Half Magic

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IV

Hermione watched as Professor Snape's brows drew down in their customary scowl. His next words, however, were somewhat unexpected.

"Not before breakfast," he said.

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

His expression didn't change. "I mean, Miss Granger, that if I am going to be required to traipse around in a root cellar that may or may not be populated by something unknown and inimical, I would prefer to do it on a full stomach."

Well, she couldn't argue with that. Or rather, she supposed she could if she really wanted to, but at that moment the thought of that bacon caused her stomach to wake up and demand it be fed, and soon. After all, Hogwarts had been suffering under this unusual curse or spell or whatever it was for some time now. A delay of a half-hour or so really shouldn't make much of a difference.

She opened her mouth to say as much, but the efficiency of the house-elves forestalled her. It appeared that as soon as Snape had uttered the fateful word "breakfast," they had hastened to bring the morning meal over to the table nearest them. Scents of warm bread and hot buttered eggs wafted toward her, and her stomach uttered an unbecoming growl of its own.

The Potions master said nothing, but Hermione was fairly certain the little glint she glimpsed in his black eyes had very little to do with the reflected light from the fire.

Any comment she might utter would only make matters worse, so in grim silence she made her way over to the table, pulled out the bench a bit so she could sit down, and took her seat. It was rather uncomfortable; it appeared to have been crafted for the house-elves' use, and so of course was far too low to the ground for someone of normal human height.

She had to stifle a laugh as she watched Snape somehow fold himself between the bench and the table. He sat at the very end of the bench in order to give his long legs somewhere to go, but the position still looked awkward in the extreme. His posture, coupled with the expression of grim determination on his face, suddenly reminded her of a long-ago tea time where a friend had invited her father to join Hermione and various stuffed animals in sharing some refreshment. The house-elves' table and benches weren't much larger than that childhood set of furniture.

"Tea?" she inquired, and reached for a small pot of cream stoneware next to her place setting.

"Yes," he said shortly, then pushed a cup a few inches toward her.

She could feel a smile threaten to spread across her mouth, so Hermione went on, "Whatever it is, it seems to have the house-elves quite frightened."

This apparent non sequitur didn't appear to faze Professor Snape. "That may be. However, I'm not certain there's anything at all down there. Concocting a story about an unknown presence in the lowest cellar sounds to me more like a ploy to get out of having to fetch anything from what is obviously an inconvenient location."

"That's ridiculous!" she snapped, annoyed that he would accuse the house-elves of something so duplicitous. "House-elves are unbelievably hard workers. I've never known them to do anything to avoid their duties, even though their situation basically amounts to slavery!"

This spirited defense appeared to have very little effect on Snape. He merely lifted his cup of tea and sipped at it, an infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "How lucky they are to have you as their defender."

"Not lucky enough, considering they still work day and night for no wages, and don't even get decent clothes to wear." With a conscious effort, Hermione paused and forced herself to choke back any further words on the subject. She'd spent the past five years butting her head up against that particular wall, with very little to show for her efforts save some extended teasing from Ron and Harry that had far outlived any humor it might once have possessed. The subject was an especially touchy one when it came to her relationship with Ron. He'd complained on many occasions that if she spent as much time with him as she did crusading for house-elves' rights, they would have been married by now.

There'd been no point in correcting him. She knew she could never tell him the thought of marriage right now was terrifying. How could she possibly decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life when she was only twenty-three? It didn't help that Harry and Ginny were already so settled, with little Albus toddling around the house and baby number two on the way. Ron thought his own life should be progressing at the same rate. Hermione's intransigence on the subject had become a constant irritant in their relationship, like a pebble firmly lodged in one's shoe.

She realized Professor Snape was watching her closely, eyes intent above the rim of his teacup. Such scrutiny caused a sudden flush to rise in her cheeks, an unwelcome heat that couldn't be blamed entirely on her proximity to the hearth.

"Anyway," she said, pushing on doggedly in an attempt to cover up her woolgathering, "only someone who knows next to nothing about house-elves would make that sort of accusation. If they are avoiding the seventh cellar, then I assure you they must have a very good reason for doing so."

He reached across the table to lift the tongs from the tray of bacon and deposited a few slices on his plate. "I will concede to the expert."

There was no mistaking the sarcastic flick he gave to that last word, and Hermione dug her nails into her palms and reminded herself to count to ten. At any rate, she'd had six years as a student to get used to the way Severus Snape used words as weapons. Why should she have thought the past five years of isolation would have changed him in the slightest?

Obviously even near-death had no significant impact, she thought sourly, then helped herself to some buttered scrambled eggs and a scone.

In silence he placed an equal number of bacon slices on her own plate, and she thought she might revise that uncharitable thought just a bit. After all, a man who would willingly hand over bacon without her even having to ask must have some redeeming qualities.

Hermione didn't quite want to ask herself why she should even care whether Professor Snape had any redeeming qualities. Instead, she picked up a slice of bacon and allowed herself a few bites before saying, "The house-elf didn't give any particulars, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if the strange sounds in the seventh cellar began around the same time magic started to fail."

"Correlation is not causation," he remarked, just before he bit into a piece of buttered toast.

"I know that," she replied at once, feeling a bit stung. Was he presuming to quote the basics of research methodology back at her? "It still doesn't mean there can't be a connection."

The smirk made a repeat appearance. "Ah, Miss Granger. This exchange only serves as a reminder that the past five years have been a welcome respite from overly inquisitive students."

She was quite sure he had meant the comment to wound. Why, she wasn't precisely sure. Old habit, or something else? "Did you have so very many? As I recall, you seemed to have most of your pupils fairly cowed."

"Most," and his eyebrow lifted almost infinitesimally, "but not all."

No, she had refused to be intimidated. She had been at Hogwarts to learn, after all, and meekly going along with what a professor had to say simply because he was the professor had not been her style at all. Severus Snape's expertise had never been in question, but his blatant favoritism toward the Slytherins in her classes hadn't sat well with her. As for the outright insults, well, she had pushed them to the back of her mind over the years, but she had never forgotten them. Not entirely.

"You can't learn without asking questions, or challenging well-worn ideas," she stated. "I don't think that qualifies as overly inquisitive. Or would you have preferred a simple regurgitation of facts without any thought given to the reason why a certain combination of ingredients works a certain way? Why, Professor Slughorn actually encouraged us to try new methods -- "

"Do not preach to me about Horace Slughorn's sterling qualities," Snape said. The muscles along his jaw line appeared to tighten, then relax. "I'm sure if you truly examined those halcyon days in his Potions classroom, you would find that the most encouragement was directed at those students he found worthy of coddling, to buy himself some influence with a student whose family he deemed powerful. I think you would find it a rare circumstance indeed where Professor Slughorn would give praise simply for its own sake."

This coolly bitter statement felt a little too close to some of her own private thoughts regarding Slughorn's blatant social climbing. She searched for a convincing rebuttal, rejected several, and then replied, "That very well may be. It doesn't change the fact that he encouraged original thinking and allowed lively discussion in the classroom."

For a moment Professor Snape said nothing. Then his shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. "Of course you would see it that way."

Was it worth continuing the argument? Probably not. It was clear to Hermione that Snape was just as inflexible now as he had been years ago. Silly to think he might have changed...that the horrors he had suffered might have wrought some transformation in a personality bitter as the wormwood used in so many of his potions.

Considering everything he had gone through, she supposed he had every right to be bitter. Frustrated love, years of leading a double life, scornful students, and distant co-workers -- when she thought of it that way, Hermione supposed it was something of a miracle that he'd accomplished as much as he had. Would she have been able to show that kind of strength?

She hoped she would never have to find out.

"We'll need torches," she said, in an attempt to move the conversation back to the reason why they were both here at Hogwarts. "Those cellars must be dark, and of course any light spells will be useless."

To his credit, Snape didn't even blink. "Your plan? I doubt very much that Hogsmeade would stock such Muggle technology."

No, more's the pity. She replied, "I thought I would leave the school grounds, Apparate back to London, and borrow a few from my parents' house." That would be easier than trying to purchase them. She hadn't brought any Muggle money with her, and so she'd have to go home first to get the necessary cash before she could even attempt a shopping trip.

A frown line appeared between his brows and then, unexpectedly, a slight smile touched his mouth. "I have a better idea."

"What?"

"Finish your breakfast first."

His peremptory tone irked her, but Hermione knew Snape was right. They couldn't do anything until they were done eating, so the sooner she finished what was on her plate, the sooner they could return to the task at hand. She took a few gulps of warm, sugary tea and then made short work of the remaining bacon and eggs on her plate.

Snape attended to his own breakfast without further comment, and within a few minutes he was done as well. He stood, ungracefully prying himself out from between the bench and the table. Hermione suppressed a grin.

The house-elves hurried to start clearing the table before she and Snape had even reached the door. She felt a twinge but knew there was no point in offering to help -- they'd only refuse, and it was clear from the Potions master's purposeful stride that he would never stop to wait for her.

He swept out into the corridor and back up to the main floor, then down a narrow corridor that branched off the hallway which led to McGonagall's office. Hermione found herself jogging a little to keep up. At first she couldn't quite make out where he was headed, but then she realized it was because his destination was a place she had always tried to avoid.

Filch's office.

Snape paused outside the door. "Have you a hairpin?"

"A what?"

"A hairpin?"

Mystified, she reached back and plucked out one of the pins that more or less kept her unruly locks out of her face. Unfortunately, hairpins were something she usually had an abundance of.

He took it from her, unbent it, and then neatly snapped it in two. "Filch never bothers with spells, Squib that he is."

"Couldn't you just knock?" she inquired. She had a fairly good notion of what he intended to do with that hairpin.

"Pointless. Professor McGonagall had him leave with the majority of the staff. I hear he's gone snipe shooting."

Hermione didn't bother to ask where Snape had picked up that particular tidbit. For all she knew, he'd had a secret convo with the Headmistress that morning, or even late last night.

The lock proved recalcitrant, but after a few moments (during which Hermione was sure he'd muttered a choice curse or two under his breath, even though she couldn't make out the words), it gave an audible click, and the door swung inward.

A smell of stale fish wafted out into the hallway. She wrinkled her nose and followed Snape into Filch's sanctuary.

An oil lamp hung overhead, and the small space felt cluttered, what with the overstuffed filing cabinet in one corner and the large cupboard off to the left with a conspicuous sign that read "Confiscated and Highly Dangerous." A bulky desk and its attendant chairs filled up the rest of the room.

Snape went at once to the cupboard and scowled. "This would have been easier if Filch had trusted magic to keep this locked. As it is -- " He lifted his makeshift lock picks and went to work once more.

The action seemed wildly out of character for a man who had spent most of his life ensconced in one of Britain's most magical places.

"Wherever did you learn to pick locks?" Hermione asked.

He didn't look up. "I was born in the Muggle world just as you were, Miss Granger. Certain skills seemed valuable enough that I took the time to learn them. I assume you know how to work a computer?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, then."

She wasn't quite sure knowing how to use a computer was on a par with a skill usually associated with people of dubious moral character, but she managed to hold her tongue. Actually, she couldn't help being a bit fascinated by the painstaking process, the way he inserted one pick in the lock whilst fiddling with the other -- presumably to manipulate the tumblers in some way. Of course it was far more work than simply uttering "Alohomora!", but it did have the advantage of being effective no matter what the current state of magic might be.

"Ah," he said, as the heavy lock fell to the stone floor.

The cabinet doors opened to reveal all sorts of interesting objects -- oddly shaped mirrors, pouches that bulged with goodness knows what, a veritable stack of sneezing powder. Hermione couldn't even identify half of the items. She had a sneaking suspicion that a good number had been produced by the Weasley twins.

Snape, however, reached past all those fascinating objects for a large cardboard box marked "Muggle Artifacts." After pulling it out, he went to the desk and set the box down, then lifted its lid.

"I thought so," he said with some satisfaction.

Hermione peered inside. She saw several torches, portable music players ranging from old-fashioned cassette decks to the latest MP3 devices, a plethora of cell phones, even what looked like some sort of GPS contraption.

"What on earth?" she asked. Why would students bring these items to a place where they knew they wouldn't work?

"You're Muggleborn," he replied, again with a hint of that infuriating smirk. "You didn't bring anything like this with you to Hogwarts?"

Irritation flared. "Of course not," she snapped. "I read the rules. I knew Muggle artifacts wouldn't work here at the school."

"Yes, you read the rules. But many students are, shall we say, not quite so thorough. In their excitement over coming to Hogwarts, they sometimes bring items that were part of the Muggle lives back home. Most of the time they're ignored. But Filch hates them -- and if he sees anything that smacks of Muggle technology, he confiscates it."

Despite herself, Hermione had to admire Snape for remembering that useful piece of information. Certainly it saved them quite a bit of time to acquire the torches here rather than her having to go all the way to London for them.

"Then all we have to do is hope that at least one of them has some decent batteries," she said cheerfully, and reached into the box to draw out a sleek little black torch that looked as if it had come straight out of one of her father's high-end gadget catalogs.

That one did work, as well as the larger aluminum one Snape selected. Several others were dead, or the next thing to it, although Hermione found a tiny one that snuggled into the palm of her hand and would work well enough as backup if either of the larger torches failed. She slipped it into her cloak pocket.

"Back to the kitchens, then?"

"No," Professor Snape replied. "You can access the cellars from the main corridor in the dungeons. Follow me."

Which she did, reflecting that even with all her nocturnal wanderings through Hogwarts, of course she couldn't have gained as thorough a knowledge of the place as Severus Snape, who had lived here for most of his adult life. He led her down a short flight of stairs to the dungeons, through another hallway, and then to a wooden trapdoor set into the stone floor. Although their way to this point had been illuminated by a series of candles set in sconces along the wall, Snape switched on the torch he carried.

"I believe it will be quite dark from here on out."

That sounded ominous. Affecting an air of nonchalance, Hermione twisted the handle of her torch so that the narrow, powerful beam focused on the door at their feet. "Shall we, then?"

He bent down and grasped the ring set in the center of the door and pulled it open, revealing a square of unrelieved black. After angling her torch, she could see a series of stone steps leading downward, but at first it had looked very much as if they were supposed to jump into that darkness and hope for the best.

Of course you've been in worse places than this, Hermione told herself as she descended the stairway, the circular beam of her torch seeming woefully inadequate against the Stygian blackness that surrounded her. The vaults at Gringotts -- that was a tight shave. And let's not forget about the dungeons under Malfoy Manor. Or --

"This is the fifth cellar," said Snape. "If I recall correctly, they were counted east to west, so if we go to our left, we should make our way eventually to the seventh cellar."

He sounded matter-of-fact and not at all concerned. Then again, he'd spent his own amount of time in dark places, hadn't he? Still, it was reassuring to have him there beside her in the gloom.

Holding her torch in front of her, Hermione moved to the left, Snape so close behind that occasionally she thought she could feel the rustle of his robes as they caught the edges of her own cloak. The combination of her beam and the one from his larger torch was just enough to show a low-ceilinged chamber filled with barrels of all different shapes and sizes. It was a bit treacherous to navigate, but eventually they reached a doorway that must lead to the sixth cellar.

No lock here, fortunately, just a large iron ring set in the center of the door. The chamber beyond was much the same as the one they just left, although this room's contents consisted of sacks piled high -- with flour and rice and other grains, she supposed.

All too soon they reached another door.

"The seventh cellar," Hermione said. Thank goodness her voice sounded steady enough.

"Presumably," agreed Snape. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Actually, she wasn't sure she did, but to make such an admission was unthinkable. "Of course," she replied. "It's just -- "

"Just what?"

She knew he would laugh at her, but she said it anyway. "What if there really is something terrible in there?"

"Then I suggest we run, as neither one of us is equipped for magical dueling at the moment and Filch's store was woefully lacking in firearms."

His comment wrung a weak chuckle out of her, but he had a point. They were here on a fact-finding mission, not to engage an enemy -- if there was one of course.

Biting her lip, she reached out and swung open the door.