Chapter Text
July 3rd
Swathed from toe to throat in stiff black, like an ink blot on the smudged, grey landscape of the Highlands, Severus impassively surveyed the house. He stood on the outside of the surrounding low stone wall, and every few seconds a drop of very red blood trembled at the tip of his thumb before falling into the grass by his left shoe. He had not gone into the house since the Christmas break, nor did he intend to now.
His intentions had been all swift and efficient, and yet he had been standing just outside the wall for a number of minutes. He’d been mildly thrown by his trip to number 8 Heathgate, London. He had intended to reinforce the wards he'd set the year before, sealing her home before the sun rose, and then begin work on his house in the Highlands after. The Granger family home, however, had been empty – still, cold, and picturesque except for the grotesque, blue genitalia someone had spray painted onto the plastic ‘For Sale’ sign staked into the front lawn.
He was not dismayed to have found the home empty – it saved him the effort of casting the wards, and it was far, far better for her parents to have been moved somewhere else entirely than to attempt to protect their current known residence. He assumed Hermione had done something sensible. But it took him a quiet moment to process and accept not knowing what she had done. He felt, for a brief second, as if the pendant tucked under his collar, still unused, tingled against his skin.
He would not contact her again, except for in the most pressing circumstances, unless she decided to use the method of communication first. He had left her the pendant as a choice, an option without obligation. When he'd returned to the castle for the first time after the Dark Lord took the Ministry, the pendant had been gone from his drawer. So he assumed she had at least had it. Not a wise idea to dwell on what her lack of contact might mean for her opinion of him. He accepted responsibility for the hurt he would feel at losing her respect and trust. Each time they had proceeded with an escalation of their relationship, he had taken the time to accept that a potential and likely outcome for him would be an escalating amount of hurt.
Severus raised his arms, briefly pressing his hands together, the cut along his left palm pulsing more urgently, before holding them up in front of his nose, his palms facing outwards. He was not well practiced in blood magic – no one but niche professors and perhaps the Dark Lord were nowadays – but he had done his research and was confident. He trusted the wards he already had in place to hold out against all but the most powerful magic, but still he wanted them stronger, and he did not anticipate being back here until the war was concluded one way or the other.
Expanding upon his knowledge of ward casting had grown from a necessary interest to an almost manic obsession over the past few months. It was a way to while away any spare time he found himself with. It felt productive while serving the dual purpose of distracting him from less welcome thoughts. He'd almost read everything in the entire Hogwarts library, and was expecting a delivery from the Wizarding School in Denmark – the historical and current hub for ward research – before the week was out. He doubted he would have time to read it all with the school term encroaching.
Easily, he erected a barrier in his mind against the tangible presence of her magic – he was confident, but not so sure that he would risk blundering horrifically and reaching unconsciously across the connection towards her – and focused his attention. He began to chant in a fixed, monotonous tone that first jarred with and then blurred into the background of the sound of waking birds.
“Cuiusdam pellem huic aedificio consue, ut omnes arcet, qui ingredi conentur, praeter paucos electos quos hic magus tutela dignos iudicaverit."
"Hi circuli hunc magum admittent, magum cui nomen est Harry James Potter, magum cui nomen est Ronald Bilius Weasley, et magam cui nomen est Hermione Jean Granger.”
One by one, Severus allowed a clear, insignificant memory of Weasley, Potter, and Hermione to surface in his mind. The air surrounding the house shimmered almost imperceptibly as he lost each memory to the wards. He continued to chant, unperturbed by the unusual feeling of a small, blank space forming in his mind where the memories used to sit.
“Ceteris omnibus, sit invisum. Ceteris omnibus, sit intangibile. Ceteris omnibus, sit inexpugnabile. Ceteris omnibus, sit sepulcrum.”
As he finished speaking, the blood still leaking out of his palm was caught up and began to spread outwards through the air surrounding his hands, as if diffused across a bubble of water. His hand pulsed steadily, and then very painfully, until the colour abruptly vanished with a shiver, and the stone wall, the garden, and the house all disappeared. There was only the swamp-like grass on which he stood, and then the mountains in the distance.
Severus reached his arm out until his fingertips passed through the wards, brushing up against invisible, rough stone. He stared at the point where his fingers disconcertingly disappeared, unblinking. He would go from here straight to Hogwarts, for the first time since he had taken over the Headmaster's office a week prior. Only a week, and yet it had felt like much longer, for he had spent that time lurking in Spinners End, watching the Daily Prophet collapse under the weight of the Dark Lord's propaganda.
He’d had a fairly quiet summer. He had not taken part in most of the muggle attacks, the slow, burgeoning process of infiltrating the Ministry, or the policing of Diagon Alley. The Dark Lord, he suspected, did not want his name to crop up, formally or informally, throughout the wizarding public sphere. He wanted Severus inserted quietly but firmly onto the throne at Hogwarts without provoking such a strong reaction as an uprising, or worse.
Severus had been grateful for it, even if the walls of Spinners End had begun to feel like an airless prison. He had soundproofed his bedroom against Wormtail, and accepted the stuck restlessness in his body for the lucky compromise that it was.
He trailed his middle finger along the wall an inch, feeling the rough tips of his fingers catch and grate against the stone. Albus’ portrait had been in place, but empty, when Severus had commandeered the Headmaster's office. Minerva had not been in residence either. He doubted either of these reliefs would be the case any longer.
He pressed his fingers more solidly against the wall, and then curled them into a fist. His hand disappeared up to his wrist. He was not so sure that he liked the Highlands without the snow. He retracted his hand and squinted at the empty space where the house should have been. Satisfied, though unexpectedly unsettled, he turned and disapparated.