The man in black had taken on a protective stance before his bride, though he had slightly adjusted his posture, his shoulders straightening. It was a robotic, nearly subconscious motion in reaction to the woman before them.
The corners of her thin lips were twisted downwards and Hermione was certain this was the most miserable looking woman she had ever met. There was sadness etched into every inch of her face, wrinkles from decades of scowling marred her alabaster skin. Her skin was stretched tight across sharp cheekbones and a hawk-like nose.
Snape smirked, his eyes shifting to his wife before turning back on the woman before them. "Mother," he said coldly, offering her a polite bow. "I had no intention of visiting."
Mother. It made too much sense. Hermione could only imagine the witch was as magically gifted as her offspring. The idle wave of her fingers toward Snape's spell had demonstrated as much.
The older woman ignored his quip, her glare turning on her daughter. "Sterope," she said stiffly. "Still wasting your brilliance on catching bad men, I see."
Hermione could tell the Auror was trying to keep her composure as she breathed slowly. She reached out to take hold of her husband's hand, squeezing it lightly. The eagle-eyed woman missed nothing as her eyes landed on Hermione. They narrowed on the ring on her finger, though her features remained impassive. Nothing betrayed her thoughts. With the jerk of her head toward the house, she spun on her heel, her long skirt billowing around her ankles in the wind.
Harry caught up to his friend and shook his head. "You owe me a huge, massive explanation," he whispered into her ear, looking around at the people around him. "Why do I get the feeling that we're walking into a hornet's nest?"
Before she could answer, their former teacher squeezed her fingers and sighed. "The inhabitants of Prince Manor make the Malfoy family look like Cornish pixies, Mr Potter," he swallowed thickly, nausea cutting through him like a blade. "I had hoped you would never have to meet." He said, this time to his new wife. His voice was small, worry chasing through his tone. "Eileen Prince is the most hateful woman I have ever known."
Prince Manor was an old Georgian-style building, ancient dark brick and tall mullioned windows sat on the rectangular house. It was a tall, austere house that loomed upon them, there in the centre of the empty field. There was nothing else for miles in every direction. The house was unplottable and surrounded by layers and layers of thick wards that itched across their skin as they got closer.
It had been seized by the Ministry of Magic in the early 1960s, hence the acquisition of other homes across the country. Why it was currently inhabited remained a bit of a mystery, according to Harry.
Hermione had no doubt her new law-savvy friend might have had something to do with it.
The house's matron waved them into the entrance and glided past them, disappearing down the corridor. Snape shivered, his hold on the witch by his side a vice grip. "The ancestral Prince home," he murmured, gesturing to the dark halls lined with moving portraits of witches and wizards in varying garb. The passing of time seen between each one. The last two were of nearly identical women. The last one being Eileen Prince. The one before her must have been her mother. There was an empty space next to it, large enough for another portrait. "Sterope's portrait will go there when she inherits the house. The eldest inherits the vaults, the woman inherits the house. Mother had always wished for a daughter."
Hermione's mouth dried. "That's the only reason there are two of you, isn't it?"
Snape dipped his head, pointing to the other wall. His own face stared back at them, painted oil on canvas, his brow perfectly arched. He seemed younger there, by fifteen years, at the very least. "I became the Prince patron at 20 when my grandfather died. Six years later, Sterope had fought the legal claims on the house and our mother returned here with her mother. They commissioned my portrait the same year." He sneered at the painting, steering her away, though her eyes were stuck on it.
