Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I keep forgetting this. It's clearly not mine. Everything belongs to JKR. This is all for personal fun and enjoyment.

A/N: Who thought an update would come so quickly? :-) Many thanks to Shug for her lightning-fast beta'ing and to Septentrion for her assistance with French translations. Any errors are mine.

*

When Hermione was a young girl, her Nana read her fairy tales from an old, leather bound storybook. It was soft to the touch, creased and worn, that had been handwritten and illustrated by her Nana's Nana, passed down through the years, mothers to daughters. Hermione's mother, Jane, had been a rough-and-tumble tomboy, more interested in playing with her brothers than in listening to fairy stories; therefore, Nana had passed the stories down to Hermione. The book only contained three tales, those of Cinderella, Beauty & the Beast, and Bluebeard.

Hermione's favorite was Beauty & the Beast, the story of a young maiden who takes her father's punishment in light of his foolishness and her sisters' selfishness, a strong, gentle spirit in the face of the Beast's tyranny. It was different from the Disney film she had seen with her cousins during the hols, as it was closer to the traditional tale, but there were some parallels between the book and film. Nana had made Beauty a daydreamer, a great reader (her own addition to the tale, Hermione thought), but capable of putting the Beast in his place through kind yet clearly truthful remarks. And the illustrations were beautiful, the careful pencil outlines barely visible through the iridescent watercolors. The moat around the Beast's castle almost appeared as though it was glistening in the sunlight, but it was the village that her ancestress had drawn that never failed to capture Hermione's attention. The drawing depicted the main street to the village just under the grand archway, displaying the town's name in etched stone. On either side of the street were shops, small, quaint stone and stucco buildings with the clear, delineated edges and fine trim particular to the French Provincial style. Painted wooden signs hung from the shop doors with names like La Gourmandine and l'Apothicaire written in calligraphy. A small café was drawn at the end of the street with white wire chairs and tables outside, the distant sun illuminating the entire street.

This was the image at the forefront of Hermione's mind as she and Cosette walked under the stone archway with 'Capois' etched in limestone. Hermione stopped dead in her tracks at the similarity of the image. Her breath caught. "It's so beautiful," she whispered.

"Hermione?" Cosette asked, raising a quizzical brow.

Hermione shook her head, clearing her thoughts from the reminiscent fog they'd nestled into. "There was a storybook my Nana used to read to me... the village looked just like this, I swear. It's so beautiful. I never thought to see anything like it," she said, a smile spreading across her face. "It's almost like a dream."

Cosette gave a warm smile. "I take it for granted," she said, taking time to look down the street herself. She led Hermione out of the cobblestone street and onto a gardened median. They sat down on a black wire bench, watching the hustle and bustle of witches and wizards walking, going in and out of shops, Apparating and Disapparating, the random bursts of energy being emitted from a group of small children, presumably out on a class trip. "I was raised here," she said. "This is a protected village, actually. You can't find it on a map; it's private." She shrugged. "There are quite a few wizarding estates in the area, and the village sprung up as the center of country life. At first, it was only the elite families who could access the area, protected as it is, but now all French wizards and witches can access it."

"Access it?" Hermione asked.

"There's an incantation you have to say when Apparating here."

"I didn't hear you say anything."

"Nonverbal."

"Ah," Hermione said, shielding her eyes from the sun. "It seems a bit... exclusive, don't you think, to only allow French citizens?"

"Well, others can come, but they have to be with a French witch or wizard, as you are now," Cosette said, playfully patting her arm. "And, honestly, not all French citizens know about it, or where it's at, and you have to know where it's at to Apparate here. And know the incantation," she added as an afterthought. "It's long since become a hideaway for the famous and for those seeking anonymity."

Severus. Hermione shook the thought from her mind, ignoring her suddenly-racing heart, and attempted an easy laugh. "An interesting contradiction."

Cosette grinned. "C'est la vie. People come here to get away. It's a beautiful place to live – it's quiet, you're away from everything, from Paris, from the gossip, from the politics... it's just country life here." Her face was soft, Hermione noticed – she was watching the people, but it was almost as if she were looking at ghosts, memories long forgotten floating in front of her eyes.

"Was your family from here originally?" Hermione asked, brushing a curl from her face.

Cosette shifted uncomfortably in her seat and wrung her hands together. "My mother was a singer of some renown, in her day. We kept a house here."

"And you'd rather not talk about it," Hermione said quietly.

Cosette shrugged and slouched against the park bench. "My mother died several years ago. I haven't frequented the village since."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I. She was too young." Cosette paused. "It was a drug overdose," she offered suddenly, awkwardly. "Muggle ones. Are you familiar with heroin?"

Hermione nodded dumbly.

"Well," Cosette said, fluffing her hair, "she got involved with a Muggle-born wizard in her band. Lowlife," she said, her voice dripping with derision. "He was into mixing Muggle drugs together with magical ones." She breathed in deep, calming herself. "I don't know why Maman got involved with him. Stupid woman."

"Drugs make people do stupid things," Hermione said quietly.

"Do you have experience with Muggle drugs?" Cosette asked.

Hermione shook her head. Cosette snorted. "Of course you don't."

"Honestly, I've cut most of my ties with the Muggle community," Hermione said. "I see my parents from time to time, but not much. I'm comfortable in Muggle London and Paris – I love being in the city – but I've lost contact with most of my relatives and all my friends from primary school days. My life has not... leant itself to keeping those ties."

"The Dark Lord and such?" her companion asked.

"Dark Lord?" Hermione asked, automatically on guard.

"I always thought it sounded more glamorous than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Cosette said, gesturing quotation marks, a goofy grin on her face. "That title inspires so much fear, don't you think?"

Hermione nodded. "Fear of a name increases the fear of a thing itself," she quoted.

"And who said that?"

Hermione sighed. "A very great, powerful, confused man." Who did bad things to good people. Severus. Harry. Oh, gods, Harry. Severus. Stop it, Hermione.

"Dumbledore," she heard Cosette say. Hermione didn't reply.

"Would you like to go to lunch? It's too beautiful today to dwell on such things," Cosette said, standing up and smoothing the front of her sheath.

The clock tower began to ring, and Hermione's head jerked at the realization. "And we have to get back soon!"

Cosette guffawed. "We're taking a late lunch and are both work-a-holics. No one will miss us. Come on, we'll go to my aunt's café. Great service." She winked playfully and took Hermione's arm in hers, escorting her as she would an intimate friend. Which, Hermione supposed, was what they were quickly becoming.

*

Lunch was short, peppered with light, animated conversation of their schooldays. Cosette regaled her with stories of her time at Beauxbatons, and Hermione spoke of Harry and Ron. It was, she reflected, the first opportunity she'd had to speak of them, but it had been soothing to reflect, to remember, to reassure her of why it was best for her to be here. Of Severus Snape, she did not speak, but merely said she had come to Paris for un changement de décor. There would be time for such truths later. Much later.

Cosette's Aunt Amelie was a lovely older woman with frosty silver hair, pink at the tips – slim, energetic, very much like Cosette. "I'm much more like her than my maman. Everyone's always said so," Cosette had said with a conspiratorial grin, to which Hermione had chuckled. Such a statement could hardly be contradicted; one had only to see them together to see the resemblance.

"Did you stay much with her?" Hermione asked as they got up to leave, stealing a last nibble of croissant.

Cosette reached for her clutch. "I ran away from home the summer I turned fourteen."

"To Amelie's?"

Cosette nodded. "Everyone knew where I had gone, including Maman, but to her credit, she let me stay there."

"And you lived there...?"

"Whenever I was home from school. I would visit Maman, but we didn't live well together. It was best that I stay with Amelie." Cosette paused. "Did you ever run away?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, but I stayed most of my summers with the Weasleys. Ron's family," she added. "It would have been too dangerous to go home."

Cosette nodded. "Oui. A wise decision. But you preferred the Weasleys to your own house?"

Hermione shrugged as Cosette took her arm and lead her out into the street. "My house was always quiet. Not cold, but not warm either. My parents were always at their practice. The Weasleys, however –" she could not help but suppress a smile "–were warm, loud, populous – that's putting it mildly."

"Would you like to walk around briefly before we head back?" Cosette asked suddenly.

Hermione beamed and let out a delighted squeal. "Of course!"

*

The countryside was just as picturesque as the town, Hermione found. There were fields of green, meadows of wildflowers lining the country road that splayed out from the cobblestone streets of the town. Large hills – bluffs, Hermione's father called them – surrounded the town's perimeter. They were covered in trees in the dense bloom of summer, some of which looked just poised to redden with the change of season. Hermione could see large estates in the distance, looming ancestral mansions that looked to be the size of small castles. One spot on the treeline, however, caught her eye, and she walked towards it, drawn in its direction as she started tramping through a field.

"Hermione?" Cosette called. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked, trekking through the field after her. The women quickly stopped walking, as stiletto heels did not lend themselves to walking in soft meadows. Hermione pointed to a small stone cottage sitting just along the tree line.

"What house is that?" she asked, squinting in the sunlight.

"That old thing?" Cosette asked, hands on her hips. "That's the Prince cottage. They're an old wizarding family – British, actually – all but died out. No one's lived there for years. It's quaint, though. Shame it's abandoned." She paused. "Are you coming?" she asked, starting to walk back towards the path.

Hermione's heart almost leapt out of her chest. "Would you give me a minute?" she asked. She pulled out her wand and pointed it at her sunglasses. "There, now, that's better," she murmured as she held up the newly transfigured binoculars to her eyes.

The stone cottage was nestled just beneath the tree line on the ridge, and just behind the wildly overgrown pastures that she was currently standing in. It was in the Provincial style, as was most of Capois, but there was something softer to its edges: not as clean cut and stylized. Simpler, less refined. It was larger than Hermione would have expected, but then Severus wouldn't have had much say in his ancestors' architectural preferences. But the stone exterior, the shuttered windows, the location... it was certainly private. Maybe he would like it.

Severus. Dear God, she'd been so distracted. He could be here. Could have been here...

"Hermione?" Cosette called.

"Hold on!" Hermione called back and trudged further through the grass, her heels sinking into the ground, toenails picking up dirt and muck as she walked.

"What are you doing?" Cosette called.

"I'm just having a look!" she replied as she waded through the last bit of tall grass. She lost her footing and landed on the recently cleared lawn.

A recently cleared lawn.

He had to be here. This was where he stayed when he was in Capois. A family home tucked away, hidden in a hidden town... how much more perfect could this possibly get...

Her heartbeat clunked with excitement; the promise of possibility thrummed through her veins. Her breathing came a bit heavier as she dusted off her pants and walked up to the front windows. They were thick glass, old glass, the type that distorted what you could see inside. Charmed as well, probably, she thought as she pressed her face to the glass. She could barely make out the walls and saw what she thought was a chimney.

"Hermione!" she heard Cosette call, loudly, more worried this time. "We need to be getting back!"

"Just a minute!" Hermione said, walking around the side of the house. There was a window looking into the cellar, and she got down on her knees and peered in. She could see the interior clearly. There was a work table, a work bench, and rows and rows of shelves along the wall, filled to the brim with jars of ingredients. Potions ingredients. He's here.

Suddenly, she saw a flash of black dart across the cellar and stifled a scream. She froze for a moment, heart beating wildly out of her chest. What if...

Something jumped right in front of her in the window, and now she did scream, falling off her kneeling perch. The piercing green eyes of a black cat stared at her from the window's interior ledge, and she scrambled to her feet, kicked off her shoes, picked them up, and proceeded to bolt through the meadow and back to the path, where Cosette stood impatiently waiting with an incredulous look on her face.

Hermione imagined she looked a frazzled sight, her frizzy hair streaming, clothes askew, shoes in hand, panting breath.

"Is your curiosity satisfied?" Cosette asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Well, put your shoes on," Cosette said, tugging Hermione's clothes aright. "And you'll tell me what that was all about later."

Hermione's heart, which was just now starting to calm, nodded quickly. "Let's go."

Cosette quirked an eyebrow but grabbed Hermione's arm and Apparated back to Paris.

*

An hour later

Hermione sat at her desk, staring numbly at the papers she held in her hand. These numbers should be making sense to her, but they weren't. They were jumbled lines thrown together; the symbols were meaningless, as symbols are when their significance is lost.

Trespassing. Spying. Stalking. Trespassing. Spying. Stalking. The words echoed through her mind like a mantra. The adrenaline that had coursed through her system in Capois had long been replaced by a sickening, sinking numbness – a leech, sucking her energy, sucking her sanity.

What am I doing?

Her mind gave no answer; her office provided no solace.

Fuck.

*

After work

Thud.

Hermione's purse landed unceremoniously on her kitchen counter, knocking over a plastic cup that proceeded to fall to the ground. She strode down the hallway angrily, chucking her coat in an open closet and kicking her shoes against the wall. She threw open the door to her bedroom and was briefly incensed by the mess she had left before realizing that it would give her the opportunity to exorcise her frustration with... well, herself. With great pomp, she peeled her sheets back from the bed and shook them out.

Cleaning always helped.

*

Hermione Granger's frustration had been purged through a vicious and thorough cleaning of her boudoir; consequently, she was feeling much better. She hadn't brought any work home with her and was determined to distract herself. Thus, she sat in her overstuffed armchair with her legs tucked up underneath her, Edith Warton's The Age of Innocence in one hand and a glass of 1970 Château Montrose in the other, a housewarming gift from Pierre. Hermione didn't think that she very much liked the dark Bordeaux, but she was quite determined to finish the bottle, as it was one of the finest vintages of the late 20th century, according to Pierre, and it would be a shame to let such a fine wine go to waste.

She absently put the book down on the floor and sipped some more wine. The day's events had been... enlightening, to say the least, and the cause of much self-introspection.

Was she really doing the right thing, looking for him?

She rose from her perch and walked over to her desk, its surface softly illuminated by the lamp and the after-hours city light that streamed in from the window. Her journal was open already – she'd been re-reading it in anger – and the papers in it were shuffled askew. She picked up a pen and set her glass down.

Clues, clues, nothing but clues. He's between Paris and Capois, he has a cottage in Capois, I finally know why I couldn't find the village, I understand why he's going between cities, I do calculations, I see his house, but he is nowhere to be found.

And my obsession is scaring the living daylights out of me, to be honest. He's hard to find because he doesn't want to be found. I should just... respect that.

She dropped the pen on the desktop. It wasn't in her to give up. But this... she couldn't handle this. She sighed and put her head in her hands. He was alive and safe. She even knew his residence. What more did she want? Vindication? His name had already been cleared ten times over – why hasn't he made a public statement? Never mind, dumb question – so what was she waiting for? An awkward encounter consisting of, "Hello, Professor, I've been obsessing about you for years and left my family, friends, and job in Britain to come to Paris on a whim, because I heard you'd be here so – here I am! What now?"

No, thank you. How embarrassing. Decidedly not something she desired.

She just wanted to see him, to have that visual confirmation. Is that so much? she thought as she let her hair down from a loose bun and shook it out. Would that be enough? She stripped down to her knickers and climbed into bed. God, it's hot. She pulled up the thin white sheet to her chin and turned to one side, lying there, thinking, her body illuminated by a ray of moonlight that slipped in through the curtains. If I'm not here for Severus, who am I here for?

The thought dimly occurred to her as she fell into sleep that maybe, just maybe, she was here for herself.

*

Present day

The sage candle on the table flickered brightly as Hermione paused. Mother and daughter sat in companionable silence, sipping their wine, eyes downcast.

Hermione set her wine glass on the table and ran her hands over her pant leg to smooth the wrinkles. "So I stopped looking for him," she said, clasping her hands tightly together on her lap.

Rose rested her elbows on the table and looked straight at her mother. "You only looked for a month, Mum. That wasn't very long at all, and you can be patient."

Hermione chuckled. "The operative word there, Rose darling, is can." Her eyes glazed over. "Yes, I could have been more patient, but the ridiculousness of it all – how it would look to others, to him – it got to me. For the first time, it got to me," she said softly.

"You didn't care what Harry and dad and Ginny thought, but you cared what he would think, if he knew," Rose said.

"Yes," Hermione said simply.

Rose tilted her head and saw the sadness in her mother's eyes. Was it from the story she was telling or from the present reality? Probably both. But she looked so beautiful just now, her hair spiraling down her shoulders, the flickering candle catching on the flecks of gold in her hair, her hands resting on her lap, legs crossed, still in her work clothes. This was Hermione Granger... this was her mother, right here.

"Looking for something?" Hermione asked her daughter, a gentle amusement in her voice.

Rose cleared her throat. "You just look really beautiful tonight, Mum."

A smile crossed her mother's lips, and her eyes sparkled. "As do you, darling."

Rose smiled. "Well, I'm from good stock."

Her mother snorted.

"So you stopped looking for him, but you still stayed in France?" Rose asked after a moment.

Hermione chuckled. "You never desist, do you?"

Rose grinned. "I blame my genetics."

Both women laughed.

"But, yes," Hermione continued, "yes, I decided to stay in France, even though I stopped searching for Severus." She reached for the bottle of Chianti to pour herself more wine. "I liked my job, you see. The work was challenging – far more challenging than anything I'd done in Britain – and quite rewarding, as well. Pierre was just brilliant to work for, and the work environment was lovely, save the occasional arse like Louis. And Cosette and I got to be great, great friends," she said, putting the stopper in the bottle. "And you know, I settled into the Parisian life quickly. It was un changement de décor – a change in scenery. It was different from everything I knew, and I loved it. I didn't know how long I'd be in Paris, but I knew I didn't want to leave anytime soon. Besides, the money was good," she said with a quirk of a smile. "And it just... fit."

"Sounds like it could still fit you, Mum," Rose said softly and a bit sadly as she watched her mother's countenance light up at the talk of Paris.

Hermione nodded slowly. "It could. But I have a life here, now." She reached across the table to pat Rose's hand. "A house, a career, children, you know –" Hermione grinned. "The small things in life."

Rose smiled. "But you were still in France for five years."

"And we bring the conversation back around," Hermione said, tapping the table.

"You did eventually meet him, didn't you?" Rose asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," Hermione said slowly. She drummed her fingers on the side of her wine glass. "What is the saying? You find the things you're looking for when and where you least expect them."

"So when did you see him?" Rose asked.

Hermione sipped her wine. "Well, I actually have Cosette to thank for that..."

Rose leaned in, and the women kept talking into the night, the sage candle flickering between them.

*