The Quality of Mercy

Fourteen: The Serpent's Den

Fate seemed to be conspiring against Hermione's return to Yorkshire. No sooner had she returned to Rosedell after leaving Ginny's company than she was greeted by the incessant beeping of her cell phone, indicating someone had left her a new voicemail. Hermione hadn't taken the phone with her when she went to London, as she hadn't thought she would have any need of it at Grimmauld Place.

Best-laid plans, she thought, and crossed over to the side table where she'd left the phone. She called in for her voicemail, only to discover that the message had been left by her mother. Apparently her father had fallen off a ladder while taking down the Christmas lights (he'd developed the habit of leaving them up at least through Twelfth Night and often longer, a practice of which Hermione's mother heartily disapproved). He was in no danger, but he had broken his leg, and if Hermione could come to the hospital as soon as possible, that would be wonderful.

Her mother sounded breezy and unconcerned, but since that was her usual aspect whether performing a root canal or planting a set of spring bulbs, it was difficult for Hermione to tell how serious the situation really might be. She discarded her traveling cloak and shrugged into her warm brown Muggle overcoat, then hesitated. She had told Severus she would return to Yorkshire some time today, but that prospect now seemed rather dim. Too bad he didn't have a cell phone of his own - she could just ring him up and tell him she'd try to be over when she could. She grinned a little at the incongruous thought of Severus Snape holding a slim modern phone up to his shaggy black head and guessed that was a sight she would probably never see.

Really, the wizarding world was downright obtuse when it came to Muggle devices - owls were all well and good, but sometimes they seemed so cumbersome. And since of course the fireplace at Severus' home wasn't on the Floo network, she couldn't use that, either. A tidy little cell phone would have been quite handy - and it was certainly something other wizards and witches would never think of interfering with. However, lacking that particular marvel of modern technology, Hermione decided to use the next best thing. She lifted her wand, filled her mind with the marvelous sensation of Severus' mouth on hers, the dark, rich sound of his voice saying her name, and cried, "Expecto Patronum!"

At once a silvery otter shape erupted from the end of her wand and scampered away through the wall, rushing northward with all the strength of her love for Severus and her desire to see him again. She'd learned this particular trick from the senior members of the Order, and it seemed the best solution now: the Patronus would reach Yorkshire far more quickly than even a Transfigured Crookshanks could have, and once it had delivered its message, the Patronus would melt away, its work done.

Satisfied she had done everything she could, Hermione Disapparated to an alley a few blocks away from her parents' office; it was someplace she knew well and had used in the past as an Apparition point. From there it was about a quarter-mile to Whittington Hospital, where her father had been taken after his fall. She could have made the short hop on a bus, but instead Hermione finished the remainder of her journey on foot. The day continued gray and lowering, but the snow held off, and the cold air helped to clear her head somewhat. It felt a little odd to be just another ordinary, anonymous member in a crowd of Muggles - even though she knew she wasn't really one of them anymore, and never would be. At times like this she could understand why even Muggle-born wizards tended to divorce themselves from the nonmagical world in which they had grown up. The burden of carrying such an enormous secret was a heavy one; better to stay away in order to ensure the continued safety of wizarding society's mysteries.

After making her way to the reception area and ascertaining to which room her father had been assigned, Hermione took the lift to the Victoria ward, where she found her father appearing to rest comfortably in a semi-private room. The chamber held one other bed, but it was unoccupied at the moment. Her mother sat in a chair at her father's bedside, and the television overhead had been turned on, although with the sound muted.

"That was quick," he commented, turning his head on his pillow to give her an approving smile.

"Well, you know I have my own ways of getting around," Hermione replied. The room was quite warm, so she unbuttoned her overcoat and pulled it off, then slung it over one arm. "So why didn't you have anyone helping you with those lights, or at the very least steadying the ladder?" After she asked this question she shot a look of vague disapproval at her mother. Where had she been when he suffered his fall?

"I told him to wait just fifteen minutes -- I had a roast to get in the oven," her mother said calmly. "But since it was George, he couldn't be bothered."

From anyone else, such a statement might have bordered on shrewish. But Hermione's mother smiled as she said it, and the look of loving amusement on her face was so clear that it was obvious she hadn't said such a thing to deride or demean him. She had simply stated the truth.

"Well, now, I can't deny that," Hermione's father said, and chuckled. "So that bit of impatience has gotten me a fine cast." He reached down and twitched aside the thin hospital blankets so she could see the cast that covered his lower right leg. "At least it wasn't the femur -- I would've been off it for several months, most likely. I'd have you sign it, but plaster isn't quite set."

"Oh, Dad," Hermione said, and although she really tried to inject some of the disapproval she thought she should be feeling into her tone, somehow she knew she failed miserably. Somehow it was impossible to be angry with her father for very long.

His brown eyes glinted up at her. "They wanted to keep me overnight, but I said that was foolishness. It's just a broken leg, after all. But your mother and I hoped you could stay the weekend, help around the house a bit until I get used to hobbling about on this thing. What do you say?"

Agreeing to such a proposition meant it would be impossible to see Severus any time in the near future, and a painful ache started somewhere beneath Hermione's breastbone. But she also knew she had no reason to decline -- at least, no reason she could use in this situation. Of course her parents knew very little of Severus Snape and his history in the wizarding world, but Hermione had the feeling they wouldn't be overly thrilled with the situation, for the mere fact that he was twenty years her senior and a former professor to boot. From somewhere she summoned a feeble little smile and replied, "Oh, of course. I'd be glad to help."

"We knew you would," her mother said, and from there launched into a brisk discussion of how they could set up the guest room on the ground floor of the house as her father's temporary sleeping quarters, since it would be quite some time before he would be able to manage the stairs.

Hermione tried to pay as close attention as she could, since she knew her mother disliked woolgathering on general principle. However, she couldn't help noticing the snow which had begun to drift past the window, and from there it was no great leap to wonder if that same snow fell on Yorkshire, and to think how much she would rather be there in the shabby, cozy warmth of Severus' cottage. Still, Hermione believed she nodded at the correct intervals, and her mother didn't appear to notice anything amiss.

The remainder of Hermione's afternoon was occupied with all the preparations for taking her father home, followed by the bustle of moving his things downstairs and the inevitable argument over whether to order Thai or Indian food for dinner, since by that point neither Hermione nor her mother wanted to set foot in the kitchen. Hermione managed to slip out for a bit after dinner, saying she needed to return to Rosedell to fetch a few things for her overnight stay. That was true enough, but after she packed her overnight bag she sent another Patronus to Yorkshire to let Severus know she would not be returning home until Sunday night at the very earliest. Her stay could stretch out from there; after all, it was just as easy to get to the Ministry from her parents' home in Highbury as it was from Rosedell. Easier, really -- she wouldn't even have to Apparate if she didn't want to, since there was a Tube station only a block away from Ministry headquarters.

By the time she lay down in her old childhood bed, Hermione felt wearier than she had any right to be. After all, she hadn't done so very much, merely helped to set up the guest room and rooted around in the garage for a piece of plywood to cover the front steps so her father wouldn't have to attempt to navigate them.

But she still felt bone tired, as if she had spent the whole day scouring the woods for Potions ingredients or working page after page of Arithmancy problems. Perhaps it was merely her disappointment at not seeing Severus catching up with her. Strange how she could miss him so dreadfully, ache to hear the deep, ironic drawl of his voice and feel his strong arms fold around her. Yes, she could probably steal a few hours on a weeknight to go visit him, but it wasn't the same as spending an entire Saturday afternoon in his presence.

Then perhaps you should just stay overnight when you do get a chance to see him, Hermione thought, and almost at once felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. Where on earth had that come from? She certainly wasn't the type to go jumping into bed with someone -- she and Ron had waited for their wedding night, even though the delay had made him almost crazy with frustration, and Hermione hadn't been much better. Then again, what was she saving herself for? The heat between her and Severus was real enough -- why not act upon it?

How about the simple reason that he's never shown any indication he intends the relationship to go in that direction any time soon? she asked herself. Well, that might be true, but perhaps he was merely holding back, unsure of how she would feel about such a thing so soon after Ron's death. And what did she know of Severus' history with these matters, anyway? He'd loved Lily obsessively -- had he let go of that obsession long enough to be with another woman, even on a purely physical level? Or was he even less experienced than she? This was such a novel thought Hermione paused for a moment to consider it. Certainly Severus seemed so self-assured, so dismissive of other people's faults, it seemed impossible he could be so inexperienced. Or was the ironic exterior merely his way of hiding what he must surely think of as a dark secret?

She couldn't be certain, and she didn't know whether she'd have the courage to ask him such a question. He certainly kisses well enough, she thought. More than well, actually. Fortescue once said "comparisons are odious," but it doesn't change the fact that I enjoy Severus' kisses far more than I ever did Ron's.

This realization seemed traitorous in the extreme, and Hermione rolled over in bed, hoping that by finding a more comfortable position she might be able to find the sleep which had so far eluded her. A glimmer outside the window caught her eye, faintly visible through the thin material of her curtains. She sat up and pushed the drapes aside, then caught her breath.

Standing outside in the backyard, the fresh snow reflecting its warm golden light, was a Patronus in the delicate shape of a doe. It lifted its fine head as Hermione stared down at it, but it did not move or attempt to approach the house. It merely stood there, watching her. Hermione raised one hand and pressed it against the icy window, trying to communicate some of her own longing through that one simple gesture.

For an endless, aching moment they both were still, Hermione staring down at the Patronus, the shimmering doe watching her with wide, golden eyes. Then it dipped its head ever so slightly and bounded away, clearing the high wall that enclosed the backyard as if it were nothing. Even after it had disappeared from sight, Hermione remained as she was, hand still flat against the cold window pane. Finally the chill seemed to penetrate her flesh, and she lifted her fingers and let the curtain fall back into place. She slid down beneath the covers once more, feeling impossibly warmed despite the little drafts that crept in around the window. Even when she closed her eyes she saw the doe watching her, a tangible reminder of Severus' love, its warm glow following her even into sleep and beyond.

***

Hermione needed to remember that glow, for she was unable to return to home before Monday morning came. As she had packed several sets of robes against such an eventuality, she went straight to the Ministry from her parents' house. She would have to return to Rosedell that night, however; she'd left enough food for Crookshanks to fend for himself, and he had the cat door in the kitchen so he could come and go, but she didn't want to risk the feline displeasure that would surely arise if she spent another night away.

Barely a quarter-hour had passed since she settled herself at her desk before Miles Cornish stuck his head in her door and said, "A word in my office, Hermione."

Although he sounded anything but upset or angry, she couldn't help feeling a leaden lump settle in her stomach. After all, one's superiors very rarely called someone into their office to praise them or offer words of encouragement. But she gathered together a reasonable facsimile of a cheery smile and said, "Of course, Mr. Cornish."

She followed him to his office, and was not encouraged when he shut the door behind them. He took a seat behind the desk and then said, "Do sit down, Hermione."

Since there was little else she could do, Hermione pulled out the chair a few inches and then sat, folding her hands in her lap and fixing her supervisor with what she hoped was an expression of enthusiastic but polite curiosity. "Yes, Mr. Cornish?"

With a sinking feeling in her midsection, she watched as he drew out the maroon-covered report she had prepared on the Malfoy investigation. He did not open it, however, but merely rested his elbows on top of it as he steepled his fingers under his chin. "Do you know what impressed me most about this report, Hermione?"

She shook her head.

"The fact that so little could be dressed up to look like so much." At that point he did pick up the slender hide-covered volume and open it, then leafed through the pages without actually looking at them. "Complete transcripts of your interviews with the victims. A map of the countryside around Malfoy Manor with all the attack sites called out and annotated with dates and types of injuries. Charts showing the accident rates among Muggles in the area, wildlife populations, and weather conditions. Everything, in fact, but any conclusive evidence that the Malfoys are connected to these attacks, or any indication that you gathered one piece of useful evidence."

With every word Hermione felt herself growing smaller and smaller. Oh, not really, but she did find herself shrinking down into her chair and wishing with each passing second that she could just cast an Invisibility charm or Disapparate straight out of Miles Cornish's office. Even as she had prepared the report she had known it was seriously lacking in substance, but she had told herself that surely her supervisor would be impressed with its thoroughness, its overall polish. But obviously Miles, mild though he might seem on the exterior, was not one to be fooled by fancy footwork.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Cornish. But I did my best - "

"I know," he said, and although his tone was gentle enough, Hermione could hear the steel beneath it. "At least, I know you thought you did. And truly, this is probably the most professional-looking report to ever cross my desk."

Hermione wished she could have taken some comfort from that bit of praise, but since she knew he had not been impressed by the report's outward excellence, she merely waited to hear what he would say next.

With the barest suggestion of a sigh, he closed the report and pushed it off to one side of his desk. "It appears you did everything but the most obvious. Tell me, Hermione, was there a particular reason why you didn't go interview the Malfoys themselves? Schoolgirl scruples still holding you back?"

"I - erm, that is, I didn't think -- " Hermione floundered. Well, of course she couldn't have gone to confront that Malfoys directly! How could Miles have even expected such a thing of her?

But it seemed that was exactly what he expected. "This is an official investigation, Hermione. You have the weight of the Ministry behind you. If the Malfoys try to give you any trouble - though I doubt they will -- you can call in a few Aurors to back you up." Although Miles had looked quite stern up to this point, his expression softened as he appeared to take in Hermione's worried air. "The War is over, Hermione. Surely you can't think you would be in any danger? The Malfoys have been model citizens of late, which is why these attacks drew this department's attention in the first place. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they'd be quite helpful in your investigation, especially if their assistance helped to clear their name."

Unless they really are behind it all, and they're trying desperately to cover it up, Hermione thought. A nasty, tight sensation began to grow somewhere deep in her stomach. Miles seemed a little too sanguine regarding the Malfoys' innocence. He didn't know them as she did - didn't know what they were capable of. Or was she guilty here as well - guilty of holding onto old memories and prejudices instead of giving the Malfoys a chance to prove their innocence?

"If you think so, Mr. Cornish," she said, and he shook his head.

"It's clear you don't agree with me, and of course that's your prerogative. But you will go back out to Malfoy Manor, and you will conduct a formal interview." From within his desk drawer he pulled out what looked like a shabby brass compact and set it down in front of her. "This two-way mirror connects to one here in the Auror department. Someone will always be on duty to answer your call, if necessary. I don't want you to think you're going into this completely without backup."

With some reluctance Hermione picked up the mirror. Despite its dubious protection, to say she was less than thrilled at having to face the Malfoys on her own was an understatement. If the worst happened, would an Auror even be able to come to her aid in time?

She knew, however, that Miles Cornish was not about to accept any further excuses. For whatever reason, he seemed to truly believe the Malfoys would meekly submit to her questioning. That would be nice, but Hermione did not hold out much hope things would go so smoothly. Telling Miles that the last time she had seen the interior of Malfoy Manor she had been held there against her will - not to mention tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange -- would most likely not help, either. Bellatrix was dead, and the Malfoys apparently reformed, or so they pretended.

Well, Bellatrix didn't mind four-to-one odds, so I suppose I shan't, either, Hermione reflected. Although I'd feel better doing this with a couple of Aurors in tow, or - even better - Severus. The thought of confronting the Malfoys with him at her side was immediately comforting, even though she knew it was also impossible. It was Severus' decision as to when and where he would reveal himself to the wizarding world...if he chose to do so at all. She would not force him to do such a thing merely because she feared confronting the Malfoys on her own.

As with all unpleasant tasks, the sooner this one was over with, the better. Hermione lifted her chin, tucked the two-way mirror away into her robes, and stood. "Well, I'd best be off, then," she said.

Miles gave her an approving nod. "That's the spirit! And remember to contact us at once if anything seems out of place."

You can count on that, she thought. Unnecessary heroics all too often lead to unnecessary corpses. One can't keep up the good fight if one is dead, after all.

But surely it wouldn't come to that.

Would it?

***

The weather was actually more promising in Wiltshire. Although a cold, gray air mass hovered over London, here in the country the clouds had broken up a bit, letting in some sun and revealing patches of deep, serene blue sky.

Hermione could take little comfort from the beauty of the day around her, however. After leaving Miles Cornish's office, she had gone to her own workspace to don her cloak and prepare herself for the trip to Malfoy Manor. The Ministry did not allow Apparition and Disapparition within its walls, and so she had had to take the lifts to street level and from there slip off into a quiet alleyway where she could depart the scene unnoticed. Her destination had been the fork in the road Severus had shown her several days ago, the one where a small trail wandered off to the left and eventually terminated (she supposed) at the Malfoy estate. Once she was actually standing at the fork and staring down the trail, however, doubt assailed her again. How could Miles have expected her to face down the Malfoys alone, unaided? Her forte was performing research and preparing reports - shouldn't an Auror have been handling this sort of duty?

But for whatever reason, she'd been sent here, and so she'd just have to make the best of it. Her gloved fingers curled around the two-way mirror in her robe pocket. Then Hermione took a deep breath of the frosty air - earning herself a ticklish little cough after doing so - and set off with as much resolution as she could muster.

It was difficult going. As far as she could tell, no one had come down this narrow little path for some time. No doubt the Malfoys used Apparition or brooms or the Floo network to come and go from their estate. Hermione trudged as best she could through the unpleasant mixture of snow and mud, and tried not to think about what it was doing to her boots. Perhaps she should have flown in by broom, even though she had always been an indifferent rider at best. She'd been more than relieved when she passed all her Apparition examinations and could travel in a manner she found far more simple and elegant. But even Apparition wouldn't have worked for her here - of course the Malfoys would have the place sealed up with anti-Apparition charms in addition to their complement of Muggle-repelling spells.

Those at least didn't seem to affect her; at last Hermione found herself in a largish clearing that fronted an elaborate set of wrought-iron gates with an "M" picked out in a motif of winding snakes.

Subtle, she thought, with an inward grin. But the Malfoys' ostentation was not at issue here - their bad taste was their own business. Those poor Muggles who had been victimized, however....

Hermione lifted her chin and marched over to the gates. They were locked, of course, but a simple Alohomora! released the lock, allowing her onto the estate property at last.

It was very quiet here. The small breeze she had felt as she slogged along the trail to her destination had disappeared. No birds sang, although Hermione caught a glimpse of shifting movement, white against white, out of the corner of her eye. She whirled, hand going to her wand where it was concealed in her robes, but the object in question turned out to be a white peacock, which shuffled along through the half-melted snow, looking dejected. Even though it was a pet of the Malfoys, Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the bird. Shouldn't it have been sheltered in a coop or aviary someplace inside, away from the cold?

But she didn't have time to worry about the peacock, for she was now closing in on the front entrance to the manor. Despite her warm cloak, Hermione shivered. The last time she had been here she had been tortured and thrown in the dungeon, half-certain she would meet her end in this forbidding house. At the time she hadn't been able to get a clear look at it, but even now, under the bright wintry sun, the building appeared dark and brooding, its pseudo-Gothic outlines calculated to inspire fear and awe.

Not a very cheery place, Hermione reflected. No wonder Draco turned out the way he did, growing up in a house like this.

While perhaps it would have be interesting to pause and ruminate on the topic of nature versus nurture and how many of Draco's character flaws arose from the environment in which he was raised rather than inherent defects in his personality, she knew she had a much more important task at hand. While she didn't want to gulp down any more of the chilly air - a coughing fit would be a rather ignominious way to announce her presence - Hermione made herself stand a little taller, shoulders back, head lifted, as if she had every right in the world to be here.

Then she reached out, lifted the knocker, and let it fall.