Chapters 151-160

A Bridge between Life and Death

Hermione resurfaced from her research only late in the afternoon.

The stack of essays in front of Severus had dwindled to just three scrolls, while the tower of books on her desk seemed to have grown exponentially.

Hermione looked tired, her eyes bruised by purple smudges. But Severus didn’t have the heart to tell her off.

‘Those legends of the Deathly Hallows,’ Hermione reiterated. ‘I keep thinking there’s something I’m missing. You know, like those classroom games—when you send a student outside, then you hide a ring and call the student back to search for the ring, and her best friend is wearing the ring on her finger…As if there’s something in plain view, and I’m only too dense to notice.’

He nodded and refrained from uttering a snide, impatient comment. She was doing her best. Even if he didn’t believe that there was anything to be found, she only wanted to help. He pinched the bridge of his nose. She wanted to help him. When was the last time someone had wanted to help him—before she had decided to invade his life in all her stubbornness?

‘Obviously the “bridge” the Peverells built must have been something else, and not a bridge at all. The point is not to cross the River of Death after all, but to follow it down to the Ninth Gate, to pass through it, and beyond the Veil. So maybe it’s just a metaphor for saying that they were Necromancers.’ She fell silent and proceeded to chew on her lower lip as if it were one of those intolerable bubble gums. ‘And that “bridge” is not present in all versions of the legend. I’ve spent most of the week tracing the origins of the Deathly Hallows myth. There seem to be two “original” versions. Or at least they are the oldest ones I can track. One is the “bridge” story. The other is the “Veil” story, which basically says “they drew back the Veil and entered the Realm of Death”.’

He had to admit to feeling something akin to respect for her. Yes, indeed: respect. For her relentless, methodical pursuit of knowledge in the face of despair.

Despair. Where had that thought come from? He cupped his forehead in his palm to avoid looking at her. He had woken more than once lately to find her clutching him as if he were the only thing that kept her afloat in the deep, dark sea of night. When it happened the first time, with her attached to him like a limpet, his nightshirt wet with her tears, his first impulse had been to wake her and scold her. But something had kept him from rousing her and ranting at her.

The very same feeling that was crushing his heart now and throwing it wide open, all at the same time. How was it possible to feel such pain and such joy within one breath? It was quite ridiculous.

She loved him. He loved her.

And because he was Severus Snape, this story could not possibly have a happy ending.

‘…they must have done something. Something that allowed them to get in and back out,’ Hermione was saying. ‘But the only thing that was recorded were those blasted legends. Not even the Flamel manuscripts have much more than that. So I’m trying to pay close attention to details.’ She thumped on the back of an old book with the palm of her hand. ‘Like the different versions of that legend.’

He nodded. That made sense. ‘So there are two basic versions of the story?’ he asked.

‘Yes! And I think the one with the Veil is the older version, but I can’t prove it. Draw back the Veil. Open the Gate. How do you do that? How do you keep veils, curtains, or gates open?’

‘Doorstops? Hooks?’

‘And if you don’t have that? Think on a metaphorical, on a magical level—what would you use?’

‘My wand,’ he replied without thinking.

‘Your wand…’ A dreamy expression suffused Hermione’s warm brown eyes. ‘Of course. To draw back the curtain, to prop open the Gate, to build a bridge between Life and Death. Wands. A connection. A connection between wands. And between Life and Death.

‘There was a connection between the wands of Harry and Voldemort. They shared their core. But that was all here, in the living world. Is there a spell that would extend the connection between here and there, between Life and Death?’

oooOooo

‘Your Minister,’ the black-robed Muggle inquired. ‘He doesn’t look well.’

Draco found it difficult not to flinch under the fixed, beady-eyed man’s stare. Percy had warned him of those Muggles, had complained how uncomfortable they made him. He ought to have listened. If they made a card-carrying Muggle-lover like Weasley twitchy, it was no wonder that he felt like hiding under his desk.

He glanced at Kingsley. The Minister did appear less than healthy. But the same was true for most Order members right now. Even Umbridge looked a little worse for wear.

She was on stage now, and there was surprisingly little spring to her step. Her gaze flickered among the audience as she reeled off a message of goodwill and brotherhood among wizards and Muggles that had been rehearsed too often to sound real.

Draco noticed that the Muggle next to him was still watching the Minister, as Kingsley staggered stiffly to his seat. When the man turned back to Draco, his expression was almost fearful.

‘Do you believe in the resurrection of the body? Or in the conjuring of bones?’ the Muggle asked in a soft voice.

‘What?! No, of course not,’ Draco exclaimed, shocked. ‘Why should I?’

But at that moment Umbridge finished her speech. Whatever else the man might have said was drowned by a wave of polite applause. Then Umbridge gestured to Draco to join her at the front, and he had no further opportunity to talk to the strange Muggle.