The Taking of Tea
Chapter 15: The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January run; and not think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full in the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and nothing that is.
Remus Lupin found himself mildly disappointed in Harry, who had always been intelligent. It was, he suspected, Harry’s guilt over Hermione’s disappearance that had dulled his senses, and cost them so much time before realizing where she might be. Then again, Remus reflected, that he hadn’t realized it earlier himself was equally disappointing. Even after Dumbledore’s murder, Remus had never given much thought to Severus Snape, having always considered him and unpleasant sot who didn’t deserve much attention, unlike James and Sirius, who’d always hated him intensely.
Snape was obviously still alive, as reasoned by his cockroach-like tenacity and his doubtless having been the brewer of Scrimgeour’s poison. And he wasn’t living at Spinner’s End, as the place had been turned upside down by aurors on several occasions. He was a likely candidate as Hermione’s prison guard, given his talent for restraint: aside from the favoritism most everyone showed their own house, and his rather unpleasant personality, Snape had never given any indication that he remained truly committed to Voldemort until the night he killed Dumbledore. His implacability guaranteed that he wouldn’t kill Hermione before Harry found her—Voldemort wanted a witness, no doubt—and he seemed too much of an esthetic to do anything else. That meant Hermione wasn’t with Lucius, who was too perverse, too hot-headed, and too closely watched by the Ministry to keep Hermione at Malfoy Manor. And Voldemort certainly wouldn’t keep him with her—the great dark lord would delegate that pesky duty to someone else. And who among his death eaters would know Hermione better than Snape… but where could they be?
“Remus,” Harry looked up from his desk when Lupin knocked on the door to his cramped office. “What is it? Any news? I’ve been sifting through this rubbish, which is so far useless,” he said, gesturing the pile of parchments in front of him. “Eyewitness testimonies from loonies who swear they saw Hermione disappear… with any number of odd captors, of course. Sit, please.” He gestured to a chair beside his desk, which Remus took.
“I’ve been thinking on where Hermione might be,” Remus began. “After our conversation the other day about Snape, I feel certain she’s with him, and probably somewhere that’s squarely in death eater territory.”
“Wherever Snape’s been hiding all this time,” Harry sighed, “is probably where he’s stashed Hermione. But it’s obviously somewhere heavily guarded.”
“We’ve been over the list of known death eater homes a thousand times,” Remus said. “But what about former death eater homes?”
“How do you mean?”
“Death eaters who’ve died, or been imprisoned, or abandoned their homes to go into hiding like Snape. Can we compile a list of their last known residences?”
It seemed like a relatively simple task, before they realized how many homes would be on the list, and how much searching it would require. They’d been into it for nearly six hours when Remus stood up from his chair.
“Evan Rosier,” he said, his voice hoarse with excitement. Harry looked up, desperate hope in his face. “He was killed by Aurors a few years ago, lived in his family’s ancestral home in Lyon.”
“Right…”
“He was a mate of Snape’s, Harry. They roomed together at Hogwarts.” Remus’ eyes returned to the page in front of him, “it says here that the house was abandoned and demolished. Are your people sure of that?”
“I don’t know,” Harry answered, “but I plan to find out.”
So it was that evening that Harry and Remus, accompanied by Tonks, Savage and Proudfoot, made their way to the supposedly former location of the Rosier home. After landing their brooms several yards off and casting concealment charms, they came upon a wide stretch of open field, littered with the rubble of a few stones.
“I smell a spell,” Tonks said. The rest of the company nodded in agreement.
With their combined efforts, revealing the Rosier estate was relatively easy; Snape’s forte had always been potions, despite the years of his rumored desire for the Defense Against Dark Arts position.
The house was in surprisingly good condition, especially considering the squalor that was Spinner’s End. The front garden held sculpted topiaries and various herbs separated into neat, square plots. The front of the house was brick and tudor, with a double-door entrance painted yellow. Opening it with an Alohamora, the group made their way inside.
“Savage, Proudfoot, search the upstairs, Harry and Tonks, search this floor. I’ll go down,” Remus said, gesturing to a staircase just past the foyer.
“No, I’ll go down with you,” Harry whispered, his eyes darting about the quiet house. Remus shook his head.
“You’re too addled, Harry. I don’t want you doing anything…anything rash. If we should find,” He paused, unsure how to finish the terrible thought of finding Hermione dead.
“Fine,” Harry said quickly, apparently understanding, “just be careful.”
It was only Hermione’s room that was warded, giving Snape warning of Remus’ approach. By the time he’d managed to open the door Snape was upon him, wand drawn.
“Lupin,” Snape drawled, his voice acid. “How very unpleasant to see you. No full moon tonight, then?”
Remus turned and pointed his wand at Snape, both men assuming a dueling stance.
“No. And as much as I’d enjoy tearing into your cowardly hide, let’s make this simple, Snape. You’re surrounded—four more aurors are in the house with me. Put down your wand.”
“And go merrily along to Azkaban? I’d rather not,” Snape said, then, “Sectumsempra!” In a clear voice, cutting a slash across Remus’ chest with a quick wave of his wand. Remus began to call “stupefy” and Snape responded quickly with a defensive charm. “Is that all, Lupin? Honestly, for a werewolf you’re a pathetically soft touch,” he took a deep breath, “Av—”
“Avada Kedavra!” Remus responded, finishing the killing curse before Snape could. A green light shot forth like a firework, and Remus watched his old classmate fall to the floor with a thump, a hollow noise that resounded oddly in his chest. Shaking his head, he opened the unwarded door.
“Remus!” Hermione cried, jumping up from the bed. “Oh, thank God!” She wrapped her arms tight around him and he embraced her in return, looking about the little room while he did. He felt his forehead wrinkle in surprise, not expecting Snape to keep his captive in such civilized quarters. “Oh, Remus,” Hermione said, pulling away bloody and touching the wide gash across his chest. “You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you to St. Mungo’s.”
“Hermione,”
“What happened? Was it Snape? It looks like,”
“Hermione, Snape’s dead.” He watched her mouth turn into a deep frown. “You,”
“I killed him, yes. I’m sorry. He gave me no choice.”
“Of course he didn’t,” she said quickly, her voice gone soft, “of course he didn’t. Come on, now. We’ve got to get you out of here. I might,” she paused, as if to catch her breath, “I think I could heal that with some dittany, if you’d prefer. I’ve got some in my storeroom.”
A/N: Poor Snape… I didn’t want to do it, honest! Poem cribbed from Wallace Stevens.