The Quality of Mercy

Seven: New Beginnings

Hermione opened her eyes and watched as a narrow line of sunlight slipped in through the curtains and lay like a gleaming bar of gold across her dresser. For the first time since Ron's death she had a sensation of peace, of contentment. Of course the pain would return at some point, but for now it was enough simply to lie here, feeling warm and safe and sheltered. No doubt her current good humor was a direct result of last night's meeting with Severus Snape.

If someone had told her that spending a protracted amount of time in Professor Snape's company would lead to such feelings of good will, most likely she would have informed them they were barmy. But the knowledge that he had treated her civilly at the end and had not pitched her out headfirst into the snow after all gave her hope. Oh, of course he hadn't invited her to lengthen her stay -- once she had finished her glass of wine he had made it clear he expected her to leave -- but during the time they had spent together she felt the beginnings of rapport build between them. He seemed to trust that she would not speak of his location to anyone, and as she knew trust did not come to him with any ease, his confidence in her moved her greatly.

Neither had he instructed her to stay away, although Hermione guessed he had abandoned that battle as a lost cause. Not that she intended to intrude on him any time soon; she had to return to work the next day, and most of her hours would be consumed with the Ministry's doings. There was Ginny to think of, too. She wasn't due for some weeks, but babies had a tendency to come when they wanted to, and not to any particular schedule.

Humming to herself, Hermione pushed herself out of bed, earning a dirty look from Crookshanks, who had made a comfortable nest in the quilt next to her and didn't appear particularly happy that his mistress had decided to get up at such an ungodly hour. Not that it was too ungodly -- a quick glance at the clock told Hermione it was half-past seven -- but still it was rather early for New Year's Day. When she returned from Snape's the evening before it hadn't been quite ten o'clock, and she hadn't bothered to stay up to see the new year in. Rather ridiculous, when you got right down to it, to put such an arbitrary marker on something as fluid as time.

Despite such logical disparagements of convention, she did find something rather energizing about the thought that a whole new year had just begun. After a quick breakfast and a shower, she set about finally clearing away Ron's clutter from the spare bedroom. He had commandeered half of it as a workshop, where he had made random contributions to George's burgeoning joke empire when the mood struck him, but Hermione knew it was finally time to box up those items. She'd gone far past the time when she still halfway hoped Ron would come strolling back into the cottage, proclaim it had all been a wicked misunderstanding, and go on with his life. Of course she wouldn't throw these things away -- she'd send them off to George and see if he could use them. But at least she could tell herself she'd made a little progress.

The last box had been stowed under the work table when Hermione heard a knock at the front door. Puzzled, she got to her feet and dusted off her hands on her jeans. Who on earth would be calling on the morning of New Year's Day? At this hour -- now barely past nine o'clock -- most people would still be sleeping off their indulgences of the night before.

Frowning a little, she went to the door, glad that her good mood had extended to taking the extra few minutes it required to attend to her hair and put on a little lip color. When she opened the door, she found herself looking at a complete stranger. A tall fair-haired young man of about her own age stared down at her.

"Erm...can I help you?" she inquired.

The stranger's mouth quirked a bit. "Sauce for the goose, Miss Granger," he said in broad Yorkshire accents, but the intonation was familiar enough.

"Professor Snape?"

"A little louder, Miss Granger...I'm not quite sure they heard you over in Ottery St. Catchpole. May I come in?"

Flummoxed, she stepped aside and allowed him into the living room. Crookshanks, who had been occupying himself with an old sock of Ron's he had apparently found under the sofa, looked up at their visitor with flattened ears. Mortified, Hermione bent down and gathered up the sock, then balled it awkwardly into her left hand.

Snape took a few steps into the chamber and looked around, right eyebrow raised. "That is a hideous sofa," he pronounced.

I swear I'll never buy chintz again, Hermione thought. She asked, "Some tea, Professor?"

"By all means, if you feel it will help fill that awkward period during which you screw up the nerve to ask me why I'm here."

There being no way to reply to his comment, she instead moved past him and into the kitchen, thrusting Ron's discarded sock into one of her cardigan's pockets. Snape followed, taking a seat at the kitchen table as if he'd done so a hundred times in the past.

Cool bugger, isn't he? she reflected. Still, something in her couldn't help but admire the absolute aplomb with which he sat there in his borrowed form, surveying the yellow-painted chamber with only slightly disdainful eyes.

After she had waved her wand to magically heat the water in the kettle to near boiling, Hermione filled a tea ball with some Darjeeling and set it in the teapot. Then she asked, "So who is he?"

"Who?"

"Whoever that is whose face you're wearing."

Snape shrugged. "A boy from the nearest village. Sweepings from the town barber can be useful."

So it would seem. Perhaps Snape's isolation hadn't been as complete as she had previously thought. After all, whoever would have expected the supercilious Potions master to stoop so low as to impersonate a Muggle?

Without comment she set a teacup in front of Snape and then poured out the tea. "Milk? Or sugar?"

"None."

Of course he would drink it black, Hermione thought in some amusement. She took it that way herself, so after she had secured a cup for herself she sat down and faced the unfamiliar young man. He wasn't bad-looking, she realized, tall and well-built with a fine head of tawny blond hair, but she found herself thinking she'd rather be looking into Snape's normal face, oversized nose and all.

Sauce for the goose, he had said. "So is this your way of getting back at me?" she inquired.

"Getting back?"

"For those unexpected visits you seemed to enjoy so much."

"Ah, that." He drank from his cup of tea and then set it down. "I find no need to waste my time in petty retaliation, Miss Granger."

"Hermione."

He paused after her interjection, and gave a grudging nod. "If you wish. Very well, Hermione, let us say that I considered your words and have a few questions for you. It seemed to me this was the easiest way for me to visit you. Surely no one should think anything out of the ordinary about someone of your own age coming to see you here."

Hermione thought Snape didn't know much of Molly Weasley's sleuthing abilities. If Molly got wind of the fact that a handsome young stranger had dropped by Rosedell on New Year's Day, Hermione feared she would never hear the end of it. However, she decided it would probably be better not to voice such concerns to the Professor. She was having a hard enough time reconciling his precise syntax with the Yorkshire accent. It was slightly incongruous, like watching a reimagining of Pygmalion with a male lead from Yorkshire instead of a Cockney flower-seller.

"What questions?" she asked.

"You seem to labor under the misapprehension that I am being wasted in my chosen seclusion, that I have more to offer the wizarding world. I am curious -- if I decided to 'return from the dead,' as it were, what precisely did you think I would do?"

The question took her aback. Hermione stared at him, at the unfamiliar blue eyes and too-straight nose. Last night she had noticed for the first time how truly black Snape's eyes were, so dark one could see little differentiation between iris and pupil. The difference between them and the clear blue-gray eyes of his assumed form was jarring. "Well, I -- erm, that is, you could always go back to teaching, I suppose."

The mouth might have been that of a stranger, but the scornful quirk at the corner was all Snape. "Because I had such joy in it the first go-'round?"

"Well, there's always the Dark Arts -- "

"I'm sure Professor Savage would be most accommodating about relinquishing his post at Hogwarts," Snape observed dryly.

Feeling effectively blocked, Hermione said, "Well, what have you always wanted to do?"

He gave her a thin smile. "Have you ever stopped to consider I might be doing it now?"

She had no answer to that, because of course she never had thought such a thing might be true. After all, hadn't Professor Snape wanted the Defense position the entire time she had been at Hogwarts? If he had been so eager to abandon Potions, she couldn't imagine he would be content to spend the rest of his life mixing new elixirs and researching novel uses for long-established ingredients. "No," she said at last.

"Ah," he said, and once again it seemed he was laughing at her, at the sheer impetuosity of youth and its conviction that it knew the best solution for everything.

Well, Hermione could understand the attraction of pure research, of expanding the boundaries of knowledge. Certainly she had to admit that Professor Snape did not possess the best temperament to be working with children. "If you want to do research, then why not do it in the open, where your findings can be shared with the rest of the wizard world?"

"What has the wizard world ever done for me?"

So they were back to that. "Have you ever given it a chance to do anything for you?"

"On more occasions than you would know."

Another impasse. She sighed. "So you came all the way down here just to satisfy yourself that I didn't know what I was talking about?"

The calm blue eyes regarded her for a moment. "So you admit you don't."

"I didn't say that."

He picked up his teacup and drank once more. "You wished to distract yourself. This is understandable, I suppose, although one would have hoped you might have channeled your energies into more productive areas. But if you cannot explain clearly to me why it is so important that I return to a world which has always wished to have nothing to do with me, I think you should understand why I have very little desire to participate in your schemes."

A sudden thought struck her. "Don't you want to prove them wrong?"

Her words seemed to give him pause. He stopped, teacup halfway to his lips, and gave her a penetrating stare.

"If you think you've been somehow wronged, why don't you do something about it? Show what you did to help defeat Voldemort! We would never have succeeded if you hadn't sent your Patronus to show us where the Sword was hidden, and -- "

"I do not wish to speak of that."

The words were spoken in a flat tone which allowed no arguments. Hermione stared at Snape, willing him to understand, to see it was no use to continue avoiding the good he had done. Was he ashamed that his Patronus took on the same form as Lily Potter's? How long was he going to treat his feelings for her as something shameful? How could he even think such a thing, when apparently everything good he had ever done had been motivated by his love for her?

"Well, I suppose we don't have to mention that particular detail," she said after a brief hesitation. "But really, Professor, if Harry could convince the Ministry not to send the Malfoys to Azkaban after all they'd done, I'm sure he could do wonders for you!"

"I do not need Potter's help," Snape replied, in tones of chilling finality. "If your plans involve Harry Potter pleading my case, then our conversation is over."

It was over before it started, Hermione thought hopelessly. So what do I do now?

She gazed back at him, and it seemed that his features began to bubble and shift as she watched. "The potion's wearing off," she remarked.

He put up one hand to his cheek. "So it is. I have more with me, but I assume it will not be needed, if I have your permission to Disapparate from inside the house."

"Of course," she said automatically, fascinated by the shifting planes of his face. Of course she'd drunk Polyjuice Potion herself, but it was still something of a novelty to watch the transformation in someone else.

Within a few seconds, Professor Snape had returned to his old self, his lank black hair and pale face somehow incongruous above the brown bomber jacket and blue jumper he wore.

"That's better," Hermione remarked without thinking.

He shot her an incredulous look. "Better?"

Was it really so astonishing to him that someone might find his features interesting? She'd been teased for her own appearance enough during her formative years that she'd come to appreciate the nuances of a face most others wouldn't find terribly prepossessing. So his nose was long and hooked, and his hair shapeless and dull. His eyes were fascinating, and the bones of his face were actually quite good, with the high cheekbones and sculpted jaw.

"I suppose I'm just used to you looking this way," she amended.

For a long moment he stared down at her. Suddenly Hermione was conscious of how alone they were here, of how no one in the world knew that Severus Snape was even alive, let along sitting next to her in her own home. For the first time she became aware that while he might have once been her instructor, he was also a man. She'd never thought such a thing before. Nor had she noticed what fine hands he had, long and strong and somehow elegant, despite the calluses and inevitable ink stains on his fingertips.

Her world felt as if it had tilted slightly on its axis. She shouldn't be noticing such things, not about any man, and certainly not about Severus Snape, of all people.

"I'd best clear this up," she said, tearing her gaze away from his and focusing on the empty teacups that sat before them. Her hands shook a little as she gathered up the cups and took them over to the counter next to the sink.

"And I should be going." He stood, pausing next to his seat. "This has been most educational."

Now, what on earth did he mean by that? Hermione turned from the sink to see him regarding her carefully. Then he said, "You have my leave to come to Yorkshire again," just before he whirled off into nothingness, shabby jacket and worn jeans disappearing with much less pomp than the usual swirl of wizard's robes that would accompany such a movement.

She gazed at the space he had occupied, the place where he had pushed his chair out from the table. What on earth was wrong with her? How could she have possibly entertained such notions about Severus Snape, if even for a few seconds? Perhaps she really had gone mad.

Still, mad or no, she knew nothing would stop her from returning to Yorkshire, not now that she had what amounted to an open invitation.

***

The next day Hermione returned to the Ministry, though not, thankfully, to her temporary post in the Office of Financial Services. No, she went back to her familiar desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, where she immediately set about incorporating some of the notes she had made at home into her series of pamphlets on house-elf education. She had only been about it for a few hours, however, when a pale violet paper airplane flew past her ear and descended to the center of the desk.

It was a quiet morning; Athena Carncross and Matilda Thatcher had stepped out for a cup of tea, and Perseus Jones had wandered off to Obliviator HQ, muttering something about needing advice as to whether a particularly virulent outbreak of doxies in Hampstead merited Obliviator intervention. Hermione doubted it was quite so serious, and suspected instead that Perseus wished to chat up the new and very pretty witch who had just been posted to that department. Whatever the case, there was no one around to watch her as she opened the violet paper and read its contents. Minister Shacklebolt requests your presence in his office at eleven a.m. sharp.

A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach. Had the Minister somehow discovered her activities in the Gringotts Owlery? Even worse, had he someone managed to divine her purpose for being there? She would face whatever reprisals Kingsley Shacklebolt might feel compelled to bring against her, but she couldn't bear the thought that somehow she might have betrayed Professor Snape's whereabouts to the Minister.

Or perhaps he already knew. Just because no one in OFS seemed to care they were disbursing payments to someone presumed dead didn't mean the rest of the Ministry was quite so dense. But Harry had known nothing, and he was already highly placed in the Auror department, young as he was. Surely if Harry had remained ignorant of Snape's continued existence, then it stood to reason that probably everyone else did as well.

Around and around her thoughts chased themselves, and Hermione found she couldn't concentrate at all on the task at hand. At last she abandoned her quill altogether and went to some of her neglected filing. The wizard who had filled her post while she worked in the Office of Financial Services had apparently not been quite as dedicated as she about keeping the desk clear, and there was quite an oversized stack to be dealt with.

The mindless task kept her occupied until the fateful eleven o'clock hour, at which time she informed Athena that she had a meeting with the Minister and would be back as soon as she could. Athena didn't appear terribly interested; the parchment before her looked rather lumpy, and Hermione guessed that once again the other witch had hidden a copy of the Prophet under the document she was supposed to be working on. No one else seemed to care, and Hermione didn't have time to worry about it; she just headed off to the banks of lifts after allowing herself a disapproving head shake.

She squeezed in amongst a group of witches and wizards she vaguely recognized but didn't know by name. It was almost impossible to know everyone who worked at the Ministry, after all -- hundreds of wizard folk were employed there, and most of them seemed to stick with others from their same departments. As they rose toward Level 1, more and more people got off the lift, until Hermione was left alone to make her exit on the level reserved for the Minister and his support staff.

Although her own offices down on Level 4 were rather shabby and for some reason always seemed to smell of burnt toast, the floor occupied by the Minister's staff was much more impressive. Here were echoed the black marble and gilt fittings of the Atrium, although in a more subdued fashion. A very smartly dressed witch sitting at the enormous reception desk greeted Hermione as she approached.

"The Minister is waiting for you, Mrs. Granger-Weasley," she said. "All the way at the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

Hermione murmured a thank-you and continued in the direction the other witch had indicated. The low heels of her boots seemed to make an overly loud clacking sound as she made her way to the double doors situated at the corridor's terminus. When she got there, the doors both swung inward, and she stepped inside.

Kingsley Shacklebolt rose from behind his desk. "Ah, Hermione."

She offered him an uncertain smile. "Good morning, Minister."

The last time she had seen him had been at Ron's memorial service; the Minister didn't have much call to visit her department. As always he wore impeccably draped robes in a rich jewel color; today they were deep blue accented in gold. Hermione felt inwardly relieved that she had put on her own new dark-green robes in preparation for her return to the office. At least she knew she looked well enough, even if she didn't currently feel that way.

He indicated the carved wooden chair that faced his desk. "Do sit down."

Although his expression was pleasant and nothing in his tone seemed to indicate any dissatisfaction with her, she still felt her nerve endings thrumming with unease as she took her eat. The black and gold theme continued in the Minister's office, although two of the walls were lined with books, and an enormous map of England covered the space behind the desk. As she watched, she saw points on it moving every which way and realized it must be enchanted to show the activities of Ministry officials throughout the country.

"I've heard very good things about your work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Shacklebolt went on. "I know the house-elf cause is very dear to your heart. However, I've brought you here to ask if perhaps you would consider a change in scenery."

"A change, Minister?"

He nodded. "We currently have an investigator opening in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Improper Use of Magic division, to be precise. Would you be interested in a transfer? Technically it would also be a promotion, as the position is several grades above the one you currently hold."

For a few seconds Hermione could only stare at the Minister. After all her worry that she had been caught out, her anxiety that somehow she had betrayed Severus Snape with her maneuvering at Gringotts, Kingsley Shacklebolt had summoned her here because he wanted to give her a promotion? The feeling of relief was so great she had to bite back the impulse to let out a nervous laugh.

Once she thought she had sufficiently recovered herself, she replied, "I'm honored, sir. Although I do have some important house-elf publications that are not yet done -- "

He brushed away her concerns with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure you can turn over your work to someone else in your department. We would need you to start right away. Do you accept the position?"

It was a great honor, Hermione knew. Only the best and the brightest worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Although she had never had Auror ambitions as Harry and Ron did, she had dreamed of one day being able to work in the department in some capacity. And to be offered such a promotion at such a young age -- well, she would be a fool to turn it down. She'd simply have to work out a way to finish off the outstanding projects at her current position, even if she took them home with her in the evening to see them through to completion.

Her voice steady, she said, "I accept, sir."

His dark eyes twinkled. "Excellent. I'll send word on down for the transfer to take place immediately. Your new supervisor will be Milton Cornish -- report to him once you've cleared off your desk and gotten your things together."

"Thank you, Minister," Hermione replied, her head swimming. Things were moving so rapidly, she hadn't quite had time to process the changes. Only now was it beginning to sink in that when she returned to her familiar desk, she would only be there long enough to pack up her things and move them to her new situation.

"We all expect great things of you, Hermione. I hope that faith will be rewarded."

As did she, but she managed to duck her head and say, "Of course, sir," before he ushered her out of the office.

The witch at the front desk called out a cheery "Congratulations!" as Hermione passed by. News certainly did seem to travel fast in the Ministry.

When she returned to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she was greeted with more well wishes, although those of Athena seemed tinged with just the slightest bit of jealousy. Well, you'll never get a promotion by reading Rita Skeeter's gossip column when you should be working, Hermione thought, but she accepted the congratulations as best she could and then hastened to pack up her desk. If she worked quickly enough, she should be able to get up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before lunch.

Still feeling as if she were in a dream, Hermione gathered up the box holding her belongings and returned once more to the lifts. She had been in the Magical Law Enforcement offices on many occasions when she'd met Ron there as he got off work at the end of the day, but she hadn't thought she would be working there herself any time in the near future. On this level the floors were businesslike gray slate, the walls smooth and off-white. After stepping out of the lift she followed the signs to the Improper Use of Magic Office, which turned out to be a series of interconnected rooms two corridors down from Auror headquarters.

She had never met Milton Cornish before, nor did his face appear familiar, but he was not the sort of person to make an indelible impression. Somewhere in late middle age with wispy graying hair and pleasant if unremarkable features, he seemed the type to fade into the woodwork. However, he did greet Hermione with quite a show of enthusiasm, guiding her to her new office -- which was a real office, and not merely a desk crowded into a workspace with several others.

"Hope you'll be happy here," he said, as he watched Hermione set down her box of personal items on the desktop. "Been in a bit of a pinch lately, being one person short and all. We've got quite a backlog. I expect you don't mind a bit of hard work, though."

"Not at all, Mr. Cornish," Hermione said at once.

"Thought not. You've got that reputation, after all."

She wondered which reputation he meant and decided it was better not to ask. "Would you like me to get started right away, or should I take lunch at the regular time?"

"Oh, take your lunch, of course. It will all still be here when you get back." He pointed to a dismayingly large pile of file folders on top of the file cabinet. "Take a look at the files, give your recommendations. If you need anything, just call."

With that he took himself off, no doubt in search of his own lunch. Repressing a sigh, Hermione glanced over at the stack of folders. Of course she was not afraid of hard work -- far from it -- but she couldn't help but wonder exactly how long the position had been open.

Her stomach growled, and she knew she should go get herself something to eat. On the other hand, she supposed it couldn't hurt to take a peek at the top folder, just to give herself an idea of what she was getting herself into.

She lifted the file and took it over to her desk, then set it down, flipping back the cover to read its contents. As the subject's name met her gaze, Hermione felt a sudden sinking feeling somewhere in her midsection that had nothing to do with her current hunger. Of all the people she might be called in to investigate, why did it have to be him? She blinked, but the careful printing on the page remained the same. It stared up at her, reminding her of years of bad blood and incidents she would just as soon have forgotten.

Draco Malfoy.