The Quality of Mercy

My apologies for how long it took to update this story -- I was finishing up a LOTR fic I was writing, and then I started a new job and just didn't have the time or energy to come back to this. But now I feel as if things are more or less back on an even keel (well, as much as they ever are), and I hope to update a little more regularly from here on out. Thank you for your patience and reviews!

Eight: Falling

Hermione's first instinct -- after she got over the shock of seeing Draco's name in the file -- was to seek out Harry and ask him for some advice. Unfortunately, by the time she'd gotten over to the Auror offices, he'd already left, probably to check on Ginny. Since Ginny's needs of course outweighed Hermione's, she decided it would be best not to attempt looking him up at home. Instead, she ducked into the Leaky Cauldron for a bite of hot soup and then headed straight back to her new office. Once there she picked up the troubling file again, this time forcing herself to read through the particulars. There wasn't much, actually, only a terse comment that there seemed to be a high incidence of Muggle injuries and mishaps occurring in the lands which bordered the Malfoy estate. Coincidence, perhaps, but considering the Malfoys' well-known dislike for nonmagical folk, it didn't seem too odd that the chain of troubling incidents had aroused the suspicion of the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Why Draco should be singled out instead of his father, Hermione couldn't be certain. The elder Malfoy had certainly been lying low since his narrow escape from Azkaban - Hermione couldn't even recall the last time someone she knew had spotted him in London. Perhaps he had passed on the mantle of Muggle-baiting to his son. The Malfoys always did set a great store in tradition.

Still, that didn't mean she had to be the one to handle this particular case. After all, there were three other investigators in her department....

Frowning, she approached Milton Cornish's office with a diffident air and paused outside his open door. "Erm...Mr. Cornish?"

He looked up from the stacks of parchment that littered his desk. "What is it, Hermione?"

His mild tone encouraged her a little. Her previous supervisor had had a bad habit of barking at his subordinates like an angry seal whenever he was interrupted. She stepped forward, holding the Malfoy file in front of her. "It's about this case, sir...."

The faded hazel eyes narrowed. "What about it?"

"Well, that is...I mean, I'm not sure I'm the best person to be working with this file. Perhaps one of the other investigators?"

Cornish's placid expression never changed, but his voice sounded a little sharper as he inquired, "And may I ask the reason for your objection?"

"It's just - " Hermione took a deep breath and said, "Sir, I was in the same year as Draco Malfoy. I'm not sure it's a good idea for me to be the investigator on this case. I might be...a little too close to the subject."

"I see." Milton Cornish folded his hands on the desktop and gave her the slightest of frowns. "While I understand your concerns, I'm afraid I can't take you off this case. The wizarding world is a very small place, Hermione. If I allowed my investigators to avoid handling cases that involved former classmates, or people who shared their House, or who were distantly related to them...well, I would have a difficult time following any of these investigations to a conclusion, now, wouldn't I?"

Reluctantly, Hermione nodded. What he said was true, of course, but that didn't mean she had to like it very much.

"I would never ask one of my staff to investigate a husband, or a brother or sister, or a parent, of course," her supervisor went on. "But Draco Malfoy is none of these things to you, correct?"

"No, sir," Hermione replied immediately. "We were simply in the same year at school and had a few...run-ins, I suppose you would call them."

"Well, then," Cornish said, as if that explained everything. Apparently he noticed her pained expression, for he added, "This can be a difficult job, Hermione - make no mistake about it. But everything I've heard of you leads me to believe you're not someone to shy away from something simply because it's difficult. Am I mistaken in this belief?"

How had he known to say the one thing that effectively defused any further arguments on her part? "No, sir," Hermione answered at once. "I'll make sure I bring no bias to this investigation, and I'll follow every possible lead."

He smiled then. "Yes, I'm sure you will."

***

Stout words to Milton Cornish to the contrary, Hermione was feeling anything but determined by the time she left work that afternoon. She'd hoped she could at least have a private conversation with Harry some time after lunch, but it happened he was out of the office for the rest of the day on Auror business. What that business was exactly, no one would tell her. She supposed that was sensible; although her own department was technically in the same division as the Aurors, their duties did not overlap much. Even in these days following Voldemort's defeat there were those who dabbled in the Dark Arts, mostly for their own petty personal gain. So far no dark wizard of Voldemort's stature had risen to challenge the Ministry, but the Auror department was still kept busy enough disposing of black grimoires and hexed objects, not to mention investigating those who didn't seem to think using dark magic as a way to get ahead in the world merited any particular attention.

Hermione Floo'd home and took care of her regular chores, then sat on her much-maligned couch, considering her next course of action. Because of her background, she had better skills than most at blending in with Muggle society; she supposed the next thing to do would be to head off to Wiltshire and make some discreet inquiries in the villages and farms surrounding the Malfoy estate. If she dug up enough corroborating evidence, she could take her findings to Milton Cornish for his recommendations. She permitted herself an inner feeling of relief at knowing that it wasn't her department's responsibility to enforce the Ministry's will - that would fall to the Aurors.

None of this, however, explained why the Malfoys would choose to muddy the waters at this particular point in time. Certainly it was in their best interests not to rouse suspicion, nor to attract any undue attention. What could be so important that they were willing to risk Ministry scrutiny in order to keep any wayward Muggles off their property?

It came to her then - surely the best person to give her insight into Malfoy psychology would be Severus Snape. After all, he had been Draco's Head of House, not to mention someone who had known Lucius Malfoy fairly well. Perhaps he could give her some of the information she lacked. And after all, hadn't he told her she was welcome to return to Yorkshire if she wished?

Glad to have a direction, Hermione rose and went to fetch her heavy wool traveling cloak, then Disapparated. She welcomed the crushing pressure, if only because it told her she finally had some sort of purpose.

***

The skies above Snape's forlorn cottage were lowering and promised new snow in the near future. Hermione pulled her cloak more tightly about her, but she needn't have bothered - the door to the cottage opened within a few seconds of her arriving on the front step.

"Couldn't stay away, I see," said the Potions master, giving her a sardonic look.

"You did invite me," Hermione replied.

The faintest suggestion of a sigh. "That I did. Very well - come in."

He stepped aside and allowed her to enter. As before, the cottage was warm and tinted ochre and honey by firelight and candlelight. Mixed with the scent of smoke and beeswax was the more pungent odor of boiled marigold and something Hermione couldn't quite identify.

"One moment," Snape said, going to the cauldron on the ancient stovetop and giving its contents a single deliberate stir. The pungent smell softened into something resembling a mixture of sandalwood and amber.

Hermione wanted to inquire as to what he was concocting, but decided that might be considered too intrusive. Instead, she told him, "Actually, I've come for some advice."

He glanced over at her then, his mouth twitching slightly. "Indeed? I'm surprised you would admit to such a weakness."

"Going to others for help isn't a weakness," she retorted. Why must he always see the worst in everything? She added, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "I would think you might realize I'm not quite the 'insufferable know-it-all' I used to be."

"As to that, I suppose we shall have to see."

Angry words bubbled to her lips, but Hermione paused, seeing the glint in Snape's black eyes. Could it be that he was teasing her?

"I suppose you shall," she replied in airy tones.

Appearing to abandon the point for now, he asked, "So what is this advice you require?"

At his question she hesitated. What would be the best way to phrase her request? She hadn't stopped to consider that Professor Snape might still consider the Malfoys to be his friends, and perhaps he wouldn't take kindly to the thought of betraying their confidences. On the other hand, it certainly appeared that neither Lucius nor Draco had done much to discover whether their old compatriot and favorite teacher truly had met his end in the Shrieking Shack. Perhaps Severus Snape possessed secrets of theirs they would very much rather stay buried.

Whatever the case, Hermione decided then and there that she would always be honest with him. He deserved that at least, and if he declined to help her, so be it. Besides, there was always the very good chance he'd be able to look straight at her and know she was lying. In that moment she wished she could have been included in Harry's Occlumency lessons. Never mind that Harry had said they were rubbish and a complete waste of time -- at least perhaps she would be able to tell if Snape were practicing that obscure art on her.

So she squared her shoulders and said, "I got a promotion -- to the Improper Use of Magic office."

"And are you expecting some sort of congratulations?"

"No," she replied, stung. "That's not the point at all."

He made a small motion with one hand, and the flame under the cauldron went out. "Am I then to assume that this promotion is at least germane to the advice you seek?"

"Yes. I was given my assignments today -- and who should be on the top of the pile? Draco Malfoy."

As Hermione spoke she watched Snape carefully, but her revelation elicited very little response. Perhaps his right eyebrow lifted the tiniest fraction. In tones of supreme unconcern, he asked, "Is young Malfoy misbehaving?"

"That's what I have to find out. Apparently there's been a high number of 'accidents' befalling the Muggles who live in the vicinity of the Malfoy estate. Perhaps it's just an anomaly...or perhaps not."

Without speaking Snape went to the cupboard and pulled out two heavy greenish glass goblets. Hermione watched in some trepidation, then relaxed slightly when she realized he was doing nothing more threatening than fetching them both some water. She took the goblet he handed her and sipped. It was very good, with a slight mineral aftertaste. Perhaps he had a well or a spring somewhere on the property.

"If you've come to ask whether I think Draco is capable of such things, of course he is." Snape lifted his shoulders; Hermione realized that today he was wearing his old robes, although they looked rather rusty in hue and somewhat frayed around the edges. "While the boy certainly has a better nature -- consider his inability to kill Dumbledore, even at the Dark Lord's command -- I know his forbearance would not extend to any Muggles who got in his way. The more important question is why he would do such a thing in the first place."

Feeling relieved beyond measure that Snape hadn't dismissed her question out of hand, Hermione asked, "Can you think of a reason? If it isn't simple malice, that is."

The Potions master regarded her carefully for a moment, and she had to force herself to meet his black stare. Then he shook his head. "Not with any certainty. Even I don't know all that Malfoy Manor held. It may simply be that Lucius managed to hang onto a few artifacts he'd rather the Aurors not know he possessed. Although that doesn't make much sense -- the estate is ringed around with Muggle-repelling spells, and inflicting physical harm on nonmagical folk isn't the best way to escape notice." He shrugged once more and continued, in tones so dry one could almost ignore the bitterness that underlay them, "I cannot speak for Lucius or Draco, of course, seeing as we have been somewhat out of contact these past few years."

Once again Hermione felt a rush of unexpected pity. She wondered whether Severus Snape had truly counted himself a friend of Lucius Malfoy's, and, if so, how difficult it must have been for him to keep himself hidden all these years, not even attempting to reach out to one of the few people he'd allowed to become close. As she recalled Lucius' cold, patrician features, she thought the elder Malfoy didn't seem the type to be a particularly good friend, but even he would be better than nothing.

Taking care to keep her own voice cool and impersonal, mimicking Snape's tones, she said, "You mentioned artifacts. What sort of artifacts?"

"I don't know of all of them. Narcissa had an enchanted set of jewels that would change color depending on what she wore. I never saw it, but I heard rumors of a cursed suit of armor somewhere in the dungeons that, once put on, would turn the wearer into a killing machine who could not take off the armor until he had killed a hundred men." Snape must have seen her blanch, for he inquired, in dry tones devoid of concern, "Surely, after all you've seen, you don't still believe the wizarding world to be completely benign?"

"No," Hermione replied, irritated he would think her such an innocent. "Of course not. But I hope I never lose the capacity to be shocked by the evil that men do."

"How correct of you."

"I thought I'd try that for a while," she retorted. "After all, I have plenty of time to be bitter and jaded."

Once again he surprised her with a very small smile. "What a relief it must be for you to finally be able to speak your mind."

"Actually, yes, it is," Hermione admitted, giving him a smile of her own. "I like talking to you."

The eyebrow quirked again. "We're far past the need for flattery, don't you think?"

"It's not flattery, it's the truth." She set down her glass on the kitchen counter and turned to see him watching her with the familiar sardonic curl to his thin lips. "I'm so dreadfully tired of people tiptoeing around me like they think I'm going to break. Even on days when I think things have gone back to normal, I'll look up to see my coworkers or my family watching me as if they expect me to fall apart at any second. It's so exhausting. These days I'd rather have sarcasm than unrelenting concern."

He continued to watch her closely, and for the first time she saw the faintest softening of the hard lines of his mouth. "You are a remarkable young woman."

She managed a shaky laugh. "Now who's flattering whom?"

"I simply stated a fact. If this is a time for confessions, I will say now that I often wished you had been sorted into Slytherin. It seemed a waste for a mind such as yours to be squandered in Gryffindor, a House that could not fully appreciate its subtleties."

In response all she could do was stare back at him, feeling rather as she had the first time she had Disapparated -- as if Hagrid's giant brother Grawp had punched her repeatedly in the midsection. Had Snape just paid her a compliment?

She'd never been able to accept praise gracefully, and so she lifted her shoulders and said, "I have a feeling Draco and his cabal might've had a few choice words about a Mudblood like me polluting the Slytherin common room."

Snape looked thunderous. "Don't ever call yourself that!"

Shocked by the vehemence of his tone, Hermione said at once, "It's no more than what they called me on numerous occasions."

"That does not make it right."

"No," she replied. "Of course not." And she realized then of course Lily Evans had been Muggle-born, and, according to Harry, Snape had flung that same epithet at her on at least one occasion. As she watched the rare display of warring emotions on Severus Snape's face, Hermione wondered if he had ever forgiven himself for uttering that hateful phrase.

His black eyes met hers, and she stared up at him. Again she had that odd sensation of feeling off balance, as if something about the universe had slipped out of alignment. Could she really be thinking of how fine the straight line of his brows actually was, or how the candlelight softened the harsh contours of his nose?

They stood that way in silence for a few seconds, until Hermione blinked and glanced away. She could recall some of this awkwardness with Ron, those endless pauses where her mind tried to tell her logically she couldn't be looking at her friend in that way, that she couldn't be wondering what it would be like for him to kiss her. Only this was a hundred -- a thousand -- times worse, because now she found herself thinking these same things about Severus Snape of all people, the man who had mocked her and castigated her friends, who was old enough to be her father, who had been her professor, for God's sake!

"I -- I had better go," she stammered at last, wishing her voice didn't sound so weak, so ineffectual. Where had the confident Hermione gone, the one who always knew what she was going to say at least five minutes before she said it? "You've been very helpful, really -- "

Another one of those interminable silences. His face was inscrutable, revealing nothing. Had he looked into her mind? Had he seen the unthinkable there? Or was he merely considering the best way to make his farewells and phrase them so that he made it very clear he desired no further interruptions? What she would do then, Hermione had no idea. The thought of not seeing him again felt like a fresh wound slashed across the surface of a half-healed scar.

At last he said, "A little instruction in Occlumency would not have been amiss in your case as well, Miss Granger."

Heat flooded her face then. So he had seen. Looked into her mind and saw the weakness there, the inexplicable feelings for a man who should have been no more to her than an unpleasant piece of a past long gone.

She wished she could think of a clever retort, but her wits seemed to have deserted her. Instead she only whispered, "Damn you," and turned to go. Maybe she couldn't Disapparate from within the cottage, but she'd get the hell out of here the second her foot crossed the line of anti-Apparition spells he had cast.

But even as she spun away from Severus Snape, she felt his hand wrap itself around her upper arm, forcing her back toward him. He was slender, but his fingers were very strong; Hermione knew she could only remove herself from his grasp by a struggle, and that seemed too undignified. She had already shamed herself enough -- she would not continue the process by wriggling in his grip like a guilty first year caught wandering the halls after curfew. So she only stood there, staring up into his face with an expression of what she hoped was affronted dignity.

"Why?" he asked, an echo of the same question he had asked her when she first came to confront him here in Yorkshire. This time, however, the meaning was entirely different.

And now she had no ready answer. She couldn't explain her emotions even to herself -- oh, back in the day she had been ready enough to defend Snape to Harry and Ron if she thought they were being unreasonable in their criticism of the Potions master. Time had proven her to be correct, but it was still a giant step to move from standing up for an unpopular professor to wondering what it would feel like for that same man's arms to go around her and pull her close. Perhaps it was simply because Snape hadn't bothered to treat her as that inexplicable creature known as a widow, but had spoken to her directly, as one individual to another, with no false sympathy or unwanted concern.

Hermione wished it were so simple, but somehow she knew the situation involved more than that. If she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she'd admit now the attraction had been there a long time, buried and ignored and denied. Even back at Hogwarts she'd had that dream....

So long ago, she'd forgotten she'd ever had it -- until now. Perhaps it had been the trigger of his hand on her arm, the first voluntary touch she'd ever had from Severus Snape. And really, the dream had been so silly, so easily dismissed...just a snippet of her day bound together with all the other fragments of the waking world that composed her dream life. In her dream she had been kept back for detention, one lone black-clad student in the echoing chamber of the Potions classroom. She'd been set to copy potion receipt after potion receipt onto clean parchment until her hand ached and her fingers could barely grasp the quill. Up until the very end of the dream the Potions master had been conspicuously absent, but at last he appeared at her shoulder and bent over to scrutinize her work. As he did so a lock of his hair grazed her cheek, even as she felt his robes brush against hers. A thrill had rushed through her, a wave of longing as inexplicable as it was unwanted. Nothing else had happened in the dream that she could recall; she had awoken soon afterward, feeling faintly ashamed. And she'd shoved the memory of the dream away until now, thinking it unimportant and foolish.

But perhaps it hadn't been so foolish, or at least not insignificant. Perhaps it had been that long-buried memory which provided the impetus for her to seek out Severus Snape in the first place. Perhaps she had wanted to know what it would be like to see him once again, only this time as a grown woman, not as a student. What would have been wildly inappropriate years ago would only be rather unsuitable today, given their respective situations.

Hermione realized he still stared down at her, obviously expecting an answer. She had none to give, however, save the realization that she had been misleading herself for a very long time.

"Why not?" she asked in reply, since all other words seemed to have failed her. Now he would laugh at her or make some sneering remark.

But instead he echoed, "Why not?" and then drew her against him, his robes sweeping around to envelop her, even as his mouth pressed against hers.

His kiss felt very different from Ron's kisses. Severus Snape's lips were thin but strong, meeting her own mouth with insistent force. He tasted of nothing except the faintest cool aftertaste of the spring water they had been drinking. And then there was the sensation of his hair falling against her cheek, not greasy at all but heavy and slick and warm, the feel of his lean body still somehow distinct beneath the bulky garments.

All these months she might as well have been as dead as Ron. Surely Hermione had never expected to feel this way again, to feel the heat running through her veins like dragon fire and the familiar throbbing in the pit of her stomach. She had never thought she might allow herself to feel so alive. Yet this was different, because somehow she knew that Ron had never made her feel quite like this. With Ron she had always been the one in control, but she knew she would not be able to direct Severus Snape the way she had Ron Weasley. And as much as she hated to admit it to herself, she found she rather liked the sensation. She wanted to lose herself in his arms, to drown herself in the depths of his swirling black robes.

They broke apart at last, although Hermione fancied she could still feel the touch of Severus' lips on hers. Part of her wanted to run away, to hide her face so she could weep with shame over her betrayal of Ron, but she knew she would not allow herself to behave in such a way. Not when she knew, deep down, that she had wanted this for a very long time.

"That's really not why I came here, you know," she said.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

At once she retorted, "If I recall correctly, you're the one who initiated the kiss."

"So I did," he replied, in tones so mild they were almost more mocking than his usual open sarcasm.

Hermione scowled up at him. "And so what do you suggest we do now?"

"Have we retired the subject of the Malfoys?"

Frankly, Draco Malfoy, the incriminating file, and the Improper Use of Magic department seemed about a million miles away at the moment. She lifted her shoulders and said, "I suppose so."

"Good," returned Severus Snape. He bent his head toward hers again, and Hermione allowed herself to forget everything but the feel of his mouth and the heat of his body. Someday soon she'd have to return to the real world, to the mystery of Malfoy Manor, the endless minutiae of her work, the bustle of the Burrow, all the thousand and one disparate elements that made up her life. But for now she lost herself in the embrace of the last man she'd thought she'd ever care for, content to let him become her world.

One little thought wriggled its way into her consciousness, though, and a shadow of unease passed over her even as she let Severus Snape kiss her once more.

Harry will kill me if he ever finds out....