Part the Second: Poland

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Part the Second: Poland

"How long have you been on the run?" Snape asks her on their first morning in Krakow.

They are having breakfast in the hotel dining room, since anywhere is warmer than the double room they are sharing. Hermione looks up from the Muggle guidebook she picked up earlier that morning in the gift shop across the street. She has decided to kill the time they are waiting for an appointment to see the illegal wandmaker by doing a bit of Muggle sightseeing, something that she didn't indulge in a great deal of before for fear of being found.

"Since the end of September," she replies. "Why?"

Snape is hiding behind a German-language newspaper, and she thinks it is very rude that he won't put it aside while he is speaking to her. "And how many times did they catch up with you?"

Hermione hesitates; his condescending dismissal of everything she went through in the war still smarts, and she doesn't care to give him any other ammunition to use, now that the war is off limits. But if he has a practical reason for asking.... "Why do you want to know?"

Snape finally folds down the paper. "Because I want to know the difference between how many times you used your wand, and how many times they found you."

Hermione thinks on it a moment. "More than four."

"How very specific, Granger."

Hermione glares at him. "They caught up with me four times, so I would have had to use my wand at least four times, but I know it was more than that. Say, eight?"

"So the tracking magic has a margin of error," Snape murmurs, then disappears behind the paper again.

Hermione tries to go back to her Muggle guidebook, but Snape's question has her thinking about the tracking magic. She marks the pages she is reading with her finger and stares blankly at a terrible watercolor of some country landscape on the far wall, her mind working though the possibilities. "Maybe the spell requires proximity to a major wizarding area," she muses, "which Paris, Geneva, Salamanca, and Budapest have. Or maybe the wand requires proximity to the practitioner of the tracking spell. I wonder if..."

"No." Snape snaps the paper closed and glares at her. "You're staying out of it as long as you're with me. You may want to tempt fate by doing something as idiotically Gryffindor as trying to reverse international tracking spell legislation while on the run, but I'm happy being dead, and you will not to ruin it for me. Is that understood?"

"But they've taken my life from me..."

"And you can go casting at windmills as soon as I'm rid of you, but until then, read your Muggle travel guide and sightsee and keep your wand in your pocket. We had an agreement, remember?"

"Yes. Fine." She stares down at her picked-over breakfast plate, at the remnants of a slice of toast and the meat spread she didn't dare touch. They do have an agreement, and she will hold to it, but she feels so impotent, so helpless, adrift in Europe as she is. Her life and career have been stolen from her, and now she is dependent on Snape to buy a new wand so that at least she can retain some of what makes her a witch. She wants to fight, though, to fight and fix it and make it right, even though she knows she can't, but most of all, she wants to go home.

She so badly wants to go home.

"Besides, Granger," Snape says, the paper rattling as he opens it again. "If you take some time to enjoy being rid of responsibility and duty, you might find yourself appreciating it."

Hermione stares at the paper as if she can look through it and see him. "And do you enjoy it?"

"Every sodding moment," he replies with relish.

Snape comes storming into their hotel room a few nights later, snowflakes melting on his shoulders, in a snit that rivals those she remembers from her time as his student.

Hermione is bundled under her blanket, reading the travel guide and wearing two pairs of socks and a heavy jumper in an attempt to stay warm. She watches him cross to his side of the room and all but tear off his coat, wondering what has him all worked up.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks.

"Nothing. Mind your own business." He throws the coat over the back of the chair in the corner of the room, then throws himself down on his bed. He stares blankly at the television, which Hermione has turned on more for company than anything else. "What is this?" he asks, staring in consternation at the screen. "And why does that person have a raw turkey carcass on his head?"

"It's Friends dubbed over in Polish."

"Friends?"

"An American sitcom." She lifts the ancient remote control and turns the television off. "You'd probably loathe it."

"Ah." He leans his head back against the headboard and closes his eyes. His Adam's apple and the shiny scar tissue of what should have been a death-inducing snake bite interrupt the long line of his neck. It's the first time she's seen more than a brief glimpse of it; Snape usually has it covered with his scarf, and Hermione doesn't think that is a coincidence.

Snape cracks open one eye. "Getting an eyeful?"

Hermione looks away quickly, embarrassed that she's been caught staring. "Sorry," she says and quickly sticks her nose back in her travel book.

"Go ahead and ask. I know you've been dying to."

"Ask what?" she says, casually turning a page she didn't read.

"Ask me how I survived."

Hermione does want to ask, and badly. She doesn't see him often, usually only at nights and in the mornings, spending the time in between alone, but it's a question she has pondered quite a bit in her down time. He was dead when she and Harry left his body in the Shrieking Shack, she is sure of it. There was so much blood, and Mr. Weasley's experience with Nagini's bite wound made it clear that the snake was poisonous, so how exactly did he come back from the dead with only that scar as proof of his encounter?

"Okay," she says, marking her page with a finger and sitting up. Outside of the room there is a howl of wind and a rain of quick and tiny taps as snow dashes against the window. "Tell me, how did you survive?"

The corners of his lips curve upward; it's the same smile she used to see when he had trapped a student and was about to go for their jugular, metaphorically speaking.

"Magic, of course." Bedsprings creak as Snape gets up and crosses to the bathroom. "And you call yourself a witch," he says with an amused shake of his head and closes the door behind him.

"Oh, honestly!" she exclaims in exasperation and flops back onto the pillow, where she opens her book and glares at the page about Wawel Castle. That appointment for a second wand can't come fast enough.

"You know, you could have told me about this appointment earlier," Hermione says almost a week later as she is hurrying through the streets of Krakow in the middle of the night, trying to keep up with Snape's long-legged stride. It's literally freezing out, snow is still piled on the pavements and streets, and she is wearing only her pajamas underneath her coat. Snape hadn't allowed her any time to put on more than that after he had come sweeping into their shared hotel room, snapping and snarling at her as if being asleep at three in the morning offended him on a deeply personal level.

"I didn't know until ten minutes ago," he replies as he turns down a street that leads into the Main Market Square in the old medieval section of Krakow. She's spent time there in the daytime, sightseeing, while Snape has been off doing whatever he does when he's not skulking about their hotel room, making insulting comments about her choice of Muggle travel guides as reading material.

"That's an odd way to run a business." Hermione says, then yawns widely, her breath a white cloud in the cold night.

"Not if it's an illegal business. We are hardly dealing with the law-abiding sector of Polish wizardry."

"Still," she says as Snape leads them out into the square. It is completely deserted; their footsteps echo off the buildings and leave tracks in the snow as they cross to the Sukiennice, the trading hall she visited the day before, and slip under the arches. It had been full of Muggle merchant stalls, and she had spent a couple of hours in the National Museum upstairs. Now, it is dark and silent, except for the wizard in black brewer's robes standing at the end of the corridor, a heavy brass ring of keys dangling from his hand.

"You are the British wizards?" he says in heavily accented English as they approach.

"We are," Snape replies. He stands with his back rigidly straight just as he used to when he lectured in Potions class, and Hermione half expects him to assign detention to the Polish wizard at any minute. "We have an appointment with Madam Golmolke."

"Yes. You have brought the payment?"

"Yes."

His eyes drift from Snape to Hermione and back again. "You may come, then."

He walks away from them, beckoning over his shoulder that they should follow. He leads them to a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor, which Hermione is sure was not visible while she was here during the day, unlocks it with one of his huge, iron keys, and swings it open. They are at the top of a torch-lit spiral stairway that must lead into the basements below the square; the Polish wizard starts down immediately, but just before Snape follows him, Hermione catches him by the sleeve.

"Are you sure about this?" She doesn't know where they are going, and although she isn't precisely scared, she also isn't stupid. She can't use her wand, and Snape snapped his in half, and since they are about to walk into a criminal operation, she is a bit worried about what will actually happen down those stairs.

Snape gives her his best glare. "Yes, Granger. Perfectly. Come with me or don't, but make the decision now."

Snape jerks his arm out of her grasp and follows the other wizard; Hermione hesitates for a moment, decides that Snape probably wouldn't be risking his own life so easily, and plunges down the stairs after him.

The stairwell is short, and very soon, she finds herself in a cavernous, low-ceilinged market place lit by torches. The stalls are closed, protected by Muggle-style, pull-down metal gates, and even though she can't read their signs, she is fairly certain that during the day, this is a perfectly legitimate wizarding market. One stall, however, is open and lit with dozens of candles. Every inch of wall space is lined with wand boxes up to the ceiling, and she assumes that by day it is a legitimate business, conducting its illegal trade only at night.

An old woman wrapped in a threadbare shawl is just inside the entrance, dozing in a rocking chair, her wizened head resting on her chest. The Polish wizard approaches her, says something softly in Polish, and when she raises her milky white eyes to stare blindly through Hermione and Snape, a creepy smile breaks over her chapped lips. She raises one claw-like hand to point to Hermione and speaks rapidly in Polish.

The Polish wizard nods to the old woman as if she can see him, then turns to them. "Grandmother says the lady must show her palm."

Hermione looks to Snape, who gives a look that questions her intelligence and nods towards the old woman impatiently.

She approaches the old woman as closely as she can without actually touching her. "Er, hello," she says, not quire sure what to do next.

The old woman gazes up at her with her sightless eyes and touches the palm of one hand with the middle finger of the other. Hesitantly, Hermione offers her left hand; the woman grasps it greedily, spits right into Hermione's palm, and rubs it into the lines of her hand.

And immediately begins laughing.

"What?" Hermione says, confused. She thinks the old woman might be laughing at her.

The old woman rattles off something in Polish and gestures towards Snape. Huge tears of laughter are sliding down her cheeks, and when she runs her fingers over the lines in Hermione's hand a second time, her laughter takes on a new intensity.

"Grandmother?" The Polish wizard has materialized next to Hermione, looking concerned.

"Is this normal?" Hermione asks.

"No, but then nothing is for Grandmother."

The old woman gets control of herself long enough to ask for Snape's hand. Snape's expression is suspicious as he cautiously offers his hand to the old woman. She spits in his palm, rubs it in, and begins laughing all over again.

Snape snatches back his hand with an expression of disgust and wipes his palm on a handkerchief that he pulls from his pocket. "I thought we came for wands, not to be the entertainment for some old hag."

"Snape!" Hermione hisses at him like she would at Harry and Ron if they'd said such a thing, but she goes unheeded as the old woman's laughter ends with an abruptness that is terrifying. She barks something sharply at Snape, wagging her finger at him as she scolds him, her blind eyes fixed fiercely on him.

"Grandmother says hold your tongue, wizard," the grandson translates. "You may be powerful, but she stood with Dumbledore against Grindelwald, and as much as she respected him, she will not hesitate to curse his man for rudeness."

Snape's expression is one of the "if looks could kill" variety, but he says, "I apologize, madam."

The old woman nods sharply in approval and leans back in her rocker. She lifts one finger towards the boxes lining the far wall and speaks to her grandson. The grandson raises his wand and Summons two slender boxes that were stacked together. The old woman takes both boxes, opens one, then the other, and runs her fingers over each wand with careful attention. She pauses, her head cocked to the side in consideration, then hands one to Hermione and the other to Snape and says something that sounds like an order.

"She says try your wands," the grandson says.

Hermione flicks hers. Power flows down her fingers and through the wand; sparks erupt from its tip in a brilliant shower of color and light. The wand in Snape's hand, she notices, does the same.

The Polish wizard says something to the old woman, and she gives another nod of approval and begins speaking to Hermione and Snape in Polish.

"She says these are your wands," the grandson translates. "Oak for the lady because she is strong, sensible and unrelenting. Walnut for the gentleman because he is inflexible and full of contrasts, but also noble and always admired. However, your wands both have a core of dragon heartstring from the same dragon because your hearts are similar in their strength and devotion."

"The cores are twinned?" Hermione says, thinking of Harry and Voldemort's wands, but not entirely certain what that means for her and Snape.

"Yes. It often happens with people who are connected in some way."

Snape mutters something that sounds like "connected by misfortune," and the old woman begins laughing again, gasping out something in Polish between whoops of laughter.

Snape glares at her, the Polish wizard shakes his head, and Hermione asks, "What did she say?"

"She says, a long voyage lies ahead for both of you," the Polish wizard translates. The old woman pauses long enough to say something else, and a knowing, amused grin spreads across the grandson's face. "She says, enjoy your travels."

After the trip to the wandmaker, Snape disappears for a full twenty-four hours, only to reappear at half four the next morning to bully her out of bed.

"Why do you feel the need to keep waking me in the middle of the night?" she snaps at him and burrows deeper beneath the blanket, now pleasantly warmed by a charm cast with her new wand.

"Because there are things that must be done. Come, we're going to Bucharest."

"Bucharest? As in Romania?"

"Is there another?"

Hermione sighs and throws back the blanket to see Snape standing at the foot of her bed, arms crossed, looking irritated. "Do you have a good reason?"

"You need a second wand."

"I have a second wand."

"No, a second wand you can use."

Hermione sits up. "Is that necessary?"

Snape scowls. "Who has been in hiding for twelve years and who cocked it up four times in only six weeks?"

"No need to rub it in," Hermione says and slides out of bed. "Give me twenty minutes."

"You have ten."

"Fine," Hermione says, but takes twenty anyway.

When they are on the first train to Bucharest, Hermione, irritated that he hasn't allowed her the luxury of breakfast nor the necessity of caffeine, turns to Snape and says, "So why didn't we buy a second wand from the Polish wandmaker?"

"Because you are a fugitive, it would be unwise for you to buy two wands from the same maker, and since this is my second wand, I didn't need to buy another. Ergo, we are going to Bucharest."

"If you say so," Hermione says and stares out of the window, watching as the train station begins to disappear as the train pulls away. Her eyes begin to drift closed of their own volition, and just as she's about to slide back into sleep, she realizes what he said about his wand.

She sits up and turns to him, infuriated. "Wait. You've had a wand this whole time?"

Snape gives her the earwax and vomit Every Flavor Beans look again. "Of course. I always carry two wands." Then he smirks. "Surely you didn't think that I snapped my only wand and left it lying in a field in Hungary?"

"You had a second wand while I was shivering every night under that thin blanket in a hotel room that had a faulty radiator."

"Apparently."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Why didn't you ask?"

"You're a miserable bastard, Snape," she mutters with uncharacteristic profanity and slumps back in her seat.

There is silence for a bit. Pieces of Krakow pass their window at ever increasing rates, and eventually, Snape says, "I inoculated myself."

Hermione looks away from the window. "What are you talking about?"

"You wanted to know how I survived," he says in that condescending way he has. "Like several other Death Eaters, I inoculated myself against Nagini's poison. She also missed the important arteries and veins, but other than that, I don't how I lived."

"And that's it? You got up and staggered out of the Shrieking Shack, and let everyone think you were dead?"

"Something like that," he says in a way that tells her that there's more to the story, but he isn't planning to share.

"Interesting," she says, beginning to suspect that this might be the way he always apologizes, though she would like it much more if he could just make a plain apology without wrapping it up in excessive words and hidden meanings. But there's probably about as much chance of that as Snape expressing his undying love for her on bended knee with an arm full of red roses.

And disturbed by that thought on more levels than she can adequately express, she turns her attention to the bits of Krakow and its outer suburbs passing by the window, and there is silence between them until they cross the border into Romania.