione sincerely hoped it wasn't a copy of the same New Years picture Margot had given her.

And did he say infallible memory?

"Do you have an eidetic memory, sir?" she asked, her curiosity overcoming both her offense and nervousness.

He nodded and smiled.

I've never met anyone with an eidetic memory... I wonder if I could ask a few questions... No, Hermione, stop! Vigilance. Constant. Vigilance.

She went on guard again and was fairly certain that Pierre saw her do so, judging by the amused smile on his lips. "So, I'm a friend of your niece," Hermione said, leaning on the table and meeting his stare head-on. It was a bit disconcerting to look into Margot's eyes on a fifty-something-year-old man. "And my calculations are... advanced. Yet I ask, why approach me in a café when I have no way of knowing who you are?"

"Because Margot asked me," he said simply.

Hermione's eyes widened. "Margot did not know I'd be at this café today."

"No," he said, shrugging. "This meeting is sheer dumb luck."

That phrase sounded much more intelligent when accompanied by a French accent, Hermione decided. She shook herself back to what Pierre was saying.

"...or fate, whichever you'd prefer. But she said that you were here searching for something and that you'd had no luck inquiring with our vaunted Ministry of Magic," he finished, raising his eyebrows at the word 'vaulted.' Hermione snorted. "And so," he continued, "she asked if I'd be able to assist you."

"And your business could profit my search?" Hermione asked, conscious that Margot had apparently told her uncle she was looking for something and not someone.

Thank you, dear, she voiced silently in her head.

"I'm in law enforcement and investigation, Mademoiselle," Pierre said. "A private firm that uses advanced techniques in Arithmancy, Divination, and various other enterprises in order to predict the whereabouts of individuals, the likelihood of crime in certain areas, and other... private projects."

Hermione's mind reeled at the potential possibilities.

"So, I was going to give you a social call and offer my services in your search. You are a friend of Margot's, and Margot is my favorite niece," he said simply, with a tone of finality.

"Margot is an only child; she's probably your only niece," Hermione said, grinning.

Pierre laughed. "Well, she is a dear girl – forgive me, a dear woman – and I am certain that even if I had other nieces she would be my favorite."

Hermione smiled, comfortable for the first time since Pierre had sat down. "So, you want to help me?"

He nodded. "And offer you a job."

If she had been drinking coffee, she surely would have spat it out. As she had no coffee, she made do with gaping at the man across from her.

"Excuse me?" she asked, shaking her head in slight disbelief.

"I had planned on merely introducing myself and offering you my firm's services, but when I saw the calculations you were doing...." He clucked his tongue. "Impressive, Mademoiselle Granger. Very impressive, especially for a woman who has spent the last three years of her life in the medical field; a field which decidedly does not offer higher training in the field of Arithmancy. And I know for a fact that Hogwarts' curriculum in Arithmancy is not the most rigorous of the European academies, so I must conclude that much of your knowledge is self-taught and that, more importantly, you have a natural affinity for the practice."

"A job?" she asked, nearly whispering.

She had quite an allowance to go on from her parents, but their generosity wouldn't last forever, and she'd long since lost the job at St. Mungo's....

Pierre stroked his beard for a moment. "Yes," he said. "How about this. Come to the firm tomorrow morning – I can take you myself – and you can talk with my partners and some employees and get a feel for how it would suit you."

"Is it a top-secret sort of business?" Hermione asked, images of private investigation firms from Muggle films coming to her mind.

Pierre shrugged. "Eh," he said. "It's a private consulting firm. We're not the government, Mademoiselle. Just people hired for a cause."

"And your causes are?" she asked, caution rising in her. Guns for hire? Thank you, no.

Pierre burst into laughter. "Margot said you were politically spirited. And ethical," he added. "I assure you, Mademoiselle, that we are... how would you put it? The good guys," he said. "Or the ambiguous ones, in a worst case scenario. We do not work for dark wizards and witches, nor are we sponsored by the government. We are discriminating in who we choose to take on as our clientele."

"Your services are in demand, then?"

He gave a definite nod. "Quite."

And with that Hermione understood that the subject was closed.

Pierre stood. "Margot took the liberty of giving me the address of your flat. Is three o'clock tomorrow convenient for you?"

Hermione nodded dumbly, the last few minutes flying by her. "Yes," she said, finding her voice. "Yes, it is."

Pierre nodded as she stood to shake his hand goodbye. "I realize I have thrown a lot of information at you in these past few minutes, Mademoiselle Granger. I would apologize, but with talents like yours, you were bound to be snatched up sooner or later, and I think you would very much enjoy working with my firm."

"Margot gave me a glowing recommendation, then?" Hermione asked, a smile on her face.

Pierre smiled. "She did." He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more.

"Yes?" Hermione asked, tilting her head quizzically. "Did you have another question for me?"

"Margot said you were here on private business. She said you did not want to be found by individuals who may come looking for you," he said quietly.

Hermione stilled. "That is true," she said quietly.

"Are you running from the law, Mademoiselle? I am compelled to ask," he said, waving a hand.

"No," Hermione said, swallowing. "I'm not. I'm just... getting a new start is all." There, that's a respectable answer.

"You invested a lot of time in St. Mungo's training only to fly away without a moment's notice. Would you do the same here?"

"I haven't even seen the business, Monsieur Caron. Are you interviewing me already?" she asked, her tone a bit harsher than she'd intended.

He sighed. "You seem a woman who keeps your commitments. I wonder what happened in England, that you so suddenly abandoned all you'd been working for at St. Mungo's."

Professor Snape happened, that's what. He surfaced.

But she wasn't about to tell anyone that that was why she was here. Not Ginny, not Luna, not Harry, not Ron, and she certainly hadn't told Margot or Philippe when inquiring about vehicles of search within the French Ministry.

She hadn't even dealt with why she was here, damn it! He had long since been exonerated by the Ministry... It was her own fascination, her own obsession....

Goodness.

"Life happened, Monsieur Caron. It can turn on us suddenly, can it not?" she said after a long moment.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. "That it can, that it can. Life is unpredictable, no?"

She smiled. "I didn't think to leave Le Café with a job offer, Monsieur. But I did. Oui, unpredictable."

Pierre smiled at Hermione as she held out her hand in parting. "Three o'clock tomorrow?" she asked.

"I will come by," he assured her.

"Merci," she said, grinning widely as she released his hand and watched the older man walk out into the street and Apparate away.

*