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Chapter Text

The room was plain and sparsely furnished. There was medium sized wooden table with one wooden chair that tended to hurt the sitter’s back just as much as its appearance predicted. The table was bare except for a white paper bag and a quill hovering over a parchment scroll, steadily scratching across it and occasionally refreshing itself in a nearby inkwell. A young woman sat on the uncomfortable chair, chewing on something and twisting a finger through a dark brown curl. She was wearing fitted black jeans, red high-tops and a t-shirt with a beautiful unicorn proclaiming “Stab the Patriarchy” in glittery purple script. A dark blue robe was tossed casually over the back of the chair, promising to be very crumpled once it was retrieved.

It was six thirty in the evening and Hermione Granger was halfway through her third onion bhaji and the most excruciatingly humiliating experience of her twenty-six years.

So, you’re telling us removing the Mudblood does nothing? The voice Hermione heard was tinged with irritation and frustration. It wasn’t a particularly friendly sounding voice but it wasn’t cartoonishly evil either.

Hermione took another savage bite of her dinner as she listened, the Dicotoquill steadily noting the conversation on the parchment lying next to her left elbow.

What I’m telling you is my calculations show her removal has no effect on the particular events you are interested in. The second voice was patient, as if they were explaining a difficult problem to a child; such as the dangers of having five chocolate biscuits before dinner, or why burying five pence won’t eventually sprout a money tree. The second voice sounded a little tired.

But why not? Our research suggested without her, Potter would never had succeeded. The first voice was back again, the tinges of irritation and frustration had grown stronger.

It was the role she played that was important, not her as an individual. The second voice was still patient, but it also sounded a little patronising,

You see, the unknown patiently patronising voice continued to explain, in these thirty-six iterations of the formula she is replaced by this individual...Let’s see, Luna Lovegood. In these twenty it was..hmmm...a woman called Cho Chang and Parvati Patil in at least eight. The variable is always present in the equation. The individual that fulfils that variable is almost irrelevant.

Hermione, who had always suffered from Imposter Syndrome, felt ill. And she didn’t think the sudden sinking feeling in her stomach was from the takeaway.

Irrelevant. Apparently she’d been irrelevant.

That was a cheery thought.

In her career as an Unspeakable to this point, Hermione had worked hundreds of cases. There was always someone wanting to play with time, whether it was from grief, greed or even curiosity. There was no shortage of investigations into the illegal use of Time Turners.

About two years ago the department had begun to see a trend in individuals trying to go back further and further; days instead of hours, weeks instead of days, months instead of weeks. All these attempts had been linked to a group of extremists whose ideology aligned with the Death Eaters of the second War. They called themselves The Eight. No one was really altogether sure why, as there was more than eight of them, but it did make them easy to remember.

Time travel had previously been restricted to the type of device Hermione had been gifted while at Hogwarts. She grimaced as she remember the expressions of confusion as she’d discussed the device with her department colleagues. No other teenager, they had told her after her confession, that had got their hands on a Time Turner had ever used its powers to study more.

“That’s our favourite swot in action” Declan had said teasingly. Everyone had laughed. Hermione had laughed as well, but wasn’t it telling she was now an adult and people were still making fun of her commitment to academics? Her mother had once soothingly told her much younger self that the children her own age “just didn’t get her” and when she grew up she’d “find her people”.

Hermione liked to think she was pretty grown up now, but she was yet to find “her people”. Maybe all her people were eighty years old, or in another country, or dead. The insecure voice at the back of her head liked to posit the idea—mostly at three o’clock in the morning when she was alone in bed—that the reason she hadn’t found “her people” was that they didn’t actually exist and she would always feel awkward and out of step with everyone. She hadn’t realised how much she’d coasted at school; unconsciously (consciously?) drafting on Harry and Ron’s friendship slipstream, until she’d tried making friends as an adult.

In any case, the older Time Turner devices worked due to the Hour Reversal spell contained within them. The device was shaped like an hourglass for aesthetics and familiarity. It didn’t matter what it looked like, so long as the spell inside could be could be activated. There were virtually none left in circulation outside the Time Room these days. Most Time Turners were destroyed during the Fantastical Department of Mysteries Fuck-up of 1996 (Hermione only called it that in her head, it was still too raw for Harry to joke about, despite the intervening years since Sirius’s death).

Nevertheless, research into time travel had continued, but exclusively within the Department of Mysteries. This meant there were less departmental resources wasted by wizards who popped back an hour to remind their past self to do something, who then accidentally screwed their time-line when they would inevitably give their younger selves a heart attack, followed by immediate panic and a second attempt to reverse time so they could be there to assist their older self in applying resuscitation spells to their rapidly expiring past self. Hermione preferred those cases to the second most common issue, which was delicately removing enormous plugs people had been intent on going back in time to insert into themselves.

The department had been trialing a particular project on an altered Time Turner design. They’d played on the hourglass idea and impregnated tiny crystals with the Hour Reversal spell, then placed these inside another device where they could be activated simultaneously. As a running joke that soon became permanent, they referred to it as Time Sand. The first attempt had been a success when an Unspeakable had safely travelled back three hours. She took the opportunity to eat all the chocolate digestives in the staff canteen before the mid-morning rush, this both proving the device was a success and also irritating half her colleagues. She’d returned to the present with a bellyache but a sense of self-satisfaction that more than made up for the discomfort.

The small time hops of a few hours or more were relatively safe, with test subjects returning to the present with nothing more than digestive discomfort and a sinus headache. However as the department attempted more audacious leaps of time, it became more dangerous. The first attempt to travel back one month resulted in a splinch where one half of the volunteer travelled to the past, and one half remained in the present. This immediately reduced the number of additional volunteers interested in trialing the device to zero. So instead of people, future experiments to test the device involved attempting to send back a variety of objects that didn’t appear to mind if they inexplicably lost half of themselves along the way.

No one outside the department should have had any idea about the device.

No one should have.

But they did.

The Eight had managed to pay off a former Unspeakable. A wizard who’d left the Ministry after a reasonably distinguished career but then, due to a large number of bad habits, had ended up in a dire financial position. He sold the knowledge he’d obtained from the Time room to the The Eight. They’d used this knowledge to build a device and fill it with Time Sand they’d purchased from another disgruntled source. They had the designs they required to replicate the device, and they’d bought enough Sand to travel back thirty years. And at this point was where Hermione’s team had discovered exactly why The Eight wanted to go back so far.

It had generally been believed that time was immutable, as Hermione had experienced during her use of a Time Turner at Hogwarts, when she and Harry had rescued Sirius and Buckbeak. But research undertaken in the Time Room at the Department of Mysteries had altered this thinking. Time was certainly not altogether mutable, however you could only change some things, but not others. It was figuring out what could be changed that was the real kicker.

The Eight had also happened upon the immutable yet mutable theory. It could have been a leak from the Ministry, or just good deductive reasoning. Either way, The Eight had brought in an Arithmantic expert to run formulas against numerous scenarios. Most of these scenario calculations had been picked up by various eavesdropping spells cast by Hermione’s commanding officer Eurydice and her team in the locations frequented by the group’s members. Hermione and her colleagues had been assigned to a roster system of monitoring the conversations, to make sure they caught critical information.

Firstly, The Eight had ruled out attempting to go back and kill Harry Potter. Once Harry was born it seemed that time had decided he would live.

Secondly, The Eight ruled out killing his parents before Lily was pregnant. The prophecy was immutable, and if Harry was never born, another child simply filled his place. Neville Longbottom appeared to feature strongly in the calculations and even Ron Weasley at one point. That child, whoever they were, ended up being likely to duel and kill Voldemort.

The next in line of hypothetical scenarios was killing Dumbledore before Harry attended school. This again was shown to be was largely pointless as Minerva or another Professor, often Filius, filled the place in the timeline.

To her indignant surprise there had been an idea floated to go back and kill one of the other members of the trio. Hilariously, Ron’s role as loyal sidekick and best friend turned out to be equally interchangeable as Harry himself, with a variety of students able to step into the role if Ron never made it onto the Hogwarts train to meet Harry. Hermione had felt a level of smugness about this until today, where the group had turned their focus on her.

Hermione, The Eight decided, had played a strong role in keeping Harry alive and on task. Without her presence in the trio, The Eight predicted Harry would fail to destroy the horcruxes and therefore the Dark Lord would not be truly killed. To her secret chagrin, as she was listening to the voice carefully explaining to the frustrated Death Eater wannabe, the calculations quickly identified she was also easily replaced. It was all a bit humbling to tell the truth.

Talk about blows to the ego, Hermione sighed.

She popped the last piece of crispy bhaji into her mouth and turned her attention back to the voices. The irritated voice, which Hermione knew was actually one her targets, a wizard called Serge, began talking again to the second voice, the Arithmantic expert.

I’m beginning to think you’ve wasted a whole lot of our money, Serge said. He definitely sounded more angry than irritated now.

Actually, countered the expert smoothly, you’re about to tell me I was worth every Knut.

There was a brief moment of silence, which Hermione’s mind filled with an image of a sullen Serge, arms crossed, starting daggers at the expert. She shifted uncomfortably as the chair was really hurting her back. She couldn’t even cast a Cushioning Charm as it may effect the Eavesdropping Spell. She settled for a slight back arch and a neck roll.

Go on then, a petulant Serge demanded.

If you remove one person before the death of the Potters, this timeline is disrupted irrefutably, explained the expert. See here, in all the scenarios I’ve calculated, the events are quite different.

I don’t really understand....Serge’s voice became indistinct and Hermione strained to hear the voices.

Hermione paled when she listened to the calm voice carefully explaining to Serge the benefits of killing Severus Snape.

The expert explained the most likely outcome of this choice. In all of the scenarios where Snape was eradicated the Order was decimated early, with Remus Lupin being the first causality, and Mad-Eye and Molly Weasley falling soon after. Bellatrix killed Dumbledore at the Astronomy Tower and was given the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts. Hogwarts became a recruiting group for Death Eaters, thus swelling their ranks.

The rest of the Order were lost when they attempted to move Harry on his seventeenth birthday. Without the polyjuice idea that Snape planted on Mundungus Fletcher, the group was easy pickings. Harry only survived due to a secret portkey made by Hermione (or whomever was filling the “brainy sidekick” position in that particular timeline).

Ron (or Ron-lite aka Dean or Sean or even Draco in one very strange series of calculations) still left Harry and Hermione while on the run but unlike in the current timeline he never returned, and, unable to destroy the locket, depression and anxiety hampered Hermione (or “The interchangeable Smart One of the Trio”) and Harry’s ability to locate the other horcruxes.

Harry still felled Voldemort during the final battle but not without devastating loss on ‘the side of light’ and only Voldemort’s body was destroyed. Bellatrix, alive as Molly was no longer around to best her in a duel, was perfectly placed to move towards another resurrection of her beloved master.

Hermione rubbed her eyes after a very pleased sounding Serge and a much relieved expert finished their conversation and parted ways.

“Alright, checking in girl,” said Sera as she entered the room with a mind boggling large coffee.

Hermione blinked in surprise. Her shift was already over. There was a lot to update her superiors on.

“Sera, we need to brief in with Eurydice. The Eight have picked their target,” Hermione said, gathering up the parchment with the transcripts.

She put the dictoquill to sleep. She didn’t really like using it, but there was no other option.

When Hermione was initially rostered on interception duties she excitedly brought in her laptop. But the bloody Time Room was a pain in the arse, and she’d watched in horror as during her first shift her beautiful Lenovo laptop transformed, with an apologetic pop, into a card reader. She’d sighed. It was the last Muggle electronic item she’d taken into the Department.

“Was it Sirius? I have him in the pool,” Sera asked excitedly.

“No,” said Hermione, who’d drawn in the office sweep, of all the shitty luck, Mundungus Fletcher.

“Please tell me it isn’t Nymphadora,” Sera complained, “Declan will be insufferable.”

“Nope,” said Hermione, “it’s Severus Snape,”

“Huh,” said Sera thoughtfully. “It actually makes a lot of sense. Okay, let’s go brief up. Eurydice will probably want to go to resolution on them now. No more boring sitting here monitoring conversations!”

“I doubt it,” said Hermione. “We still don’t know when they want to do it.”

“Oh bugger,” said a crestfallen Sera. “Oh,” she brightened suddenly seeing the grease spotted bag on the table, “got any bhajis left?”

Chapter Text

Hermione clutched her wand tighter, knuckles whitened slightly and chewed fingernails tucked up against her palm. She could hear the breathing, even and slow, of the two witches behind her who were building an intricate ward. She looked across the doorway to her superior Eurydice Dawn, who nodded and held up three fingers silently.

Enter in three.... Hermione heard Eurydice‘s voice echo inside her head. She involuntarily screwed up her face at the heavy pressing feeling in her temple.

Bloody Legilimency.

She nodded at the woman to show her understanding of the instruction.

She took a deep breath.

Three.

Two.

One.

She stood to the side as a flick of Eurydice’s wrist ripped the door from the jamb, sending it splintering into the proceeding wall.

“Department of Mysteries, desist all current activities immediately!” Hermione ordered as she entered the room. Her announcement was quite unnecessary as the Imobilus spell she cast was already rolling out before her across the room like a wave.

Her targets always desisted activities, but this was as they were frozen before they could blink. It was never voluntary. The freezing or the desisting. She wasn’t sure why procedures still insisted she made that statement upon a room breach, but they did, so she did.

The three wizards inside the room were immobilised where they stood, hunched over a partially concealed contraption sitting in the middle of a bed. Eurydice followed Hermione, and a twist of her wand encircled the hands of the men behind their backs. Hermione walked over to the bed, peered closely at the object and clucked her tongue.

“We’ve got a device, it looks complicated, very complicated,” Hermione murmured as she looked over the glass and metal.

“Would it have worked?” Eurydice asked as she cast revealing spells over the restrained trio.

Hermione frowned. “Hard to say, there’s a lot of sand in there, but I won’t be able to confirm until I get it back to the room.”

“Fine. I’ll wrap up these idiots and we’ll get it tagged and remove it,” said Eurydice quickly. “Come on, this room is completely creeping me out.”

“You’re kidding right? It’s a dreamfest,” joked Hermione as she gestured towards the grimy window of the room. The sign proclaiming the White Wyvern could just be made out through the smeared glass.

“Definite first date material,” agreed Eurydice as she made her final sweep of the room. “All right, all clear, let’s finish up.”

“I’m going to encase the device in a stasis bubble before I move it,” Hermione commented as she looked at the device from another angle. “It looks a bit dicey.”

“Better safe than sorry with it,” her superior said nodding. “I don’t want a baby head.”

Hermione laughed and turned to Eurydice. Before she could say anything there was a slight crackling fizz and she looked in horror at the wizard closest to her. His hands were now free and he briefly waggled his fingers mockingly; the ring on his left hand now blackened.

Oh fuck, thought Hermione despairingly. He’d had a latent counter-spell imbued in the ring and had obviously activated it. She’d missed it, and so had Eurydice. And now they were toast.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion after that. She saw the wizard lunge for the device, she heard Eurydice shout and then uncharacteristically verbalise a stunning spell. Hermione ducked down one side of the bed and cast the strongest shield charm she could.

Everything went very purple.

Then very white.

Then very painful like a turning vice.

Then very nothing.

*

Hermione opened her eyes and groaned. She felt terrible. Her head throbbed, her body ached and she felt like throwing up. She closed her eyes again and tried to will the room to stop spinning.

After a few minutes she felt well enough to re-attempt the previously impossible ‘raising the eyelids’ experiment. This time there was an initial complaint from her stomach that settled quickly and her breakfast stayed internal.

“Eurydice?” Hermione asked tentatively, as she looked around. The room was empty except for a neatly cauterised arm and most of a leg that lay about two feet from her. Hermione eyed these with a degree of consternation as she slowly levered herself upright. Her stomach immediately re-submitted it’s formal complaint, with supporting statements tendered by her limbs and temples. Her brain overruled all of these grievances and persisted with its movement until everything grudgingly acquiesced.

The device was still on the bed, smoking slightly with a large crack running through one of the glass orbs. Hermione cast a shield charm over on it and looked around.

The room was both familiar and unfamiliar. She could still see the blurry outline of the pub’s sign through the grimy window and the saggy bed dipped in exactly the same way it had when she’d stood over it examining the device. But the rug covering the worn floorboards was a deep, dark red, not the stained checkered blue and grey it had been previously. And the curtains were now green, instead of non-existent.

Hermione frowned.

Well, this sucks, she thought.

She turned her attention to the arm and leg, which on closer inspection did not appear to belong to Eurydice. Unless, of course, her commander had suddenly become impressively muscular overnight. Hermione, before she could change her mind, put the parts under stasis, shrunk them and transferred them to an evidence bag. She repeated this on the smoking cluster of metal and glass on the bed. The sand inside was substantial, but was expected. The group had wanted to go back almost thirty years to kill Snape after all.

Surprisingly, Snape was apparently not required to live long enough pass the prophecy onto Voldemort. The expert hired by The Eight had assessed there was a number of ways in which it was discovered if Snape was no longer a variable in the calculations. Most frequently occurring scenarios were the ones where Lucius Malfoy bribed a Department of Mysteries employee (why the hell all her colleagues were so bloody bribeable Hermione had no idea but Eurydice had blown a gasket at it and requested a formal review). There was another line of events where Peter Pettigrew found out the prophecy via his the Order connections and blabbed. Surprisingly, Snape was not even required to be there for the moment that irreversibly changed his own life.

Surveillance and interception of The Eight indicated that the members had decided to remove Snape sometime during in his seventh year at Hogwarts. Only partial parts of these conversations were caught. But there was some role Snape played in that particular year that The Eight had decided was important enough that they appeared fearful of disrupting it.

Eurydice’s team tried to map out what this could be, but their efforts failed to identify anything that was deemed that critical. Apparently he was in the infirmary for almost an entire month at one stage of the year, but with nothing indicating the cause. There were virtually no records of Snape’s activities during that year. It was as if he barely existed during that time. No academic awards, no groups, no societies...nothing. And their operation was so compartmentalised none of the investigators could risk reaching out to past colleagues of Snape or even classmates to gain more insight.

Hermione actually thought she’d be dropped from the investigation due to her own personal connection with Snape. But he’d taught for so long at Hogwarts that almost everyone had some connection to him. Yet no one seemed to know anything about his school years. It was decidedly awkward and also, Hermione thought, a little sad.

It was a strange feeling for Hermione, thinking about Snape‘s life. He’d been killed at the end of the war, and now he was going to be killed at the start. Either way seemed cruel. He either died before discovering whether his life’s sacrifice was worth it, or died before he’d even begun. People only seemed to have any interest in him at all after he’d been killed. Apparently a dead Snape was far more interesting, charismatic and likeable than a living one.

Sucks to be him, she decided a little less than charitably at the time.

Hermione’s attention was brought back to the grimy room. She frowned slightly and cast a quick non-verbal spell.

Shit.

Nineteen seventy seven.

July.

They’d made it back.

Well, Hermione directed her thoughts to the arm and leg in her bag, almost all of them had. Had the others woken up and scarpered? Maybe they hadn’t noticed her crumpled next to the bed.

This meant two entirely whole Death Eater sympathisers were possibly at large and with a singular focus of killing Professor well not yet Snape at some point during the school year. She had to get to Hogwarts. It didn’t really matter what she told Dumbledore, she decided that he was probably unlikely to want (or be able) to change any of it.

She was a little wary of seeing him again.

Hermione steadied herself and Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. To her surprise, the gates opened as she stood before them. She walked through them onto the path she’d trod so many times. Up ahead in front of her was the castle, whole and as beautiful as the first time she’d seen it as an eleven year old.

“The wards recognise you,” said a warm voice beside her, “yet I do not. How fascinating.”

Hermione stopped and turned towards the voice.

“Professor Dumbledore!” she squeaked.

“Indeed I am. If you would give me your name, then we shall be properly acquainted,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.

“Hermione Granger,” said Hermione, a bit stupidly.

The man before her brought forth the same rush of nostalgia as the castle had. Despite her misgivings about his motivations years after the war finished her mind flicked back to the kind, welcoming smile he’d directed at her and the other First Years in the Great Hall. She wanted to clutch at him, asking for help. Or shake him, blaming him for everything. But she didn’t do either. She just stood there, gaping dumbly.

He smiled the same smile at her, and her childhood self melted.

“Now let me see, you are two days early for school term. Yet you appear to be too old to be a student, and I don’t remember hiring any new professors,” Dumbledore said conversationally as they started walking again.

“No Sir, it’s...it’s a long story I’m afraid,” Hermione said.

“My favourite kind,” he answered.

“There won’t be a lot I can actually say,” Hermione said, thinking about the Blabbermouth Charm all Departmental staff operated under. It worked well for preventing leaking of information from current staff. However, as demonstrated by the former employees who sold secrets to the Death Eater sympathisers, the older form of the spell obviously weakened substantially as time passed. They’d recently upgraded the spell and it was a doozy.

Dumbledore watched her struggle with rapt attention.

“An employee of the Department. Well this is an interesting day,” Dumbledore mused.

Hermione looked up towards the doors to the Great Hall, where a very bored looking Minerva McGonagall stood. Unlike the last time Hermione had seen her, her jet black hair was loose across her shoulders and her face was free of worry lines.

“We had a meeting,” the witch said accusingly, and her eyes flicked over curiously over Hermione.

“We can still have it,” said Dumbledore smoothly. “And I shall bring a guest.”

“Well, why ever not?” Minerva said and she shrugged irritably. She looked Hermione over again and sighed.

Hermione followed the pair to the gargoyle at the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. Minerva turned to shoot her another look of abject interest as the entrance swing open and the trio climbed the staircase.

“I like fun as much as the next witch,” Minerva announced, “but I also have a lot to do before the students arrive.”

“This is Hermione Granger,” introduced Dumbledore. “The awards recognised her and allowed her entry. She used a deferential...or perhaps honorific...manner of addressing me. Yet, we have never met.” He turned to Hermione and tented his fingers as he examined her.

“Do you know this person?” he indicated towards Minerva, who rolled her eyes.

“Yes Sir, that’s Professor McGonagall. Head of Gryffindor House,” Hermione answered.

Minerva’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s always nice to be so well known,” she said carefully. “I don’t recognise you either. You could not have gone to Hogwarts.”

“I haven’t...yet,” said Hermione cagily.

Dumbledore clapped his hands and laughed. “Ah yes! Of course. How wonderful!”

“What’s wonderful?” demanded Minerva. “Have you been drinking?”

“I think Hermione here has been playing with Time,” said Dumbledore, and cocked his head towards Hermione questioningly.

“Not playing,” said Hermione defensively. “There was an accident. I’m here to find..to find...” she shook her head in frustration as the Blabbermouth Charm prevented her from further explanations. Dumbledore hummed to himself.

“So you will be a student here, some time in the future?” Minerva asked. She was apparently determined to ignore the humming, so Hermione decided to as well.

“Yes. You’re my Head of House,” Hermione said and Minerva looked pleased. “I’m here as a student is in danger,” the Charm stuck her tongue briefly to her palate, and she changed her conversation direction. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say,” she finished lamely.

“Well it’s nice to hear we are both still at Hogwarts, alive and kicking despite our extra curricular activities,” Minerva said stiffly and Dumbledore pursed his lips at her tone. Hermione said nothing, deciding it was better than saying something wrong.

“So, you need to be at the school for the time being?” Minerva asked and Hermione nodded. Minerva clucked her tongue and looked towards Dumbledore, who nodded.

“How were your N.E.W.Ts?” Dumbledore asked.

“I sat them late, but I received, or at least I will receive, all Outstandings,” Hermione answered truthfully.

Dumbledore tapped her his thoughtfully. “We could use a substitute this year Minerva,” he began. “I expect quite a bit of extra curricular activities for the staff during first term.”

Minerva frowned and looked away angrily. “Yes,” she snapped.

“How is your brewing?” Dumbledore asked Hermione.

“Not bad,” said Hermione.

“You must have been better than ‘not bad’ to get an Outstanding. Horace obviously taught you well,” Minerva countered.

Hermione fidgeted slightly. “Oh, I only had Professor Slughorn for one year. I had another teacher. Actually, they’ll be a student in their final year this year.”

Minerva clapped her hands delightedly and Hermione looked at her in surprise. “Well that’s wonderful news! I have no doubt who it is of course. Why, Miss Evans was even discussing a Potions apprenticeship with Horace at the end of last term. I am pleased to hear she obtains her mastery. I expect nothing less from her.”

“Oh, not Evans...no...Er I meant Professor Snape,” clarified Hermione, and both witch and wizard stared at her in astonishment.

“Severus...Snape?” asked Minerva haltingly, and a little disbelievingly if Hermione was honest with herself.

“Yes. I learnt quite a lot from him,” the Blabbermouth Charm allowed Hermione to say.

Dumbledore and Minerva shared a quick look.

“That’s an...interesting...bit of news,” said Dumbledore slowly. “I did not anticipate Mister Snape pursuing a career in teaching.”

Minerva crossed her arms and snorted inelegantly. She appeared not to approve in the slightest of Hermione’s sneak peek into the future.

“Tell me Hermione, have you ever brewed the Wolfsbane potion?” Dumbledore asked and Hermione couldn’t help but notice Minerva uncrossed her arms and turned towards her again when the question was posited.

“Yes. I assisted Professor Snape twice,” said Hermione.

It was partially the truth.

She’d used the Invisibility cloak to watch him brew it at Grimmauld Place once. She thought she’d managed to keep very quiet and even breathe silently until she’d coughed a very small cough. He’d sighed a long, drawn-out and dripping with obvious suffering sigh, and without turning around from the table had said “if you’re going to insist on hanging around being a bother Miss Granger you may as well make yourself useful” and motioned impatiently towards the cauldron. She’d helped prepare ingredients with him and although he didn’t verbalise anything more, she’d actually sort of enjoyed herself. When he wasn’t trying to make her life terrible by crushing her already fragmentary self-esteem, she had found Snape reasonably inoffensive.

The second, and last, time she’d hadn’t wasted efforts grabbing the cloak and instead had just slipped into the room. He’d turned to look at her with a blank, tired expression, then handed her a knife and pointed at the ingredients without saying anything. She’d worked beside him again in silence and when the potion was finished she’d assisted him clean all the equipment; still without exchanging a word with him. Finally he’d given her a quick, odd little nod before ushering her out of the room.

“Even more interesting,” Dumbledore commented, his eyes twinkling in a way Hermione used to think was benevolent but she wondered now whether was instead malevolent. “I have so many questions I would love to ask you, but I fear to would not be wise for you to answer any of them.”

Minerva stepped forwards towards Hermione and fixed her with a stern gaze. Hermione, who thought she was immune to these after five years in the Ministry, wilted a little. Minerva looked slightly satisfied with the reaction.

“Wolfsbane is an incredibly new and complex potion,” the older witch said. “We have, that is, we wish to stock it at the school. It would be very beneficial to have someone with experience in making it.”

Remus, thought Hermione.

“I don’t think it will be a problem,” she said aloud with a great deal of bravado.

For everyone’s sake she hoped it wasn’t all bravado, and that her bravado would team up with her competence at some point during the process to generate something approximating proficiency.

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore with a clap of his hands. “Well, let’s find you a room.”

Chapter Text

Filius Flitwick tapped the cracked Time device gently with his wand.

“Yes, yes, a most interesting device,” he said thoughtfully as he peered at it over his glasses.

“Obviously I need to fix it, so I can go back,” said Hermione.

“I think you were lucky to survive the first trip. I fear your luck may not hold out the second time,” Filius sighed.

“I know. I know,” said Hermione in frustration. “But I have to try. Once I’m done here, if we can fix the device I’m going to try.”

Filius shrugged. “I’ll do what I can to help you. In the meantime...” he trailed off leadingly.

“Yes,” laughed Hermione. “In the meantime.”

Although the staff had been told who she was and the vague reason for her sudden appearance at the castle, there was an undercurrent of interest in the specifics. Filius, Pomona, Aurora and Minerva had assisted Dumbledore in modifying the wards under instruction from Hermione.

She’d borrowed the Pensieve and watched her memory of the botched disruption. Hermione had taken the images of the three wizards, given she still wasn’t sure who the owner of the arm and leg was, and added a little twist to the wards. It was a facial recognition ward used by the department back in her time. It hadn’t been invented until after the second war, but who was going to worry? Hermione didn’t think it would make a difference, otherwise it already would have. Right?

That was the bit about time that was hardest to conceptualise. When something made a difference the size of which this group was attempting, no one knew how the consequences would materialise or even be experienced. Take Professor Snape (ha...please! Hermione’s brain joked). She remembered his role during the war as nothing had happened yet. The second the wizards killed him in this time, Hermione would...would...well she wasn’t exactly sure.

Would her memories change? Maybe she’d cease to exist. In a city where Voldemort ruled she couldn’t imagine muggleborns like herself being employed by the Ministry. So, she’d never be at the Department, never be sent back. So what would happen to her? Hermione decided to abandon that train of thought as it chugged gently towards a future of non-existence. She just had to stop them killing young Snape, fix the device and go home. Easy peasy.

Hermione had briefly worried about using her real name and not making any attempt to alter her appearance when she remembered she was nearly thirty years in the past. Then she’d tried an experiment that involved attempting to remember the names and faces of her classmates. She could remember some, but embarrassingly the rest were rather vague. She didn’t think she would be around long, and which of the students would even remember the substitute who they vaguely remember seeing for a few months of their school year? None.

Finally a benefit of being eminently forgettable, Hermione congratulated herself.

And replaceable, she reminded herself darkly.

“Ah Hermione, Filius,” came a voice from the door.

“Horace, are you looking for me?” Filius asked, still entranced by the Time device.

“No actually I’ve come to ask a favour of Hermione,” Horace said.

“What do you need?” Hermione asked.

“Well the Headmaster has continued his damnable idea of a joke that I call a living nightmare,” the moustached man blustered.

“Ah, so he’s decided to experiment with a seventh year Slytherin and Gryffindor class again,” Filius tutted.

“This is the last year I’ll stand for it Filius! Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful,” Horace sighed loudly. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Hermione thought he looked very tired for a man supposedly freshly back from holidays. Horace must have felt her gaze as he met her eyes and smiled a small, wan smile at her. She returned the smile and stood patiently, waiting to hear what he needed from her.

“Hermione, are you able to assist me in that class? I need eyes in the back of my head for them. I could really do with another Professor at the back of the room. To keep any ‘accidents’ to the minimum,” Horace asked.

“No problem,” said Hermione, thinking that it was probably going to be a huge problem.

Horace beamed a wide, relieved smile. “Thank you my dear. It’s first up tomorrow! Nothing like a bloodbath to start off a fresh term,”

*

“Thank you, thank you,” Horace said loudly and with what Hermione presumed was an attempt at a calming influence over the raucous teenagers getting settled at their tables.

Hermione stood to his right. It was a very surreal experience being in front of a Hogwarts class. She watched a red haired girl unpacking her potions kits in the front row directly in front of where Horace was standing.

Lily.

Surely.

The girl, who just had to be Lily, unpacked with meticulous care, lining everything up perfectly on her desk. The Head Girl badge on her school robe was exactly level. Hermione watched her fondly. A fellow swot...oh her precious heart.

“Today, joining me is Professor Granger,” Horace turned to Hermione and she nodded towards the class. His announcement was met with glazed, uninterested eyes everywhere. She hid a smile. Self-absorbed teenagers. She would definitely not feature in their memories.

“Professor Granger will be teaching seventh year potions with me, and she has authority to grant and dock House Points so keep this in mind,” Horace finished.

This time Hermione could hardly contain her glee. House points!

She calmed herself, then as previously agreed with Horace, she moved to take up a position the back of the classroom. She walked past rows of tables of students listening to Horace outline the lesson. The back row was all boys. All Gryffindor boys. Ah. This was exactly the reason why she’d been sent to the back of the room to run interference.

She stood to the side of the room glancing across at the students, none of whom had even begun to unpack their kit. One dark haired boy grinned a little rakishly at her. She raised an eyebrow and indicated with a quick nod towards Horace, and the boy turned his attention to the front of the classroom with a little shrug.

Hermione looked at the boy while he was facing the front. He was very handsome, with dark hair and Hermione noticed a few of the girls, and at least one of the boys in the class sneaking looks at him. The handsome boy in question was perfecting his, ‘I’m noticing them but I’m too cool to react’ expression.

Hermione huffed in amusement and scanned the rest of the row. She’d only gone down one seat when her brain finally caught up with the situation. There was someone who could only be James Potter. A taller version of Harry, with the same wild hair and dimples. Hermione’s chest hurt. Would she see Harry again...Ron...Sera...Declan...Luna...anyone?

As the class began to work Hermione walked along the back row, inspecting their work, or lack of it. She winced internally at the sloppy cuts that James was making in his squill bulb. That was going to impact his potion. She realised she was supposed to be instructing them so decided to give the whole teaching thing a crack.

“Mister Potter,” she said and the boy looked up. “You must keep you cuts neat and fine. A ragged cut will have a detrimental impact on your potion.”

“Yes. Thanks Professor Granger,” said James enthusiastically. She suddenly noticed he was wearing a Head Boy badge, clipped crookedly on his robe. Hermione watched him continue cutting with the same inattention. She rolled her eyes and moved on.

The back row was like every potions class with Ron ever. A lot of unfocused eyes and bored expressions. Potions were left to stew as the brewer chatted with a classmate. It had only taken half an hour and Hermione had already realised she never wanted to be a teacher. Ever.

She walked forward past the next row to the middle row of tables and meandered slowly along the row, glancing into cauldrons as she passed. The middle row at least were getting somewhere. They had something resembling a potion at the very least.

The last cauldron in that row was markedly different from all the others she’d seen so far, and she watched it merrily bubbling along with a bright, yellow sheen.

Hermione paused.

She looked up—

—Right into the sullen face of a teenage Severus Snape. Hermione had to physically restrain the oh of surprise that threatened to race out of her. She regrouped quickly.

“Mister Snape,” she said. “You appear to be at least twenty minutes ahead of your classmates.”

The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders. He stared ahead, just past her eyes at her left ear. Hermione recognised the technique immediately as she used the same trick when she was feeling nervous.

Ah. She was making Snape nervous.

Ah! She was making Snape nervous.

Teenage Hermione was feeling all sorts of schadenfreude. Adult Hermione softened slightly in the face of his obvious discomfort.

“What I mean is, I see you’ve made some alterations to the recipe that has sped up stage one of the brewing process,” Hermione explained.

“Yes,” Snape said in a low, quiet voice she had to strain to hear.

Hermione could not resist.

“Yes......?” She offered and watched his cheeks pink slightly,

“Yes, Professor Granger,” he answered, and Hermione thought it was probably the greatest moment of her life. She decided to be generous with her newfound power.

“That’s excellent work Mister Snape, five points to Slytherin,” she said and he blinked at her. His classmate in the green striped tie at the table next to Snape looked over at them and grinned. Snape stood quietly, as if he was just waiting for her to go away, giving no outward sign beyond the blink that he even acknowledged the points.

Hermione stood there for another minute in uncomfortable silence until she decided to walk away, back to the last row of the class. The handsome boy, who Hermione’s long term memory banks had finally delivered assistance in identifying him as Sirius Black, had done basically nothing. She sighed and walked to his table.

“Mister Black,” she began. “If you do not hand in a finished potion at the end of the class you will get zero marks.”

“Can I do a make-up potion with you instead? Privately?” grinned Sirius.

The row of boys snickered.

Hermione suppressed an eye roll that probably would have left her blind.

“Mister Black. Ten points from Gryffindor for being gross,” she snapped at him.

Another snicker rolled out in unison from the row of boys and Sirius shrugged nonchalantly. James nudged him with an elbow and they swapped a smug look.

Teaching is the worst, Hermione told herself. The absolute worst. She felt a small mean glint of satisfaction that James’s potion looked completely spoiled.

She turned away from the back row and her eyes sought out the skinny figure at the end of the row ahead of her. By the look of his immaculate bench, Snape had finished his potion and was now writing in his textbook. Hermione’s interest was piqued and she started towards him but was distracted by Horace calling her attention.

“Professor Granger,” Horace said loudly, beckoning her up to Lily’s desk.

Hermione walked up to the front just as a gentle chiming signalled there was ten minutes left for the class to finish their potions. There was a cascading cacophony of panic emanating across the the room except the last row, where the level of causal conversation remained consistent.

Horace was bent over Lily’s potion, which was a gleaming, glorious orange. Lily was flushed but grinning broadly.

“Ah, observe here Professor Granger. Miss Evans has managed to improve the recipe and shorten the brew time by five minutes!” Horace said. Hermione also bent over the potion.

“This is excellent work Miss Evans,” commented Hermione, thinking of the twenty minutes Snape had clawed back with his own modifications.

“Miss Evans is interested in a mastery after the completion of this year,” Horace explained, “and I am looking for a replacement as I am seriously considering retirement.”

“You’re interested in teaching at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked Lily.

“I’m interested in a few vocations actually. I need a range of options,” the girl said seriously. “There aren’t that many jobs out there and I want to maximise my chances of getting one of them.”

“Of course!” beamed Horace. “But a mastery would be a significant benefit to you for a variety of reasons. Professor McGonagall will no doubt also be able to attest to this.”

“Thank you Professor Slughorn,” said Lily. She smiled broadly at both Hermione and Horace.

Horace smile extended even further and Hermione’s cheeks were starting to hurt. Maybe she was out of smile practice. She’d thought she was living her best life in the future, but certainly not exercising her cheeks this much over such a lengthy time period. She’d have to reassess a few things on her return.

If she was able to return, she reminded herself soberly.

The chime trilled the end of the class and the room was filled with the sounds of students packing up equipment and chatting.

“Leave your finished potions on my desk please!” Horace ordered and Hermione stood near the desk as students filed past by, placing vials of various shades of yellow to orange on the surface.

James left a mottled red vial and Sirius casually dropped his glass full of a vile looking grey liquid as he dashed out the door. Hermione shook her head slightly and caught the vial of something vile before it rolled off the table and smashed. An arm reached out to her right and placed a vial of luminous tangerine liquid carefully on the table. Hermione looked up as a very bored looking Snape briefly met her eyes with his, before his gaze skittered away, his shoulders dropped and he slunk out the door.

Lily personally handed her vial to Horace and carefully packed up her kit. She flashed Hermione a quick smile and breezed out the door. Hermione watched Lily stride confidently into the corridor, her glossy curtain of red hair swinging from side to side as she walked. How on earth was she related to Harry’s horrid aunt? Hermione wondered briefly. Genetics was a shit show.

Hermione turned back to Horace who had put Lily’s vial to one side and was examining Snape’s vial closely.

“That’s Mister Snape’s,” said Hermione.

“Yes,” sighed Horace. “He’s exceptional isn’t he? How far ahead was he this time?”

“At least twenty minutes,” said Hermione. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Hmm? Oh yes. He’s an interesting one. He does much better when you don’t make a fuss in front of the other students.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hermione.

“I think he learnt quite young that attention from people isn’t often a good thing,” said Horace, still turning the vial and peering in at the potion.

Hermione frowned. “Oh,” she said. She didn’t really want to ask anything more about that, but her mind flashed back to the thin teenager and his nervous reaction to her. “I gave him five points,” she said suddenly.

“You did? How did he take that?” Horace asked. He put down the vial and peered at her through his glasses with interest.

“Fairly subdued,” Hermione said truthfully.

Horace nodded resignedly.

“If he’s so exceptional,” Hermione asked, “why aren’t you talking to him about a potions mastery as well?”

Horace returned his attention to the desk, and with a flick of his wand the vials began to assemble themselves neatly.

“Ah yes. I’ve had discussions with Mister Snape about a mastery, but he is being courted by a number of interested employers,” Horace said in a very thin, tight voice.

He looked, to Hermione’s eyes, very tired again. Her question seemed to have brought the full weight of something terribly burdensome onto him. She turned away to give him some privacy and started to collect the dirty cauldrons.

Chapter Text

The next fortnight went fairly smoothly, except Hermione was no closer to identifying what important thing the younger version of Snape was going to be doing, or where the hell the Death Eater fanboys had got to. Given these were the two things she was actually supposed to be doing, Hermione pondered redefining ‘smoothly’ or at the very least her use of it in this particular way.

In the meantime she’d also assisted Filius and Aurora in their classes by running the back row gauntlet, but the Gryffindor boys were more conscientious in those classes when compared with Potions. Well, by conscientious she meant that they talked less and listened more, but still didn’t appear to actually do anything.

How was James Potter even given the position of Head Boy? Hermione wondered to herself as the end of Charms lesson approached. The class was doing revision, moving to the more powerful Levioso levitating charm from the version they’d learnt in first grade. Lily had mastered the higher level spell quickly, only taking a quarter of the time to levitate the large rock on her desk.

“Excellent work Miss Evans, five points to Gryffindor!” a very pleased Filius called out. Lily grinned.

Hermione walked to the back of the class again. The boys weren’t doing badly, but James appeared far more interested in attempting to levitate a small, heart-shaped biscuit than the rock. Remus Lupin, who Hermione was positive hadn’t been in any classes before this, was watching his progress with a bored expression. Sirius was leaning onto the desk of a blushing Ravenclaw and chatting.

A smaller, blond boy, who was probably Peter Pettigrew, was the only one listening. He was trying a few times with the spell but getting nowhere. Hermione thought she’d give him a few more minutes before providing advice.

She walked to the middle row and again there was the teenaged Snape, slumped at the end of the row. He was looking to his left out the window, not even remotely focused on the class or on Filius. A reprimand was on the top of her tongue when Hermione suddenly realised his table was slightly higher than his classmates.

She ducked her head and noticed he was levitating his entire desk and the chair he was slumped in. She stood upright again and laughed in delight. He looked at her with surprise, then, apparently realising he’d acknowledged her without meaning to, flushed and turned to look out the window again.

“Very clever Mister Snape. Five points to Slytherin,” she said.

He turned back towards her. “Thank you, Professor Granger,” he responded stiffly.

“How did you manage to lift everything the same height and maintain the lift with so little effort?” Hermione asked. She couldn’t restrain her obvious interest in his answer.

He frowned slightly and stared at her through his hair for a minute or so before answering. “I modified the end twist, a clockwise flick instead of the diagonal slash. Same as in Locomoto.”

“Ah, of course! And I bet you did it straight away too didn’t you?” Hermione said, grinning broadly.

“Fast enough, Professor,” Snape answered. He looked slightly puzzled by her questions.

“I don’t know why you stick up the back here, you’re—“ Hermione forgot what she was saying as a heart-shaped biscuit wobbled pathetically through the air past her head towards the front of the room.

She turned, as did Severus, to watch the biscuit make its slow and ungainly way towards Lily. Hermione looked behind her at a madly concentrating James.

Ah, thought Hermione, young love.

It was sweet.

In her peripheral vision she saw Snape’s wand move slightly and the biscuit shot forward on its trajectory and hit Lily hard in the back of the head. She shouted in surprise then turned around and it was apparent that her gaze immediately locked onto a completely shocked James.

“James you prat! Watch your wand!” Lily snapped, rubbing the back of her head. “Idiot,” she said angrily and flicked her hair as she turned back to the front of the class.

Hermione heard a very slight snicker next to her and she turned to Snape.

“That was a bit mean,” she said disapprovingly.

“What was?” he asked innocently, with a slight (and very familiar to Hermione) smirk on his face

“Five points from Slytherin, Mister Snape,” Hermione said. “Be careful with your pranks, there is a line between fun and bullying, and you are close to it with that little move.”

She wasn’t prepared for the complete shutdown of his entire face at her words. The smirk disappeared, the eyes flicked away from her and his entire disposition became shuttered. The table and chair dropped to ground with a thud. Hermione has stepped back quickly to avoid her foot getting squashed.

She stared at him. Well, what the hell was that all about? Hadn’t he ever been told not to bully people? Well that certainly explained why he was so horrible as an adult, she thought angrily.

Ugh.

She just wanted to find those stupid wizards and get the hell out of the past. She shook her head in annoyance and stalked to the back of the room to give the hapless Peter some guidance, deciding to forget about talking to the younger version of Snape, who was just as prickly as the older version.

She was halfway through showing Peter and the boy next to him....Magnus?...the wand movement when she suddenly was prodded by something that was the most likely reason why Snape had intervened with James’s heart-seeking biscuit missile.

Snape loved my mother from the time they were children!

Hermione could hear Harry screaming it as if it were yesterday. That was one of the benefits of a traumatic memory, she supposed. It was still crystal clear after all the years.

Oh.

She winced internally and decided that was one of those ‘reappear at three in the morning memories’ she was so fond of. How had she forgotten about Snape’s hidden love for Harry’s mum? It had been repeated in all the papers ad nauseam until Harry had cracked it one day in spectacular Boy Who Lived fashion, after which they had largely left it alone. Except, of course, on the anniversary of Snape’s death.

The unrequited love story still got a run on that day each year and people habitually left lilies on his gravestone. Hermione had always secretly (and once not so secretly when she’d had too much to drink) thought Snape would have hated that. Her memory of Snape was him vindictively blasting the heads off roses during the Yule Ball, not lovingly gathering armfuls of flowers as he skipped gaily through the Forbidden Forest composing love sonnets to Lily Potter.

Definitely not love sonnets.

But maybe, Hermione had thought at the time, maybe he would have actually smiled at Lily. Scandalous! She had no idea what he would have done beyond that, and frankly her imagination had been a little scared of going there. Who knows what had happened in the dungeons behind closed doors? Daphne Greengrass had told her all the Slytherin girls hypothesised Snape had a whole bondage room in there that he snuck witches into after curfew.

Hermione had scoffed at that. She’d read the very thin file the Ministry of Magic had kept on Snape. Anyone who’d been tortured that much their whole life probably wouldn’t be turned on by pain. She liked to think instead that he had been a secret cuddler, and he’d had some lovely, gentle witch or wizard on the side who’d patted his back when he had a bad day on the job (whatever job he been doing at that particular time...Professor, Potion Master, Order member, Death Eater, Headmaster, Bitch-Queen from hell). And after he died they would visit his grave, read him the latest article from Potions Monthly and blast the heads off any lilies left on the inscribed marble.

The fact she hadn’t thought about Snape and Lily beyond that particular day really showed how much she shoved right down and away memories of the war and anything associated with it. She’d used her mind like her beloved—and long retired—beaded bag. She pretended her mind had been made bottomless with an undetectable extension charm and had thrown every memory associated with the war down there and closed it off with a tight knot.

She’d also accidentally thrown away her feelings for Ron at that point as well, which a very unsexy attempted snogging session had later demonstrated. He was still the same Ron, with his wide, open smile and lovely, warm chest that was perfect to snuggle against. But he wasn’t her Ron anymore.

Luckily for everyone, romantic interest in Hermione similarly turned out to be largely temporal, and instead Ron found himself a quidditch-mad Beaubaxtons alumni called Griselda that also enjoyed poor table manners and lots of Weasleys shouting at her. It had been a match made in heaven. Except for those days when Ginny would pop around to visit the couple. She and Griselda would hole up in the kitchen, drink copious amounts of gin and talk quidditch strategies all day, stopping only to tell Ron to shut his face when he tried to pipe up.

“There is such a thing,” he’d informed Hermione seriously on one of the occasions they’d caught up for a beer, “as too much quidditch. A witch has gotta have other things to talk about as well.”

And because he was still Ron, and still her dearest friend Hermione had largely restrained her laughter, and had instead nodded empathetically and bought him another beer. Wizards. Honestly.

But if two quidditch mad gluttons with matching enormous families and quick tempers could find each other in this big, wide world, then surely there was someone out there for Hermione? Definitely, she told herself confidently. Somewhere out there was a man who liked cats and listening to an averagely attractive witch with good skin and bad hair talk about topics everyone else found deathly boring. And, Hermione added confidently in her head, could lick his own eyebrows.

She turned her attention back to the classroom. Peter waved his wand and his rock jiggled from side to side before it lifted off the desk, just barely hovering over the surface.

“Well done,” Hermione said distractedly, as she couldn’t help sneaking a quick look up towards Snape again.

He was slouched back down in his chair again, even lower than before and his head was once more turned resolutely towards the window. Hermione sighed.

She looked across at James, Sirius and Remus.

James and Remus were at least attempting something on their rocks, and Sirius was still talking to the girl. Peter’s rock settled back onto his desk with the air of an aggrieved pet forced to take part in a demeaning trick for their owner’s amusement. Peter clapped his hands together in a small, gleeful moment of triumph and looked up at her. She forced a smile.

It was strange, Hermione thought, that this small, absolutely unremarkable teen would end up doing so much bad, while the sullen, irritable one just two rows ahead of him would end up doing so much good.

There was probably something deeply philosophical in that thought that Hermione could ponder about, however as it was she had a gigantic headache, and each knock of a rock on a table seared into her skull like a skewer. By the time the class was over she was feeling decidedly peaky, and was relieved when Filius indicated he didn’t need any assistance in tidying up the classroom.

Hermione decided to head to the dungeons and grab a pain relieving potion from Horace. He’d made the offer to her previously when she hadn’t wanted to disturb Poppy Pomfrey in the infirmary, but at the time she’d politely declined and had a cup of tea instead.

Of course, there was also the additional bonus of seeing the quarters in the dungeons. Hers was quite nice, but she wondered if it were more decadent downstairs, or there was a secret bondage room or just...well...damp.

She rapped her knuckles on the door to his quarters and waited patiently.

A very flustered looking Horace pulled open the door.

“Oh! Hermione. I was expecting—well never mind that, what can I do for you?” he queried.

“I was wondering if I could take you up on that pain potion offer?” Hermione asked, pressing a imaginary foot firmly on the balloon of curiosity that was attempting to rise within her at his comment.

“Yes of course, come inside and I’ll locate one for you,” Horace held the door open and Hermione walked into the sitting room.

She was slightly disappointed to discover it was very much like her room except the window looked out into the lake, and the soft green ripples of light washed across the room in a very pleasing manner.

“That’s pretty,” commented Hermione as she looked out the window.

“Sometimes, yes,” agreed Horace as he opened a tall cabinet that stood against the right wall of the room.

“Sometimes?” asked Hermione but her question was answered as a large, dark shape swam past the window and the room dimmed. She stepped away nervously and she heard a chuckle behind her.

“It can be unnerving,” Horace said and handed her the potion.

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

She noticed there was a pile of papers on the desk and Horace’s outer robe thrown over a chair.

“Oh, I’m sorry did I interrupt you going somewhere?” she asked apologetically.

Horace dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I have an errand or two to run for the Headmaster. Something last minute.”

“An errand?” repeated Hermione questioningly.

“Yes,” Horace said. “Nothing troublesome, but I really must hurry along.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry,” said Hermione as she clutched the vial he had given her.

He was standing there awkwardly obviously waiting for her to leave, so she really felt she had no choice but to smile, thank him and retreat back upstairs to her own room.

She drank the portion and sighed as she sat on her bed. She’d been recasting the Hour Reversal spell on the crystals she’d removed from the broken Time device. She’d thought if she tried to get through some every night, she might even get through them by the time she was one hundred and eighty.

But she had to try.

She had to get home.

Chapter Text

The weekends never seemed long enough to Hermione, yet at the same time seemed interminably long. After another weekend of being no closer to wrapping anything up or even repairing the time device Hermione woke up on Monday the nineteenth of September 1977 feeling pretty down. She’d been in the past for nearly a month and seemingly achieved nothing. She didn’t want to live in 1977, she wanted to live in her time. She didn’t know what she was doing back here. No one seemed to notice Snape even existed, let alone wanted to kill him. It all seemed a bit hopeless.

And it was her birthday.

“I don’t even know if I’m twenty-seven or not,” she said loudly to her empty room.

“With your skin dear you could definitely pass for twenty-five,” her bedroom mirror replied in a soothing manner.

“That’s a silver lining I guess,” Hermione agreed and she got out of bed to get dressed. There was nothing like an empty compliment from a charmed mirror to set one on the right psychological foot for the day.

It was a Monday, which meant helping Filius with his fifth year charms class and assisting Professor Sprout with her third year Stinksap class. The Monday afternoon class with Pomona was Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw attended by a completely cherubic looking but thoroughly narcissistic and incredibly pernicious Gilderoy Lockhart. She regretted her childish crush on him even more after penalising him for the third time for cheating off his partner.

Little bugger!

She lazily had predicted to herself that there was no way her regret could get any more until he insisted loudly he was “the best in the entire school at working with Stinksap”, then promptly exploded one all over all his classmates as well as Pamona and herself.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pomona said sympathetically as she sent the children back to their dormitories to clean up, “I’ve got something that will get rid of the smell.”

“This is a shitty birthday,” Hermione said sadly to herself as she tried to shake some of the foul smelling goo off her hands.

“It’s your birthday?” exclaimed Pomona. “Oh you should have said something! Don’t worry, we’ll set you right. Come to my room at six and we’ll see what we can do. In the meantime,” she dug a hand into her pocket and thrust a squat jar into Hermione’s hands.

“Um,” Hermione started to say.

“Yes, just rub that all over you. It’ll get rid of the stink. Come one, no time to waste there’s celebrating to be done!”

“Okay,” said Hermione tentatively and Pomona shot her a stern look. “I mean, okay!” she repeated more enthusiastically.

“That’s more like it. Now wear something nice, but not too nice,” Pomona said, winking at Hermione.

Hermione nodded, having absolutely no idea what the dress code of ‘something nice but not too nice’ was. She only had a few pairs of robes that Minerva had leant her and she’d have to transfigured one of them into something that fitted the description.

Pomona fixed Hermione with a firm stare and poked her gently with a finger. “Six o’clock,” she repeated firmly.

“Yes Professor Sprout,” Hermione responded and Pomona grinned.

The witch put on her enormous gloves and began to pack away the still oozing plants; the terracotta pots glistening with the oily residue. She waved away Hermione’s attempts to help.

“Come on, go clean up,” Pomona insisted and Hermione opened her mouth to remind the witch they were both covered in foul smelling goo. However, the moment she opened it some of the aforementioned goo leaked onto her tongue and she immediately decided to shut her mouth again and go clean up.

Back in her rooms Hermione was pleased to discover that the salve worked a treat, and she no longer wanted to make herself vomit every time she caught a whiff of herself. She had a bath (what did the wizarding community have against showers?) and halfheartedly attempted a few transfigurations on one of the borrowed gowns until she decided whatever it was she’d made was was nice but not too nice. Thank goodness wizarding fashion never ever appeared to change from medieval chic, so she didn’t have to put too much mind to seventies glamour.

She made it to Pomona‘s room by six and tapped on the door. It was thrown open and Hermione was face to face with a grinning Rolanda Hooch.

“Perfect timing!” she cackled and pulled Hermione inside.

Pomona and Minerva were sitting next to each other on the coach, looking more relaxed than Hermione had seen since she’d appeared approximately a month ago.

Minerva stood up and eyed her critically. “Yes, that’ll do. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” asked Hermione in bafflement.

“To celebrate,” said a grinning Pomona.

Hermione watched Minerva dig a hand into a small cauldron by the fireplace and toss the green powder into the fireplace.

“The Craggy, Kenmare,” she ordered and the fireplace blazed green.

“Let’s go,” Rolanda ordered and the three women bustled Hermione into the floo.

Hermione was spat out into a riotous green and yellow room that she realised was a pub. A group of men and women were standing around drinking and laughing and Hermione’s brain could offer no explanation for the harp gently playing itself in the corner.

“Excuse me, please,” said a voice at her knee and Hermione stepped aside to let a leprechaun pass by on his way to the bar.

“Right ladies, how about a beer?” asked Rolanda, rubbing her hands in anticipation. She grinned at them and wandered over to the group of men and women. Hermione watched as they greeted Rolanda with cheers, hugs and she was fairly sure some pats on the bum that looked like they were on the lingering side.

“Where are we?” asked Hermione.

“Prime hunting ground,” said Minerva close to her ear. “It’s the Kestrels private bar, but we’ve got special membership.”

“The Kestrels? You mean the quidditch team?” Hermione asked.

“Well, of course. Where else would we be? Now, what strikes your fancy? Witch? Wizard? Both? Neither?” Minerva asked.

“Er...” stammered Hermione.

“Oh, calm down Min, at least let her get a drink first,” interrupted Pomona.

“Good point,” Minerva agreed.

It seemed no more than ten minutes passed before Hermione found herself sitting at a table with the three witches, a green-tinged pint of ale and a bowl of something fried and crispy.

“Anyone catch your eye?” asked Rolanda. “Tong over there perhaps?”

Hermione looked over to the stunning example of wizarding kind that Rolanda was indicating to her. He waved at Hermione with a defined, muscular arm. He had glowing, blue tattoos swirling across his dark skin. Hermione’s libido insisted on being part of the conversation so Hermione smiled weakly back.

“Yes, he’s nice. But...Um...Look, I don’t really like quidditch,” Hermione whispered.

Minerva clutched at her heart. “Don’t even say that!”

“You don’t have to like quidditch to like quidditch players,” Pomona said soothingly. “They have amazing bodies and wonderful stamina.”

“Well I dated two and I don’t remember the stamina being all that impressive,” Hermione rebutted.

The three witches looked at her, looked at each other, then fell about laughing with great honking, peals of delight.

“Now that’s funny,” Rolanda said, and eyed Hermione critically while taking a sip of her drink. “You must have liked quidditch enough at some point.”

“Maybe I just liked their bodies,” Hermione said airily.

Rolanda and Pomona laughed again. Minerva peered at Hermione over the edge of her glass.

“So you don’t like quidditch? Are you sure you were in Gryffindor?” she asked.

“Yes and yes. I’m sorry. It’s just really boring,” Hermione explained.

Minerva and Rolanda pretended to die and Pomona rolled her eyes.

“Ignore them. They’re obsessed. Now, come on, let’s get this birthday celebration on a roll.”

‘On a roll’ apparently meant quite a bit of drinking, laughing and charming the harp to play songs that were conducive to people grinding up against each other on the dance floor Pamona had convinced the team to transfigure into existence. Hermione was not really enough drinks in to expose her flimsy dancing skills, so instead was sitting at a table talking to Tong, the tattooed player who was even more was muscled and spectacularly beautiful in close proximity.

“Are you a new Professor?” Tong asked Hermione as they watched the heaving mass of bodies heaving massively across from their table.

“For now.I’m just passing through really,” said Hermione carefully as she sipped her drink.

“Yeah, I get that. This is my last season. I'm transferring to the Beijing Bludgers,” said Tong.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Are there better opportunities over there?”

“No,” said Tong. “But...”

He put down his drink and turned to Hermione. “Are you pureblood?” he asked bluntly.

Hermione put down her own drink as well. “No, I’m muggleborn,” she said. Might as well get it out on the table, so to speak, she groaned internally.

Tong sighed in relief and picked up his drink again. “Me too. That’s why I’m leaving. It’s a good thing you’re passing through. There’s something coming.”

“What sort of something?” asked Hermione. She knew exactly what it was, but was interested in what he had heard.

Tong leaned in to her ear. “I have a friend in the Ministry. They’re all listening to that maniac, Voldemort or whatever he calls himself. My friend said to get out for a while in case everything heats up. You know, have a play over in the Chinese league for a while and let Voldemort burn himself out.”

“I see,” said Hermione. “Well, thanks for the warning.”

“We have to look out for each other,” shrugged Tong. “The rest of them won’t give a fig about us.”

“Right,” said Hermione. She clinked her glass with his and they both relaxed in their chairs slightly, a strange warm feeling of solidarity settling across her.

“Min said you aren’t a quidditch fan,” Tong said conversationally.

“No. Not really. I don’t have anything against it, it’s just not my thing,” Hermione said half-apologetically. She seemed to have to spend a great deal of her time doing penance for not enjoying quidditch. It was getting to the point that just pretending to like it would be less effort.

“I have an undergrad in physics from Tab,” Tong said. “It’s actually quite cool to think about broom flight and quidditch manoeuvres in that way. I mean, if you are interested in that sort of thing.”

Hermione’s libido prodded her brain immediately and suggested that there were options available for their mutual satisfaction.

Hermione turned to him with a brilliant smile. “Oh please! That sounds fascinating.”

Tong grinned back at her. “This is going to need more beer.”

*

The next morning a very hungover Hermione was walking back from Horace’s room after failing to find him—and his precious, precious stockpile of hangover potions—in his dungeon quarters.

She’d had a very satisfying snogfest with Tong after his physics discussion and she wasn’t even quite sure when her and the other witches had floo’d back to Hogwarts. The only thing Hermione knew was in one hour she was supposed to be assisting Filius and she wasn’t really sure how that was going to go. She thoughts perhaps she might vomit.

When Hermione got back to her room there was a note on the door addressed to her. She groaned and grabbed it.

It was from Dumbledore, requesting her immediate presence in his office. Hermione groaned again.

She plodded slowly towards his office, and as she rounded the final corner she saw Pamona waiting at the gargoyle.

“Hello!” Pomona said brightly in a voice that felt like shards of glass were jamming into Hermione’s brain.

“Apparently,” croaked Hermione.

Pomona laughed and held out a vial of a purple liquid that Hermione immediately recognised as a hangover potion.

“Oh, you wonderful woman,” Hermione gasped and took the vial, downing the contents promptly. She sighed in relief as the potion began to work. Her headache eased, her stomach stopped flipping and she felt well-rested and like her brain had emerged from a thick fog.

“Liquorice torpedo,” Hermione said to the gargoyle and hoped she’d read the note correctly.

The gargoyle swung open and the staircase swirled up in front of her. Pomona gave her a little wave and walked away down the corridor.

Hermione climbed the stairs and found Dumbledore and Minerva waiting for her. Minerva looked impeccable, so she’d obviously had a stash of hangover potions in her room.

“Ah Hermione, thank you for joining us. I’m in need of your services it seems,” Dumbledore said warmly.

“Would do you need?” Hermione asked.

“Horace is currently indisposed, and I would be very grateful if you could cover his classes for the week,” Dumbledore continued. “Minerva has been extolling your skills with the students and thought you would be perfect to step in to Horace’s shoes.”

“Of course,” said Hermione. “Er...where is he?” she asked.

She didn’t miss the look of fury Minerva sent Dumbledore. Curious, she wondered.

“He’s currently away from the castle. If you could stand in as Head of House as well it would be appreciated.” Dumbledore said smoothly.

“Slytherin House?” Hermione asked. What on Earth?

“Yes,” interjected Minerva with a sly smile. “It’s just for a week, you will handle it admirably.”

“I think that should be fine,” said Hermione thinking it would be anything but.

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Well, that has been satisfactorily settled, and I imagine you need to be in Filius’s classroom.”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Thank you Hermione,” said Dumbledore.

Hermione arranged her face in a grimace that she tried to make look less like one, and turned to leave.

“Oh Hermione?” Minerva called out from behind Dumbledore.

“Yes?” Hermione responded.

“Don’t forget the quidditch match tomorrow afternoon,” Minerva said, the strange little smile still on her face.

“The what?” Hermione tried to clarify the horrible thing her ears just caught. Surely she’d heard wrongly.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “As Head you assist in preparing the team and devising the match strategy. I’ll be thoroughly entertained by your input, as usually Rolanda takes on the role as Slytherin coach if Horace is away.”

“Oh,” said Hermione.

“I anticipate it will be thoroughly entertaining,” agreed Minerva cheerfully.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s annoyance carried through Filius’s lesson and into the next few hours as she walked along the edge of the Forbidden Forrest, resetting her jinx and personal alarms. She didn’t think the wizards would try entering the school through the eerie, forbidding clump of nature but then again, she didn’t think she’d be Head of Slytherin either. Which really just went to show her that any completely bullshit thing could happen at any time.

Quidditch.

Fuck.

She kicked a clod of dirt angrily as she stalked along. Could she never escape the stupid game? It followed her everywhere. She was either being forced to watch it, talk about it or read about it. Here she remembered the Quidditch Through The Ages book that Ron had bought her one Christmas they were dating. That really should have been the first indication that their relationship was doomed to failure. Or...in terms of quidditch experiences, even worse than all the others she’d already thought of; play it.

Hermione could fly, it just didn’t seem as useful to her as apparition or the floo. Why get half of England’s green fields in your eyes as you blasted along perched on a skinny wooden rod that made your undies bunch halfway up your bum, when you could instead twist on the spot and appear gracefully pretty much wherever you wanted? It just wasn’t logical.

The last time she’d grudgingly agreed to play backyard quidditch at the Burrow, she’d copped a bludger in the face from George and it had split her head open. Ron had stayed on the field to save three goals before deciding to investigate his bloodied and barely conscious girlfriend at the foot of their garden. That had probably been shitty relationship indicator number two.

Hermione sighed to herself. She decided she should visit Rolanda, ask her a few questions then go to the Slytherin common room. It was probably worthwhile popping a head in to see how they were going. She had the password “Ancestral”, which sounded so creepily pureblood supremacy-like she wasn’t looking forward to the visit at all.

She stared up and out through the trees at the Hogwarts grounds and saw the tall, thin and rather awkward-looking figure of Snape meandering across the grass, his face in a book.

She stopped walking and watched him. He appeared to be alone and quite vulnerable. Hermione wondered if the wizards were here somewhere, watching as well. If they were, it would be a perfect time to attack.

As she was pondering that thought she saw his head arch back and his hands splay open, the book falling from his hands.

Holy fuck, thought Hermione. They’re here.

Years of training kicked in and she burst out of the trees, sprinting at full pace. She felt the tingling surge of her magic rising up from within as sent two nonverbal spells out in front of her simultaneously; one to shield the boy, and the other her enhanced immobilising spell. She could see Snape ahead, clutching his back on the ground as the pulse of her shield settled around him, and two frozen figures on the ground behind him.

She done it. She caught the wizards mid-Snape murder attempt.

She could go home!

“Got you!” Hermione shouted triumphantly as she rounded Snape’s prone form and stood over her captives.

They were not her wizards.

They were an extremely terrified looking James Potter and Sirius Black.

Hermione frowned. Well, what the hell was this?

She ignored them for the moment and turned to Snape. She cancelled her shield charm and cast a diagnostic. He’d been hit with a particularly nasty little stinging hex, but beyond that seemed fine.

“Are you alright?” she asked, putting a hand out to help him up.

“Yes, Professor Granger,” he said. He appeared not to notice her hand, or perhaps was ignoring it, as he gingerly pushed himself up without assistance. He looked frantically around him until his gaze caught the bedraggled text in a puddle. His shoulders drooped.

“Oh, that’s no worry,” said Hermione cheerfully and she summoned the book. She knew absolutely every book-related repair and conservation spell going. That was one upside to being an obsessive bibliophile who was probably fated to die under a collapsed tower of books.

She quickly fixed the book and returned it to Snape. He mumbled something that may have been thank you or could have been anything really.

“Right,” Hermione said and turned to the two immobilised teenagers.

She removed the spell and they slowly sat up looking rueful. She was seething,

“Hexing a classmate in the back? I can not think of something that is more the antithesis of the Gryffindor House traits. Professor McGonagall will be horrified when I report this incident to her. She’ll be disappointed in you both, and you both should be disappointed in yourselves.”

“But—“ James started to say in protest but Hermione was too angry.

She cut him off with a dark glare. “I have not given you permission to speak. And I do not recommend any further transgressions in this moment as I am already furious. Twenty points from Gryffindor Mister Black,” she said.

Sirius groaned.

Hermione turned to James. “Thirty points from Gryffindor for your involvement Mister Potter. You are Head Boy. It isn’t just a badge, you know. It’s a whole lot of expectations on you, your behaviour and your ability to demonstrate leadership. None of which I witnessed in this little moment. Go back to your common room and think about what you’ve done. You are both dismissed.”

Hermione turned away from them to speak to Snape again but he was gone. He was walking slowly, favouring his back, towards the castle. Hermione frowned in frustration. She jogged up the path towards him.

“You should probably go to the infirmary,” said Hermione as she caught up with him.

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I agree. You definitely look completely fine,” Hermione commented sarcastically.

He didn’t respond and kept walking towards Hogwarts. Hermione noticed he was quite a bit taller than her. In class he obviously was either sitting down or stooping so it hadn’t been as obvious. She had a vague memory he’d been imposing as an adult.

“Mister Snape,” Hermione said firmly and he looked at her. Well, looked at her. Well, one part of her. This time he fixed his eyes on her right eyebrow. “I have some pain potions in my quarters. If you see me before curfew I’ll give you one. No infirmary.”

Snape frowned in concentration as if he was considering her offer.

”Don’t make me invoke the ‘I’m your Head of House’ call,” Hermione teased.

He nodded.

“Why did they hex you in the back?” Hermione asked gently.

His eyes flashed and she stepped back briefly. It was the first actual emotion she’d seen from him.

“Wondering what I did to deserve it?” he snapped.

“Of course not!” said Hermione. “I just want to know what happened.”

“The same thing that always happens,” Snape said bitterly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Hermione said. “What do you mean always? Has it happened before?”

Snape shrugged. He looked away, but before he did Hermione caught a glimpse of the blank, awful look of resignation on his face. Hermione’s stomach dropped when she saw it. She knew it of course. She’d seen the same expression of learned helplessness on the faces of magical creatures held captive illegally and abused. It was an acceptance of everything bad that was happening and what was to come, knowing nothing they could do would change anything.

“You can tell me,” said Hermione. “I want to help.”

“Why would you?” asked Snape wearily.

Before Hermione could respond there was a bang from behind her in the forest. It sounded like one of her jinx had either been set off by something...or someone. Hermione immediately swung around and set off for the source of the noise. Her investigations quickly established some shoddy spell work was the culprit and she was very cross at herself. She looked back across the grounds to the figure of Snape who had walked nearly back to the castle.

She’d had nothing else the rest of the day so stayed in her rooms, casting spells on the clusters of crystals on her bed. She was feeling a little morose after the little adventure on the grounds, so had put back on the clothes she’d been wearing under her departmental issues robes on the day it had all gone to shit. No one would see her. She could be herself for a small moment in this time.

She had finished a third lot of crystals and was sick to death of bloody crystals and Hour Reversal spells when there was a soft knock on her door. Hermione looked at it with some confusion then remembered her offer to Snape. She banished the crystals from the small table in the sitting room into a chest and put a vial of pain reliever there instead.

She went to the door and opened it.

It was indeed Snape.

He had discarded his robes and was in his uniform, which looked quite worn, particularly on the knees and elbows. His collar was fraying slightly at the edges above the knot of his green-striped tie which was too short for his long frame.

“Ah, Mister Snape,” Hermione said. “Come on in, I have your potion.”

She opened the door wider and he stepped through hesitantly. She smiled and sat down on one of her armchairs.

“All right, come and sit down and drink it here please. That way I can make sure you actually consumed it.”

She indicated to the other chair, which he looked at suspiciously before sitting gingerly on its edge. Hermione handed him the potion and he picked it up, examined it, and took the stopper out before sniffing it. She watched in amusement as he then tested it on his tongue before deciding it was drinkable.

“Did you think I was going to poison you?” she asked.

He visibly blanched at her question as he put the empty vial back on the table. “Maybe not, but only a very stupid person drinks a potion without testing it,” he said.

“What about tea? Would you drink tea if you watched me make it?” she proposed in a dry tone.

“Yes,” Snape said. “Are you good at making tea?”

“Oh I’m good at most things,” Hermione said airily as she summoned a tea set. “Just ask me and I’ll tell you.”

A small bark of laughter escaped Snape and he looked as shocked as she felt.

“Sorry, Professor Granger,” he muttered.

“What for? It was a joke. It would have been mortifying if you hadn’t laughed,” Hermione said.

She set about making a pot of tea and smiled inwardly as she noticed how shrewdly Snape watched her. It was like Potions class all over again.

She passed him cup and sat back with hers. Snape looked across at her with a slight, thoughtful crease between his eyebrows and she felt a brief stab of outrage that he was staring at her chest. Then she remembered her “Too magic for your misogyny” T-shirt which was olive green with fat pink letters.

“You like the shirt?” she asked.

“It looks muggle,” he said circumspectly.

“Well, that’s why I like it,” said Hermione in a slightly more curt tone.

She wanted to ask him about the incident on the grounds but decided not to after observing his reaction to the vial. He appeared to be mistrustful of everything, so she didn’t want to risk the odd, tentative interest he now had in her that actually prompted him to come and retrieve the vial.

“You like muggle things?” he asked, pretending not to be interested in her answer.

“Of course,” she said casually, making herself another cup of tea. Snape put his own cup on the table and she poured him some more of the streaming, fragrant liquid. She took this as indicated her brewing skills had been found acceptable.

“I’ve never seen anyone cast two spells at once,” Snape muttered as he pulled the cup towards himself.

Hermione grinned a little. Ah, there it was. As an Unspeakable she had developed numerous human sources in order to find out who was undertaking nefarious experiments with time. She was good at it. She found it easier then having an actual relationship. All it needed was figuring out people’s motivations, and she’d just found his. Knowledge.

“I told you I was good at most things,” she said.

He looked at her with a slight scowl. His hair was equally as lank and messy as she’d remembered as an adult. He had the greasy, shiny skin of a teenager, and he mumbled when he talked; perhaps trying to reduce how much air play his crooked teeth got. All of this combined with the large nose and surly expression made a generally unappealing picture. Hermione, who could definitely emphasise with awkward years appearance-wise, smiled at his expression.

“That was a joke attempt again. That’s obviously something I’m not good at. But spells I am. The double-cast? I can probably teach you how if you’d like,” she offered.

“Really?” he asked. The scowl was immediately replaced with a naked, open interest.

“I think so. You appear to be way ahead of your classmates. Let me get you a book. You’ll need to read it first before we can get into any practical work,” Hermione said.

She stood and walked out of the room into her chamber, where she stuck her hand into her small satchel, summoning the text she wanted from its depths. Her satchel was full of books of course, but she’d completely forgotten to pack an emergency change of clothes the day she got sent back. It was about priorities really.

She paused briefly, wondering whether she was going a bit far. She wanted to find out about Snape to fill in some gaps and finalise her investigation. Should she be teaching him anything additional? No, probably not. She wasn’t quite sure what it would mean to the timeline. Then she thought about how he’d let her worm her way into the Wolfsbane brewing at Grimmauld Place. There was a quid pro quo situation apparent here. He hadn’t refused to share his knowledge when she wanted it, why would she now the situation was reversed?

Having made her decision she returned to the outer room and handed the book to him.

“Self-Defensive Spellwork,” he read aloud, tracing the embossed letters reverently. Hermione hadn’t seen anyone outside herself so pleased with being handed a book. “I’ve never read this. It’s in the Restricted Section.”

“Chapters five and six are the best ones,” instructed Hermione, “those ones will give you an idea of the processes that you need to master before you can hold two separate spells in your mind without confusing everything”

“Thank you,” he said. She noticed he was still entranced in the book, and was already beginning to thumb through it.

“How’s your back?” she asked.

He stopped browsing through the pages, and looked thoughtful. “Much better.”

“Good. Well you can go back to your common room now. It’s curfew in twenty minutes.” Hermione reminded him.

“Yes, Professor Granger,” he said. She watched him stand up, clutching the book in his hand. She stood up as well and walked to the door, opening it to let him through. He eased past her, flattening himself so that no part of his body touched hers or the doorway. It was an impressive effort. Even for someone so lean as he was.

She watched him walk off down to corridor, now noticing the slightly stooping droop to his spine and shoulders, and hesitant step. It was nothing like the impeccable posture and prowling stride she remembered from her years of watching him pace the classroom.

Perhaps he developed it later as an adult.

Once he’d turned the corner of the corridor she retreated back into her room and shut the door. She cleared away the vial, smiling to herself as she thought of his sceptical reception of her offered potion. Then her smiled faded a bit as she remembered Horace’s observation in her first week at Hogwarts.

I think he learnt quite young that attention from people isn’t often a good thing.

Hermione chewed on her lip. She thought about the subdued behaviour in class, the uneasy way he refused to meet her eyes, and his defeated response to the hex in the back. There was something very wrong. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she didn’t like it.

She decided to speak to Minerva in the morning. She had decided to forgive the witch for the whole ‘surprise quidditch coach’ experience and was interested in getting some advice on what to do. After all, Minerva had years of cumulative knowledge in dealing with adolescents just waiting to be plundered.

Satisfied, Hermione retired to bed, still wearing her t-shirt, still too magic for their misogyny.

Chapter Text

Hermione made her way to Minerva’s rooms after breakfast, but before the witch’s first transfiguration class for the day. She knocked on the door and took a breath, trying to decide what to say.

Minerva opened the door. “Ah, Hermione. Come on in. I was just having a cup of tea to fortify myself before the third years if you wish to partake.”

“Thanks, I’d love one,” said Hermione and went inside.

She sat opposite Minerva on an armchair almost identical to the one Snape had sat on the evening before. Perhaps one interior designer did the whole castle, Hermione pondered, then immediately followed that thought with a self-directed query on whether such a profession even existed in the wizarding world. She decided, given the state of most magical households she’d observed, it definitely didn’t.

“How are you?” Minerva asked, sipping her tea and fixing Hermione with a firm stare.

“Fine...Er...good,” Hermione said. She was already chickening out asking about Snape. She felt very out of her depth.

To her surprise, Minerva laughed. “Good! I thought you were still put out about the whole quidditch thing. The fifty points was a bit much, but I take your point,” the witch said.

“The fifty points? Oh, no, that had nothing to do with that,” Hermione said.

“Are you sure? It seemed excessive,” Minerva said with a obvious thin edge of steel to her voice.

“I didn’t think so. I saw two boys hex someone in the back. It was completely unprovoked,” Hermione said defensively.

Minerva sighed and put down her cup. “Hermione I don’t blame you for the misunderstanding. You are new, and you aren’t aware of the background. But I can tell you, anything involving Mister Snape is never unprovoked.”

Hermione felt confused. “Well, I witnessed this incident. He was walking across the grounds, reading a book when Mister Potter and Mister Black attacked him from behind.”

“But what had he said to them in class before? What had he done to them in the hallway that morning? None of this is one-sided. You just happened upon a small part of it and, because you can’t see the whole picture you can’t possibly be expected to come to the correct conclusion,” Minerva said in a soothing manner.

“Oh,” said Hermione, who felt she had seen the whole picture very clearly, but was now being forced to look at a completely different one.

“He’s been trouble since he first came to Hogwarts,” Minerva sighed. “Sorting alone can tell you a lot about a child. There was no hesitation from the hat on him. He was straight into Slytherin.”

Hermione chewed a lip. She’d previously held a lot of the same preconceptions about Slytherin House. But she got along quite well with lots of them now...no wait...in the future. As soon as they were apart from people telling them who they should like and dislike and who was good and who was bad.

Minerva must have noticed her expression. “Well, no offence intended of course regarding your current temporary position Hermione, but you know exactly what I mean.”

“Hmmm,” Hermione had no comment on that.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed his behaviour in class. He barely pays any attention to anything, half the time I think he is sleeping in my lessons,” Minerva continued on.

“I’ve been given the impression he’s quite clever,” Hermione rallied. She thought of the innovation she’d seen from him in Horace and Filius’s classes.

“Oh he’s clever, there is no doubt as to that,” agreed Minerva. “His mother Eileen was an exceptional student. But her son is lazy. That’s one of his issues. And he has absolutely no self-respect.”

“He doesn’t?” asked Hermione.

“Well no,” Minerva said. “When he was younger I thought perhaps Eileen had forgotten to buy new robes for him for each term. But, well, you have seen him. He doesn’t appear to bathe, or even brush his hair, let alone wash it. He just doesn’t care, and children can sense that. He’d find Hogwarts a friendlier place if he tried for a little dignity.”

“I see,” Hermione said.

“Yes, I’m sorry you had to hear that, but now you can come to the situation with a clear mind. Mister Potter and Mister Black have a very strong future ahead of them, and Mister Potter especially has shown great leadership qualities.”

“That’s nice,” said Hermione dully.

Her mind stuck it’s tongue out at Minerva and wildly gesticulated at the memories of James fooling around in a variety of classes and then the flash of light as he sent that stinging hex directly into the back of his unsuspecting classmate.

“And Mister Black,” continued Minerva, who was obviously on a roll, “doesn’t live with his own family, he lives with the Potters. That type of situation can be very hard on a young man.”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione. Even though she didn’t agree with anything actually. Nothing felt right. It all felt wrong.

“Excellent. Well I’m glad you came to see me, this has been a very good conversation,” Minerva said with some satisfaction.

“Yes. Thank you, it’s been very informative,” Hermione said.

She put down her cup and left Minerva’s chambers. She felt uncomfortable about the meeting. Her memories of her Head had been of a kind, whip-smart and talented witch who always looked out for her charges. Hermione supposed Snape wasn’t one of Minerva’s charges. Which made some sense why she preferred James and Sirius. But Minerva obviously didn’t like Snape much at all, based upon what seemed like completely clueless reasons.

Hermione frowned to herself. It was probably a bit rich of her to get judgemental about it. Before 1977 there wasn’t all that much Hermione had liked about Snape either. Sure, she had thought he was interesting, powerful and intellectually superior to most of the other Professors, but he also was a bit of a bastard. And he’d made fun of her teeth.

But she, well, she thought she did sort of like this awkward, swotty boy, and his obvious love of books and learning. She was beginning to understand how the world had taken that boy and made him into such a rigidly-controlled and unhappy man. Hermione understood, more than Harry and Ron would have, how Hogwarts could be decidedly unfriendly to someone different.

Hermione made her way to the quidditch pitch, where Rolanda was getting ready for a practice match for Ravenclaw.

“Hello,” Hermione said.

Rolanda turned and saw her. She gave a little half-wave. “Hello! Come for some pointers?”

“I wouldn’t mind some,” said Hermione.

“First one, Min is ridiculously competitive about quidditch. Which, of course, you are already aware,” laughed Rolanda.

“I assume she didn’t nominate me to fill in for Horace because of my innate teaching ability,” said Hermione wryly.

“As soon as you mentioned you didn’t like quidditch, I saw Min’s eyes light up. Slytherin is a tough little team, they’re hard to beat. Much harder when I’m coaching them as opposed to, sorry to be harsh, you,” the witch added.

“Well, how comforting,” said Hermione. “Anything else?”

“They’ve got two very fast chasers. Min will try to shut them down early with her beaters. The Gryffindor seeker is better, so if they spot the snitch you’ve got no chance,” said Rolanda as she began to lay out practice brooms.

“Okay, right. Thanks,” said Hermione.

“The Gryffs are a bit stodgy on rules though, and you’ll find the snakes far more adaptable if you can think outside the square,” Rolanda finished.

Hermione nodded. She could feel her brain sending increasingly strongly worded entreaties requesting an immediate halt to any further quidditch discussions.

“Thank you. I’ll go to the change room after classes to get them ready,” she said.

“That’s the spirit!” said Hooch. “I’ll be refereeing, so I’ll see you there.”

Hermione, who didn’t have any classes to assist with that day, returned to her chambers. She dug into her satchel and pulled out her last three birthday presents from Ron; Beating the Bludgers - A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch, Quidditch Through The Ages and Flying With The Cannons. They were completely new. The spines had never even been cracked.

She felt a slight tinge of annoyance that she’d thought at the time what useless and inappropriate each of the gifts were, and yet she was now in a situation where they had become useful and appropriate. Life was irritating sometimes. If she made it back she’d have to thank Ron at some point.

Which would mean more quidditch books.

Hmmmm.

Hermione decided to put that twisty problem aside to solve later. Instead, she opened Beating the Bludgers and began to read.

*
Hermione walked down the narrow, stone stairs towards the soft, green light that reminded her of Horace’s sitting room. She came out into the large common room, with children lounging together on black and green couches, laughing and eating sweets. Older students gathered around the tables, discussing the contents of books or snogged quietly in dark corners.

There was definitely a subtle green motif, noticed Hermione. She took another look around, and noticed skulls...a lot of skulls. There was no subtly in the use of skulls. There was definitely more skulls than she reasonably would have expected in a school, or in a room built for children to relax in, but there it was.

It probably explained a lot.

“Professor Granger,” said a tall girl with short dark hair as she walked towards Hermione. “We were informed you had been appointed as our temporary Head of House.”

“Yes, thank you..um..” Hermione started to say.

“Fern Burke,” introduced the girl. “I’m the quidditch captain.”

“Oh excellent,” said Hermione. “You’re just who I wanted to speak to.”

“Is this about the game this evening?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I have a strategy, but it’s a little troublesome.”

Fern looked at her with interest. “Is it legal?”

“Technically,” said Hermione. “It’s not against the rules, but it may be against the spirit of the game.”

“When you play the kitties the only spirit of the game is winning,” laughed Fern.

“Well that’s both positive and disturbing,” said Hermione bracingly.

Hermione could see a younger version of Sirius over Fern’s shoulder chatting to some boys around the flickering fireplace.

Regulus perhaps?

Hermione did some quick calculations in her head. He’d be around sixteen, and from what Harry had told her about Sirius’s family, possibly already a Death Eater.

She kept scanning the room and her eyes were drawn to the lanky figure tucked away on an armchair against one of the walls, furthest from the fire but closest to the bookshelf. She could recognise the nose and hair from where she stood.

Snape.

After making an agreement with Fern to gather the team in the change room an hour before the match, Hermione walked over to Snape.

“Hello,” she said. “Finished the chapters yet?”

She was treated to a pensieve-worthy memory as Snape jerked upright at her voice. She watched as Snape fought a desperate scrabble against gravity as he stopped books and parchment from falling off his lap. Finally he all-too-casually brushed his hair back, forgetting he had a quill in his hand and left a long ink smudge across his forehead. She smiled at him and he blinked nervously.

“Oh, Professor Granger. Yes. I was...I was finishing my potions essay, and also making some notes on the chapters,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware there was another essay due,” commented Hermione. “Or are you handing one in late?”

“No. Professor Slughorn gives me extension work outside class,” Snape said. “NEWTS work is boring.”

“I see,” said Hermione.

Well.

Sneaky Slytherins indeed.

So, Hermione deduced, Horace was largely ignoring Snape in class but giving him accelerated work outside it? Why? What was the reason for secrecy? Was it associated with the behaviour she witnessed from James and Sirius?

“Professor Granger,” interrupted a voice next to her and Hermione turned towards the boy she had guessed as Regulus.

“Mister Black,” Hermione said, crossing her fingers her guess was correct.

“I wish to extend the deepest apologies from my family for the behaviour of my brother,” Regulus said stiffly.

“You don’t need to apologise for his behaviour,” Hermione retorted without thinking.

Regulus’s face darkened and she realised she’d made an error. This was obviously one of those long held pureblood etiquette formalities that she’d only know about if it was passed down from about fifty generations of witch to wizard, and she was well on her way to insulting him.

Crap. She was turning out to be a shitty Head of Slytherin.

“What I mean by that,” Hermione continued smoothly, “is that you owe the apology to Mister Snape. He was the wronged party, not myself.”

Snape had been observing the exchange with undisguised interest, and his eyebrows elevated at her comment.

“Of course,” said Regulus with all the pomposity of a geriatric aristocratic. He turned to Snape and gave a quick bow.

“Mister Snape, I wish to be extend the deepest apologies from my family for the behaviour of my brother,” he repeated. Then he squinted and cocked his head. “Why do you have ink all over your face?”

“What?” said Snape in a panicked voice. His eyes darted to Hermione and he reached up to his forehead, as if he could feel the black smudges that zigzagged up.

“It’s more on your right temple,” said Hermione helpfully.

Snape groaned and sank down into the chair, letting his hair fall over his face again. Hermione began to think she was making the situation worse.

“Well, I should go,” she said to try and ease Snape’s obvious discomfort. “I can be reached in my quarters if needed.”

“I will see you at the game Professor Granger,” said Regulus.

“Indeed you will Mister Black,” Hermione said, hoping she’d struck the right chord of friendly mentor and eighteenth century dandy, which was apparently how purebreds liked to be spoken to in 1977.

She watched Regulus walk back to the group in the corner. They were laughing with each other and smiled welcomingly at their friend when he returned to them. They looked so happy and carefree. She wondered if they were Death Eaters too. What had Voldemort promised them? What did they think their own future would look like? She was pretty sure Regulus wouldn’t want his to end in a lonely, desolate cave. That certainly wouldn’t be in the recruitment pamphlet.

She sighed. She was also fairly sure the future that lay before Snape was not want he would want either, but that was not why she was here. Hermione looked back at him in the chair. She was beginning to realise he was nothing like what she thought. And though she’d been sad at the sacrifice made by her Professor, whom had seemed so adult and distant at the time to her, she now felt a keen stab of regret for the boy she was beginning to know. What waste it would be.

She had to leave. There was no point thinking in that manner. It was a pointless use of emotional energy.

“Goodbye Mister Snape,” Hermione said to the curtain of hair that used to be a teenage boy. “I look forward to discussing those chapters with you.” The hair moved slightly, perhaps indicating some type of salutation in return. She repressed a smile.

Hermione decided to use the hours she had left before the match to imbibe more crystals with the spells needed to send her home. She began the long walk back to her chambers, out of the soporific, emerald hue of the common room and back into the dim light of the dungeon corridors.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin change room was refreshingly free from skulls, and instead largely focused on the standard green and silver motif with snakes dotted regularly around the room. Hermione stood nervously in the middle it, holding a bag of sand and wondering if she knew what the hell she was doing.

No.

The answer to that was unequivocally no.

The team sat in front of her wearing identical pristine uniforms and clutching identical pristine brooms. Fern, the captain, sat in the front row. Regulus was perched next to her and Hermione was initially surprised to see the familiar, slouching figure of Snape at the back.

Ah, Hermione’s brain observed. Snape played quidditch.

Wait. Snape played quidditch?

With effort, Hermione pulled forth a very hazy memory of him refereeing a game when she was at school. She couldn’t remember who won, but did recall there had been some type dramatic event during it, as there always traditionally was during her years at Hogwarts.

“Hello everyone, thank you for meeting me early. I have a few ideas about the game today,” Hermione began with a bit of a shaky voice.

She was in the wilderness now. There was no solid ground of understanding and experience underneath her. It was just wild guesses and some fairly savage rule bending.

“Thank you Professor Granger,” said Fern. “We only beat Gryffindor once last year, when Professor Hooch was our stand-in.”

“We’re looking forward to hearing your strategy,” added Regulus.

“Oh,” said Hermione, “Well, I think it’s better if I show you.”

Hermione emptied the bag of sand onto the floor in front of her. She’d spent countless hours with Ginny, Harry, Ron and at one confusing dinner party even Griselda, as they used this spell to replay matches to her. Matches they thought she’d been forced to miss because of work.

Matches where she actually had either gone to the movies or a coffee shop with a book. Matches she was then obliged to sit through as one of the many passionate quidditch affectionados in her life couldn’t bear that Hermione didn’t get to see the Most Awesome Thing Ever. It wasn’t a common spell at all for most of the wizarding community, but it was all too common for Hermione. She could probably cast it in her sleep. If her sleep consisted of a nightmarish landscape of endless sporting recaps, that is.

She cast the spell and the sand pulled up to form the Hogwarts playing field.

“That’s new,” said Fern in a surprised tone, and the other players chatted excitedly behind her.

Hermione gently guided granules up into the air that hovered, spun and formed into tiny quidditch players, who then began zooming around the small, sandy field. She looked up at the team who were all staring at the field, agog. Snape was no longer slouching, but was instead half-standing to get a better view. Unlike the others however, he was fixated on her wand movements, not the replica.

“All right,” said Hermione bracingly. “Let me show you what I think.”

She frowned in concentration and the tiny figures began to fly around the field again. There was not a sound from the students as they observed the strategy playing out in front of them. They remained absolutely silent for the entirety of her demonstration, which was something that Hermione found increasingly unnerving. When she had finished showing them her ideas, she cancelled the spell and the sand immediately fell to the floor in a small pile.

“So,” said Hermione. “Thoughts?”

“It’s completely daft,” said Fern, and the players behind her nodded.

Hermione swallowed nervously.

“Daft, but amazing,” Fern finished, grinning broadly.

“The Gryffs will Avada themselves,” said Regulus.

“You know who will? Professor McGonagall,” added the sandy-haired boy next to Snape.

“It may not work,” said Hermione. “And if it doesn’t then you’ll definitely lose.”

“I think it’s worth attempting,” said Snape suddenly.

“I agree,” said the boy next to Snape, who had a hard-edged face and his long hair tied back against the nape of his neck.

“If Severus and Corban are happy to try,” Fern said, “then I think we should fully commit.”

There was general nods of agreement from the group. Hermione was about to speak again when the horn announcing the teams entry to the field sounded.

“Good luck,” Hermione said as they gathered their brooms and made their way out.
As the players walked past her Snape paused briefly.

“Professor Granger,” he started to say.

Hermione held up a hand. “Before you ask. Yes, I promise to teach you that spell,” she said teasingly.

She watched in amusement as a wave of pink bloomed up Snape’s neck and across his cheeks. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly and he lifted a hand to brush his hair back from his face.

In that movement Hermione caught a glimpse of a crest embroidered on the inside of his left sleeve and her stomach dropped. She recognised that crest. After all, she’d spent far too much time staring up at it while convulsing on a carpet as Bellatrix Lestrange bent over her.

It was the Malfoy crest.

Her eyes swept to the departing figure of Fern and she saw the same crest glinting on the underside of the broom slung casually over the witch’s shoulder. Hermione felt sick. Her heart was racing.

“Are you all right Professor Granger?” Snape asked. He was looking at her face which Hermione was sure had gone pale.

“Yes, I’m fine. My apologies Mister Snape, I’m just nervous about the game,” she lied.

Snape nodded and turned and followed Fern out of the room onto the pitch. Hermione took a deep breath. It was fine. Malfoy wasn’t at Hogwarts. He’d graduated years ago. Same with Bellatrix. She wasn’t going to see them. She was safe. She was in a safe place. She centred herself with another deep breath.

It said something that despite the years, despite all her training and experience, that such a small thing could still have such a large effect on her.

Fucking Malfoy.

Feeling more in control, Hermione exited out the back of the room and up into the stands. She felt strange initially, sitting amongst a sea of green with the gold and red stand across from her. She could see Minerva. Minerva waved and grinned. Hermione waved back and smiled through gritted teeth.

God she hoped her plan worked. She would wipe that smile right off the witch’s face.

Hmmm. Okay. Maybe she hadn’t completely forgiven Minerva about the quidditch thing.

Or maybe it wasn’t about that at all.

Maybe she was still angry about her comments on Snape. Hermione frowned slightly and looked at the players whizzing around the field warming up. Snape hovered near the Slytherin goal, not moving from his spot. He had tucked his hair behind his ears and appeared to be placidly watching everyone else exert themselves. She tried to remember his adult self on the broom and couldn’t really get recall anything specific, just fuzzy memories of him following the game like a large, black, predatory bird of some kind.

As she was watching Snape, Hermione almost missed Rolanda flying into the centre of the field and the bludgers being released.

The game had begun.

It didn’t take very long for Hermione to realise she was coach of the most hated team in Hogwarts. Every mistake made by her players was cheered, and every successful dodge, weave, or snaffle of the quaffle by anyone in green was met by a chorus of boos. And the sound came from every stand but the one she was sitting in. The commentator—who was some trumped up little git wearing a Ravenclaw scarf—was equally biased, blatantly revelling in Gryffindor’s gaols and decrying any skills shown by her team as cheating.

“Oh shut up you insufferable little prig,” Hermione muttered to herself, and thought she heard a slight laugh behind her. She ignored it. She’d never been actually interested in a quidditch match in such a way before, and her heart was in her mouth.

“And now the Gryffindor seeker, James Potter, best in Hogwarts, has spotted the snitch! This will be the game!” shouted the git and the three stands around her erupted in cheers.

She watched James Potter rocket down in an impressive corkscrew dive, managing to toss off a quick wave to the shouting students he flitted past. Hermione saw Minerva clapping. She set her lips in a tight line. She was about to see what her team was made of, and what they’d made of her.

As James dived and reached out his hand two dark green shapes flashed either side of him.

“Oh it’s the Slytherin chasers, Snape and Yaxley,” the git announced unenthusiastically. The crowds booed. The students around Hermione cheered.

Hermione watched as James tried to shake them off as he sped after the snitch. He lost Corban reasonably quickly but couldn’t lose Snape. The black-haired boy flew around, underneath and even in front of James, his cloak flaring in front of the seeker’s face. Hermione saw the exact moment James lost sight of the snitch and he pulled up and away to back above the game, his face screwed up in disappointment. The crowds around them booed and Hermione’s stand hooted their encouragement.

“Goal to Gryffindor!” crowed the announcer and the boos turned to cheers.

Hermione looked over to the goals and her disappointed keeper. Fern was patting her on the back consolingly. As expected, Gryffindor had taken advantage of the missing chasers.

Three more times James dived and Hermione gripped the Slytherin scarf (provided by a nearby first-year who had draped it around her neck when they realised she wasn’t wearing any House regalia). Each time she sighed in relief as Corban and Snape ran interference, forcing James to abort his attempts, even the last one where James skimmed so close to the ground the grass moved as he blitzed along. Snape stuck on the seeker no matter what he tried, with Corban mostly able to stay on target as well.

“Gryffindor scores again! Still no points for Slytherin,” the announcer said gleefully.

As she watched the game, Hermione decided Snape reminded her a bit of watching Harry play. Harry was good because he played with utter focus and intensity, apparently thinking of nothing but the game. James engaged often with the crowd, imploring them to cheer and inviting them to share in his disappointment when he missed the snitch, but Snape never even once looked at anyone that wasn’t on the field.

Suddenly Regulus dropped like a stone.

“Er, Black, the Slytherin seeker appears to have spotted the snitch,” the Ravenclaw announcer called and was drowned out by booing. Hermione couldn’t help but notice the grin on Regulus’s face at the reaction. James looked confused and he spun around, desperately searching out the snitch that Regulus appeared to have located.

Richard, the Gryffindor captain, motioned at two of his seekers who immediately flew after Regulus. As they neared him Regulus suddenly zagged, taking the chasers on a sprint around the field. The chasers began closing in, echoing the strategy used successfully by the Slytherin team.

Hermione bit her fingernails. Phase Two.

She saw Fern nod to the other beater and they began clearing the way through the remaining Gryffindors as the quaffle was tossed between Snape and Corban.

“That’s a goal for Slytherin then,” said the Ravenclaw glumly and there was a collective groan from the stands.

At that announcement Regulus immediately pulled his broom up and flew to the top of the pitch.

As the Gryffindor chasers also returned to the upper field Regulus suddenly took off again, hand outstretched. The confused chasers spun their brooms and bolted after him.

“Ah no, another goal to Slytherin,” bemoaned the announcer.

Regulus slowed his flight and lazily flew back above the ground. The chasers followed and Richard began shouting furiously at them. The chasers responded in kind, yelling back at their captain while Regulus was obviously attempting to further antagonise the situation by casually loop-the-looping over their heads.

Hermione laughed a little into her scarf at his antics then immediately felt guilty. He was a Death Eater! She needed to get some reality back into the situation. Ugh.

But he also tried to weaken Voldemort, the sensible part of her brain reminded her.

And he is dead, the logical part of her brain added, most of the kids you are teaching are dead.

That thought immediately stifled her smile.

The game started to get a little chaotic after that. Regulus was constantly diving dramatically, with his cloak swirling around him, and while it was obvious now to the Gryffindor team he was faking them out, they couldn’t be certain that all of his drops were fake. Hermione snuck a glance over to Minerva who was looking very cross.

Slytherin were one goal behind Gryffindor when James took off on the most audacious dive of the game, with Snape and Corban right on his bristles. There was a shout from Richard and two of his beaters dove as well.

Here it is, thought Hermione, Phase Three.

One beater managed to knock Corban out of the way, leaving only Snape, who was still disrupting James’s concentration. The second beater was leaning heavily against Snape, who pushed further against James and the three of them were hurtling towards the centre of the field.

Hermione could hardly watch.

Fern plummeted suddenly in front of them with the three boys closing fast on her position.

“Snape!” Fern shouted as Slytherin’s strongest and most accurate beater, Demelza, hit a bludger as hard as she could towards her captain below.

Snape looked up and dropped immediately.

The bludger streaked towards Fern’s face, but she sat calmly on her broom, her bat raised in anticipation.

As it almost reached the girl, Fern swung her bat and hit the bludger towards James.

James swerved to the side and the bludger flew past, brushing his robes.

“Aha, missed!” shouted the Gryffindor beater triumphantly as he continued to fly forward. Something small and golden hit him in the chest and he grabbed it reactively.

The penalty sound rang out across the field and everyone stopped exactly where they were.

“Snitchnip!” shouted Rolanda as she flew across to the beater. “Gryffindor forfeits the game. Slytherin has the win.”

There was utter, utter silence at her pronouncement.

Then the stand around Hermione erupted in frenzied celebrations.

The Slytherin team gathered around Fern in the centre of the field, banging each other on the back and grinning broadly. Fern waved at Hermione, who waved back. She could see that Snape was hovering a little bit apart from the group—within the celebratory circle but not part of it. His head was turned towards the Gryffindor stand.

Hermione peered over to the stands as well and saw what he was looking at.

James was sitting on his broom next to the Gryffindor stands and talking to Lily, who had placed a consoling hand on his shoulder.

Hermione looked back up at Snape again. He turned away, and his face looked agonised for a brief moment until he regained control and appeared calm once more. It was an impressive act of extreme self-control, and Hermione thought it also was completely at odds with how a teenager should be.

Fern led the team back towards the change-room and Hermione jumped over the rows of seats so she could meet them in there.

When she eventually made her way back into the room the team were having a secondary celebration and cheered when she entered.

“Yes, yes, well done everyone,” she laughed as she received some enthusiastic thumps on the back.

“Well it worked!” said Fern. “Whatever made you think of it?”

“Oh well I thought it if it actually worked, then there would be a double benefit,” said Hermione.

“Double?” asked Demelza.

“Yes, a loss against Slytherin is one thing. There is no shame in playing hard and losing. But a forfeited loss. That’s almost undignified...it’s unresolved. There’s no closure,” Hermione tried to explain. The team looked slightly baffled.

“That’s a bit sneaky,” said Regulus in a tone of admiration.

“Well I am Head of Slytherin,” said Hermione. “It’s practically compulsory.”

That statement resulted in more cheering and thumps before she held up her hand.

“Right everyone. Now, please go and enjoy your celebrations. I’ll turn a blind eye to butterbeer but not firewhiskey. You can carouse for a while but keep it down once the firsties go to bed and everyone retires once it hits midnight,” she ordered.

The team shouted their approval and left the change room in an organised rabble.

“Professor Granger?” asked a voice behind her.

“Mister Snape, go and join the rest of your team. Let your hair down, or put it up, or whatever it is you do when you are having fun.” instructed Hermione.

“You’re not, um, you’re not joining us?” he asked nonchalantly.

“No. I’m not going to be the professor that completely ruins a teenage party by hanging around like a dungbomb,” Hermione laughed. “Besides, I have brewing to do for the infirmary.”

“All right,” said Snape. He sounded disappointed.

Hermione encouraged him on his way with a little shooing motion. Snape opened his mouth, then frowned, shut it again, shrugged and left the room.

After a quick bath (again what Hermione would give for a shower) she was set up nicely in the Potions laboratory with a transfigured apron of Horace’s, and her hair up in the neatest bun she could. She’d made one batch of Pepper Up and was starting to prepare the ingredients for Calming Draught when she heard a slight shuffling noise behind her.

Hermione laughed inwardly. She could guess exactly who it was, and spoke without turning around.“If you’re going to insist on hanging around being a bother Mister Snape, you may as well make yourself useful.”

She held out a knife, and turned and smiled at him when he stepped up to the bench next her and took it. He looked up at her with his own shy smile.

“Yes Professor.”

Chapter Text

When Hermione entered the seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin Potions class she noticed two things immediately.

Firstly, James had relocated himself to the front row, right next to Lily.

Secondly, the move had not escaped Snape’s notice, and he was standing at his table, jaw clenched. Hermione could see the muscles working down into his neck and up through his temples.

She sighed, then clapped her hands to attract everyone’s attention.

“Right everyone, as you know I’m filling in for Professor Slughorn while he is away. In case,” Hermione continued as she heard the murmuring start amongst the class, “you think I’m a soft touch because I’m a substitute, how about we agree that I’ll take double the usual points from anyone that even breathes the wrong way, and I’m sure we’ll all have a perfectly nice time.”

The class fell silent.

“I think this will be a productive class then,” Hermione said triumphantly. “Today I want you to present me with a vial of Blood Replenishing potion. The recipe is on page four hundred and twenty three of your text. Off you go!”

She watched as Lily began reading the text, then making notes on a separate piece of parchment about the ingredients she needed to get and in what quantities. Hermione clucked her tongue as James bent over towards her, reading her notes.

“Mister Potter, please do your own work,” she said.

“Evan’s is tutoring me in Potions,” James replied with a grin. “To help me improve.”

“Right,” said Hermione with a twinge of disbelief that only someone who had done her (almost sort-of) boyfriend’s homework for years could muster.

Wizards, argh.

Hermione walked along the rows to the back. Sirius, perhaps as a result of intervention from a compulsion charm, was actually opening his textbook and Peter was already reading the page containing the recipe. The other boys in the row appeared to be equally engaged in something approximating schoolwork. Hermione felt a wave of relief sweep over her. She was about to leave them to it when she noticed Remus at his desk. He looked wan, with dark circles under his eyes and his hands were trembling.

“Mister Lupin are you feeling poorly?” Hermione asked him, her voice laced with concern.

“I’m fine thank you Professor,” said Remus, looking anything but. “Just a bit peaky.”

“It’s that time of the month,” Sirius interrupted slyly, and the row of boys guffawed in a thoroughly punchable way. Remus glared at him.

Oh fucksticks, thought Hermione, the bloody Wolfsbane. She had two more days left of the brew cycle, with the final ingredients to be added that night.

“You’re more likely to injure yourself than do anything useful,” said Hermione. She scrawled on a piece of parchment and gave it to him. “Here is a pass for this lesson. Return to your dormitory and rest. Please come and see me tomorrow night prepared to answer some questions on the brewing process for the Blood Replenishing potion, and I’ll give you credit.”

“Thank you Professor Granger,” said Remus. He slowly packed up his potions kit and text, gingerly pacing them in a bag before tiredly plodding out of the classroom.

“Er, Professor Granger,” asked Sirius boldly. “I’m actually feeling a bit off myself.”

“If you ask my for a pass for this class I may well just decide instead to take eighty points from Gryffindor instead,” snapped Hermione as her temples began to throb.

Sirius laughed. “Oh, um, never mind Professor.” The boys in the row laughed along with him.

Oh. She hated teaching. She hated it so much.

And she was actually starting to completely understand Snape’s behaviour in his classrooms.

Speaking of...

Hermione walked back past Snape who was deftly slicing ingredients. She paused briefly by his table but he completely ignored her.

Great.

She wandered past the rows, making sure no one had cut off a digit or was about to blow themselves up. Everyone seemed to be intent on remaining on the mortal coil for at least until the end of the lesson at any rate.

She returned to the front and sat behind the desk, and began marking the essays on the history of Amortentia. She made comments in red ink on another hapless attempt at critical thinking a little bit more furiously. She rolled her eyes thinking of the potion, and the smells of which had done nothing to help her own love life. Freshly mown grass. Really? Ron’s smelt like bacon for crying out loud. Although...he was a pig and he did love himself, so maybe the potion had some predictive validity after all. She picked up the next indecipherable scroll reluctantly.

After twenty minutes of brain numbing marking, Hermione decided to do another round of the classroom. For the first time Lily wasn’t ahead, but instead was showing James how to stir his cauldron in the incredibly basic figure eight motion. James was doing a fantastic impression of pretending to learn it.

“Miss Evans,” Hermione said. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm in helping your classmates, please return to your table and let me worry about instructing the class.”

“Yes Professor Granger,” Lily said sheepishly, and walked back to her cauldron.

Hermione fixed James with a steely stare. “You’ve got twenty minutes left Mister Potter. Use it wisely. And independently,” she said meaningfully.

He nodded and turned back towards his cauldron.

Hermione walked past each student’s cauldron, checking on the status and providing advice or caution where needed. She finally made her way to Snape again. She looked in the cauldron. The potion was the thick, dark red she expected. He was doggedly bent over the desk writing in his text, his hair falling around his face, resolutely not looking ahead.

“Your potion appears to be perfect,” observed Hermione, “but you don’t look all that happy about it.”

Snape shrugged and said nothing. Hermione pursed her lips. She thought she’d almost cracked him, and now she felt she was right back at the beginning again.

It was exhausting.

Hermione walked back to the front of the classroom and stood there, trying to see whether anyone looked like they were about to destroy the whole class. She placed herself in font of James’s desk, just in case he felt the need to haggle Lily for any more tutoring.

By the time the charm sounded for ten minutes left of class time Hermione had hit her limit; for patience, for endurance and for living in the current stupid time period. She longed desperately to be back in her Unspeakable job, where she felt valued and challenged. She did exciting things in her real job. Exciting and meaningful things! Not wasting her time with apathetic teenagers who didn’t give two craps about...

Oh shit, Hermione realised suddenly mid-internal rant...she had become Professor Snape.

There had been a few times after she left school that Hermione had lost herself in little daydreams about teaching at Hogwarts. She imagined herself wandering the halls, inspiring muggleborn students and generally being beloved by all. She’d always thought she’d be more like Flitwick; a warm, caring, intelligent mentor who always motivated students to do their best. Nope. Apparently her personal teaching style had more in common with the teacher everyone was terrified of. How wonderful.

By the time she’d worked through this confronting introspection, class time was complete. She stood up from her desk.

“Competed potions on my table please!” Hermione ordered.

The class filed out slowly, leaving vials of varying shades of red, and one mottled grey—thank you Sirius—on her desk. James handed one that was actually close to the colour it was supposed to be and Lily gave hers over at the same time. They shared a quick glance and laughed before leaving the classroom together.

Hermione watched them go. She heard the clink of a vial on the table and she turned just in time to see Snape hurrying out the door. Hermione looked at the vial. Of course it was perfect. Not that he’d seemed to care at all.

*
It was almost curfew when Hermione made it to the potions lab to work on the Wolfsbane potion. She had to pulverise the black quicksilver and add it slowly as the potion was heated. After that it was just the pickled myrrh and thirty-seven and a half turns. Then she could repeat the process the next month, and the next, and then every month after that until she went home or until she could convince Horace to make it. Hermione blew a soft raspberry at that depressing thought. Boo.

She heard the door open softly behind her and hesitant footsteps stopping just inside the room.

“Er, Professor Granger?”

“Ah, Mister Snape. Are you feeling more talkative now?” Hermione asked as she got the ingredients ready.

“Yes..Er..I’m sorry,” Snape mumbled.

Hermione turned to him. “I don’t mind. Sometimes I don’t feel like talking either. Do you need something?”

“I thought you might be brewing. I thought maybe...” he trailed off.

“Well tonight’s your lucky night. I’m brewing Wolfsbane. It’s devilishly tricky but it’s—“ began Hermione.

“Wolfsbane?” repeated Snape in a horrified voice.

“Yes, I’m about to compete the final stage, would you like to help?” Hermione asked.

“You shouldn’t even be... They don’t belong in a school you know! It’s dangerous.” Snape almost shouted at her.

Hermione stared at him in surprise. “Why ever not? This potion helps anyone afflicted live almost a normal life.”

Snape laughed mockingly.

Hermione frowned. “I don’t like your tone Mister Snape. If you don’t want to assist me you can return to your common room.”

“I know who it’s for,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “I see. Well, I hope you’ll be discreet. It’s enough of a burden to bear when everyone doesn’t know.”

“Why do you care?” Snape asked insolently.

Hermione’s headache made a howling reappearance inside her skull, and her temper frayed.

She rounded on him furiously, fists clenched. “Because? Because it’s not his fault!”

“Oh nothing is ever the fault of the precious Gryffindor boys. You’re just like everyone else. I thought you were different,” Snape spat at her and his voice broke slightly as he shouted, lessening the impact of his anger.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” snapped Hermione automatically then immediately shut her mouth.

Oops.

Snape gaped at her, fury forgotten in his shock. “You....you swore!” he said in amazement.

“Well, yes I did,” Hermione admitted.

“But you’re a Professor!” Snape said, still staring at her.

“Yes. Okay. Well maybe I’m not a very good one,” Hermione said airily. And wasn’t that the truth.

“You swore like a muggle,” Snape added. His arms hung loosely by his sides, anger forgotten and he’d never looked more awkward or gangly. Hermione’s annoyance with him dropped away like a stone.

“Of course, muggles have much superior profanity options. I’m hardly going to have the same effect dropping a Merlin, or Circe or what passes for swearing in the eighteen seventies or whichever era Wizarding Britain is stuck in,” she explained with a mock air of superiority.

“It’s definitely not as good as saying fuck,” Snape said in return with a slight smirk and with great relish.

Hermione smothered her own smile with difficulty.

“You’re lucky I don’t take points for that,” Hermione counselled, but her tone was warm with amusement and Snape’s smirk turned into a grin.

“So, you seem really angry at Mister Lupin. Does he act towards you in the same way as Mister Potter and Mister Black?” she asked.

His smile dropped away. “No, but he doesn’t stop them either,” said Snape. “That’s just as bad.”

“Yes it is,” agreed Hermione,

“Have you ever been attacked by a werewolf?” Snape asked suddenly,

“I have actually,” Hermione said, leaning up against the bench. “It was terrifying.”

Her mind flashed her the image of a transformed Remus baring down on her, Harry and Ron. Then of Greyback salivating over her in the Manor. She shivered.

“It is terrifying,” agreed Severus.

Hermione turned to him in surprise. “Where did you get attacked? The forest?”

“No,” Severus said. “In the shack. I went there as I thought...well it doesn’t matter what I thought. But Lupin was in there. But he was the wolf. He tried to kill me.”

“Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Hermione. “Why was he in the shack?”

“That’s where he stayed when he changed,” Snape shrugged.

“That doesn’t seem all that safe,” Hermione commented with a heavy dose of concern. “How did you get away?”

Snape closed his eyes tightly, as if to avoid seeing whatever he was remembering. “Potter pulled me out.”

“Well that was lucky he was there,” said Hermione.

Snape laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. “He was there as it was Black who’d told me how to disarm the tree and get into the shack.”

Hermione stared at him in horror and he shrugged.

“I guess getting me killed by a werewolf was a step too far even for Potter,” Snape finished.

Hermione leaned back in shock. Sirius had did that? Sirius? He had always seemed a bit of an overgrown boy to Hermione, but she’d put that down to Azkaban. He was also fairly open about his loathing for Snape, but that had been explained away by Snape’s personality. She wouldn’t have thought he could have planned anything as malicious as this. But he had.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” said Hermione. “So you never told Professor Dumbledore what happened?”

Snape looked at her. “Of course I did. Why would you think that I didn’t?”

“Because Mister Black is still a student at the school,” said Hermione. “I would have thought that particular incident would have meant an expulsion.”

Snape smiled a sad little smile at her. “Apparently not. I had to promise not to tell anyone what happened.”

Hermione looked at him. He was also leaning against the table, just as defeated as he had the day of the hex. If he had been her friend, and if they’d been anywhere but where they were and in the roles they currently held, she would have reached over and hugged him as tight as she could.

“That’s awful!” Hermione said. She meant it wholeheartedly. It was awful.

“I shouldn’t have even told you,” said Snape’s a worried voice.

“You can trust me,” Hermione offered. She reached out a hand towards him.

Snape stared at it momentarily, looking incredibly vulnerable, before his face shuttered then darkened in anger.

“Why? Because you say so? It’s none of your business anyway. Who said I wanted you sticking your nose into it?” he said spitefully.

“Er...” Hermione had no idea how to react to the sudden change in mood.

“Just leave me alone!” Snape said darkly, pushed himself away the table and stormed out the door.

Hermione stood, completely confused and watching the door for a few moments in case Snape returned. He didn’t.

Twenty-seven year old Hermione decided she was no closer to understanding teenage boys than seventeen year old Hermione had been. He was so changeable. Hermione replayed the conversation in her head, trying to identify where she’d gone so wrong.

She thought about the incident with Sirius and James. No wonder Snape hated them so much. Or feared them. Or both perhaps. Unbelievable. Hermione found it completely bizarre that someone could almost murder a classmate and remain at the school.

Oh you mean like Harry did? Hermione’s mind slyly offered. And she remembered.

She remembered Harry complaining endlessly about having to go through detention slips from James’s school days. He’d said at the time Snape had done it to try and denigrate Harry’s father to him. But maybe, Hermione thought, maybe Snape was trying to make a point. Giving Harry the option of not being like his father. James, Sirius, Snape and even Minerva were all different from what she’d thought. What she’d been led to believe.

Hermione sighed. She didn’t know. Everything was conjecture and the only person that knew the answer in the future was dead. And there was still the Wolfsbane to finish brewing.

She turned back around to the table and starting grinding.

Chapter Text

Hermione was covered in dust and what probably was, although she tried not to think about it, mouse droppings.

She was in the secret passage that led to Honeydukes cellar, and was laying some small jinxes along the way in case her wizard friends had found out about that entrance to the school. It was possible some of the children knew about it, and given it was on the mauraders map, then James and company definitely knew about it. Because of this, Hermione had added a twist to the jinx. They wouldn’t go off unless the wizard or witch who passed over them was over twenty years of age. She liked age charms. They were solid. Anything that the combined forces of teenaged Fred and George Weasley couldn’t fool was a nice, reliable charm.

Hermione finished the last jinx, gave the door in front of her a gentle shove, and crawled out from behind the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor. She pulled the statute back into place and gave her hair a quick shake. A few pellets scattered across the floor.

Gross.

This is exactly the type of situation that would benefit from a shower, Hermione thought. Not anything that involved lying down in water that quickly became mouse-dropping scented water. A lovely, hot, standing up away from mouse-dropping shower.

“Shut your face!” Hermione heard from down the corridor, and she looked up in surprise to see some type of extravagant duel occurring in the direction of the Entrance Hall.

Oh for the love of...Hermione groaned to herself. Bloody Hogwarts. She began to run towards the flashes of hexes, shouting and terribly lame wizardy attempts at swearing.

It was James, Sirius, and Remus having some sort of bizarre fight with two Slytherin boys. While Peter was unconscious against the wall, and Dirk Cresswell was bent double between everyone, holding his very bloody nose.

“I’ll need an explanation for this,” said Hermione calmly as she disarmed them simultaneously. They looked over at her in surprise.

“Professor Granger—they were tryi—it was him, he was—I wasn’t doing anything!”

Hermione winced at all the boys starting talking over each other. She shook her head in irritation and silenced them with her favourite charm.

She’d used it maybe..well...definitely...on Pansy once when she was kissing and telling about an absolutely kink-tastic night she’d had with Blaise and Sean. Hermione’s vanilla-flavoured brain could literally not handle it. Her silencing spell had backfired anyway as Pansy instead just acted it out which was far more traumatic than the verbal story had even been. As a result, Hermione could now attest to how disturbingly flexible her former classmates were.

Suffice to say, her charm was effective when applied correctly. Not to former classmates with unexpected skills in mime.

“Mister Cresswell, what’s going on?” she asked the bleeding boy. He took his hand off his nose, which then proceeded to drip gore all the flagstones.

“Hang on,” she said. She fixed his nose and cleansed his face.

“Thank you Professor,” Dirk said. “I was on my way to Gryffindor common room. I borrowed a book from Lily at the start of term, and I was returning it.”

He held up a ragged paperback. Dune, the cover announced in plain text.

“Then Mulciber and Avery followed me and tried to take it. They said it was muggle filth and shouldn’t be at the school. We started to shout a bit about it, then James and the others came along and..Er..Um..helped me out,” Dirk said.

“And let me guess, the shouting got out of hand and the ‘helping out’ became a duel?” Hermione asked.

Dirk nodded.

“What about sleeping beauty over there?” Hermione motioned to Peter.

“Oh, he got hit with a rebounded jinx. I think.” Dirk explained.

Hermione went to Peter and cast a nonverbal Rennervate. She watched the boy slowly blink and sit up.

“All right there?” Hermione asked.

Peter looked around slowly, taking in his silent friends, the Slytherin duo and Dirk’s quizzical stare. “Yes Professor,” he said glumly.

“Right,” said Hermione. “There’s quite a lot to unpick here. First we have you two,” Hermione pointed to the Slytherin boys who blinked innocently at her, “and your offensive attitudes. And then we have you lot,” Hermione turned to James and his cohort, “who appear to have escalated the situation.”

James mouthed silently at her in indignation. Hermione ignored him.

“Mister Mulciber, Mister Avery, you are still my responsibility until I hand Head duties back over to Professor Slughorn today. I expect you to report every morning to the potions class at five o’clock sharp where you will be scrubbing it from top to bottom. No magic. For a week,” Hermione said. She didn’t need to release them from the silencing spell to recognise their long, anguished groans.

“Complaints make me annoyed, and when I’m annoyed I take points,” Hermione warned and they shut their mouths. Satisfied they were compliant, she removed her silencing charm.

“Back to your common room and start homing your cauldron scrubbing skills,” Hermione ordered and the two teenagers nodded sullenly and began to walk back to the Entrance Hall. “And twenty points from Slytherin!” she called after them. The resulting groans echoed down the corridor.

“Now let’s see,” said Hermione, looking appraisingly at the group of Gryffindors. “I think perhaps five points each to Gryffindor for coming to the assistance of a classmate,” she said and they all grinned.

“And three points each from Gryffindor for making a bad situation worse,” she finished and their grins dimmed somewhat.

“Off to your common room please, except you Mister Lupin, please come with me. You owe me your potions extra-credit work” she said and Remus shared a worried look with Sirius before the other boys headed off toward Gryffindor tower.

“Am I free to go too?” asked Dirk.

“Yes,”said Hermione. “And ten points to Ravenclaw for having such excellent taste in literature.” she said as she smiled at Dirk, who laughed and stood up, still holding the paperback.

“Let’s go then Mister Lupin,” Hermione said to Remus, and he nodded and followed her down the hall.

*

“I’m sorry Professor Granger I haven’t prepared anything,” Remus said as she closed her door.

“Oh no, I made that whole thing up. You’re really here to drink this,” Hermione went to her cupboard, then decanted a smoking mug of blue potion. She placed the mug in front of him.

“What is it?” asked Remus.

“Wolfsbane,” explained Hermione. “And I’ve been told it tastes as bad as it smells.”

“I’ve heard about this potion,” said Remus slowly as he looked at the slightly foaming liquid. “Does it really work?”

“If you take the potion as directed yes,” she said. “You keep your consciousness during the change. You can just wait it out safely.”

“Brilliant,” said Remus.

He reached for the mug but Hermione stilled his hand.

“If you take it as directed. That means every night from today and until the end of the week. Miss just one dose and the entire potion is rendered ineffective,” Hermione said.

“I won’t,” said Remus. He was staring at her and his green eyes looked quite serious.

“See that you don’t,” Hermione reiterated. “This releases you from the fear of being unable to control the wolf. But if I make it for you, and you neglect to take it, then you have invited the wolf back in. You only have yourself to blame,”

“I understand Professor,” said Remus.

He picked up the mug and drank it quickly, immediately grimacing at the taste.

“It is disgusting,” he complained.

“Apparently anything that can improve the taste ruins the potion,” Hermione said apologetically.

“Is there anything else?” Remus asked.

“Just wait here a minute first,” said Hermione. “It’ll make you a bit giddy, and I don’t want you falling down a staircase.”

They sat together in silence for a moment.

“Would you like a tea or biscuit or anything to take the taste out of your mouth?” Hermione offered.

“A biscuit please,” Remus replied.

She offered him the tin and he took a chocolate covered shortbread. He said back in the chair and chewed on it slowly. Hermione watched him for a moment and decided something was bugging her and she may as well act on it before she changed her mind.

“What do you have against Mister Snape?” Hermione asked suddenly.

Remus was startled and was obviously made immediately uncomfortable by her question.

“Nothing. I don’t have anything against him,” he said nervously and sat back into the worn chair. Hermione watched his fingers fighting with the loose threads on the armrests.

“Okay,” said Hermione. “Well then what do your friends have against him?” she continued.

Remus darted a glance away from her face. “Nothing I think. Just House stuff.”

Hermione opened her mouth. She was going to tell Remus that whatever House stuff they had against him, they’d better forget it pretty damn quickly. Before she could voice this thought a searing pain shot up her spine, blazing down her wand arm and stinging the base of her skull. She cried out involuntarily.

Remus jumped back in the chair. “Professor?” he asked worriedly,

“I’m fine,” said Hermione. “Just an old injury.”

Fuck.

It was her wand oath.

The Non Mutantur oath had been specifically designed for the Time Room, and every Unspeakable employee had to take the oath before they could be employed. Like the Blabbermouth charm, it was compulsory.

The oath was created and applied to prevent accidental (and purposeful) changes to the timeline. If an Unspeakable was about to undertake an action that would alter something irrevocably, then the oath activated. First was the searing pain. If the Unspeakable continued with the activity then the pain became more and more unbearable until it began to erode magical reserves, and finally the Unspeakable would lapse into unconsciousness.

Remus didn’t say anything else, but just sat there eyeing her cautiously as he finished the chocolate biscuit. Hermione groaned a little.

“You’ll be fine to leave now Mister Lupin. I’ll give the rest of your potion to Professor McGonagall. She will make sure the correct dose is made available to you over the next six days. Please ensure you commit to the entire dosage,” she ordered flatly.

“Yes Professor.” Remus said, “Thank you.”

Hermione let him out of her chambers, pressing another chocolate biscuit into his hand and closed the door before sinking into her chair. So, she couldn’t stop Snape being bullied by James and the others without damaging the existing timeline. Obviously nothing else she had said or done had changed anything regarding the timeline as it was the first time the oath had kicked in.

She thought about his last reaction to her, when she asked him to trust her.

Well why would he? What could she do? Nothing.

She was here only to stop him being killed, not to make his life less terrible. Because, and here Hermione felt demoralised, apparently a teenaged Snape that wasn’t bullied also wasn’t then the man who worked secretly against Voldemort for over a decade and subsequently died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

Fuck that. Hermione said to herself. Fuck that.

She felt like she was losing her mind. She certainly didn’t want to sit in her chambers and mope, or charm crystals. The same, stupid crystals that landed her in this depressing, pointless scenario. It was getting late in the day which meant that there was a possibility that Horace was back. She could pass back the Head duties and then perhaps get really, really drunk.

Fifteen minutes later she was in the dungeons knocking on Horace’s door.

It opened and Hermione caught sight of a very tired looking Horace.

“Ah! Hermione, come on in then and let me know what my Slytherins have been up to,” he said.

“I can come back,” said Hermione. “I really can. You look exhausted.”

Horace waved away her observation. “No time like the present, come on in.”

She entered and was once more in the room where the light from the window bathed the whole room in that strange, rippling, green. It made the bog standard armchairs look almost fey.

There was an empty bottle of wine on the table and a half full glass. Hermione noticed Horace holding a full bottle. He saw her glance at it and raised it towards her.

“Can I interest you in a glass?” he asked.

“A thousand times yes,” said Hermione. She plunked herself down in the second chair as Horace placed another glass on the table and filled both of the glasses up. He sat down across from her and raised a glass to her. Hermione clinked here against his.

“I heard about the win,” Horace said. “Rolanda couldn’t wait to tell me. I’m quite pleased of course.”

“It was a fluke really. Credit goes to the team for actually turning a brainfart into a successful strategy,” said Hermione.

Horace spat some wine up as he laughed. “Brainfart! Oh my dear, how you turn a phrase.”

“How were your errands?” Hermione asked.

He laughed softly then leant back and let out a large sigh. “The errands. Yes.”

He was silent for a moment and they both sat there, sipping their wine.

“Tell me Hermione, your home...are you happy there?” Horace asked.

“I thought I was, yes,” Hermione answered truthfully.

“Is it peaceful?”

Hermione eyed him over the edge of her glass. “You know I can’t really tell you anything,” she admonished.

Horace shrugged and closed his eyes. He sank back into the worn cushions and lifted a hand to his forehead. His hand trembled a bit. Hermione felt bad.

“It is peaceful,” she admitted and the oath allowed it.

Horace smiled although his eyes were still closed. “That’s nice,” he said.

Hermione leant back, mirroring his position and let herself relax into the cushioning.

“Oh! These are far more comfortable than mine,” she said in surprise.

“It’s a charm, I’ll teach it to you,” Horace said.

“Thank you,” said Hermione.

“There is something building here. I’m sure you know what it is,” Horace began.

Hermione looked across at him and saw his eyes were still shut. “Yes I do,” she said.

“You knew me. When we met you’d seen me before,” Horace said.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed.

“Then you know I like talented people,” Horace continued. “I like helping them, I like seeing them prosper and yes, I admit it, I like being the recipient of the spoils of that prosperity.”

Hermione laughed as she drank more wine. “In vino veritas,” she said.

Horace laughed as well. “Indeed,” he said. “Well I’m sure you know that I’m not the only person who is seeking out talented people and drawing them them into their patronage.”

“I know that,” Hermione agreed.

She shivered a little thinking about the fact that out there, in this time, the threat from Voldemort hadn’t ended. Here, he was only getting started.

“It is my great fortune to be tasked with attempting to disrupt his recruitment,” Horace said dryly.

“Tasked by Professor Dumbledore?” clarified Hermione.

“Hmmm yes,” said Horace as he took a long, slow slurp of his wine. “I go out, find out who is being groomed, and proceed to spread seeds of disinformation. And don’t forget,” Horace waved a hand magnanimously, “recruiting people to support Albus.”

“So you’re in the Order?” Hermione asked without thinking.

Horace peered at her. “Oh you know about that? Interesting. No, I’m not.”

“But...” Hermione started to ask.

“I cant be seen to be overtly associating with that group. It helps if people aren’t quite sure of where my allegiances lie.” Horace explained.

Hermione poured them both another glass of wine during the pause that followed his statement. The light dimmed in the room as something large and dark swam by.

“Sensible, particularly given your position,” said Hermione.

They both drank from their glasses.

“Indeed. And here you understand the difficulty of my situation,” Horace said.

“Yes. So,” Hermione began, sitting up a bit in the chair, “is that why you give Mister Snape extra homework on the sly?”

“He told you that did he? That is unusual. He doesn’t tend to open up to any of the other professors.” Horace commented.

“Well I helped him after he was hexed in the back,” said Hermione. “I guess the quidditch game helped.”

“Possibly,” said Horace. “Was it the the older Black boy who hexed him?”

“Yes, and Mister Potter. Minerva wouldn’t hear a word against them though,” Hermione said. She frowned as she remembered her annoyance at the witch’s reaction.

“Minerva has a lot of wonderful qualities, however impartiality is not one of them.”

Hermione wanted to ask him about the incident with Remus but she didn’t. Snape had told her that in confidence, and Hermione decided that discussing it with Horace would mean she’d lose any chance of finding out more about him.

“Mister Snape is very talented, as you have seen. But he is also very vulnerable. He is exactly the kind of recruit that they are searching for: powerful, isolated, angry and seeking somewhere to belong.”

“Yes,” said Hermione.

She thought about the ways in which Horace was avoiding draw attention to Snape’s skills in potions yet still was pushing him academically outside the classroom. She grimaced and hoped her own actions hadn’t brought anything onto him.

“I’m hosting a little gathering later this week,” Horace said. “They used to be for something else, but now they are a way for people to meet each other and talk. People who normally would have no legitimate reason to speak to each other. But in order to keep up appearances, I’ll invite a range of guests.”

He leant forward in his armchair and looked questioningly at Hermione. “Would you consider attending? I could do with another pair of eyes to keep a track of which students are of interest to our guests.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course I will.”

Horace relaxed slightly and summoned the almost empty bottle of wine. “Excellent. Well, we may as well finish this off.”

Chapter Text

Minerva opened her door and smiled when she saw Hermione. “Ah! Hello. Come to gloat?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m here to give you a potion to look after, with perhaps only just the slightest bit of gloating.”

The dark-haired witch laughed. “Well, that will certainly teach me not to make assumptions about you.”

She held the door open and Hermione entered.

“I don’t like quidditch, but I never said I didn’t know anything about it,” Hermione said.

“You didn’t,” Minerva agreed. She busied herself in a corner brewing some tea. “That’s one in my eye. And of course I lost fifty galleons to Rolanda.”

“She bet against you?” Hermione asked as she accepted the tea. She sat down on the omnipresent armchair. This one was a faded rose madder.

“She seems to think you have a devious side,” Minerva said and she sat down on the other armchair, crossing one booted ankle over the other.

“Mmmm,” Hermione murmured noncommittally.

“So what’s this about a potion?” Minerva asked, changing the subject.

Hermione put the six vials on the table. “Here are the remaining Wolfsbane doses. Mister Lupin had one last night. So he needs to drink it the next six nights in order for it to be effective.”

Minerva’s eyes lit up. “Thank you. That’s wonderful! He has suffered that poor boy. This will really help him.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Provided he drinks it all.”

“He will,” said Minerva. She cast a stasis over the vials. “Can I asked you a favour?”

“Ask away,” replied Hermione, thinking to herself that Minerva could ask all she wanted but Hermione didn’t have to do anything.

What she really wanted was to talk about how long they’d had Remus hide out in an old house while he was in werewolf form.

A rickety old house that really wasn’t that difficult to get in and out of.

A rickety old house that even Hermione’s kneazle slipped in and out of easily when he’d decided to become bosom buddies with Sirius.

In any case, it was a less than ideal attempt at secure accomodation, and also seemed a particularly strange decision for a school that had an actual dungeon.

“Are you able to assist in my seventh year class today? We are doing conjuring and it does have a tendency to go awry. If I need to, say, pop to the infirmary urgently it would be nice to know the class wasn’t left alone.”

“Sure,” said Hermione. She was interested to see Snape in that class, so why not?

“Excellent,” said Minerva. “Also,” she began.

Oh here we go, thought Hermione. It was exactly the strategy she used at work, softening people up with a small request that was easy to agree to before launching into the larger tricky one.

“After class I’m chaperone for the seventh year Hogsmede visit. I don’t suppose....” she trailed off suggestively.

Hermione shook her head and laughed. “Yes. Fine, fine.”

It suited her purposes actually. She could lay a few little early warning spells here and there and perhaps even buy something to wear that wasn’t held together by spells and hope.

“Excellent,” said Minerva and clapped her hands. “You know Hermione, I really am sorry about the whole ‘Head of Slytherin’ thing.”

“Oh don’t worry about it. I actually enjoyed it. They are an interesting bunch.”

“Yes, interesting, I heard about the incident with Misters Mulciber and Avery. You handled it well.” Minerva observed.

“We’ve had our first morning detention experience. They found it as delightful as I predicted,” Hermione said grinning. The boys had cleaned six cauldrons and had been reasonably stoic about it, muttering a far smaller number of wizarding expletives than she’d expected.

“Those boys,” sighed Minerva. “They’re headed for trouble. Or, actually, I’d say they are fairly in the middle of it.”

“Possibly”, said Hermione. “I talked with Horace about it. He’ll handle them. On your side you may want to speak to Mister Potter and his friends. They may think their hearts are in the right place but escalating a situation into unrestrained duelling in a hallway probably isn’t the best way to deal with a situation.”

Minerva laughed somewhat ruefully and ran her hand through her hair. “They have a tendency to want to defend vulnerable classmates. The ‘Brave at Heart’ and all that.”

“Defend vulnerable classmates,” repeated Hermione dryly, thinking of Snape. She and Minerva obviously had different definitions of that word.

“I think,” Minerva said softly, almost as if to herself, “that having people willing to stand up to things and to defend the vulnerable is become more and more important every passing day.”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione. “But we also have to be careful that we don’t let our own prejudice blind us to exactly who needs protecting.” She held her breath but the oath remained dormant.

Minerva looked at her piercingly. “You’re right. And I suppose you’ve learnt that the hard way? Maybe we all did. I know,” she said quickly as she held up a hand in mock surrender, “you can’t say anything.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione.

“I’m just so terribly sick of it already,” said Minerva.

Hermione nodded. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on Minerva’s knee and the witch covered it with her own hand and squeezed. Hermione couldn’t imagine how the forthcoming years would play out for Minerva. But she knew what was coming... loss after loss. She again felt the overwhelming sense of sorrow and guilt. She knew so much, but could change nothing.

“Well. We’d best get to class,” Minerva said. She took her hand off Hermione’s and tucked a black lock behind her ear.

“Sure,” said Hermione. “And then Hogsmede?”

“Don’t remind me,” said Minerva. “Just you, me and hordes of horny teenagers.”

“Yikes,” said Hermione. She hadn’t thought about that.

They cleared up the tea and then and walked together to the the transfiguration classroom. Hermione always considered herself a purposeful walker. She knew where she wanted to go and got there as fast a possible. But even she had to quicken her step to keep up with the taller witch’s stride. They made it to the classroom in a shorter timeframe than Hermione had anticipated and she ended up with a cramp in her right calf.

Hermione was quite interested to see whether the usual back row featured in Minerva’s classroom and was initially pleased to see it didn’t. Until she realised they were, instead, the second last row. The back row were all Slytherin students, with Snape slouched in the furtherest desk from the door. Hermione saw Fern in the second row and waved to her. Fern looked a bit taken aback at first, before grinning and waved back.

Lily was in the front row with James right next to her. They were whispering to each other, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice the small purple mark on Lily’s neck. She smothered a snort. Horny teenagers indeed!

“Today’s lesson,” Minerva began without any preamble, “will test your conjuring ability as well as your skills at transfiguration.”

There was alarmed muttering in the class and Hermione snuck a glance at Snape. His face was completely blank. She wondered whether he was still angry at her. Then a thought followed that one immediately wondering why she cared.

“First, I want you to conjure a butterfly, then transfigure your conjured insect into a bird, then back to a butterfly,” Minerva directed. “Hand up if you need assistance and myself and Professor Granger will come to your desk.”

Hermione saw Sirius immediately raise his hand, much to the amusement of the boys in his row. Minerva shook her head fondly at him and he grinned and lowered it. Hermione tried to put every inch of herself into a withering glare over Minerva’s shoulder. God he was painful.

The class began their work. Minerva sat down at her desk to mark papers and Hermione stood, utterly bored, at the front of the class for ten minutes until she decided to walk around and check on everyone.

Lily had conjured a beautiful blue butterfly of her own that was perched on her desk like a bejewelled ornament, and now was holding Jame’s wand hand and showing him the proper movement. He was not concentrating at all on that, but instead was staring a bit soppily at her.

“Miss Evans, please return to your desk. Mister Potter, do you need assistance?” Hermione asked.

James smiled sheepishly. “No Professor Granger.”

“Then please get on with it, and keep your canoodling on ice until Hogsmede,” Hermione said dryly.

James and Lily shared a glance and smiled at each other. Hermione rubbed her head.

Canoodling? She never said that. Why had she said that? What was she, eighty-nine years old?

That sounded like something Professor Snape would (will?) have said.

Argh she was getting worse!

Hermione moved onto Fern. The girl sat at her desk, staring at the plain, wooden top and not performing any magic.

“Anything I can help with Miss Burke?” Hermione asked,

“I’m not sure conjuring is my strongest skill,” said Fern sadly. “I still don’t really understand making something from nothing.”

“Well technically it’s not from nothing,” Hermione said. “Everything is full of matter. I mean, the air itself is...” Hermione trailed off when she noticed Fern’s confused but curious expression.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Ok. Um. Never mind. So think of it like this instead. The air around you is filled with particles. Dust, human skin, tiny little flecks of things. When you conjure it’s actually transfiguring these infinitesimally small things together to make a larger thing,” Hermione said.

“Ohhh. Okay,” said Fern. She looked down at her wand with intense concentration. She murmured the spell and Hermione watched a very tiny moth with one wing appear with an anticlimactic crackle.

“There you go!” Hermione said. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“Thank you, Professor Granger!” Fern said excitedly.

Hermione walked on past Corban who nodded politely at her.

By the way, you’ll order my death in twenty years or so, Hermione said internally as she nodded politely back at him.

She reached Snape, who was her intended destination all along.

“Hello, Mister Snape,” she said.

“Hello, Professor Granger,” he said. He was back to not meeting her eyes again.

“Caw,” exclaimed the large crow on his desk in a very indignant tone.

“Oh, well, hello!” said Hermione. “You’re very pretty,” she added as she reached out to pat its sleek, black head. It snapped at her fingers maliciously, and glared balefully at her.

“It’s not very nice I’m afraid,” said Snape. He blushed slightly.

Hermione laughed. “To be fair, I didn’t get informed consent before I went in for a pat.”

“I don’t think getting anything would help,” said Snape as he looked at the bird warily.

“There’s nothing wrong with knowing your boundaries,” Hermione said mock-seriously. She eyed the bird and it eyed her back. She laughed.

The crow cocked its head and clacked its beak at her. As Snape and Hermione watched it, a ethereal, conjured butterfly floated gracefully past and the crow plucked it from the air, swallowing it in one gulp.

Oh shit, Hermione thought. Snape’s own mouth dropped open slightly.

“Professor Granger, have you seen—oh!” said Minerva from behind as she obviously caught sight of the bird.

Minerva walked around the table, examining the crow closely before casting a diagnostic charm. It sharpened its beak on the table ominously, and fixed her with a black, beady eye.

Hermione decided that it was an bloody ornery little thing, but she liked it. She watched Minerva finished her review of the transfigured animal.

“Perfect transfiguration work Mister Snape, five points to Slytherin,” Minerva said, with a hint of surprise in her voice.

“Thank you Professor Mcgonagall,” Snape said stiffly. He darted a quick questioning glance to Hermione who answered with a ‘your guess is as good as mine’ eyebrow raise.

“Keep on then. I’m trying to locate Mister Acharya‘s butterfly. It flew this way,” Minerva continued, looking across the room distractedly.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” consoled Hermione. Minerva nodded and moved on.

Hermione shared a glance with Snape.

“Oops,” she said.

He looked away from her and down.

Maybe he didn’t want her hanging around, Hermione thought. She’d never been great at interpersonal stuff when it wasn’t directly related to work. Snape was probably thinking ‘sod off overbearing grandma’, Hermione told herself sternly. She decided to put him out of his misery.

“I’ll leave you to it, Mister Snape,” she said. “And ten points to Slytherin for your delightfully cranky bird.”

Snape furrowed his brow in concentration and murmured as he moved his wand. The crow hopped towards her in two neat little jumps, and as it rose for the third bounce it spilled apart into a cloud of lustrous, black butterflies that swarmed onto Hermione and settled on her arms.

“Oh!” she said in surprise. She looked down at the small, velvety insects as they perched on the sleeve of her robes, their wings softly opening and closing. “They’re beautiful,” she said without thinking.

“They’re not real,” Snape said slightly defensively.

“Maybe not,” said Hermione, “but it is an impressive bit of magic. That’s a fair few points right there I’d say.”

Snape shrugged. “I didn’t do it for the points,” he said, half under his breath.

“Not even for the glory of the noble House of Slytherin?” Hermione intoned mock-seriously.

She shook her arms softly and the butterflies flapped their now iridescent, emerald-scaled wings before lifting off simultaneously and landing on the desk in front of him. Snape blinked and looked at the insects.

“Wandless and nonverbal,” he observed with a slight frown.

“I told you I was good at spells,” Hermione teased. She thought she caught the ghost of a smile on his face.

She was aware of a movement to her right, and she turned to see Evan Rosier with his hand up and a bedraggled chicken with butterfly wings standing on his desk calmly preening its plumage.

“Er, Professor Granger, whatever I did, I think I did it very wrong,” Evan said hesitantly as the chicken clucked contentedly and settled into a roosting position on the desk, tucking its head under one gossamer wing.

“Oh I don’t know. I think that looks very exciting,” said Hermione. “Mutation is essential to evolution after all. So who knows, it could be very right!”

Evan looked at her quizzically and she covered another laugh with a small cough.

“Forget about it. It was a joke. Let’s start with three points to Slytherin for assisting chickens in their battle for avian supremacy. Now show me your wand movement,” Hermione said as she walked away from Snape’s desk and towards Evan. She glanced back at Snape, but he was still looking at the butterflies.

She turned back towards Evan, who began to detail to her the steps that led to the creation of Franken-chicken. And she tried to forget that the teenager in front of her gently patting the feathers of his butter-chicken—with spots on his chin and a pronounced Adam’s apple which bobbed up and down when he talked—would, in just under five years, be one of the last Death Eaters the Ministry would attempt to capture. He would kill three aurors during that final stand before being killed himself by Alastair Moody. As she was thinkng this, Evan looked up at her with a surprised, goofy smile as the bird moved forward to snuggle against his robe.

Hermione felt ill, but she smiled back anyway. He wasn’t anything yet, really. He was just a boy with a talent for genetic modification.

Chapter Text

“I think I want to look really magical. Like a proper witch,” Lily chattered to Hermione’s right.

“You are a proper witch,” observed Hermione. They were walking towards Hogsmede. Minerva was at the front of the group and Hermione was in the rear, picking up the stragglers.

“That’s not what everyone thinks,” Lily said crossly and glared at the backs of Ophiuchus Mulciber (what were purebloods drinking when they named their children?) and Jovan Avery who were ahead of her.

“Sometimes people think all sorts of stupid things. It doesn’t make them true,” said Hermione.

“I’d like to look the part anyway. Professor Slughorn said he was inviting some potion masters for me to meet,” Lily said excitedly.

“Boring,” grumbled James, who was walking next to Lily.

“Thank you for your opinion on the matter, Mister Potter,” Hermione said sarcastically.

“Why waste your time on potions?” James asked Lily petulantly. “I’ve got enough money for us to live on without you having to cut up disgusting things.”

James was wearing a very lush looking coat with a Gryffindor scarf artfully arranged around his neck. His hair was messy, but Hermione suspected it was also artfully arranged.

Lily giggled. “But I like potions. And so do your parents.”

She was also wearing a Gryffindor scarf and her hair was a glorious autumn cascade around her face. It must be nice having good hair, Hermione mused to herself, touching her own curls self-consciously,

“I like you,” James crooned and he grabbed Lily’s hand.

I may well vomit everywhere, Hermione thought.

“And what about my hair?” Lily continued to Hermione.

“Proper wizarding style?” Hermione asked, and Lily nodded.

“Well,” Hermione began confidently, “imagine you are one hundred and ninety years old and definitely don’t want your hair to flatter your appearance in any way shape or form, and you will have absolutely got the wizarding style exactly right.”

Lily laughed a silvery little laugh. “That’s funny, Professor Granger.”

“Yes, I’m hilarious. Now catch up to Professor McGonagall. Something tells me she’s been waiting all week to talk wizarding fashion,” instructed Hermione.

“Good idea, thank you Professor Granger!” said Lily and she walked ahead with James, swinging their joined hands between them.

“And what about my hair, Professor Granger?” Sirius squeaked in a passable falsetto as he stepped up to Hermione’s left shoulder. He fluttered his long eyelashes at her.

All those looks wasted on that personality, Hermione bemoaned to herself.

“Definitely bald,” she suggested. “It’s a strong look, but I think you could pull it off.”

“No way,” said Sirius, shaking his lush, dark locks furiously. He gave her a half-wave, half-salute before jogged off towards James and Lily.

“How are you feeling Mister Lupin?” Hermione asked Remus, who was walking side-by-side with a subdued Peter.

“Better, thank you Professor Granger,” he answered.

“Excellent,” she said.

“And you Peter?” she directed to the smaller boy.

“Me? Oh. Yes. I’m fine,” Peter said in a distracted manner. His gaze was locked ahead of them and Hermione wondered what had caught his interest.

She looked ahead at Minerva being questioned by a very exited Lily. Hermione knew the exact moment the teen had mentioned Hermione had suggested she talk to her Head of House when Minerva shot her a dirty look back over her shoulder. Hermione sent an innocent ‘who me?’ expression back. Ha!

A few steps ahead of Hermione, walking with Mulciber (which was easier to remember than Ophiuchus), Jovan and Evan was Snape. Another boy, Barnaby Wilkes, was talking animatedly to the others. Hermione had not seen Snape in a group before and she watched him surreptitiously. At least he was less likely to be attacked if he was with the four other boys. Even the two wizards from The Eight would balk at the prospect of accidentally killing one of their beloved Voldemort’s more powerful and dedicated followers in their pursuit of Snape.

Snape was wearing an old jacket...(leather!) over black jeans and boots with a Slytherin scarf tucked in against the collar. Hermione shook her head a little. She never would have pictured him in anything so casual. She thought he would have been rocking the frock coat even back in this time. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the heart palpitations the adult Snape would have had if he was forced to wear an outfit that didn’t have four hundred thousand buttons, and didn’t look like he’d stepped out of a regency-period vampire movie.

When they got to the village Minerva laid out her instructions on meeting points and timings for these. All the teenagers pretend to listen. As did Hermione. After this, the students then began to disperse in small, happy clumps.

Hermione said goodbye to Minerva and promised to meet up later and began her own little Hogsmede deployment. She wandered along the cobbled streets, ducking into alleyways and setting up mini versions of her facial recognition ward. It was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. It was very satisfactory to get back to doing a job she was actually good at. As opposed to teaching, which she was very shit at.

Her last stop was The Three Broomsticks. She was going to pop one last little ward in there and then catch up with Minerva at The Hogs Head after maybe ducking her head into Gladrags. The pub looked the same as she remembered, and once she walked inside she was greeted by a broad smile by Rosmerta. In this time she was Hermione’s current age.

Okay.

Hermione immediately vowed to eat better, exercise and try to do something with her hair.

“Would you like a drink?” asked the goddess in human form behind the bar, who also went by Rosmerta when she deigned to interact with mortals.

“In a minute I will. I just think I dropped something here!” Hermione called out and she leant over the table in the corner of the pub. It was in the most shadowy part of the pub and gave the most privacy. Her wizards would be drawn to it if they came to the building for any reason. She tucked her facial recognition charm against the wall and spelled out an eavesdropping charm that she could remotely engage if her ward alerted her.

Damn she was good.

Feeling very satisfied with her work, Hermione decided to go to the bathroom to test her eavesdropping charm. She was feeling nice and smug as she pushed open the ornate door.

“It’s windy out I see,” commented the mirror scathingly,

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror.

She really had to do something with her hair.

Hermione started to try and rearrange the curls to approximate a normal human hairstyle, however things were going wrong, exponentially fast. After about fifteen minutes the mirror coughed politely.

“I think you’ve probably done enough,” it suggested.

Hermione examined her reflection. She sort of looked like she’d been running through a wind tunnel, and simultaneously conducting experiments with static electricity. That was as good as it was going to get without wetting it and starting again.

Deciding to leave well enough alone, she took out her wand and activated the eavesdropping charm to check it was working. Her wand vibrated slightly and muffled voices began emanating from the wood.

“—your stench in here.”

“I don’t want any trouble, I’m just meeting my friends for a drink.”

“Isn’t there a nice muggle bar somewhere you should be going to instead? Wait, are there any nice muggle bars?”

“Just let me pass.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sure there is a mudblood limit and I think we’ve already reached it, don’t you think Avery?”

“Yes, and the limit is none.”

There was laughter from several voices and Hermione looked at the wand in astonishment. And what fresh hell was this?

She carefully cracked the bathroom door and saw the back of Rosemarta, far away on the other side of the bar talking with some customers. She peeked out further and saw Dirk standing near the table she had only just charmed earlier, his movement blocked by a thin silver cane she recognised instantly.

Fucking Malfoy.

Fuck.

Hermione felt sick. She frowned and took a deep breath. Then she walked out, and over to the table.

“Hello,” she said as confidently as she could.

Dirk turned to her with visible relief. “Professor Granger,” he said.

The occupants of the table looked up at her. Lucius had a slight smile on his face that was eerily familiar, but he was also much younger than she’d expected. He looked barely out of his teens and that helped. She felt she had age and experience on her side for once.

“Professor Granger,” said Lucius, rolling her name around in his mouth. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Great,” said Hermione.

She folded her arms and tried her version of the Minerva glare on the other residents of the table; Mulciber, Jovan, Evan, Barnaby and Snape. The others looked away almost immediately but Snape met her gaze cooly and steadily.

“Off you go Mister Cresswell,” said Hermione.

Lucius lowered his cane and Dirk hurried away from the table and across the bar.

“Come on boys,” Hermione said, emphasising the word ‘boys’ with some relish, “how about we just let everyone have a nice time.”

“Everyone is having a nice time,” Lucius said innocently.

“It looked like Mister Cresswell was perhaps having slightly less of a nice time than you,” Hermione replied.

“Really? I must apologise to him for the misunderstanding,” Lucius said smoothly. He slid over on the seat. “Would you join us for a drink?”

“It’s very tempting,” Hermione lied, “but I’m afraid I’m meeting someone and I have to be getting on.”

“You’re not...frightened are you?” Lucius asked with a malicious grin.

Hermione forced herself to laugh. “Oh my goodness no, you don’t scare me at all.”

Lucius’s blue eyes narrowed. The other boys at the table looked between him and Hermione with riveted interest.

“I don’t?” questioned Lucius languidly.

Hermione stared at him. “Not. One. Bit. I’ll be going now. Goodbye Misters Avery, Mulciber, Rosier, Wilkes and Snape, I’ll see you soon. Goodbye Mister Malfoy, enjoy your drink,” Hermione said, and she noticed Lucius’s expression change when she mentioned his name.

Using every single piece of willpower in her body, Hermione nodded politely, turned around and walked slowly and calmly out the door.

She continued her slow, calm walk and her slow, calm smile until she reached Gladrags. She followed the alleyway to the back of the shop, and then slowly and calmly bent over and vomited.

In her time Lucius Malfoy wasn’t really there any more.

Narcissa had noticed it first. Little moments of absentmindedness sprinkled here and there amongst normality. A forgotten lunch meeting with Draco, a missed appointment at Gringotts, and his wedding anniversary slipping his mind. Then there were issues with more complex spells, such as blowing up the credenza when he’d mispronounced a word.

Draco tried to explain it away first by citing trauma from the war, and from Azkaban. But he was worried when his father couldn’t figure out how to leave their conservatory to get back to his bedroom. Lucius sat there for hours until one of the House Elves found him. Lucius had never even thought to call for one of them.

The medics at St Mungo’s were baffled, but Hermione told Draco to take him to a specialist—a muggle specialist. Draco was reluctant but Narcissa...Narcissa!...insisted. It was as Hermione feared. After extensive testing, it was clear that the fearsome former Death Eater had frontotemporal dementia. Draco told Hermione after they were given Lucius’s diagnosis. He was devastated. Hermione thought that the extensive use of cruciatus by Voldemort might be the blame. Perhaps it had destroyed his brain cells, bringing on the disease. It was hard to know, the wizarding world seemed to have little interest in the longitudinal effects of spells on human anatomy.

Narcissa had tried to retain as much normality as possible; getting more House Elves, setting up wards to protect Lucius if he went wandering, and finally taking away his wand and replacing it with a decoy.

Hermione had last had seen Lucius at Draco’s wedding to Astoria. During the grand soirée held at the Manor (yuck) after the ceremony, Hermione had seen Lucius sitting by himself in the corner. She’d walked over to him, feeling slightly sorry for the docile man. He was nothing like the sneering, aristocratic reprobate she remembered.

“Hello Mister Malfoy, can I get you anything?” she had asked him politely.

He turned to look at her with unfocused, pale eyes. “Do I know you?” he’d asked her in return in a confused voice.

“Yes Mister Malfoy, I’m Hermione Granger.” she answered gently.

At her words she’d seen something click inside him. His eyes were no longer unfocused, but instead were alive with potent fury.

“You!” he’d snarled at her.

Then he launched himself at her and before she could do anything he’d wrapped both hands around her neck and began choking her. Hermione had initially struggled against him, and she first tried to push him off physically but he’d increased his grip and had jabbed his thumbs into her windpipe. As everything was beginning to go hazy she’d released some wild, reactive magic that had blasted him off her.

She’d collapsed on the floor as Draco and Astoria had run over. Lucius was fine, merely stunned. But Hermione’s neck was purpled with bruises and she could hardly speak outside a rasp. She’d headed for St Mungo’s for treatment after promising a weeping Narcissa she wouldn’t call the Aurors. They’d fixed her neck and given her some potions to heal the damage he’d caused her.

As she’d sat there on the hospital bed she’d thought about the attack. And how while he was strangling her Lucius had leant right close to her ear and whispered.

Are you scared of me now?

Hermione, at the time, had dismissed this as an odd comment stemming from the effect the disorders had wrought on his brain. But now Hermione didn’t think that at all.

Now she thought something completely different.

He had remembered her.

Chapter Text

Miraculously all the teenagers turned up for the walk back to Hogwarts. A shaken Hermione had met Minerva at The Hogs Head for a whiskey (which she hated) which allegedly had medicinal qualities. According to the Book of Minerva it was a legitimate substitution for a Pepper Up potion. The witch had been concerned about Hermione’s peaky countenance. But Hermione successfully brushed off Minerva’s concerned questioning with the expertise of someone who avoided talking about about her life to her friends on a regular basis. They’d ended up having a very suspect pork pie before heading to the rendezvous point.

After confirming all students were accounted for they started off for the castle. Minerva again at the front and Hermione once more at the back.

It wasn’t long before the Slytherin boys dropped back to walk alongside her. They still had a long way to go in perfecting their faux nonchalance as Hermione saw through it immediately.

“Professor Granger, I have something for you.” Jovan said in what he clearly believed was an innocent tone.

He put his hand into the pocket of his coat and handing something small to Hermione. She took it from him and examined it. It was a very pretty silver pin in the shape of a serpent, with a tiny chip of an emerald for an eye.

“It’s from Lucius,” Mulciber chimed in before she could ask. “It’s a gift for staff that fill the Head of Slytherin position.”

“It’s tradition,” Jovan added.

Hermione looked at the beautiful object. “I see,” she said. “How generous of him”

She eyed the pin carefully before casting a diagnostic charm.

Ahh.

There it was. An eavesdropping charm was tightly spelled beneath three very tricky little concealment charms. It was a nice bit of magic and she doubted anyone that didn’t find things they weren’t supposed to found for a living would have discovered it. She shook her head slightly.

Malfoy.

A few finites undid the initial layers and Hermione unpicked the eavesdropping spell before cancelling it.

Interesting.

It had been keyed to a word, though she didn’t obviously know what that word was. But as soon as she’d uttered it, the pin would have activated.

However, the broach was now inactive. Free from incantations it was merely just a decorative piece. Hermione pinned it to her cloak.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “A little too nosy for my liking, but that was easily sorted.”

The boys looked at her with guilty expressions—except for Evan—who laughed.

“I told you Professor Granger was too smart to fall for it,” he said triumphantly.

“I’d give you points for your insight if it didn’t seem so self-congratulatory,” Hermione said to Evan and he grinned at her.

“Sorry, Professor Granger,” said Barnaby, “Lucius asked us to give it to you.”

“And I adore it,” Hermione said. “I shall wear it every day and you can all look at it and remind each other not to try and slip me tainted jewellery. And if you do, it has to have lots more emeralds and maybe even a diamond. At least three carats next time.”

The boys nodded, and murmured in some type of general incomprehensible teenage agreement. Mulciber gave her a searching look that also appeared to be tinged with grudging respect.

“Come on, off you go to discuss further devious things,” Hermione said and pointed slightly ahead where a large clump of teenagers were meandering along, green scarves flapping behind them. The boys rolled their eyes dramatically, but they began to walk off ahead towards the other students.

Hermione huffed to herself.

They were sneaky little bastards. But how different was a concealed listening spell compared with the charmed map she knew that James would have hidden somewhere on his person? Privacy in the magically world was criminally underrated. This appeared be universal amongst privileged pure-bloods. No matter their House allegiance.

“Professor,” a low, hesitant voice to her left elbow said.

“Mister Snape, aren’t you going to go and join your friends?” Hermione asked.

“I was going to tell you about the pin,” he said.

Hermione turned her head to look at him as they walked. He had his hands thrust into his pockets and he was burrowing into his scarf—almost as if he was attempt to escape into his coat.

“Well, I’m a terribly suspicious person so thankfully you didn’t have to,” she said evenly.

“I would have told you,” he repeated. “When the others weren’t around.”

“Ah. Serving both the purpose of giving me the pin and also saving me from the pin,” Hermione said.

Snape nodded.

“Trying to appease a number of masters simultaneously is setting a precedent for a stressful life,” Hermione said.

Snape sighed heavily, but didn’t respond to her comment. He looked across at her instead with his usual blank expression.

“You don’t like Lucius,” Snape stated baldly. “Aren’t you going to tell me not to talk to him?”

“I’m not one of your masters,” Hermione said. “You don’t have to seek my blessing.”

“But you don’t like him,” Snape persisted.

“Not really,” Hermione said. “But so what?”

Snape glanced up at her and frowned. “I think he’s worried about you.”

“Of course he is,” said Hermione. “He doesn’t know what I want, and that’s a problem. He needs information to help him decide whether I’m a friend or foe.”

“Right,” Snape said.

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“And what if he thinks you are a foe?” Snape asked.

“Well I guess there’ll be a lot of hair flicking, and cane tapping,” Hermione answered and she laughed at her own statement. Malfoy was a sociopathic git but he did have glorious hair.

Snape laughed as well. Then he stopped and coughed slightly.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper at you the other day,” Snape said quietly.

“Oh, yes. That. Thank you for apologising. I think I understand why you did though,” Hermione admitted.

There was a long pause again and Hermione tucked her own hands in her pockets as something to do. Talking to Snape sometimes felt like coaxing a wild animal. Every approach had to be carefully considered, and saying or doing the wrong thing meant an immediate end to the encounter. The real problem was she had a habit of saying and doing the wrong thing a lot.

“I don’t want you to be disappointed in me,” Snape said finally.

Hermione stopped walking suddenly and he stopped as well. She turned towards him.

“It’s okay to make mistakes. I mean, everyone does. You may disappoint me sometimes and I might disappoint you. It’s normal. People are fallible,” she said.

“But I don’t understand what you want me to do. How you want me to be.” Snape complained.

“I don’t want you to be anything except, I guess, true to yourself. You can’t make decisions for me, or for Lucius or for anyone. You need to follow your own path,” Hermione said.

Snape seemed conflicted by this advice. “But what happens if I make the wrong choice? Do the wrong thing?”

“You can always change your mind,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s never too late to decide to do something different.”

“Right,” Snape said dubiously.

They began walking again. This time neither of them broke the complete silence that hung between them. Hermione thought about the oath. It hadn’t even twinged while she’d spoken with him. Maybe nothing she said made any difference whatsoever. Maybe she barely featured in his life at all. Which, at the end of the day, was exactly what her job was. So what, she was replaceable and impotent?

This particular operation was turning out to be a bit personally challenging. And that was just intellectually. She still hadn’t quite gotten over seeing Rosemarta, and feeling like a big sack of crap tied with a sad looking bow.

Her competing hypothesis, one she’d been turning over in her mind since the encounter with Lucius, was more complicated. What if she was already part of this time line? Her mind skipped along events such as Snape assisting her with the brewing. She’d invited him over with the “If you’re going to be a bother” comment in this time as she’d thought it was funny. A little in-joke with herself. He’d said it to her after all. But what if the adult Snape had done the same thing? What if he’d said it to her for the same reasons. A cycle of in-jokes.

Hermione’s brain hurt.

This was exactly why Time Turners were regulated. The idea of timelines was such a nebulous concept anyway. Even the department only partially understood when and how things could be altered. They brought the oath in as a precaution. No one should travel with the specific intention of changing anything. How could anyone be sure it wouldn’t change for the worse? The most likely result would be a completely disintegration of time itself.

But...

But if she was part of this timeline why hadn’t anyone else remembered her? Minerva, Pamona, even Rolanda? They’d never even given a hint of that in the future/Hermione’s present. And Snape himself. Beyond the Wolfsbane brewing incident he’d been a bit of a prick (and that was being charitable) towards her in pretty much all of their interactions.

Ugh. It was too confusing.

Hermione resolved to let things play out, find the two wizards and take it from there. There was such a thing as taking too much on...mentally as well as emotionally.

“I heard you talking to Lily, er...about Professor Slughorn’s party,” Snape finally said.

“Yes. Are you going as well?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said with a shrug.

“Do you need hairstyle advice too?” Hermione asked.

“No way,” said Snape. “Everyone knows for a real wizard it’s French braiding or nothing.”

Hermione let out a unrestrained laugh. “Exactly. And just the thing to highlight those cheekbones.”

She’d said it without thinking. She turned to Snape to apologise and saw he was blushing furiously. He swung his hair down to hide his face.

“I’m sorry Mister Snape,” Hermione offered. “That was inappropriate.”

“It’s fine,” he replied. But he was still red.

“So on to a less glamorous topic,” said Hermione, trying to divert their conversation to let him regain his footing, “Would you like to organise a time to work on the double-cast?”

“Yes, I have time on weekends. I’ve usually finished my essays by Sunday,” Snape answered.

“Great,” said Hermione. “I’ll think about the best time and let you know.”

“Perhaps we could talk about it at the party tomorrow evening?” Snape said casually. Too casually, thought Hermione suspiciously. “I mean, you’re going to be there. I’m going to be there.”

“True, but there are actually useful people that are going to be there as well specifically invited by Professor Slughorn. You know, people that could connect you to a whole range of other useful people. You could all be useful together,” she explained.

“But you’re the most useful person I’ve met,” said Snape.

“Oh!” said Hermione in surprise.

Well that was unexpected.

Snape appeared to also have found it unexpected, and he looked momentarily taken aback at what he’d blurted out. Before Hermione could say anything more he abruptly swung around and strode off towards the group ahead until he caught up with Mulciber and the others. He didn’t turn back around.

*

Hermione didn’t see Snape the next morning. However the time passed well as Gilderoy had been caught selling kisses to girls in the library. Hermione was summoned by an indignant boy who been rebuffed in his attempts to join in the purchasing of amore. Hermione had been all riled up ready to spew forth a wonderful lecture on consent when it turned out that the only reason Lockhart had refused the transaction was the boy had offered three knuts instead of five. ‘A piece of Gilderoy isn’t free’, the boy himself had insisted to an equal parts astonished and amused Hermione.

Once the proper fee was negotiated all was well. Except, of course, that Lockhart was selling kisses in the library. To the dismay of the remaining line of paramours, Hermione sent him back to his dormitory to rest his lips and rethink his life choices. Honestly.

The only other perk to the day was Regulus dropped by her office with a bouquet of black orchids. Apparently they were “a token of esteem from Slytherin House”. Whatever the hell that meant. In any case Hermione accepted them in a restrained, hopefully acceptable manner to the young pureblood. Her attempt at gentility appeared to have paid off, and she was rewarded with a stiff bow and an even stiffer smile.

Back in her chambers she cast every single diagnostic charm she could on them but they appeared to be exactly what they looked like. Flowers. Innocent, not remotely a listening device, flowers. So the only thing left to do was place them in a vase with water. And just a teeny, tiny stasis charm in case they woke up in the middle of the night and tried to eat her face off.

Being pureblood appeared to Hermione to be also a little like being emotionally constipated. She kept this in mind when she prepared for Horace’s little gathering, ensuring she dressed in a manner that equally suggested she was both unaware of antibiotics as well as held Very Strong Opinions about women showing skin and having Independent Thoughts.

It could have been the effect of the orchids, or it could have been anything really, but at the last minute Hermione charmed her robes a deep, forest green. Go Slytherin or go home, she decided.

She had checked the mirror before she left her chambers. Acceptable. The robe was nice, it fitted her well and it wasn’t the Yule Ball or anything but she looked okay. She eyed the green robe appraisingly. If Ron could see her he’d drop dead. He’d held onto House crap the longest of anyone, and whenever he was drunk he insisted loudly that it had nothing to do with a torrid fling he’d had with Millicent Bulstrode the year after he’d broken up with Hermione. Millie had apparently been a bit of a firecracker in bed, but had dumped Ron after it became apparent he was more on the sparkler end of the scale.

Instead of sympathy card Hermione had sent her an empathy card, because after all, she’d been there too. Ron had a lot of moves in quidditch but very few in the boudoir. Griselda, on the other hand, had told Hermione she’d just taken control of the situation, and like a good coach had worked hard on improving his performance through repeated drills on core skills. She seemed happy and so did he. Which certainly proved that although Ron and Hermione weren’t great together, it hadn’t meant he couldn’t be great with someone else.

Hermione was early to the function as she had promised to Horace, and set herself up a nice little vantage point in the corner of the room. She watched the students enter in a trickling stream. She was pleased to see Fern enter as well as a wonderfully clever fourth year Slytherin called Aya who’d brewed the most perfect antidote Horace had seen by someone in that year. Lily had brought James and her hair looked fantastic, which meant she hadn’t taken any advice on styling from Hermione. Which, on the balance of things probably was a safe option. She also saw Dirk and Regulus. After that there was a steady stream of people.

Hermione was surprised that most of the students came over to say hello, regardless of House. She’d thought she was merely endured in class, but perhaps they actually didn’t mind her. She wasn’t a great teacher, or even a very good one....but perhaps she was a satisfactory one.

That was exciting news.

Perhaps it was the rush of conceit to the head, but Hermione was not functioning at full mental capacity when she looked towards the entry again.

Her brain gibbered at her when it recognised the back of the tall, black-garbed figure with the black hair hanging brushing the tops of his shoulders, and she briefly forgot where she was. When she was.

Professor Snape.

He turned, with a familiar rolling flourish of the robes around his legs, and she saw it wasn’t Professor Snape at all. It was Mister Snape. She was flooded with relief. He saw her and smiled. She smiled back.

He came towards her, and Hermione hid a larger smile at his obvious slight preen.

“Professor, hello,” he said.

“Hello Mister Snape. I’m terribly disappointed in your hairstyle. I thought you’d promised me braids,” Hermione tutted.

He touched his hair self-consciously. “Yes. But I didn’t want to show anyone up.”

“How gallant of you,” Hermione said. “I like your robes,” she added.

He looked down at himself, then back up. “Thank you. They’re new.”

“Yes. They seem to have an inordinate amount of buttons,” Hermione commented.

“I like buttons,” Snape retorted.

“Obviously,” Hermione said.

He grinned. “Buttons are underrated.”

“Criminally,” she agreed seriously.

“So..um..” Snape said hesitantly. “Would you like me to get you a drink?”

Hermione looked at him. He was very noticeably holding his breath. She wasn’t quite sure this was how she’d interacted with any of her teachers at Hogwarts. Had she ever got anyone a drink? She suddenly remembered fetching Filius a beverage at the party of Horace’s she’d attended with Cormac the tongue-thruster. She’d escaped Cormac’s clutches and tongue long enough to have quick conversation with Filius on a extension class for charms.

Well. So it was fine. Right? Just a normal thing to do for a teacher one looked up to.

Right?

Right.

That was all right then.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “That’s very kind of you.”

Before she could tell him what drink she liked he was gone—black cloth swirling around him.

This is very surreal, Hermione told herself.

Chapter Text

Snape returned clutching three drinks.

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” he said. “So I brought three different kinds.” He looked both awkward and embarrassed; which was completely at odds with the robes he was wearing that exuded to Hermione the controlled, exacting Professor she’d studied under.

She liked awkward teenage Snape better. Although she never really known him as an adult. So perhaps he didn’t change much. There was just never any time she saw that part of him.

She wonder if adult Snape had ever blushed. She couldn’t imagine it. Firstly, he would have had to have blood, as opposed to ice, in his veins. Secondly, he would have required human emotions. Both of these deficits must have ruled it out as a possibility. Surely.

Not Mister Snape though. He blushed easily.

“Good plan,” said Hermione. “One for me, one for you and one spare—“

“For me,” purred Lucius close to her ear.

Only years of training stopped Hermione from startling badly and swearing loudly. She masked it all of her reaction except for a surprised blink. Lucius reached over and took the second glass from Snape. Snape glowered slightly, then the expression dropped away almost immediately to a neutral face. He then sipped his drink in an entirely unruffled manner.

Hermione thought she probably should be incredibly impressed with his ability to regulate his emotions, just like she’d seen at the quidditch match. But it just made her feel sad. To be that effective he had to have been doing it for a very long time. And nothing about that thought had a silver lining.

“I was so hoping we’d be able to have a real conversation,” Lucius said. “We obviously didn’t get a chance in our previous encounter.”

“And I’ve been nursing the devastating disappointment ever since,” responded Hermione dryly.

Lucius’s right eyebrow raised slightly. He took a sip of his drink. “Well thankfully I’m here to help you through it,” he said.

“Actually, um,” Snape began. Hermione and Lucius both turned their attention to him. “Professor Granger and I are having a discussion,” he finished bravely.

“And you can have another one later,” said Lucius. “Why don’t you go and socialise?”

Snape opened his mouth and Hermione was sure he was going to mount another claim on their conversation.

“Besides,” added Lucius. “You might as well show off the robe I bought you. I’m quite pleased with it actually.”

Hermione could almost see the wave of mortification rush over Snape in his physical reaction. He deflated instantly. His shoulders dropped, and so did his head.

Fuck Malfoy is a cock, thought Hermione. She didn’t really want to talk to him at all, but she also wondered whether he would have any idea of the wizards turning up. He seemed to be a man that liked to know things. So talking to him was potentially useful.

“How about I come and find you after I speak with Mister Malfoy?” said Hermione. “We still need to organise our Sunday sessions.”

Snape looked at her and nodded. He shot a concerned look between them before walking off into the crowd. He looked back at them twice.

“Young Severus certainly has taken a liking to you,” Lucius commented.

“Well I am likeable,” Hermione said, and she saw his lip curl slightly at her confident response.

Lucius took a sip of his drink. “I see you accepted the small token of my esteem for your work with my former House.”

Hermione touched a finger to the silver, snake pin that she had clipped onto her formal robes.

“So thoughtful,” she commented neutrally.

“It has understated elegance,” said Lucius. “The type of item you can wear all the time.”

“I’ll make sure I do,” lied Hermione.

She looked across the room through the mingling guests and could see Lily chatting animatedly with an older wizard. James was standing to her immediate right with a very sullen expression.

“What is Horace thinking with his guest list?” Lucius observed as he followed her gaze towards Lilly.

“He looks for talented talented people wherever he can find them,” answered Hermione. “I value resourcefulness. A lot of important people do.”

Lucius looked at her appraisingly. “Indeed. They do.”

Hermione continued to watch Lily’s progress with the well-connected guest, while James pouted. She scanned the room and her eyebrows lifted as she noticed Minerva speaking with Snape. And they both seemed reasonably happy...or at least not obvious unhappy.

Well well.

“You’re a difficult witch to understand,” said Lucius.

“I like to think of myself as mysterious,” Hermione countered. “If you want to know something particular I can tell you myself. It will save you a lot of effort that could be spent on plotting.”

“I hear many intriguing things about you,” said Lucius. “Mulciber is a difficult wizard to impress,”

“I have enjoyed my time with Slytherin House,” said Hermione diplomatically. “They’ve kept me on my toes. And having another Professor on their side can’t hurt.”

Lucius nodded thoughtfully. He looked like he was about to speak again, but caught sight of something over her shoulder and his eyes widened.

“I apologise,” said Lucius suddenly. “I’ve seen an acquaintance I’ve been wanting to speak with.”

“No apologies necessary,” said Hermione. Thank fuck for that, she thought.

Lucius bowed stiffly and moved off quickly through the crowd. Hermione tracked him for a while but lost him as he slipped elegantly past a group of vampires Hermione was sure she recognised from the party she attended (would attend?) in the future.

Hermione sipped her drink, content to observe Minerva and Snape for a few minutes. She definitely wasn’t going to disturb them. Snape was shrugging at something and Hermione could see Minerva’s stance change to ‘I know what’s good for you’ (a stance Hermione herself was an expert in after years of perfecting it on Ron and Harry) and Snape eventually nodded.

That was interesting.

To their right was a group of redheads speaking with a man and a woman. Hermione craned her head.

Oh!

It was Molly. Definitely Molly. A young, fierce looking Molly.

She was standing with two wizards, who looked very much like her as well as each other. They must be her brothers. Hermione did not recognise who they were conversing with. The woman Molly was speaking to had a round, cheerful looking face and she smiled easily. The man looked vaguely familiar. Hermione tapped her teeth with her tongue while she tried to...Neville! They must be his parents!

Ah. His parents.

Obviously pre-Bellatrix. Hermione felt a small tightening at the back of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting to—

“Hello,” Minerva said by her ear.

Hermione forgot her training in that instance, and was startled. “Shit! I thought you were talking to Mister Snape!”

“I was,” Minerva said. “I’ve convinced him to join my advanced transfiguration class. And don’t look at me like that,” she snapped as Hermione tried not to look smug and failed.

“I’m surprised but pleased. I told you he was clever,” Hermione said.

“Yes. Well. He seems to respond to your teaching style better then mine. I told him you’d be assisting with the advanced class which was how I convinced him,” Minerva said.

“I don’t mind,” said Hermione. “I’m happy to help.”

“What’s your interest in Mister Snape?” Minerva asked a little suspiciously. “Is he a mentor to you in your time?”

Hermione’s brain ground to a halt when it was presented with that scenario before she laughed. “Goodness no. He loathed me.”

Minerva looked at her oddly. “I see. Well I’m giving him one class to see whether he’s up for the challenge.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Hermione.

“We’ll see,” said Minerva. “He does seem to have interesting taste in friends.”

She looked pointedly across the room. Hermione’s heart sank. Snape was speaking to a group of people that included Lucius and two dark-haired witches, one of whom was Bellatrix. Hermione’s brain immediately put forward an argument to run screaming from the room. Hermione’s dignity disagreed and insisted they all stay and see what could be learned. While those two were arguing, Hermione’s hyper-vigilance watched Lucius put his a hand on the arm of the other witch and she suddenly realised it was Narcissa.

Okay, so Narcissa wasn’t a natural blond.

With their original hair colouring, it was strikingly obvious how similar the sisters were. Having not yet endured Azkaban, Bellatrix hadn’t yet acquired the wild, chaotic appearance and she was just a darkly-handsome witch with a sultry, lidded expression. Narcissa looked far more friendly without the tresses that were a matching pale of her husband. She still looked like she’d knife you under the ribs if you looked at her wrong, but the brown hair suggested she’d at least wash the knife first. And maybe pat you on the head consolingly as you bled out on her antique rug.

Hermione decided to go over and fetch Snape, as there was no point leaving him there for longer than was necessary. Immediately following this thought was a searing pain as the oath flared to life.

Fuck.

“Hermione, are you all right?” Minerva asked worriedly as Hermione bent over, breathing deep to offset the feeling.

“Yes, just a cramp. I might try and walk it off for a bit,” Hermione gasped.

“Of course,” said Minerva.

As Hermione limped off she noticed James was speaking with Molly, her brothers and the Longbottoms. Maybe they were trying to recruit him to the Order. She briefly toyed with the idea of going to join the conversation, but the warning throb of the Oath dissuaded her.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Hermione stomped heavily into the outer parlour, kicking an completely innocent but thoroughly annoying and definitely deserving side table on the way. This stupid, irritating situation she was in. She hated it.

Hated it!

It felt like everyone she spoke to was dead in her time, or about to have a terrible time for many years. And she couldn’t do anything about it. She longed, with an ache so strong she felt the pulse in her heart, to go home.

A small sob of futility escaped her. Except, wait, it hadn’t. She wanted to cry but had clamped down it with an iron fist. Someone else was crying. Hermione looked around the room and found the answer curled up on a chair in a corner.

It was Lily.

“Miss Evans are you all right?” Hermione asked.

Lily sat up and tried to look like she wasn’t crying. It didn’t work. “Yes, Professor.”

Hermione crossed the room to sit beside her. “You don’t look all right.”

She handed Lily a quickly transfigured handkerchief. Lily accepted it with a watery thanks.

“Did your conversation with the potion masters not go well?” Hermione asked.

Lily shook her head. “They were fine. But...”

“But...” Hermione prompted.

“I had a fight with James,” Lily sniffed.

“Oh,” Hermione said. “What about?”

“He says it’s a waste of time getting my mastery. Apparently I don’t need to work. And his parents could give me a job at their potions company,” Lily said.

“Ah,” said Hermione. “I bet that made you feel pretty rotten.”

“It did!” cried Lily. “He doesn’t understand why I need to do anything.”

“Pureblood wizards and witches seem to think feminism is a type of spell that allows you to cook three dinners at once while undertaking hair removal,” Hermione said seriously. “They aren’t great at the whole, you know, emancipation of women deal.”

“I want to belong, but sometimes I feel I never will,” said Lily, sighing. She wasn’t crying anymore but still looked despondent.

“A lot of people feel like that sometimes,” said Hermione. “It means you’re an interesting person.”

Lily shrugged. “But I don’t want to be interesting. I just want to fit in.”

“You can be both,” lied Hermione.

“I should probably go back and say sorry to James,” Lily said, sniffing a bit and dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief.

“I don’t think you have anything to apologise for,” Hermione said. “I think perhaps he was in the wrong.”

“I’m lucky he is interested in me,” Lily said in a confessional manner.

“Er, I don’t think so,” Hermione corrected. “You’re incredibly intelligent and talented. He’s the lucky one.”

Lily frowned a bit, as if she didn’t believe Hermione. Then she laughed. “Thanks for making me feel better Professor. I’d better go find him.”

“Don’t apologise!” Hermione called after her.

She shook her head a little in disbelief at the power teenage boys had. Her mind drifted back to a similarly sad girl and a cloud of angry, yellow birds. Yes. Teenage boys and their lackadaisical handling of the hearts and self-esteem of teenage girls. It was universal across the wizarding and muggle world. Finally a commonality! The general shitty behaviour towards women could be the spark to unite muggle and wizarding world alike. Except it would probably mean men would unite and women in both arenas would be worse off as they combined to make general shitty behaviour even worse.

She put her head in her hands and groaned to herself.

“Ah Hermione, there you are,” said Horace from the doorway.

“Here I am,” sighed Hermione. “Still.”

“Celestina Warbeck is about to sing. I’m not sure if you know her but she’s quite good.”

Kill me, thought Hermione.

“Sounds lovely,” said Hermione.

They returned to the larger room and Hermione was instantly transported back to the burrow. Amongst the dancing couples she could see Molly embracing a gangly looking version of Arthur. No wonder she liked Celestina so much. That was sweet.

Snape was no longer speaking with Lucius and the Black sisters. She could see him leaning against the wall scowling at the couples, and saving his darkest look for Lily and James. Maybe teenage girls weren’t great with hearts and self-esteem either, hypothesised Hermione. She wondered if Snape and Lily had ever dated. Maybe. He obviously still had a flame for her, and one that would last until his death. Either way, she was draped over James now.

It also appeared James and Lily had made up. Or were in the process of making up...or making out. She very much hoped James had apologised for being a twat. She doubted it. Twat seemed to be his standard operating procedure.

It was a very horrible thought, but Hermione wondered if Harry would have been different had James been alive, or if Sirius had lived long enough to be more of an influence. She imagined if they had, Harry wouldn’t be as...well...Harry as he turned out to be. Even as a adult he was still kind and not remotely affected by his fame. She imagined him acting like James or Sirius and decided they wouldn’t have been friends at all if he had. After all, he never would have come looking for her in the girls bathroom in their first year. He probably would have made fun of her.

No, scratch that. He definitely would have made fun of her.

Hermione weaved her way around the clusters of couples until she reached Snape.

“Not a fan of dancing?” she asked.

“It’s stupid,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Hermione said. Great, he was in a mood again. She decided to try something.

“It’s a shame you think it’s so stupid,” Hermione said casually, “I was going to see if you wanted to dance.”

His head snapped towards her. “Really?”

Hermione looked at the dance floor, where Horace, Minerva and Filius were laughing and attempting to dance with students, who were trying very hard and almost succeeding at the complicated steps.

See? It wasn’t weird at all to ask him to dance. Completely fine and not at all weird.

Right, commented Hermione’s brain wryly. Whatever you say.

She bowed and held out a hand. “Mister Snape, would you honour your decrepit professor with a turn about the floor?” she asked. “If my old bones can handle it of course.”

He eyed her warily and didn’t move from the wall.

You idiot, Hermione chastised herself, don’t make it sound like a joke!

She tried again. “I’d like to dance with you. Would you like to dance with me?”

He looked at her carefully; searching for signs of sarcasm in the offer. She met his gaze steadily and smiled. He pushed himself off the wall and took her hand in his.

“Yes.”

He was a better dancer than Cormac and Ron, and perhaps as good as Viktor. He appeared initially unsure where to put his hands, and when Hermione took one and put it on her hip he swallowed audibly and a flush darkened his neck. They moved companionably, if not slightly awkwardly, together in time with the music.

Hermione looked up. “You haven’t stepped on my toes once, Mister Snape. I should give you points,” she joked.

Snape clutched her hand slightly. “No points,” he said. “Please. Let’s just dance.”

“Okay,” agreed Hermione.

She smiled up at Snape. His hand crept slightly towards the small of her back, and she laughed and shook her head in amusement and in hinted warning. He smirked at her reaction, but his hand did not creep any further. He held her other hand in his own and she wondered if her palm was sweaty. Then panicked whether that was something she shouldn’t really be worried about.

“You’re a good dancer,” Hermione tried broaching the subject again, but this time purposefully avoided highlighting their roles as teacher and student.

“I’m good at things when I want to be,” Snape said in a dry tone.

Hermione grinned at him. “I should be flattered then, should?” she asked.

Snape said nothing initially, but then Hermione saw a sly smile bloom slowly across his face. “I said you were interesting didn’t I?” he said.

“You did,” said Hermione. “Grudgingly though, I thought.”

They met each other’s eyes and shared an amused look.

“Perhaps only a little grudgingly,” Snape said archly.

“Well then I’m a only a little flattered,” Hermione replied in a matching tone.

More couples joined the floor and they were forced a little closer to each other. She could feel the way in which Snape’s robes swirled around her legs as they moved. Had he danced at the Yule Ball in her time? Hermione couldn’t remember, and she was immediately annoyed at her teenage self for not noticing. She’d probably been snogging Viktor. Which, to be honest, had been a satisfactory use of her face at the time.

“The song finished,” said Snape, interrupting her revere.

“So it did,” agreed Hermione, who hadn’t really noticed.

They didn’t move initially but Hermione eventually stepped away from Snape. He dropped his hand off her hip and she released his other hand. There was a very awkward silence.

See? It’s not at all weird, Hermione scolded herself.

Of course not, her brain agreed sarcastically. This all seems completely normal and appropriate.

Sometimes she hated being right.

Chapter Text

Hermione had finished setting up the training room ready for her first Sunday session with Snape. He’d regressed somewhat since Horace’s party, and was back to not meeting her eyes in class and hurrying away if he caught sight of her in the corridor. She wasn’t exactly sure why.

They’d had a perfectly uneventful dance which she’d enjoyed, and she thought he hadn’t hated. Afterwards in a brief, slightly stilted exchange they’d agreed on a time for the their training on the double-cast concept. Hermione had then been claimed as a partner by Horace.

As she had danced with Horace, they’d had an in-depth discussion about who had been seen talking to who. Horace was particularly interested in those speaking with either Lucius or Molly. That was new to Hermione—seeing Molly as one of the Order’s lieutenants. She seemed a lesser member in the future. Maybe she lost drive once her brothers died in the first war.

Once the song ended Hermione couldn’t see Snape anywhere. He’d left.

She wondered if he’d even turn up today.

Still, she’d gone down there early and set up the room. Just in case.

The room itself was shielded and warded to protect the walls from accidental spell discharges. There were three training dummies that could be hexed, jinxed and cursed to the caster’s heart’s content. They were as robust as the room. Though in saying that, there were scorch marks on the walls and floor, and a very dubious stain in the corner which Hermione didn’t feel like examining too closely.

At ten o’clock she heard the door opening and her wards informed her Snape had walked in.

“Hello Mister Snape,” said Hermione brightly without turning around. “Ready to begin?”

“Yes, Professor,” he mumbled in a listless tone.

Hermione had to restrain herself from grinding her teeth in frustration. It felt like it was two steps backwards for every step forward. She was getting further away, rather than closer.

“Did you wear casual clothes? Not your uniform?” Hermione asked as she gave one of the dummies a little nudge so it was closer to the centre of the room. She thought that his uniform was looking a bit threadbare as it was. The last thing she wanted was to completely destroy it during training.

“Yes, Professor.”

Hermione turned to towards him to ask whether he was feeling up to the session, and saw he had a blackened right eye and a bruised nose. She thinned her lips. She could bet a galleon she knew who had done that, and then would double her money that he had refused to go to the infirmary.

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about your amazing technicolour face?” Hermione began, trying for the most casual tone as possible despite the fact she was actually seething with rage.

“Not really,” Snape replied.

She sighed and walked over to look at his injuries.

“Did no one have any bruise salve in your common room?” Hermione asked as she examined the swollen flesh.

He shook his head. “No, but Mulciber fixed my nose.”

“Well that’s something at least,” she sighed. “I’ll get something for your injuries.”

Hermione walked over to her satchel, stuck a hand in and summoned a pot of bruise paste.

“Undetectable extension charm,” she explained in response to a questioning eyebrow from Snape. “All right, sit down and hold still. I’ll be gentle.”

He sat on the floor, and tilted his face towards her as he closed her eyes. He had quite long eyelashes really. She’d not noticed them before. But then, she’d not really paid this much close attention to his features before. And she certainly hadn’t spent any time gazing into the face of adult Snape. That would have gone very wrong, very quickly.

She started to daub the paste around his bruised eye socket, and across the bridge of his nose.

“I notice you didn’t submit the salve to extensive testing before agreeing to it,” Hermione said.

“It’s almost impossible to kill someone quickly via a salve,” Snape said. “I’d be able to take a bezoar before I keeled over if you had poisoned it.”

“Good to know,” said Hermione. “I’d briefly thought you’d decided you could trust me.”

She saw a slight quirk of the sides of his mouth. “Not yet,” he replied.

“Careful now, you might give me the impression you like me,” Hermione teased as she gently applied the paste to one of the aforementioned killer cheekbones.

“I’d never be so careless,” Snape replied with a casual tone, however the pink tinge creeping up his neck betrayed him. He looked quite vulnerable as he sat placidly in front of her, with his eyes closed, allowing her to treat his injuries.

“All finished,” she sighed. The bruised flesh was already healing.

He stood up and brushed off his robe. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly.

“So. Casual clothes?” Hermione decided to return their attentions to the training.

As if to answer her question he pulled his robe over his head to reveal he was wearing black jeans and a faded t-shirt proclaiming The Damned. Hermione was in her jeans, red high-tops and misogyny tee.

She nodded in satisfaction.

“Right,” she said, “let’s get started.”

*
Two hours later Snape was slumped, drenched with sweat, on the floor.

“You’re nearly there,” said Hermione encouragingly.

“I just don’t understand!” Snape gasped. “How can I say each one simultaneously? Even non-verbally? It’s impossible.”

“It’s improbable,” Hermione corrected. “Not impossible.”

Snape groaned and let his head fall back.

“Think about this,” Hermione said as she sat down next to him. “When doing a basic spell, something you’ve done since a firstie; you don’t consciously think about your wand movement as you verbalise the cast. The same way as you don’t remind yourself to breathe as you walk. You’ve practised them so many times it’s as much muscle memory and your subconscious reaction than anything you’re purposefully doing.”

Snape sat up and looked at her. “You don’t talk like a witch,” he said.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Hermione said, shrugging.

“Like what you said to Fern and Evan in transfig. You were talking about science weren’t you?” Snape asked.

“Are you going to toss me in the river to see if I float?” Hermione asked.

He crossed his arms and looked at her haughtily. “Of course not. You need to be weighed against a duck.”

Hermione laughed. “It’s a fair cop,” she said with a shrug.

Snape stared at her for a minute before grinning. “You aren’t like the others.”

“I’m like everyone,” said Hermione dismissively. “Come on. Let’s try again. I have an idea.”

She walked over to the target dummies and set one up, pointing its wand arm towards Snape. She turned back towards him.

“Right,” she said. “I want you to try with the basic shield charm and your favourite, go-to offensive spell. Right?”

“Right,” said Snape as he levered himself up.

“I’m going to glamour the dummy to try and get you to react,” she warned.

“Fine,” said Snape. He stood straight and rigid as he pointed his wand. He licked his lips.

“Right,” said Hermione.

She held the image in her mind, partially taken from class and partially taken from a discussion she’d eavesdropped on in Grimmauld place. It was probably going to go terribly wrong but she needed Snape to crack it. And he’d either crack it, or have breakdown. She sent the glamour forth and the dummy grinned at them with Sirius Black’s face.

Sirius wrinkled his nose and looked straight at Snape, who took a step back.

“Stand fast Mister Snape,” said Hermione encouragingly.

“Well, well, well. I should have known you were here from the great, greasy spots everywhere,” the Sirius training dummy sneered. “Isn’t that right...Snivellus?”

Under Hermione’s control the dummy lifted an arm and sent a mild hex towards Snape. She flicked her eyes to him. His jaw was set hard and his eyes were almost black. As the hex darted towards Snape he slashed with his wand. Hermione watched the hex bounce harmlessly off his shield charm, and then witnessed the dummy split neatly in half. Hermione cancelled the glamour as Dummy-Sirius seemed surprised his torso was no longer connected to his legs and it was a bit creepy.

There was a brief moment of silence.

“Well done!” Hermione said ecstatically, “I mean, he’s definitely dead and you’re definitely alive, so that’s a win.”

“I didn’t mean to cut him in half,” said Snape shakily.

Hermione walked over to the dummy, and bent over the two halves as she examined the remnants of the spell.

“That was an interesting curse,” said Hermione. “A type of slicing one I think?”

“Yes,” said a subdued Snape. “Sectumsempra.”

“That was a perfect double-cast,” praised Hermione. “With one suggestion. Perhaps keep that one in your pocket for enemies. You know, so you don’t go around decapitating your classmates, however much they appear to be begging for it.”

Snape slumped to the ground. He looked distraught. Hermione walked over to him and sat down as well.

“Are you all right? You should feel a bit woozy. That’s normal until you get used to the magical drain,” Hermione said.

“Its dark magic,” said Snape numbly. “If that’s my go-to offensive spell what does that say about me?”

“Nothing at all,” said Hermione indignantly. “Dark and light magic. That’s mostly superstitious guff.”

He looked up at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“How can magic be good or evil? I can’t imagine anything in nature that is so perfectly dichotomous. So why would a spell be entirely one thing or another?” Hermione asked.

“Dark doesn’t mean evil,” Snape argued. “But the Dark Arts are almost exclusively intended to harm or control. That’s not exactly ‘good’.”

“Almost exclusively,” retorted Hermione.

“But in order to cast them, like the Unforgiveable Curses, you must have a desire to use it for a malevolent purpose,” said Snape.

“Are you positive of that?” Hermione asked cagily.

Snape sat up and stared at her. “It’s been drummed into me for years. Its in all the texts. It’s about intent.”

“I agree intent is essential,” said Hermione. “But it doesn’t have to malevolent.”

Snape wrinkled his brow in some frustration. “How can you cast an Unforgiveable and not have malevolent intent?”

Hermione hesitated slightly. She wasn’t quite sure whether she should tell Snape what she was about to, in case it scared him off completely. But he wanted knowledge, and this would help him understand what they actually meant by intent.

“I haven’t always been a teacher,” she began. “I’ve had other jobs. Some pretty dangerous. One of my friends I was working with got hit by a terrible curse. The medic examined her immediately, but there was nothing he could do. She was melting inside, and in incredible pain. Apparating her would have made it significantly worse and potions did nothing. All we could do was sit with her until she died. It would take hours. She asked me to kill her. She was in so much pain. But...Well...There is one spell that causes an instant, painless death.”

Snape was completely focused on her. “The Killing Curse,” he almost whispered.

Hermione nodded. “Yes.”

“So. Did you do it?” he asked.

“I did,” said Hermione. Even talking about it was bringing back the memories. She felt a pricking at the corners of her eyes and her stomach flipped anxiously.

“But how?” he asked.

“Like we discussed. Intent was the key. But I didn’t want her dead because I hated her. I wanted her to be free of pain, and for her suffering to end because I loved her. She was my friend and I loved her very much. And that was enough.”

Snape didn’t say anything in response. He sat there looking thoughtful.

“You killed someone,” he said.

“Yes,” said Hermione.

“Was it terrible?” Snape asked.

“Very,” Hermione said truthfully. “Even though I believed it was the right thing.”

“I’m not sure I could have done it,” mused Snape.

Oh Mister Snape, thought Hermione sadly, you may not be sure now, but one day you’ll have to.

“I’m glad to hear you say it,” said Hermione. “I’d be a bit worried if you thought you could.”

“I’ve never talked about stuff like this with anyone before,” said Snape with a satisfied expression on his face. “I like that you tell me things like that.”

“Well you seem to be an all round sensible human being,” said Hermione, “and these are important topics.”

Snape smiled and lay back down again. He seemed content to lie there, staring at the ceiling without talking.

After a while Hermione was feeling overwhelmed by the silence and decided to break it with something innocuous.

“I like your shirt,” she said.

“Because it’s muggle?” Snape said with a smirk.

“No. Because I like the band,” Hermione replied.

“Oh. Okay. I didn’t expect you would, that’s all.”

“I’m not that old,” Hermione said defensively.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t think a Professor here would even know anything about punk, let alone like it,” Snape was backtracking a bit now in response to her tone.

“An ethos of anti-sexism, anti-racism and anti-homophobia. What’s not to like?” Hermione said.

“Don’t forget anti-establishment,” Snape added.

“My favourite part,” laughed Hermione.

Snape looked at her slyly. “Really? But aren’t you pro-establishment? Teaching the propaganda of the Ministry to young, pliable minds?”

The thought of that, as she was actually a career Ministry official, really set her off. Hermione laughed even harder and lay back on the ground as she did. Snape lay back down beside her, propped up on an elbow, and watched her laugh with a kind of wonderment. Finally, Hermione calmed down enough to talk.

“Yes, I guess you’re right. I’m a terrible anarchist. But I’m only here temporarily in any case, and then I’ll be free to wreak chaos as I please.”

Snape’s face went blank again, and it felt to Hermione as if the temperature of the room had dropped.

“Temporarily?” he asked slowly.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “You’ve seen I’m only a substitute Professor really. I don’t have classes of my own. I’m here until I’m no longer needed. And then I’ll have to go.”

“And when will that be?” Snape almost demanded.

“Not sure,” Hermione said without thinking. “I may be here until the end of the year, or the end of school term, or maybe the end of the month. It’s all completely up in the air.”

“Well that’s great. Just great. I knew I couldn’t trust you!” Snape said angrily as he hoisted himself to his feet.

“Hang on, that’s a bit unfair,” protested Hermione as she sat up as well.

“Yeah well everything’s unfair isn’t it?” Snape said. He picked up his robe and tugged it forcefully over his head. He looked at Hermione as if to say something else, but he shook his head angrily and stormed out of the training room instead.

Well, thought Hermione, this proves he always knew how to make a dramatic exit.

And also that, as always for herself, she had her foot firmly in her mouth at all times.

Chapter Text

Sitting at the Head table at breakfast was how Hermione imagined the guards at Azkaban ate. It was almost impossible to do anything except balefully stare at the inmates...er...students in front. The side-by-side seating arrangements also made collegial discussions awkward and almost impossible. Particularly as Hermione was sitting between Professor Shafiq, the taciturn Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and Professor Fawley, the completely batty Care of Magical Creatures teacher.

They weren’t interested in talking to her, and she wasn’t interested in talking to them. There was no mutual interest. Or even singular interest, So instead Hermione forlornly ate her pile of eggs, and wished she hadn’t been honest with Snape.

If she thought he was avoiding her before, she was utterly convinced of it now. It bothered her more than she thought it would. She’d had a brief moment of spitefulness when she’d decided she should just fix the time device, go home and sod everything. But then remembered if The Eight did succeed in their plan to kill Snape, there may be nothing for her to go back to. That put a pin in her pettiness.

But at the moment, wherever she was, he made sure he wasn’t. He was in classes, but he was so neutral and placid he might as well not even bothered to show up. She thought she might even be missing talking to him. Which was a thought she found both confusing and concerning. Spending time with his younger version was like getting a small glimpse into the adult who’d seemed so inscrutable and distant. A cheat’s guide to the previously unknown world of Severus Snape.

There was probably a lot of ethical issues to work through in that thought. But beyond those considerations Hermione decided that she’d discovered she quite liked him, and perhaps she would have even liked the adult version. Maybe he could have ever been a mentor to her, in the way she’d always hoped Professor McGonagall would have been, but wasn’t (mentoring opportunities only appeared to apply to those skilled in quidditch).

While masticating a piece of toast Hermione suddenly remembered her disastrous attempt to give Snape a Christmas card. It was one of those memories that actually had made her wince upon recollection. One of those special recollections her brain saved for approximately three in the morning when she was feeling particularly vulnerable and not really wanting to undertake any introspection.

It had been her fourth year, and she had made cards for all the staff at Hogwarts—including Filch, who’d taken the card with narrowed eyes but had ended up putting it in his pocked with a pleased grunt. She’d even given ones to Madam Maxime and Professor Karkaroff. The one for the Headmaster of Durmstrang was mainly because she’d been a bit sweet on Viktor at the time, and he’d looked up to his strange Professor.

She’d visited Snape’s office several times to give him his card, but he’d never been there. Finally, she decided to leave it outside the door to his chambers. She’d been glammed up for the ball, and an hour before she was to meet Viktor she dashed to the dungeons to make her delivery.

As she’d applied a temporary sticking charm to the back of the card and was affixing it to the door, it was wrenched open. Snape looked down at her. His face showed a moment of extreme confusion, which had rapidly changed to anger. He had crossed his arms and glowered down at her.

“Miss Granger, what are you doing?” he’d hissed at her.

“Oh. Um,” Hermione had quavered under his furious stare. “Merry Christmas....Sir.”

She had held out the card to him. There was an interminably long pause where he’d remained completely still and Hermione had stood, arm out, with her offer. When her arm had started to hurt she drew it back in.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Snape had said in an bland tone.

“Oh,” was all Hermione could think of saying to that.

She’d looked down at the card, which she’d charmed to show the grounds of Hogwarts with snow falling around an enormous tree sprinkled with coloured lights. As the recipient held the card a waft of pine was released and the soft, almost indistinguishable sounds of falling snow on branches could be heard. It had taken her ages and she thought it had been a nifty little bit of spellwork. Even the Beauxbaton Headmistress had been impressed. So had the other teachers. Well, all except one. And that one had stood staring at her like she was a stone in his shoe until her brain broke and she decided to do something she’d probably regret.

She took out her wand, and concentrated on her card.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the day in a cold hallway with you, Miss Granger,” Snape snapped at her as she focused.

She held out the card again and noticed Snape’s eyes flicked down to it. The card had changed. As the snow drifted down on the peaceful, festive scene a tall, dark figure strode across the snow, blasted the decorated tree with a spell then stormed off, leaving behind a smoking trunk. The scene repeated. And again. Hermione watched Snape’s eyebrows drift upwards as he stared, and she fretted about disappointing Viktor by missing the Yule ball as she was definitely about to be killed.

Instead, Snape huffed quietly. His face softened.

“A infinitesimal improvement,” he said dryly. But he took the card from her grasp, and examined it for a moment, before turning it over several times in his hands. He looked at her as if he was going to say something else, but didn’t know what.

Hermione stood there, shifting her weight from side to side nervously until finally Snape had sighed.

“Miss Granger, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes Sir,” she’d replied, and she’d left.

Thinking back on that particularly excruciating encounter, Hermione had somewhat changed her thinking. If someone had given Mister Snape a card she could imagine him responding with the same level of suspicion as his adult self. After all, he’d done so with the pain relieving potion. People just didn’t seem to do nice things for him without expectations on what he then owed them in return. Everything appeared to have a price.

Maybe adult Snape just been a bit, well, taken aback. He’d probably wandered what her ulterior motive was. Hermione shrank into her seat as she recalled her changes to the card.

Ouch.

Shit she was an idiot.

She glanced over at his younger self. He was methodically chewing something, and ignoring Evan chattering in his ear. He was so much more relaxed when she’d been alone with him. Until she’d stuffed it up of course. She wondered if he knew what type of future Lucius wanted for him. Where Mulciber and the others were leading him. She felt a bit lost about it all. But she was here to protect him from The Eight—not from himself, and she would do that. And then she would leave.

She sighed. She was so tired.

She let her gaze sweep across the groups of students, clustered together in their House groups. Why were there so many Hufflepuffs? Had there been this many in her time at school? She pondered that conundrum and wondered whether it was intentional from the Sorting Hat. Perhaps it was a last ditch attempt to put children in the pacifist, ‘everyone is great and gets along great’ house to try and subvert the growing tensions of Voldemort and his followers.

While she was pondering the political machinations of the magical hat, the morning owl deliveries swooped in. Hermione saw the gleeful faces of children grabbing small parcels, letters and cards. She missed getting owl mail. Everyone sent things by floo to her in the time period in which she when she lived. It was cleaner, but not as exciting. You didn’t have to keep owl treats on hand but packages just spat out onto the floor without warning, and sometimes she stepped on them.

She saw a big, tawny owl drop a letter for Lily. Hermione scooped another forkful of egg from her plate and chewed reflectively as she watched Lily open it and scan it quickly. Lily’s face fell and Hermione saw her slightly mouth ‘oh no’. James turned to Lily with a concerned expression, but she completely ignored him as she stood up and pushed herself away from the table.

Hermione’s interest was piqued.

Lily, the letter clutched in her hand, walked towards the Slytherin table. There was obviously some jeering, which she ignored, and she stopped right next to Snape.

Okay, now Hermione was really interested.

Hermione could, even at her distance, pinpoint the exact moment Snape realised Lily had purposely come over to speak to him. He completely lit up. Well, as much as Snape did anyway. It was sweet to witness, but for some reason also irritated her completely.

Hermione watched Lily motion out the door, but Snape shook his head slightly. Hermione assumed Lily had asked him to leave the Great Hall with her but he had refused. There was a ripple of interest Hermione could almost see radiate amongst the Slytherin table, but Snape and Lily ignored them. The auburn head then bent over the black, speaking close to his ear.

“No!”

Hermione forgot to keep chewing. The shout had been from Snape. She saw him scrambling away from his breakfast, pushing other students out of the way before he exfiltrated himself from the table. Lily reached out for him but he ignored her hand and clutched at his head, bending over slightly as if in pain, before straightening up again and striding out of the hall.

Lily stood, watching him go and she still held the letter in her hand. After a few minutes Lily started to walk in the direction Snape had left, but Hermione saw James run after her and grab her arm, stopping her. They exchanged what looked like tense words.

Right, thought Hermione, this is where I come in.

She made her way over to Lily and James, who were now just outside the side door of the Great Hall and still appeared to be arguing. As she got closer she could see Lily was crying.

“Right, Miss Evans. What did you say to Mister Snape?” Hermione asked a little brusquely.

“Oh Professor Granger. It’s awful! My parents sent me an owl. I was to tell Sev his mum has died,” Lily was crying harder now.

James crossed his arms and looked slightly lost, but also a bit indignant. “I don’t know why they sent an owl to you, and not to Snape,” he complained.

“Mister Potter I can tell you with the strongest emphasis that I have zero interest in something coming out of your mouth that isn’t anything but the deepest sympathies for your classmate on his tragic loss,” Hermione snapped wrathfully.

James’s eyes widened and he shrank back a bit from her.

Hermione turned to Lily. “Did he say where he was going?”

Lily shook her head.

“Does he gave a favourite place he might go?” Hermione said, trying a different tact.

Lily shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry Professor. I don’t know what he likes anymore. We aren’t...we aren’t really friends now.” She began crying again.

“That’s all right,” said Hermione soothingly. “I’ll find him. You go to your common room and try and calm down a bit before class.”

Lily nodded. She and James began to walk off together.

“Not you Mister Potter,” said Hermione. “You will stay.”

Lily and James shared a look, but Lily blotted her eyes with a handkerchief and headed off towards the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione waited until she was out of earshot and turned back to James.

“Show me on the map where Mister Snape is,” ordered Hermione.

James looked slightly alarmed. “Er, what map?”

“Show me,” Hermione repeated through gritted teeth, “on the map where Mister Snape is.”

“I’m not sure what map you mean, Professor,” James said evasively.

Hermione crossed her arms and cocked her head as she stared balefully at him. She was beginning to think she had quite a bit in common with the adult version of Snape, and she was currently channeling him in that furious, intense gaze.

“Mister Potter,” she said in a soft, angry voice. ”You are at a critical juncture. Two possible paths lie ahead of you, and it is up to you to choose which one to take. On one path you pretend you don’t have a magical map of the Hogwarts grounds that you use to torment your classmates, in particular Mister Snape, and find hidden passages allowing you to gallivant around at night with an unrestrained werewolf, thus endangering everyone in the vicinity. I promise you that path leads to a Very Bad Time.”

James gulped nervously.

“The other path, which I strongly recommend you take by the way, is one in which you you say ‘yes Professor Granger’ and give me the map immediately,” Hermione finished in the same, low, menacing tone.

“Yes Professor Granger,” said James meekly. He put his hand inside his robe, dug out a piece of folded parchment and gave it to her.

Hermione could not be bothered with the ‘up to no good’ shit and blitzed the blank paper with the strongest revealing charm she knew. It crumpled slightly under the force of her incantation and she watched as the castle and grounds revealed themselves to her. She scanned the map until she saw what she was searching for; Severus Snape, located near the far side of the black lake.

Right. Good.

Satisfied, she handed the map back to James. He took it from her without a word and tucked it back into his robe.

“You are free to go now Mister Potter,” said Hermione tartly.

James nodded and walked away, looking back at her at twice with an expression of confusion on his face.

Yeah, you better be worried, Hermione thought somewhat unkindly. She wasn’t in the mood.

She embodied Minerva speed in following the corridors out of the castle and along the path around the lake until she reached the lone figure hunched over under a willow. Hermione lowered herself onto the grass next to Snape and they both sat under the tree, staring out across the lake.

“It’s really devastating to lose a parent,” said Hermione gently.

“Oh, and you’d know I suppose,” said Snape rudely, wiping his eye with a sleeve.

Hermione put her chin on her knees as she looked at the calm water reflecting the overcast sky. “Both my parents were gone before I was eighteen.”

It wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. She’d ceased to have parents the day she erased their memories and sent them away. She felt Snape shift his position and she assumed he had turned to look at her, but she kept staring straight ahead.

“Oh,” he said, sniffing a bit.

“It’s really horrible and you feel really alone for a long time,” Hermione continued.

There was another sniff from next to her.

“Did you cry?” he asked suddenly.

“All the time,” Hermione said. “I was doing something important, or something I thought was important at the very least, so I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it in case it interfered with what we were trying to achieve. I cried a lot when I went to the toilet, or under my blankets at night.”

“Did it help?”

“For me, yes. But everyone has different ways of dealing with grief. It’s just about getting through it really,” Hermione said.

Snape didn’t say anything else. Hermione sat silently with him for a while before turning to him.

“Some people find they need a distraction sometimes when everything gets overwhelming. Other people don’t. But if that’s something you would be interested in, I’m doing some brewing tonight in the laboratory for Madame Pomfrey. You’re more than welcome to join me. I’ll be there from six,” Hermione offered.

“Thank you,” he said listlessly.

“I can leave you alone now if you’d prefer,” Hermione offered. “You can come and see me in my chambers at any time if you want to talk.”

There was no response from Snape. Hermione stood, and before she could change her mind she put a hand softly on his shoulder

“I’m really sorry about your mother,” she said quietly before she left him.

On the way back to castle she passed Filch in the corridor, which set off something in her mind.

“Mister Filch,” she greeted him.

“Professor Granger,” he said carefully. A youthful looking Mrs Norris wound around his legs purring loudly.

“On your rounds tonight if you come across Mister Potter I suggest that you order him to turn out his pockets,” she suggested. “If he has a blank piece of paper I’d recommend you confiscate it.”

“What is it?” Filch asked.

“It’s contraband,” said Hermione. She bent down and was astonished to find Mrs Norris allowed her a chin scratch and two long strokes along the flank. The pleased feline head-butted her shins affectionately. Filch watched Hermione’s interaction with his companion with a satisfied expression.

“Of course, Professor,” he said with some relish.

Hermione tried to feel guilty about setting up James and his friends—particularly Remus—but she felt the boys not having the map anymore would be beneficial for a number of people. And if one just happened to be Snape well then what of it? The oath was dormant, apparently unruffled by this particular choice.

Hermione returned to her chambers. She begged off the two classes she was going to help with and waited there in case Snape decided to show. While she waited she charmed time crystals and ate a significant amount of pastries. This was exactly why she didn’t look like Rosmerta. That bothered her, but not enough that she stopped eating pastries.

When it was five thirty Hermione gave up waiting and made her way to the laboratory where she set about brewing. At six thirty there was a tentative knock on the door. Hermione turned to see Aya, the clever Slytherin with the knack for antidotes.

“Excuse me Professor Granger,” she said.

“Hello Miss Baqri, what can I help with?” Hermione asked.

“A message from Professor Dumbledore. He has asked to see you in his office,” Aya reported.

“All right,” said Hermione. She looked at her finished calming draught and had an idea.

“Miss Bagri,” Hermione began. “Are you able to decant this draught into flasks for me? I know you have a steady hand, and there is twenty points to Slytherin in it for you.”

The girl grinned. “Yes, certainly, Professor Granger.”

“Excellent, thank you. Leave the cauldron for me to clean if you please. I just need the contents out and in flasks before it spoils,” Hermione instructed.

Aya nodded.

Now that particular issue was dealt with Hermione made her way to the Headmasters office. When she reached the gargoyle it swung open upon her approach and Hermione took the stairs two at a time. As she entered the enormous office she saw Dumbledore (she couldn’t bring herself to call him Albus), Minerva and Horace standing around his beautiful polished oak table. Fawkes slept on a perch to the right, just above a seated and very downcast looking Snape.

“Thank you for coming Professor Granger. Unfortunately we are gathered for a very solemn reason,” Dumbledore said.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Snape. “Yes Professor, I’m aware.”

“Mister Snape needs to be escorted home for his mother’s funeral. He informs us that you have already agreed to do this,” Dumbledore continued.

Snape looked up at her, and she thought there was a hint of a plea in his eyes.

“Yes that’s right,” lied Hermione. “I hope that is all right with you Professor Slughorn. I know you’re Mister Snape’s Head of House after all.”

Horace nodded his head. “Of course that is fine, Professor Granger. You have also acted as Head and been an excellent mentor to Mister Snape. I have no objections.”

“Now, we can floo you both from my office to the Ministry,” said Dumbledore. “But I’m afraid you may need to utilise muggle transport from there to reach Mister Snape’s home residence. Will that be an issue?”

“Not at all,” said Hermione. “My parents were muggles. I’m completely comfortable with that.”

There was a brief moment of silence in response to her statement, and she saw Minerva and Dumbledore exchange a quick look.

“Is that a problem?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Minerva broke the silence. “It’s not.”

“Mister Snape?” Hermione directed her question to Snape.

He shook his head. “No, Professor.”

Guess we’re going to Cokeworth then, thought Hermione.

“We will leave in the morning,” said Hermione to Snape. “Shall I meet you at the gargoyle after breakfast?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Snape. He looked completely broken.

I’ll look after you, Hermione wanted to say.

But she didn’t.

She just said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t go to the Great Hall for breakfast. Firstly, she’d woken up far too early anyway as her brain had decided the task ahead was probably going to be very stressful, and she’d might as well be double-prepared by being tired as well as anxious.

Secondly, she didn’t want to eat her breakfast in front of the students in case her stomach revolted and and threw up. That’s exactly the sort of memorable thing she wanted to avoid. Hermione had a brief image of a Death Eater stopping mid-battle and exclaiming,‘ Aha! That’s where I know you from! Didn’t you vomit on the Fat Friar during breakfast thirty years ago?’.

She made her way to the kitchens. They elves had been generally happy to see her up until the whole S.P.E.W episode made it all a bit uncomfortable. Since S.P.E.W hadn’t happened yet, Hermione decided she was probably fine.

When she entered the room Hermione saw she wasn’t the only person to have snuck down for a solo meal. Regulus sat at the only table, steadily eating from a bowl and reading from a book that lay open next to him.

“Good morning Mister Black,” Hermione said.

The boy looked up in surprise, then immediately stood up front the table. “Good morning Professor Granger,” he said.

“It’s all right Mister Black, you can sit down. I haven’t even had a coffee yet and as such, deference at this hour is unnerving,” said Hermione wearily as she waved a hand.

Regulus sat back down, but eyed her a little nervously. He dipped his spoon hesitantly back into the bowl.

A House Elf happily (a nice change!) popped into existence to ask Hermione what she wanted then just as quickly vanished.

Hermione sat down at the large table across from Regulus. It reminded her of the enormous tables in the Great Hall, except it was a smaller version with no graffiti scratched into it. She briefly wondered why the elves needed a kitchen if they made everything via magic. But then that thought quickly went down a rabbit hole of why many things in the wizarding world. And don’t get her started on magical mirrors, Hermione told her brain sternly. They were extremely creepy and she almost always covered them up when she was using the bathroom. The last thing she wanted was a sarcastic commentary on her toilet etiquette. Or even worse, something complimentary!

“Your breakfast looks delicious,” Hermione observed.

Regulus looked into his bowl and flushed a little across his cheeks. “It’s something I used to love when I was little,” Regulus said.

“Oh I understand that,” said Hermione. “I bet it makes you feel better, especially if you are missing home a bit.”

Regulus nodded.

“That’s nice the elves can make it for you,” Hermione commented.

“My family’s elf brings it here actually,” said Regulus.

“Kreacher?” Hermione said without thinking.

“Yes, how did you know his name?” Regulus asked in surprise.

“Your brother mentioned him,” Hermione lied smoothly.

Regulus sighed and scratched at the table with a fingernail. “That’s surprising,” he said.

“Yes, I did hear he was living with the Potters,” Hermione commented.

Regulus stopped scratching the table and he lifted the arm instead and ran a hand through his hair. His robe fell back on his left forearm, revealing the black tail of the Mark. The quick sight of it nearly broke Hermione’s calm resolve. That poor boy.

“Sirius was always against everything. Against our parents, against our House, even poor Kreacher. He hates him. He hates everything. Except of course everything Gryffindor,” Regulus said bitterly.

“And muggles,” Hermione added casually.

Regulus scoffed. “I doubt that. Anything he loves about muggles was only to irritate my parents. If they’d loved muggles then he would have hated them. If they begged him to join Gryffindor he would have sought Slytherin out. And it left me...well...,” Regulus trailed off and shrugged.

“It left you to be the dutiful son,” Hermione finished.

Regulus looked across at her. “Yes. Exactly. I had to be perfect didn’t I?”

“No one’s perfect,” said Hermione as toast and scrambled eggs appeared before her on the wooden surface of the table.

Regulus shrugged resignedly. He stood up from his seat and placed his cutlery neatly into the bowl. He tucked the book into the pocket of his robe. “Thank you for listening Professor Granger. I must get ready for class.”

“Any time Mister Black,” said Hermione. “You can come and see me if you want to talk more. I might be away a day or so but I’ll be back quite soon.”

“Yes. You’re taking Snape home,” Regulus said. “I heard about his mother.”

“Well, he could do with a sympathetic ear so do please be nice to him in the common room,” Hermione said.

“His mother was very powerful,” Regulus said. “Pureblood. She married a muggle though. That’s a shame.”

“That’s Mister Snape’s business, not mine,” Hermione stated in an icy tone.

“My aunt did as well,” mused Regulus. “And now my family doesn’t talk to her. I have a baby cousin, but I’ve never met her.”

Tonks, Hermione thought.

“And what do you think?” asked Hermione.

Regulus looked away at the wall for a moment, as if considering her question. “I don’t think. It’s easier,” he finally said.

“That’s not very Slytherin,” said Hermione. “You were placed because of your cunning. You’ve got a brain, you may as well use it.”

“Yes, but we value survival above everything,” said Regulus. “You’re Slytherin too. You know this.”

“Maybe,” countered Hermione. “Maybe we do. But blind obedience is for Gryffindors. Survival goes hand in hand with utility. Who does it benefit if we don’t think for ourselves? Someone else. Not you. Not me. Being one step ahead of everyone. That’s Slytherin.”

Regulus stared at her. Hermione returned his gaze with while maintaining the most neutral face she could.

“Goodbye Professor Granger,” said Regulus. “I hope your trip is successful.”

“Thank you Mister Black,” answered Hermione. “I hope our discussion was useful.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Regulus, but Hermione couldn’t tell if he was sincere or not.

After he left the kitchen Hermione quietly ate her breakfast. She thought about what Regulus had said. She tried to imagine living in the house at Grimmauld Place, back before Harry had remodelled it, with its overwhelming sense of oppression and the terrible burnt tapestry. Kreacher was still there despite the changes, with Harry and Ginny and baby James, and he still sometimes forgot his manners and muttered about her dirty blood when she visited.

She felt sorry for Regulus, yet she also was angry at him. If she was honest to him about her own heritage, would he even talk to her? Listen to anything she had to say? Still surprise her with the beautiful, dark bouquet that still bloomed fragrantly in the corner of her room? She doubted it.

After her meal Hermione made her way to the Headmaster’s office. She had her satchel slung over her shoulder and she decided she’d cast a very tidy little protection spell they used in the department on Snape before they left. It wasn’t like a shield, as in that it didn’t stop hexes, but it certainly was persuasive. For a few moments after it was activated it nudged offensive magic away from any intended target. And mostly, a few moments was all that was needed for an Unspeakable to apparate out of a situation to safety. That’s all she needed if something happened. A few moments.

Snape was ahead of her, standing near the gargoyle with his head bowed. A small bag was hanging from one hand.

Hermione walked up behind him. “Good morning Mister Snape.”

“Good morning Professor,” Snape replied dully.

She went and stood next to him, waiting for the gargoyle to spin. As they both stood there he turned to her.

“My da...I mean...father is a muggle,” he said abruptly.

“Okay,” said Hermione.

They both stood silently again.

“Are you angry that I lied about you agreeing to take me?” Snape said as he looked at the ground.

“It wasn’t a lie really,” said Hermione diplomatically. “There was never any doubt about it. If you need me of course I’ll help you.”

He looked up at her from between twin curtains of dark hair. “Right.”

“You don’t have to trust me Mister Snape,” said Hermione. “But I’m here for you whether you do or not.”

Snape looked like he was about to respond, but the gargoyle moved aside with a creaking, dragging sound and the staircase unfurled before them, and he started up the stairs instead. Hermione followed close behind him.

They entered Dumbledore’s office, and the wizard was standing in the centre of the room in a brilliant azure robe with silver trim. His hat, Hermione couldn’t help but notice, looked vaguely like a stack of pancakes.

Wizards, she huffed to herself. Eccentricity was practically their lifeblood.

“Professor Granger, Mister Snape, good morning. I have activated the floo and it will take you directly into the Ministry. They are aware of your arrival and you have been cleared to leave through their own network into London,” Dumbledore said.

“Thank you Professor Dumbledore,” said Hermione.

“Mister Snape,” Dumbledore began. “It is up to you how much time you need at home. Hogwarts will welcome your return whenever you are ready.”

Snape nodded.

“Will you be coming back to the castle this afternoon Professor Granger?” Dumbledore asked. “I shall keep the floo open for you if you find returning via the Ministry an easier prospect.”

“Thank you for the kind offer Headmaster,” Hermione said. “However I will stay with Mister Snape until he wishes to be escorted back to Hogwarts.”

Snape looked sideways at her. His mouth dropped open slightly in a questioning mou.

“I won’t intrude on your time with family,” Hermione said to him reassuringly. “I’m there to make sure you get there and back safely.”

A calculating expression briefly flickered across Dumbledore’s face. “Ah. This is, after all, the reason you are at Hogwarts, is it not Professor Granger?” he said.

This is the student in danger? Hermione felt him press into her thoughts.

She frowned reactively. God she hated legilmency.

She shrugged in response. The Blabbermouth charm sparked uselessly inside her mind but without any real danger.

Snape had watched the exchange between them with obvious interest.

“Let’s go Mister Snape,” said Hermione slightly grimly.

She wasn’t entirely happy Dumbledore had started to put some of the pieces together, as she didn’t really trust him. Not because she thought he would have any specifically nefarious plans for Snape, she just didn’t believe he would necessarily have the desire to improve Snape’s life in any way. He would look for what use could be made of him, and since that use was going to start in about four years time anyway, then why hurry it?

She took the floo power Dumbledore offered her and threw it into the fireplace. As the flames flared up in their familiar bright—almost neon—green she stooped down and stepped in.

Hermione was spat out into the familiar sight of the Ministry atrium. It looked almost identical to the room Hermione came into every work day, and the familiar soaring arches and zipping paper planes were so wonderful and it felt like home. She smiled.

The slight roar behind her signified Snape’s arrival. She heard his intake of breath as he saw the wondrous sight. Hermione felt a slight, strange little surge of pride. She felt like he was seeing her Ministry, the one she came to each day with a burst of excitement about what the day would bring.

“It’s impressive isn’t it?” asked Hermione.

“It’s not bad,” said Snape, “as far as enormous, overly decorative rooms go.”

Hermione was so happy he had managed a snarky comment, despite his grief, she let her disappointment at his reaction to the room slide.

“You’re a hard man to impress,” she said.

“Not everything is impressive,” he replied.

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so she just smiled gently at him.

He looked confused.

Nice work Hermione, she complained internally.

“We can get out into London through the floos up ahead,” said Hermione. “Let’s stash our robes.”

They both shrugged their robes off and Hermione opened her satchel and stuffed her robe in. She held out her hand to Snape but he opened his own bag, and she watched him cram his robe inside.

“Undetectable extension charm,” he said in response to her raised eyebrow.

“Ingenious,” she said.

“I got the idea from someone,” Snape muttered. He suddenly appeared incredibly interested in tying up the drawstring of his bag.

“Well, that someone sounds amazingly talented and brilliant beyond measure,” Hermione said. “Come on,” she added before she made it weird.

Snape started to walk without looking at her.

Ah, she’d made it weird.

Great.

As they made their towards the floo Hermione thought about what she expected would happen once she took Snape home. Perhaps she would hang around a pub or something, grab a dingy room and wait to see what Snape intended on doing. She knew he must have returned to Hogwarts at some point given there was at least one thing from his file that hadn’t occurred yet. She spent a minute or so comparing different hypotheses on how Snape ended up in the infirmary, but they all seemed to involve James and his friends so there wasn’t a lot of divergent thinking she could do on the matter.

She noticed he was looking sideways at her t-shirt.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s clean. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a lot of clothes.”

Snape looked down at his own shirt, which was also the same one he wore when they were in the training room.

“Neither do I,” he said. “It’s just, well, my, um, father is a bit funny about magic.”

“Funny?” Hermione queried.

Snape paused for a moment at the entrance to the floo before speaking. “He doesn’t like it.”

“I see,” said Hermione.

Ah, she thought. That would have made life difficult at home for him. And what about his mother? She wondered how the relationship between Snape’s mother and father had survived if he was opposed to magic. How had they met? Fallen in love? Had a child together?

She pulled her wand out from her back pocket. The words on the t-shirt vanished and she was left with the plain olive-green cotton. She saw Snape visibly relax at the change.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said.

“Just let me know anything else you need from me, Mister Snape,” said Hermione. “I’m here for you.”

Snape grimaced briefly, looked at the ground, then back up at her. But he didn’t say anything else.

“All right, let’s get you home,” Hermione said finally.

They stepped through the floo.

Chapter Text

In the train Snape seemed to wilt into himself, losing the small flashes of confidence and dry humour he’d started to gradually expose to her at Hogwarts. Hermione worried about what was ahead of them that apparently was worse than what he faced at school.

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as they walked from the station to his house. She’d offered to side-apparate them to their final destination but he had refused, claiming it was safer to walk. The streets they walked through were definitely not those of an affluent populace, although some of the small front gardens were tidy with perfect tiny rows of flowers and clean windows. They made their way through a tangled allotment and across some streets that had no greenery and here Hermione noticed the semi-detached houses looked more and more run down and neglected.

Finally Snape stopped at the path of one of the houses. It was in better condition than the ones on either side, but Hermione decided that didn’t appear to be really helpful in terms of structural safety and integrity of the dwelling. Snape turned to Hermione quickly, and she stepped back a little when she recognised the emotion on his face was fear.

“Let me do the talking,” he said. “Please.”

Hermione nodded. She was starting to get nervous.

She followed him to door and waited as he dug into his pocket for a key. As he was fumbling in his denims the door suddenly swung open.

“Hello Sev,” said a deep voice. “And who’s this?”

“Hello da,” said Snape. “This is Professor Granger. She’s brought me from school.”

“Has she now?” said the voice in a slightly mocking tone.

The owner of the voice stepped into the doorway and Hermione finally saw him. There was no doubt the man was Snape’s father, as the resemblance to his adult self was uncanny. The only differences were small; a less prominent nose, stronger jaw and the hair had a slight curl. But the man in the doorway—languidly leaning against the frame and looking at Hermione with undisguised interest—would undoubtably be described by most people as handsome. Whereas Professor Snape world not have fared so well if similar assurances on his physical attractiveness were sought.

“Yes,” Snape said neutrally.

The man held the door open.

“Well you’d better come in,” he said. “I’ll put on a pot of tea. I’ve set out a suit on your bed, Sev. Your mam would want you to look nice for her.”

“Is it today then?” Snape asked in a strangled tone.

“‘S’arvo,” Snape’s father said and turned back into the house.

“How did...what happened to mam?” Snape questioned the taller, older man as he closed the door behind Snape and Hermione.

“Not in front of your guest,” said the man, looking at Hermione meaningfully.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” Hermione decided to finally enter the conversation. She held out her hand. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, and that I have intruded on you and your son in this terrible time.”

The man looked at her with new interest, and reached out and took her hand in his large, warm grasp. He shook it briefly.

“Well here’s a thing Sev,” he said. “You’ve finally brought me one with manners. I’m Tobias.”

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” Hermione said. “I can leave you and your son to grieve and prepare for the funeral and I will come back later to escort Severus back to school.”

“Eileen never invited a guest in without making them feel at home,” Tobias said. “Like I said, I’ll put on a pot. You and I can have a little chat while Sev is upstairs getting ready.”

Hermione didn’t miss the look of alarm that crossed Snape’s face at his father’s offer.

“Um..da...” he started to say.

“You heard me,” Tobias snapped in a dark tone. “Upstairs.”

There was no mistaking the subtle threat present in his voice. Snape’s brow furrowed and he looked at Hermione.

I’ll be fine, Hermione pressed into his mind. Sure, she hated legilimency but that didn’t mean she wasn’t above using it when she had to.

Snape’s face became instantly blank. “Yes, da,” he said. He walked off without a second glance.

“Better sit down then,” Tobias said, indicating towards a small wooden table in the cramped kitchen.

Hermione sat on one of the chairs as Tobias busied himself boiling the kettle and brewing the tea. Finally he put the pot and two mugs on the table and sat down opposite Hermione.

“So. You’re a professor then,” Tobias said. It was a question laced with a strange mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

Hermione smiled a smile that was nothing more than a tight little twitch of her mouth. “Yes,” she answered simply. The truth was far more complicated but she didn’t really feel like going into it.

“A little young aren’t you?”

Hermione managed to stay completely still under the vaguely appraising gaze that followed that question. “I’m qualified to teach your son,” she said shortly.

Tobias let out a short, rich laugh. “I’m sure you are,” he said and the sides of his mouth curled up in a strangely bitter type of amusement.

“Severus is a very talented student,” Hermione told him. “He’s got a unbridled desire to learn, to take everything in, to know as much as he can.”

Tobias scoffed. “That’s a fancy way of saying he’s an insufferable know-it-all. I knew that already.”

Hermione couldn't stop her mouth dropping open. Her mind flashed to a memory from many years ago (or in actuality, many years ahead) and to the cold, loathing in Professor Snape’s eyes as he glared at her in the classroom. That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.

She remembered the hot flush of shame across her face and down her chest and how he had just looked so angry. She’d just wanted to show how much she’d known; how much she’d studied. To prove she was supposed to be there and that she was as real a witch as anyone. But instead he’d crushed her with those pointed, sneering words. She’d hated herself in that moment, and hated him as well.

Now, Hermione was rethinking his reaction. His anger had been directed at her, but maybe it hadn’t been all about her.

Tobias reached for a cardboard packet on the table, pulling out a cigarette which he promptly transferred to his mouth. It drooped slightly from between his thin lips. Hermione watched him lift a lighter, flicking it uselessly against the end of the cigarette. He sneered in a familiar way and tossed the lighter onto the table. It clattered and spun almost one full rotation. Tobias sighed and quirked an eyebrow at Hermione.

Her breath caught in her throat. Echoes of Professor Snape were in every movement of his face.

“Got a light?” he asked.

“No, sorry, I don’t smoke,” she answered, slightly transfixed at the familiar expressions she was observing.

“I’m sure you could improvise. Right?” Tobias said, lifting a hand lazily and waggling his fingers. “Magic-ity magic?”

Hermione huffed impatiently but then conjured a small flame in her right palm. It danced and flickered, casting light and shadow across the angular face of the man across the table. Tobias leant forward, smiling a predatory smile and bent his head into her hand. His black hair was thick, with a glint of silver here and there amongst the strands.

He sat back, cigarette lit. Hermione flicked her hand and the flame was gone.

“Teaching someone to make fire is a good survival skill,” commented Tobias. “But you wouldn’t know would you? You just click your fingers.”

“It’s a little more complex than that,” shrugged Hermione.

Tobias took a long draw on his cigarette, expelling the smoke slowly. “So Eileen used to say. Bet there’s a whole lot of people that could benefit from instant fire. People freezing, their kids freezing,” his voice was neutral but his face was hard.

“It’s against the law,” Hermione said uncomfortably.

Tobias laughed hollowly. “Oh yes. The Statute of Secrecy. I signed it. Don’t want those nasty little muggles benefiting from anything that could significantly improve their lives. Better keep it all on the down low.”

Hermione blinked; not really expecting the comment and definitely not sure how to respond to it. She was slightly nervous and hoped Severus would return soon. His father was making her uneasy. She could almost smell the boiling, boundless rage seething under his cool facade.

The adult Severus that she remembered was all sarcastic commentary and icy insults, but he never made her feel afraid in the same way his father was in this moment, even as he just sat calmly at a kitchen table smoking his cigarette. He reminded her of Lucius. A zealot.

“I don’t think that’s the intention,” Hermione said, although sometimes she secretly thought that it was the intention.

“I don’t know why I’m talking to you about it. What would you know about how we live anyway?” Tobias spat back at her.

“My parents aren’t magical,” Hermione retorted, and he sat back when he heard this.

“Ah I see. Like the Evans girl. So what is it? A mutation? An extra gene? Just lucky?” he asked almost mockingly.

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does,” said Hermione.

They sat in silence for a while. Hermione used every inch of willpower to remain completely still. Tobias was only a few feet from her, wearing a blank, unreadable face she remembered from almost every potions class she sat in with a Professor Snape. It was eerie; bordering on creepy.

There had been something...something magnetic...possibly even charismatic, about her former potions professor. Despite the god awful state of his hair, the prickly disposition and constant bullshit detector he appeared to have permanently set on maximum. She dared not even mention the nose, which apparently had not been from his father’s genetic offerings. In any case, there had been something about him. Although what exactly that something was, or even how to halfway define it was beyond her. She even had seen echoes of it in his teenage self. The little seeds of the man he’d become.

Became, she corrected herself.

Tobias, with his fine nose, strong jaw and empty, wolfish smile, gave every appearance of being good. But underneath he was rotten. Rotten and rotting; decaying from the inside out.

“So how’s having non-magical parents working out for you?” Tobias asked suddenly and she almost thought he’d seen her thoughts.

“Fine,” lied Hermione.

“I’ll bet,” Tobias said, finally stubbing out his cigarette on a plate on the table. “When Eileen told her parents about us, they kicked her out. Said she wasn’t welcome back. For being with a muggle,”

“Oh,” said Hermione, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

There were a few thuds overhead which Hermione hoped meant Severus was nearly finished dressing.

“Do her parents know she’s passed?” Hermione asked gently.

Tobias grimaced. “Wouldn’t know how to contact them anyway. I got the Evans family to send a notice to Sev at school.”

To Sev? Hermione’s brain sparked up. They’d sent the owl to Lily. Why?

“I can send something to them if you wish,” offered Hermione.

The man shook his head. “They made it pretty clear she died in their eyes the day of our wedding.”

Hermione nodded silently. This world Tobias spoke of was beyond her middle-class experience. Far past her cosy extended family holidays, often attended by both sets of grandparents and sometimes even aunts, uncles and cousins. The biggest family argument she could recall was when someone had dropped the gravy tureen before anyone had served a dark, juicy dollop. In her world family was laughter, acceptance and unconditional regard, not judgement, anger and brutal neglect.

Even her parents. She was dead to her parents...okay...and to the rest of her family as well. Well, not dead exactly, she just never existed. But Hermione had no doubt that if the Ministry had been able to return their memories they would be so happy she’d survived. They would have forgiven everything. They would have. She knew it. Knew it in her heart. Who cast aside their children over prejudice? Who didn’t care if their daughter was dead? Who were these people?

Explains a little bit more of Professor Snape then doesn’t it? Her mind prodded her accusingly. She winced internally, particularly remembering how Ron used to loudly proclaim how everyone hated the man.

Although, her analytical mind countered itself, your information source may be biased. She tried to subtly size up the dark-haired man across from her. He seemed amused by her attention. Good looking people were used to people sizing them up, Hermione supposed, and as the end result for them was usually positive, they didn’t tend to get offended by it.

It isn’t such an enjoyable experience when you are found lacking, Hermione’s inner teenage self commented wryly and nudged her with a memory burst of a very toothy teenage Hermione with terrible hair and ink smudges on her lip where she’d absentmindedly tapped her quill while deep in thought. She shuddered.

“All right there da?” Snape’s strained voice said from the doorway. He’d obviously picked up on the frisson of tension in the room.

“Yes,” Tobias answered, “I’m just getting to know your Professor here.”

Hermione took a sip of her tea. “We’ve been having a lovely chat,” she said coolly.

Tobias looked at her sharply, then burst out into the same warm, rich laughter as earlier. As he laughed, with the baritone sound echoing around the room and the amusement on his face softening his features, Hermione could see what had drawn Eileen to him.

“I like you,” he said. “You’re tougher than you look.”

Hermione gave him her best Professor Snape blank stare, eyebrow raise combination and Tobias returned it in kind. There was a moment where they both sat at the table directly across from each other, their eyes locked in a strange, silent battle.

“I’m ready da,” Snape said, interrupting their exchange.

Hermione looked over towards him. He was in a black suit, likely previously his father’s given it was a little shabby and oversized, with a white shirt and black tie. He looked older in the clothes, and the downcast expression also added years to him.

“Ah Sev,” Tobias said. “You look fine. Your mam would be proud.”

“Thanks da,” said Snape.

His eyes flickered to Hermione as if also seeking her approval.

“Yes,” said Hermione who suddenly felt her throat constrict with emotion. “She’d be very proud.”

Chapter Text

Hermione sat on a small stone bench in a cemetery behind a small wooden building that she deduced was one of the local churches. It was pretty in a kind of chaotic, rambling way and there were wild flowers growing amongst the rows. She thought that as far as cemeteries went, it was peaceful.

She had found a local chippy not that far from where the funeral was being held and had camped out there for an hour or so before returning to the cemetery. She made the assumption, right or wrong, that it wouldn’t have been appropriate to attend the service.

Hermione had arrived at the graveyard after the burial, and only Snape and his father remained beside the small mound of dirt and the pale, plain headstone. Hermione had found the bench and sat there, not wanting to disturb them.

After an hour of waiting she saw Tobias light a cigarette, place a hand on the white stone and say something to Snape. Snape shook his head and Tobias shrugged, dug his hands in his pockets and left the cemetery, a thin line of smoke trailing behind him. Snape turned back toward the grave and stood, head bowed, without moving.

Hermione knew what a jagged tear that a missing parent left in your life. She was okay on her birthday, when Harry and Ginny would always remember to send her a card and invite her for tea (and Ron would generally remember a day or so after and frantically overcompensate with the most enormous box of chocolates he could find). Even Christmas wasn’t so bad, spent either with the exponentially expanding Weasley clan, or by herself, or with some of her crew from work. She’d had one memorable Christmas with Eurydice and Sera, where they’d drank cocktails all day and watched movies on Hermione’s television.

The times she missed her parents the most were those strange little moments of life. When she broke up with Ron and wanted so desperately to call her mum and sob out her confusion. When the alternator on her car malfunctioned and she just knew her dad would have known what to do, beyond randomly trying spells on it until the engine imploded into itself and she had to get another car. And when she’d first got the offer to work at the department; besting four hundred applicants to snag the position.

She’d wanted them to tell her how proud they were of her, and how they’d always known if she worked hard she’d get somewhere. It hadn’t mattered that she’d grown up muggle then, because she’d beaten others to the job who’d been given a wand to play with while in nappies. They would have been proud of her.

She was sure of it.

Hermione turned her attention back to Snape. His shadow elongated as the sun began to drop in the sky. She got up from the bench and walked over to him.

“Hello,” she said.

Snape looked at her, his eyes were bloodshot from crying and his face had a wan, listless look to it.

“Hello,” he said.

“Would you mind if I stood here with you?” Hermione asked.

“No,” answered Snape.

Hermione turned her attention to the gravestone, and her eyes followed the small script at the bottom Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree.

“Mister Black said your mother was a powerful witch,” Hermione commented.

“She was,” Snape said. “She hadn’t been for a long time. But she was.”

Hermione nodded and was silent.

“They said she lost her magic because she married a muggle...married da,” Snape said abruptly.

“Who’s they?” asked Hermione.

“People at school,” Snape said. “Do you think that’s true?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Hermione said. “Interacting with muggles has got nothing to do with anything. Who you love...who you spend time with. It’s largely irrelevant. They have only very small impacts, like how you draw power from emotions to cast. Maybe if you are stressed or depressed you’d find it harder to cast, and easier if you feel really happy or angry, but it wouldn’t mean your magic completely vanished.”

“Okay,” said Snape. “That’s good to know then.”

“Did she teach you spells when you were little?” Hermione asked.

Snape looked at her with a confused expression which gave way to something resembling condescension. “Oh that’s right. Both your parents were muggles,” he said in a flat tone.

Hermione blinked a bit in surprise. She wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, or whether to feel insulted.

“They were,” she said. “But they taught me lots of things. I’m sure your father taught you different things than your mother did.”

“Nothing worth learning,” Snape countered. It was the first time in her presence in the current era that he’d used the same sneering cadence that her student self was all too familiar with.

Was this the event that shut away the sweet, awkward boy and created the bitter, repressed man? Hermione’s stomach flipped.

Snape must have seen a change in her face, and his own creased in despair.

“I’m sorry Professor Granger, I don’t know why I said that,” he apologised.

“Maybe being angry is easier than being sad,” suggested Hermione.

“It is,” Snape agreed. He turned back to the grave. “They won’t know she was a witch,” he said sadly.

“Do you mind if I add something?” she asked.

He shrugged in response.

Hermione reached into her satchel and pulled out the snake pin and closed her eyes. She allowed the form to crystallise in her mind before she sent out her magic, feeling it sneak out tendrils around the pin and towards the stone and engraved epitaph. When she finished she opened her eyes.

“I can’t see any difference,” Snape said disappointedly.

“Can you feel anything?” Hermione asked.

Snape stepped towards the stone then stopped. “Yes,” he said. “I know there’s something here. I can feel it. Like a heavy, pressing feeling.”

“Try a revealing spell,” she suggested.

“Revelio,” Snape whispered as he moved his wand.

Delicate silver alyssums unfolded themselves from the stone, and as the bunches unfurled their honey-like scent filled the air. The tiny chips of diamonds and hints of emerald dust glinted here and there in the centre of the tiny flowers. The bouquets themselves bloomed out and out and out until the headstone was almost covered, except for the stark inscription proclaiming Eileen Snape.

Snape didn’t say anything, which made Hermione nervous.

“I can remove it if you don’t like it,” she offered.

“No,” he said in a raspy voice. “Leave them.”

Snape sat down next to the grave and reached out his finger towards one of the small flowers. At his touch everything melted away to nothing.

“They’re still there,” reassured Hermione as she sat down next to him. “A revealing charm will bring them back.”

“You used your pin to make them,” Snape said.

“I did,” confirmed Hermione. “I personally couldn’t think of a better use for it. Could you?”

“No,” Snape said quickly. “How did you make them smell?”

“Ah,” said Hermione, and she blushed a little. “It was something I was playing with when I was younger. I was trying to impress everyone with how clever I was. It started with making my own perfume, then it was understanding the chemistry of scent, how to make different kinds...” she trailed off when she realised she was babbling.

Snape turned to look at her. “And then?”

“I decided to try manufacturing different smells as part of a transfiguration. I mean, you’re messing with molecules anyway so why not go the whole hog?” Hermione explained.

“What did you transfigure?” he asked.

“A Christmas card,” said Hermione ruefully. “For my teachers. In case you didn’t realise, I’m kind of a swot.”

“A Christmas card for your professors is in dangerously swotty territory,” Snape agreed seriously.

“We all have our faults,” said Hermione. “And an unhealthy need to please authority figures is mine.”

Snape managed a wan smile at her self-deprecating comment, and turned his attention back to the grave.

“I hadn’t spoken to her since I left for the term,” said Snape. “I wish I had.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say, so she just put a consoling hand on his shoulder.

“She was so happy when I got my letter,” he continued. “She told me all about Hogwarts. She made it sound so fantastical.”

“It is a little fantastical,” agreed Hermione softly.

“Me going there was everything to her. When da was out she’d get me to tell her about my classes and what I’d learnt. I never told her about any other other stuff,” Snape said.

“You mean about Mister Potter and Mister Black?” Hermione asked.

“It felt like it was the only thing left she looked forward to,” Snape said. “I couldn’t tell her the bad parts. I just couldn’t.”

”Right,” said Hermione diplomatically.

“Fucking school,” Snape suddenly raged. “If she loved it all so much why did she leave it all? Why marry my da?” his voice broke on the question.

“Maybe she loved your father more,” suggested Hermione.

Snape deflated somewhat; the burst of anger regressing back to sorrow. “Maybe,” he agreed.

“And then you came along and suddenly there was someone she loved more than anything else in the world,” Hermione proposed.

Snape’s face crumpled and he put his head in his hands. Hermione reflexively leant against him, trying to offer some solace.

He turned and pressed his face into her neck instead, and she could feel his hot, wet tears against her skin.

“Who will love me now she’s dead?” he whispered in a despairing tone.

Hermione throat caught, and it suddenly hurt to swallow.

What to say?

She had no idea. But she was absolutely one hundred per cent sure that saying nothing was the worst possible thing she could do. Saying anything was better then nothing.

But what could she say? She certainly couldn’t say that as far as she knew of his future life, no one had loved him. He had been utterly alone in life and in death.

She couldn’t say that.

She wouldn’t say that.

She felt a rush of fierce protectiveness thrum through her, and she knew what she would say.

“I’m here,” she said, and put her arms around him and tightened them. “I’m here.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure how long they sat there for, but her arms were aching quite badly and there was very little light left when Snape finally lifted his head.

“It’s late,” he said.

“It is,” said Hermione. “We’d better get you home.”

“No!” Snape said almost reactively. “Not there. Back to Hogwarts.”

“You don’t want to see your father before you go back?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“He said he was going to the pub. He’s—“ he looked away from Hermione. “He’s not nice after he goes there,” he finished bluntly.

Hermione saw, in that simple statement, something ultimately sad and terrible about Snape’s childhood. But she gave nothing away, managing to maintain her neutral expression with some effort.

“Of course,” she said. “Whatever you want. I’ll let Professor Dumbledore know we are coming back.”

She cast a quick ward before drawing her wand. The Patronus charm had never been her strongest spell, and one of the few she still needed the assistance of her wand. She sat for a moment, drawing on several memories that still sparked joy in her.....the letter from Hogwarts, her first kiss with Viktor, her bond with Crookshanks, laughing with Ron when they fancied themselves in love, Ron and Harry surviving the war, getting Outstanding in all her Newts, the offer from the department.

The otter materialised in front of them, lazily paddling around them in the air. It rolled on its back and idly scratched its stomach while it waited for her orders.

“Your patronus,” said Snape, sounding a bit awestruck.

The otter appeared to notice them, circling around their heads and nosing at Hermione’s face, though she felt nothing. She shooed it away good-naturedly and it swam back around Snape’s head, briefly hanging upside down in front on him to stare into his face. Hermione was internally pleased her silly little thing drew a smile out of him.

“Yes,” Hermione said fondly. “It’s very naughty and sometimes is hard to call, but it’s mine.”

She beckoned it to her.

“Now listen up,” she said to the silver form. “This message is for Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, right? Professor Dumbledore, this is Hermione Granger, Mister Snape and I are returning to Hogwarts tonight. Please prepare your floo to allow our entry.”

The otter chattered silently and did a few corkscrews in the air before swimming off.

“Did it work?” Snape asked.

“I hope so,” Hermione said. “It’s never been the most reliable patronus.”

“Your name is Hermione,” Snape said casually.

“It is,” said Hermione. “And before you go and get smart about it, I’d like to stress that it has just as many syllables as yours.”

Snape shook his head. “It’s nice. It’s a nice name.”

“Well, good,” said Hermione. “As it is the only one I’ve got. Let’s go to the train. Do you want to get anything to eat on the way?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“There’s a very lovely roast with all the trimmings we can get at the Ministry if you want,” suggested Hermione. “We could stop there, have dinner together and then travel on to Hogwarts. Or we could just wait until Hogwarts.”

“Dinner together,” said Snape quickly and firmly. “Um, I mean, at the Ministry.”

“Great,” said Hermione. “You won’t regret it. They do a proper spread.”

Or at least they will, she suddenly thought. Oops. She certainly hoped they historically did also.

The train back into a London was a sombre affair. Snape was still in his suit, and sat next to her in the train but stared vacantly out the window the entire time. Hermione pulled one of her texts out of her satchel, as she was trying to figure out how to multiply her casts on the time crystals so she could finish them before the next century.

After a while she checked on Snape, who had been almost motionless for a time, to discover he had fallen asleep. She took a moment to study him as he slept, and decided he looked much younger. Hermione could see the resemblance to Tobias in him as well. She shuddered. Now there was a terrifying man, not just intimidating, but utterly frightening.

She hadn’t been entirely honest with Snape. She could well imagine how living with someone with that much anger had led to Eileen’s magical difficulties. Perhaps she repressed everything in herself to keep the peace. Maybe she hadn’t. Hermione was only guessing.

She just knew that even the brief time she’d spent with Tobias had been like walking a precarious tightrope over a yawning chasm of rage that felt like it was just waiting for a spark to erupt. How taxing it would have been for both Snape and his mother. No wonder he was so good at controlling his emotions.

She frowned a little as these thoughts scattered in her mind. Home hadn’t been safe for Snape. Neither had school. Had there ever been anywhere that was?

Chapter Text

It was one of the few times Hermione was thankful that wizarding Britain didn't change anything, ever. The roast dinner was there to be ordered, just as she'd promised, with the plated offering looking just as traditionally heart clogging as anyone could wish.

Hermione watched as Snape carefully poured approximately a pint of gravy over his potatoes and filled his Yorkshire puddings until a shiny, brown meniscus formed. He noticed her noticing him.

"Too much?" he asked, withdrawing the tureen hesitantly.

"I can not imagine a world where there is too much gravy," Hermione deadpanned.

Snape smiled in what looked like relief and finalised his dinner preparations. It was reminding Hermione of when Ron and Harry were that age. Both of them ate continuously and also everything. She had a vague memory of Harry drinking gravy once.

Harry tended to rush his food a bit, which Hermione always thought harked back to his time living with Petunia and Vernon. He wasn't quite sure when his next meal would be and what it would be. So he tended to eat as much as he could of whatever he was given. Ron also did this, but he had no excuse for it beyond whatever he didn’t pounce on and eat as fast as he could, his siblings beat him to it.

All this was fine when they were in the verdant land of milk and honey that was Hogwarts and the sumptuous offerings from the House Elves. But it wore pretty thin, pretty damn quickly when they were on the run. Hermione, the only one who had ever had any real experience in trying to forage for food (god bless the Brownies), was always sent out.

Privately, Hermione thought it was because she was a woman, and the boys thought that finding food and cooking it was a woman's job. This was probably mostly because neither of them had ever seen a man cook anything. Anything! Except of course, Professors Snape and Slughorn cooking potions. And they probably didn't count that because making Potions was a Very Important Job and Impressive Skilled Work. Though for some reason Molly Weasley making a three course meal for eight people three times a day for years on a single income was apparently Not Impressive. Right.

God the wizarding world annoyed the shit out of her. 

Although, so did the rest of the world. 

"Do you know much about the ministry?" Snape asked as he cut into his plate of gravy.

"Enough I guess," said Hermione casually. "I know how to use the floos to get to various places, where to go to file patents and some of the better meals they serve here."

"Mulciber says the ministry is corrupt," added Snape. "What do you think?"

"Hmmm," Hermione pondered. She chewed reflectively on a roasted parsnip before responding. "I assume some parts are, but overall it isn't bad."

Snape put down his fork. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"The corruption?" Hermione asked. "Of course it does. But believing any organisation or group of people is faultless is just utter naivety. So long as you understand it and adjust the way you act accordingly, things mostly work out." 

"But," Snape furrowed his brow. "That seems a bit wrong. That means everywhere is like that."

"Its a good chance things are," Hermione continued. "As you recall, we discussed the fallibility of people. Wherever something is made up of people, there is always the possibility of imperfection. Because people are imperfect. Most of the time it makes life interesting. But sometimes it makes life terrible."

"Yes, it does." Snape said seriously.

He pushed the food around on his plate for a little while before speaking up again.

"I was thinking of leaving school," he said. 

"I could see why you would want to," said Hermione. "Personally I don't think you should. But at the end of the day you are an adult in this world. You can make your own decisions about your future."

"That's the thing," said Snape. "I don't know what I want to do."

There was a short period of silence where both of them attacked their dinner somewhat until Hermione decided she'd had enough and pushed her plate to one side. 

"Do you ever feel like changing everything?" Snape asked. "Like making everything completely different?"

Hermione laughed. "I do. What particular part of everything do you think should be changed first?"

"I don't know," said Snape. 

Hermione smiled and shook her head in amusement. She was about to speak again when she saw a very familiar face across the room. 

There was no denying it. It was the eminently younger version of Augustus Rookwood. Hermione watched him walk across the eating hall, stop and grab a paper, smile and exchange a few words with another person then continue out through the exit. 

She'd forgotten he had been Voldemort's spy within the Ministry. He was infamous within the various departments. The only known Death Eater Unspeakable. 

"Are you okay Professor?" asked Snape curiously.

"Yes," lied Hermione. "I'm fine."

"You were talking about changing everything," said Hermione in a attempted diversion. "And I'm just interested in what you meant."

Snape chewed thoughtfully for a minute. "Well. Look at school. Potter and his friends do whatever they want and it doesn't matter. They nearly killed me and now he's Head Boy. He wasn’t ever really punished. He was rewarded and given more power over people like me."

"To be honest, I'm struggling to come to terms with that myself," said Hermione. "Someone like Mister Cresswell would be far more suitable."

Snape barked out a laugh.

"You don't agree?" she asked.

"Professor Granger," he said in a slightly patronising tone. "He's muggleborn."

Hermione bristled a bit. "I see," she said. "So you don't think he should be Head Boy
because of that?"

"Not me," Snape shrugged. "But he wouldn't be respected by everyone. Even the twats in Ravenclaw are funny about it."

Hermione sat back in her chair and eyed Snape. "And what about muggles in general?" she asked.

"They're all right," shrugged Snape. "But I think its stupid we have to live in the same place but hide ourselves. Why do we even live together?"

"It's probably because we are all human beings," commented Hermione dryly. "Some of us are a few standard deviations from the norm. But we are all people."

"But you don't live with muggles," Snape pointed out.

"I do," countered Hermione. "And I go to movies with them, walk on the street with them, learn amazing things from them, have dinner together, and on and on and on. Because at the base of me, beyond magic, nothing else separates me from other people. It's pretty close-minded to completely ignore one facet of the society you live in."

Snape looked thoughtful. "Muggles don't like magic," he finally said. "I think it scares them."

That particular comment had Tobias written all over it, Hermione decided.

"Well if I couldn't do magic I guess I'd find it pretty scary if someone could wave a stick and turn me into a chair," Hermione said. "But I think we'd also find it pretty scary if someone pointed a gun in our face. It's all relative. That's why the Statute of Secrecy exists. To keep relative peace."

"Lucius says that if all the muggles found out about magic and the Statute, they'd probably try and kill us," Snape stated baldly.

"Surely you realise that's ridiculous," Hermione said, scolding him a little.

"It's not!" Snape said and he went a little red. "My da even.." He stopped, as if suddenly realising what he was about to say.

"Even..." said Hermione leadingly.

"Nothing," he said. "Forget it."

"Okay," Hermione agreed.

God, what did his father do? She thought wildly.

"It's just..." he said softly. "I wonder if mam would still be alive if she'd married a wizard instead of da. I think she would have been happier." 

Hermione sighed. She wasn't really sure whether that was true. But even the one meeting with Tobias was enough for her. So she could definitely see how it might be true.

"Unfortunately we don't know, Mister Snape," she began. "All we can know is that the life we actually lead."

"I miss her," he said. "And she's only just gone."

"Of course," said Hermione. She suddenly had an idea.

"Mister Snape," she said, "there is a memorial garden in the corner of the Ministry. If you like, we can visit it and add your mother's name. I have some galleons in my bag that would cover it."

He looked up at her and smiled. "Yes. I'd like that. But, would it be open?”

“It doesn’t close,” said Hermione. “You can go there whenever you want once you’re inside the Ministry. Most wizards don’t, because they’ve got their own portraits at home. But you’ll see what I mean.”

They left the table and Hermione led Snape to a small green door that was up a quad-burning circular staircase. She opened it and he followed her in.

An elderly witch sat at a small desk writing something on a scroll but looked up as they approached.

“Looking to enter the garden then?” she asked.

“We’d like to add a memory please,” Hermione said. She dug into her bag and passed over a handful of coins, hiding the exact amount from Snape.

“Yes, Excellent. Name?” the witch asked.

Hermione looked at Snape. He paused for a minute before speaking.

“Eileen Prince,” he said firmly.

Er.... Hermione thought, but nodded in silent agreement. Whatever he wanted was fine.

“All right then dear, is it you? Now have a good hard think, and I’ll pick out a nice one,” the witch said warmly as she stood up and walked towards Snape.

He darted a startled look to Hermione.

“Just Legilimency,” Hermione said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. Try and focus on your mum, and how you’d like to remember her and that’s all they need.”

“Not done it before?” the witch asked Snape.

He shook his head slightly.

“Not to worry,” the witch said reassuringly. “I don’t go digging around in anything. I just pop in and out.”

He blinked his eyes and the witch lifted her wand.

“Oh that’s a lovely one,” she said almost immediately with a satisfied expression. She tottered back behind the desk.

Snape opened his eyes wider and glanced at Hermione. He looked so worried she reached over and squeezed his hand in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. The witch was muttering something at the desk and there was a slight shift in the air around them.

“Well you can go in now,” said the witch. “Please let us know if it doesn’t meet your expectations.”

Hermione ushered Snape through the second smaller door and into an enormous garden. Snape may have been able to hide his awe at the main atrium, but he couldn’t when presented with the garden.

It was a strange little slice of nature within the confines of the Ministry. Hermione, a terrible gardener who avoided it at all costs, could only recognise hydrangeas, hibiscus and spots of cosmos, marigolds and zinnias. There were winding paths amongst the garden, some leading off the groves of roses and others to kitchen-garden corners with herbs like mint, rosemary and sage. The overall effect was one of contained wildness, with a sweetness that belied a place of relaxation and meditation.

Hermione led him to a pond in the middle of the room. They sat to the right of the small footbridge that arched over the water, on a flat, white stone that felt like it was warm from a non-existent sun.

“I find it best here,” she said. “If you want to see your mum just touch the water and say her name.”

Snape looked a little dubious but learnt forward and broke the surface of the water with the tip of his index finger. Hermione could see his lips move, but he said the name so softly she couldn’t hear him.

There was no mistaking the relationship between the boy next to her and the reflection that shimmered to life in the water. The dark eyes, the prominent nose and the slow-blooming shy smile were all there.

“Mam,” Snape said wistfully.

“I’m going to walk around the garden for a bit,” Hermione said tactfully. “I’ll be back in a while.”

She stood up and left him near the pond and walked over to the herb corner. She picked some mint and crushed it between her hands, letting the smell drift up and leaving green smears on her hands. She’d been to the garden with a few people, even Harry. He’d left a memorial for Sirius in here, which at the time she’d thought was sweet but now she was a little less believing he had been the man Harry looked up to—even in death.

She’d asked about putting her parents here, so she could come and sit with them, but had been told that it was against the Ministry’s policy to allow memories of muggles to be added. To add insult to injury the witch behind her in line had added a memory of her dead familiar. Hermione has stood there, blood boiling, as she watched the Ministry employee carefully extract the perfect memory of a cat.

To the Ministry, her parents were less than a cat.

Sure, Hermione liked cats, and Crookshanks in particular had been a better friend to her than a lot of actual humans but... but still.

It was because they were muggles.

“You’ve got muggle photos of them though, don’t you Hermione?” Ron had said in an attempt to be soothing after she’d told them about the rejection by the Ministry memorial garden.

Hermione had glared at him. Why did they say muggle photos anyway? Why not just photos? Wizards had stolen the idea anyway and then just improved it with magic. It was the same thing. Why did wizards have to go carefully delineating everything? Muggle technology. Muggle Britain. Muggleborn.

They were all segregates at heart, really, they just supported different levels of segregation.

“And your parents are still technically alive,” Harry had added. “At least you knew them.”

She wanted to throttle Harry when he’d said that. He wasn’t the only person in the world whose parents had died before he could remember them. He wasn’t the only one who’d suffered. She’d given up everything. Everything!

She didn’t have the extended Weasley family. The free house in a cool part of Islington. The devoted partner. The baby. The cushy auror position he was gifted even though he never went back and did his NEWTS. The fawning newspaper coverage that didn’t paint him as fame hungry slut who spent half the war shagging famous wizards (yikes okay she was still obviously angry about it because that would have been a far preferable way to spend the war as opposed to what she actually did).

She didn’t have any of that.

She had herself, her hard-fought for job and her little apartment with a bookshelf in every room.

And sometimes it was enough, and sometimes it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

It felt almost strange to Hermione to be back within the stony walls of Hogwarts, even though she’d only been away a day. In a pleasing yet surprising turn of events, her patronus had actually delivered the correct message to the correct person and she was able to safely return Snape to school.

She’d wanted to make sure he was feeling all right. He hadn’t said much after the garden, and Hermione had spent a bit of time fretting silently that it had been a stupid suggestion. Did teenage boys even like flowers? But when she’d parted ways with him at the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room he’d thanked her quietly and sincerely, without even the hint of sarcasm. So she’d decided it had gone okay.

Hermione had then gone to her own chambers, had a long, hot, bath, drank two glasses of wine and went to bed and slept for twelve hours. When she opened her eyes she realised three things; she’d missed breakfast, she was about to be late for charms and she’d woken for the first morning in the last few months without ‘ah fuck still here then’ being her first coherent thought.

That last realisation was a slight concern. If she’d learnt anything from working at the ministry it was getting comfortable always led to Bad Things. That’s what happened when people let their guard down. Hermione relied on that in her job. It’s how she’d caught most of her targets.

So it was not without some trepidation that Hermione dressed for the day and took the stairs at twice Minerva-speed to make it to the classroom in time. She’d made her own version of a takeaway coffee, casting some spells on a mug a house elf had delivered in response to her desperate plea. She was very pleased with herself until she got to the classroom and tried to drink from it. Whereupon she discovered her anti-spill charms were so effective she was unable to actually remove any of the liquid when she attempted to tip some into her mouth. She sighed and left it to cool on the table just inside the door.

“And here’s Professor Granger,” Filius said cheerfully, and if he wasn’t so damn nice Hermione would have detected a hint of reproach in his tone.

“Yes, here I am,” confirmed Hermione breezily.

As Filius began to calm the students Hermione surreptitiously undid the pointless charms on her cup and greedily recovered it from the desk now the precious dark nectar was accessible. As she sipped her drink she looked around the room.

The first thing she noticed was Lily was no longer in the front row. She was in the back, next to James. Hermione frowned. She was always suspicious of changes in behaviour. Another exciting gift of cynicism from her years as an Unspeakable.

Someone else had noticed as well. She could almost feel the sneaky, dark looks that Snape darted to the back row.

Hermione felt a bit down. She was hoping Snape would have a few easy days after the funeral, just to help him ease back into everything but it didn’t seem like life felt like giving Snape much of a break at the moment.

Oh shit, Hermione suddenly realised. Or ever.

She took another long pull of coffee.

Well that sucks, she decided. Then suddenly remembered she’d thought something similar, but less sympathetically, not so long ago. Before she’d come back. Before she’d spent time with the younger version of Snape.

And now she felt bad.

“Today,” Filius began to the class, “we will be attempting the Fidelius Charm. Can anyone tell the class what the function of this spell is?”

There was a moment of silence. No one moved.

Seconds ticked interminably past for Hermione, who was dying to answer the question despite not being a student. Maybe if she just snuck her hand up, only a little, just to save time waiting for someone else. But she trod firmly on the urge and drank coffee instead, pleased she was doing Proper Adult Things and not desperately trying to relive her classroom glory. Finally there was a little huff from the back row and Lily raised her hand.

“Miss Evans?” Filius asked.

“The Fidelius Charm is one of oldest spells still used to this day,” Lily said. “It involves the concealment of information inside a living person. That person, known as the Secret Keeper, is the only person who can reveal the hidden information, or secret, to anyone else.”

“An excellent textbook answer!” crowed Filius cheerfully. “Five points to Gryffindor.”

Lily smiled a little subdued smile.

“Now I want you to break up into pairs. One of you will write something and the other will read it and become the Secret-Keeper. Nothing dramatic. Just something small and innocuous. Please don’t be concerned if you don’t get the charm right during this practice. it’s an immensely complex spell,” Filius said.

The class chattered amongst themselves as they formed pairs. Hermione watched as James pulled his chair to Lily’s desk, and Sirius and Remus looked at each other and grinned. To their right Peter looked a bit lost. He turned to his left but the classmates closest to him had already formed a pair as well.

Hermione’s gaze found Snape, who had sunk down in his chair. She wandered over.

“Are you all right Mister Snape?” she asked.

He glanced up. “I don’t really feel up to this,” he said dully.

“Well that’s understandable,” said Hermione. “Why don’t you just study the chapter on the charm? I’ll let Professor Flitwick know.”

“Thank you Professor Granger,” he said.

Hermione walked to Filius.

“Mister Snape is still recovering from his recent, um, trip,” Hermione said meaningfully. “He’s not really up for the practical element today.”

Filius’s countenance softened. “Of course. The poor boy. Well, it’s left Mister Pettigrew without a partner but he can pair with me.”

He nodded across the room at Peter, and the boy obviously realised what was happening as he sighed loudly.

“I think you made his day,” Hermione whispered.

“Undoubtedly,” Filius whispered back.

Hermione smothered a giggle and watched as Filius went over, then calmly and patiently took Peter through the charm.

It was probably, Hermione thought, Filius’s rigorous teaching that gave Peter the knowledge of the charm that he eventually used as currency with Voldemort.

God, that was depressing.

In a lot of ways being back in the past was like watching a play that had a terrible ending which Hermione already knew, but could not prevent from occurring. Like King Lear, or Othello. She could merely observe the tragedy unfolding before her, with the knowledge of the hidden villains of the tale a burden only for her.

And now she’d done a soliloquy. Classical literature studies eat your heart out.

In the back row Peter smiled wanly at a joke from Filius, and Hermione sipped her coffee and thought dark, pungent thoughts.

Eventually the class drew to a close, with no real successes in the charm department. Even Lily had struggled. Hermione stood at the door and as the students left she collected the pieces of paper hiding secrets with various levels of success (from nil to not really as she read Sirius’s secret Courtney Flynn has a great arse and hoped against hope that Courtney Flynn would hex his face off).

Finally only one student remained. Snape still lingered at his desk, bent over his text and quill. Filius gave her a meaningful look and began to tidy up his own texts. She took the hint and walked over to Snape.

“Class is finished Mister Snape,” Hermione said softly to the top of the black head.

Snape looked up. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve completed the assignment.”

“Oh, well done,” said Hermione. “I’m glad you felt up for it. Do you want me to hand it to Professor Flitwick?”

“No,” he said. “It’s just something stupid I did.”

He stood up and handed her a folded piece of paper. Hermione took it from him and unfolded the parchment.

It was blank.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Snape. “You’re the Secret-Keeper of your own secret then, are you?” she asked with some amusement.

“I’d hardly trust anyone else with it would I?” he scoffed.

“I’d be shocked if you did,” she answered wryly. She tucked the blank but apparently not-blank paper in the pocket of her robes.

“I thought you’d be annoyed. Aren’t you the one always telling me to trust people?” Snape asked.

“No,” Hermione said in mock exasperation. “I’m always telling you to trust me. Sod people.”

He laughed abruptly, then seemed shocked at his reaction and seemingly frowned at himself.

“It’s all right to laugh,” said Hermione.

“Some moments I forget she’s gone,” Snape said. “Then I remember.”

“I guess as long as you remember her she’s never really gone,” suggested Hermione.

Snape looked briefly wounded, then immediately the standard blank facade fell into place.

“If you say so, Professor,” he said colourlessly.

Hermione watched him finishing packing up his desk and walk out the door. Filius came over to her.

“How is he coping?” he asked her.

Hermione shrugged. “I think only Mister Snape knows anything about Mister Snape,” she said. She took out the piece of paper and showed it to Filius.

“I’m not sure if he tried the charm or just gave me a blank piece of paper,” she stated with a rueful smile.

Filius held the paper up to his ear, then between his palms and, to Hermione’s keen interest, tapped it three times with his wand.

“There’s definitely something there. How fascinating. I’m sure I’ve never heard of anyone attempting the charm by themselves,” murmured Filius. “I wouldn’t have thought it would be successful.”

“I think,” Hermione sighed, “Mister Snape picked the one person in the world he thought he could rely on not to use his secret against him.”

”Oh my,” said Filius. “How unfortunate. I’ll talk to Horace about him.”

“Mmm,” said Hermione in a way that wasn’t a yes or no.

Hermione managed to get through the next class, assisting Pamona and her second year class pot baby mandrakes. It was as fun as it was when she did it herself as a second year, plus the bonus of the earmuffs meant she could pretend not to hear any of the students asking her questions.

She was tired, hungry and a bit overwrought by the time she made it to the Great Hall for lunch. She’d settled in with some fruit and cheese and was just finally relaxing into the day when she unfolded a copy of the Daily Prophet left on the table by another Professor. The front page headline was stark.

Death Eater Attack in Barnton - Four dead

Hermione traced a finger over the image of the green skull in the sky above a house, a large snake twisting obscenely from its mouth.

Morsmordre.

She frowned and read the rest of the article.

Two women and their two children were killed. A muggleborn witch, her muggle wife, and their eight year-old twin boys. Hermione wondered if the children had begun to show any signs of magic. She didn’t suppose it wouldn’t matter now.

The Prophet then went into a depressing spiral of statistics about the amount of casualties in the past twelve months relating to the group loyal to Voldemort. The article detailed how the identities of the Death Eaters were largely unknown.

How would the other non-wizarding agencies be reacting? Hermione wondered. The Ministry never engaged with the police in her time, was it different in this time? She tried to imagine the police trying to interview residents who were describing the disembodied head in the sky with a serpent for a tongue. Or, perhaps the police were never told at all. Maybe the aurors dealt with it. Which didn’t seem particularly fair, Hermione thought, to the woman who hadn’t been magical.

“What’s got you so quiet Hermione?” Minerva asked close to her right ear.

“This horrible thing,” Hermione said, thrusting the paper in front of Minerva,

“Oh dear,” sighed Minerva. “That is horrible. We were discussing it this morning.”

“Over breakfast,” Pomona said meaningfully from Minerva’s other side. “Which we missed you at.”

“I slept in,” explained Hermione, feeling a bit abashed.

“It’s a terrible business,” Filius piped up from Hermione’s left. “They’re definitely getting bolder.”

“And more ruthless,” added Minerva.

“Yes, well. Let’s be glad we’re safe in Hogwarts and away from that business,” Pomona cut in hurriedly.

“I think this morning’s little fiasco indicates that business is alive and well in this very castle,” Minerva snapped.

“I’m positive it was just a little joke,” Pomona soothed in a calm voice. “You know how children are. Always playing little pranks.”

“As I said this morning. I agree with Minerva on this one,” Filius started. “This feels less like joking and more like someone is sending a message.”

“What is everyone talking about?” asked a completely bewildered Hermione.

Minerva clucked her tongue irritably. “Another breakfast discussion you missed dear.”

Bloody hell, thought Hermione, the one time she didn’t show up for breakfast apparently the secrets of the world were the topic of conversation.

“Perhaps,” she suggested sweetly through gritted teeth, “you could enlighten me?”

“It’s the door to the Muggle Studies classroom,” Filius whispered across the table.

“What about it?” asked Hermione.

“It’s gone,” Minerva said. “And we’re just lucky that the classes aren’t on until this afternoon so it’s been kept quiet.”

“The students don’t know?” questioned Hermione.

“Oh I assume the ones that did it know about it,” said Minerva. “And when I find out who they are...“

“I’m sure it’s not what you think, Minerva,” said Pomona and passed her an apple. “You’re probably hungry. It brings the mood down.”

“Don’t poke food at me like an overindulgent grandmother,” Minerva hissed, batting away the offered fruit.

“So is the door back?” Hermione valiantly reattempted to steer the conversation back to the issue at hand.

“I don’t think the door ever went anywhere,” said Filius. “Er...Technically,” he added, wilting a little under the thundercloud stare from Minerva.

“It’s a transfiguration,” said Minerva. “Complex enough that I need time to unpick it.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hermione.

“We’re going to deal with it now,” Filius said. “Would you like to come along?”

“Sure,” agreed Hermione. “Another wand can’t hurt.”

“Maybe you’ll recognise the spell techniques,” said Minerva.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked in some confusion.

“Well you were Head of Slytherin,” Minerva said. “At least for a brief and victorious stint. Perhaps something will jog your memory.”

“Well it’s nice to know you aren’t jumping to conclusions about the perpetrators,” Hermione retorted sarcastically.

“It doesn’t really seem like something one of mine would do,” Filius said in an apologetic tone.

“Definitely not one of mine,” added Pamona who was still half-listening while stirring her tea.

“Just leaves two houses left then,” said Minerva, staring at Hermione with a challenging gleam in her eye.

“Well let’s go check out this door then,” said Hermione. “Before you all sharpen your wands.”

Chapter Text

There was no door.

Or at least there was, but it wasn’t visible.

“It’s a transfiguration?” Hermione asked a bit stupidly.

“Yes,” said Minerva through thin lips.

The were both standing back from the wall as Filius closely examined the place where the door should be. Hermione was fascinated to see he used similar techniques to how he picked over Snape’s note. There was wand tapping, intense listening and even placing his palms against the wall. Hermione was itching to ask something.

“Can you feel something?” she finally asked, as she decided she didn’t need to hold back questions now she was a fully fledged adult. As she had proved decisively earlier in the day, by holding back questions.

“Oh yes,” said Filius. “Come and place your hand here,” he said, beckoning to her.

Hermione laid a palm flat against the flagstone as directed, and tried to concentrate. Soon she felt something.

“It’s like a funny little warm buzzing,” she said in wonderment. “Ooh wow with a little bite at the end.”

“Exactly! The bite means there is a glamour here. All this part,” Filius sad as he waved his hand vaguely, “is something transfigured held together with a sticking charm and on the sides they’ve added the glamour.”

“Amazing,” breathed Hermione.

“It’s fantastic,” said Minerva in a tone drenched in sarcasm. “Let’s leave the amazing vibrating wall alone and get onto it.”

“Fine, Fine,” said a Filius cheerfully, apparently completely unaffected by Minerva’s sniping. “It’s quite a sophisticated set up actually,” he said half-admiringly.

“I must ensure I give the perpetrators House points before I assign them detention from now until Christmas then,” Minerva said.

“Well at least it shows they’ve been concentrating in class,” Filius said defensively.

Hermione watched as Filius unpicked the glamour. And they could suddenly see the outline of the door.

“Right,” said Minerva. “My turn.”

There was something incredibly satisfying about watching skilled people doing skilled things, Hermione decided. And a big reason why she was single. Competency was a huge turn on for her, which was a particular shame given the apparent dearth of it amongst the eligible bachelors of her age. Harry said she was too picky, but then again, Harry also needed to shut his stupid face.

Minerva stood before the door, magic humming around her. Her black hair swirled across her neck and Hermione could see the muscles in the side of her jaw clenched in effort. After ten minutes the wall shuddered and revealed the multitude of strange objects that had been used to make the fake stones. Hermione was appalled to see a copy of Hogwarts: A History in amongst the bibs and bobs.

Sacrilege!

“The sticking charm won’t be too much of an issue,” said Filius bracingly, and almost certainly making light of the charm’s claims of permanency.

Hermione and Minerva stood to the side as Filius worked. Minerva had her arms folded, and was tapping the fingers of her left hand in an irritated staccato.

“It’s worrying,” she said.

“I agree,” said Hermione. “I think choosing the door to Muggle Studies wasn’t random.”

“No, I don’t think so either,” agreed Minerva. She sighed. “It must be one or more of the older students. Someone who is good at transfig and charms.”

Hermione shrugged. “Well. Maybe. I mean. How sophisticated was it really? Unpicking a spell is much more difficult than casting one. Even unpicking a basic transfig is beyond a sixth year,” she said.

“True,” said Minerva.

“Now there we are,” said Filius with some satisfaction. There was a clatter as the items all fell to the floor.

“Oh my,” Filius said.

Minerva looked at Hermione meaningfully. “A younger student certainly wouldn’t have thought of that,” she said.

“No,” sighed Hermione. “That takes a bit of strategic, malicious foresight.”

They all stared at what had been revealed by the removal of the transfigured wall. Chucks of broken glass were wedges along the doorframe like spiny plates on a lizard.

“So is that a transfiguration as well?” Hermione asked dubiously.

“More sticking charms I’m afraid,” bemoaned Filius. “Lots of individuals spells. These will take a while to undo. Professor Godkins will have to carry on without a classroom for a day or so.”

“This seems a somewhat interesting gathering,” said an amused voice behind them.

Hermione turned to see Dumbledore walking down the hall towards them.

“Professor Dumbledore,” said Minerva. “We’ve got a bit of an issue with the door to the Muggle Studies classroom.”

“It looks perfectly fine to me, beyond being perhaps slightly on the gaudy side,” answered Dumbledore with a broad smile.

Filius, Minerva and Hermione turned back to the door, which now, instead of splinters of glass, had a flower garland draped along the frame.

“Er...” said Hermione as Minerva thinned her lips.

“That is all very well—“ Minerva began to say.

“Is it? Well that’s comforting. I do so enjoy when everything is very well,” interrupted Dumbledore.

Filius and Minerva exchanged a confused look.

“And Professor Granger! I was looking forward to seeing how your trip with Mister Snape went. Perhaps you could walk me back to my office?” he asked Hermione, blue eyes twinkling like mad.

“Okay,” said Hermione, who wasn’t quite sure how to avoid the talk or the twinkling.

With a slight pleading look over her shoulder to the other two teachers who were left staring at the curling bouquets Hermione followed the older wizard back down the hall.

“Thank you for your message regarding your return with Mister Snape,” said Dumbledore.

“Oh, sure. No problem,” said Hermione a bit awkwardly.

“I was quite intrigued with your choice of messenger,” Dumbledore said in an artful display of nonchalance. “Is it common where you are from?”

Oh shitsticks, thought Hermione. For someone who claimed to be very very bright, sometimes she made very, very dumb decisions.

“Ah,” she said. “Not really. It is, um, sort of used by a small group of people I am close to.”

To her surprise Dumbledore sighed. “I was afraid of that,” he said.

“Why would you be afraid?” Hermione asked innocently.

“When I formed the Order we developed the method of communication because so few witches and wizards were able to cast a corporeal patronus. It was not used by anyone else, and since we knew each other’s patronus forms, impossible to falsify,” Dumbledore said.

“It’s fast too,” Hermione admitted.

“Indeed it is,” said Dumbledore. He stopped walking and turned to Hermione. “I must admit in my optimism I had hoped that you may have never have even heard of the Order, and certainly if you had, only from a historical text.”

“Sorry,” said Hermione, who wasn’t sure what she was apologising for but taking the blame for things seemed to be ingrained in her so something she did it without thinking.

Thanks everyone who ever blamed me for something that wasn’t my fault!

“No need for apologies, except perhaps, I may have to apologise to you,” Dumbledore said with unexpected brevity. “It seems whatever I am attempting at present I am not successful in my endeavour.”

Ah shit, thought Hermione. She wracked her brain trying to say something comforting that didn’t set off the multitude of magical restraints she was under.

“Maybe I was one of the last members,” Hermione said carefully. When nothing buzzed or jabbed or locked up her tongue, she tried a little further. “New recruits no longer necessary.”

Dumbledore looked at her sharply. She stared back.

Finally he sighed. “Ah, well. A modicum of comfort. Thank you.”

“Sure,” said Hermione.

She felt a bit conflicted.

You left Harry and Ron and me to work something out you could have just told us about! She thought angrily.

You didn’t stop Draco taking the Mark. Her brain added. He screwed up his life.

You let Mister Snape die. Hermione found herself thinking.

No, her mind interrupted. That’s not just Dumbledore. You are also going to let Mister Snape die.

She frowned at the last thought which had stung a little.

But one didn’t just get a job at the Department. You had to prove you would do things, could do things that others couldn’t, or wouldn’t do. Or even held back from acting when emotions demanded you act. Contexts where anger or excitement lead others to lose their cool, but an Unspeakable held fast to their training. She’d signed the forms and taken her oaths. She knew what she had to do.

But she’d never really been in a situation before where her training and her instinct weren’t perfectly aligned. It wasn’t a very nice feeling.

“Hermione?”

Hermione turned towards the concerned voice and saw Minerva. She looked around. Dumbledore had gone. Had she really just stood there in a fugue feeling sorry for herself?

“Oh hello Minerva. I must have zoned out for a bit,” she tried to explain.

Minerva gave her a knowing look. “I recognise that face. It’s the ‘I’ve been told something terrible but it’s all for the greater good’ face. I’ve worn it enough myself.”

“It wasn’t really what Dumbledore said. It’s more something I’ve done, or won’t do more to the point,” Hermione said.

“He also does have a way of making you feel you should or shouldn’t have done something,” Minerva said tightly. “Nothing like a bit of disapproval as a motivator.”

“I prefer bribery,” joked Hermione.

Minerva grinned. “Well it’s after two now and I’m free until a later class. Come to my chambers and we’ll Irish up a coffee, eat the box of Honeydukes finest I’ve been hoarding and forget about terribleness for an hour or so,” she offered.

“Actually that sounds great,” said Hermione.

“Excellent,” said Minerva. “Because my advanced transfig class is on this afternoon and—“

“Oh and here I was thinking it was a completely altruistic offer!” laughed Hermione.

“It’s a bribe,” said Minerva. “I thought you preferred them.”

“Oh I definitely do,” said Hermione. “You didn’t hear me turning it down did you?”

It was approximately one Irish coffee, one and a half boxes of chocolates and three hours of lying on her bed reading about spell duplication later that Hermione decided she felt better.

The positive feeling remained even when she was in the transfiguration classroom, standing next to Minerva and staring at the seven students in front of her. Snape was in the middle row near the far end of the desks, looking calm, which Hermione now knew meant he wasn’t.

“All right class. This afternoon we are having a practical exercise. Come along now, follow me,” Minerva said primly.

Hermione tried very hard to appear she knew what the hell was going on.

The students followed Minerva out the door and along corridors and down staircases until they came to a long hall with four doors. Outside each door was a pile of random objects.

Suddenly Hermione knew exactly what the hell was going on.

“Please break up into teams of two and pick a door. I want you to transfigure the items in front of the door in a manner to conceal the door from Professor Granger and myself,” Minerva instructed the class.

The students immediately paired off, leaving Snape to claim the furtherest door by himself. Hermione frowned. She grabbed Minerva’s sleeve and tugged her back and around the corner.

“That’s bloody sneaky!” she hissed.

“What is?” Minerva asked—a paragon of innocence.

“You think Mister Snape did it!” Hermione challenged. “And now you’re setting up some type of trap!”

“I am not!” Minerva said defensively. “But I want to know how well my advanced students do. It will give me some idea of what skills the perpetrators had.”

Hermione reluctantly conceded to herself it was a good plan. “Fine,” she said. “Consider me temporarily placated.”

Minerva nodded.

“Any other Slytherins in your class?” Hermione asked.

“Only Mister Snape,” admitted Minerva.

They walked back around the corner towards the students.

“I only had one Gryffindor as well. But Miss Evans withdrew from the class this week,” Minerva continued.

Hermione shot her a concerned look. “Really? Did she say why?”

“A bit too busy to keep up with the advanced work. As Head Girl she has a lot of responsibilities. It’s a real shame,” Minerva sighed.

“It is,” Hermione agreed. She didn’t believe Lily’s excuse to her Head of House for one second and resolved to speak to the girl privately herself.

Hermione and Minerva began examining how the students were faring. The first door only had the frame showing, but the faux brick wall bulged out slightly and the pair were discussing how best to fix or whether to start again.

The second door two Ravenclaws had thought outside the square and had transfigured a tapestry over the door. Hermione gave them extra suck-up points in her mind for the tapestry subject; a very regal looking Minerva, seated on a throne, patting a lion.

“This is a nice job,” Minerva said warmly.

The Ravenclaws shared an amused look.

“Turns out flattery does get you somewhere,” Hermione observed.

“I meant the transfiguration work of course,” Minerva clarified in a breezy tone.

“Of course you did,” Hermione agreed seriously. She grinned at Minerva’s sideways glance.

They moved to door three which was another attempt to replicate the stone wall. These students were doing better than the first, and had transfigured the objects into a fake wall. But they hadn’t quite decided how to hide the frame, having discovered like the first group that they were unable to affect anything that was part of the castle.

Minerva murmured some encouraging words. The students looked at Hermione over Minerva’s shoulder and they grinned when she mouthed “glamour” at them. As she walked off with Minerva the Hufflepuff girl gave her a thumbs up. Hermione smiled to herself. It was a bit cheaty of her but oh well.

The last door remained unchanged, except there was no longer a pile of objects in front of it. Snape sat, cross legged, reading a textbook and making notes in the corners. Hermione’s bibliophile mind exploded.

Was that her book he was writing in?

“Is that my book?” Hermione asked in a shrill voice.

Snape’s head snapped up at her tone and he shrank down slightly.

“What Professor Granger meant to ask,” Minerva said smoothly, clamping down on Hermione’s arm with an iron grip. “Was, are you all right Mister Snape? Did you not feel able to attempt the exercise?”

“I’ve done it,” said Snape.

Hermione and Minerva looked at the very not at all hidden door.

“Oh...Er...Well,” said Hermione. “I mean. I sort of can still see it,” she said almost apologetically.

Snape gave her what could only be described as a withering stare. It was quite familiar to her. Familiar enough that she fidgeted slightly.

“Mister Snape. I would not classify that door as concealed in any way,” said Minerva in support of Hermione.

Snape stood up and opened the door. Behind the door was the stone wall of the castle.

“This is the transfiguration,” he said.

“Oh,” said Hermione.

“I put the actual door under the Fidelius Charm,” Snape explained.

“Oh!” said Hermione.

“Under the Fidelius Charm?” Minerva repeated.

“They learnt it this morning,” whispered Hermione.

“I thought it was a better way to conceal the door,” explained Snape. “Hide the actual door and distract you with a transfigured fake.”

“Distract...” Minerva said. She appeared somewhat shell-shocked.

“It’s not gone,” said Snape. “It’s right in front of you.”

As he revealed the location of the door it unveiled itself in front of them.

“Well I say,” Minerva murmured.

Hermione burst out laughing, the defiled book forgotten.

Snape perked up when she laughed and stood a little straighter by both of the doors.

“I shouldn’t really mark the Charm work,” Minerva said. “But it’s a fiendishly difficult spell and your transfiguration work was excellent, so I think ten points to Slytherin as a starting point.”

“From each of us,” Hermione added. She winked at Snape while Minerva wasn’t looking and his eyes widened slightly.

“I might just pop and get Professor Flitwick,” Minerva said. “Given I’m not entirely confident with my knowledge on what to do now only three of us can see the door to Mister Filch’s storeroom.”

She walked quickly off down the hall.

“That was really clever,” Hermione said to Snape. “And sneaky.”

“It seemed obvious to me,” Snape said.

“Maybe you think in a sneaky way,” observed Hermione. “That’s a good thing,” she added when his face dropped. “It means you think differently from everyone else. You can outsmart people because they’ll be thinking one way and you think another.”

“Okay,” said Snape. His expression immediately changing to look somewhat pleased.

Hermione found herself smiling somewhat indulgently at him. She’d loved the idea with the doors. It was exactly the type of tricky thing she would love to think up.

There was a small part of her that wondered if they’d been at school together as students would they have gotten along? Probably not, she decided. They were both a bit prickly and awkward and while she overcompensated with fawning attempts to please teachers, he went the opposite way. It seems they were always fated to be the wrong age, in the wrong time, to ever really connect.

While this thought was a bit melancholic, the trick with the door kept Hermione smiling through dinner, and late into the evening when she went to bed.

Fidelius Charm. Honestly.

She certainly wasn’t then expecting to be woken up at midnight by the insistent chiming of her wand. She scrabbled around under pillow for it and blearily cast a specialised diagnostic.

Fuck.

It was one of her wards in Hogsmede. The remaining members of The Eight were still alive and had finally made their move towards Hogwarts.

Fuckity Fucko.

Chapter Text

Hermione wished she hadn’t given up the map. The stupid, stupid map. Now she had to keep an even closer eye on Snape, and it would have been very useful. She was usually pretty good at forward planning, but her temper had got the better of her.

She trusted the Hogwarts wards she had altered would inform her if the wizards tried to enter the castle grounds. But she still didn’t know what important thing he was apparently going to do that the wizards wanted to let play out.

Which was why she was standing in the library, in the back corner like a complete deviant,
watching Snape study quietly. Even though she was out in the open, leaning against a bookshelf her presence didn’t appear to bother Snape in the slightest. That’s because Hermione was using a charm of her own devices. An improvement on the Notice Me Not charm she’d called Never Mind Me.

She liked using it because while the spell didn’t prevent anyone from not noticing her, it just stopped them caring at all when they did see her. It tended to stress people’s brains less than the other charm and worked for longer. It was her go-to spell when on surveillance too, as she could sit right next to a target and they wouldn’t care. She could even borrow a copy of a The Prophet from them and they would smile vacantly and offer it up without complaint.

Now she was using it to spy on a teenager.

Well.

She definitely needed to rethink her life choices.

Although, Hermione decided. She’d at least found someone that studied more than she had. Which technically made her less of a swot. Right?

Right?

After another ten minutes of soul sucking boredom and Hermione’s left foot going to sleep, she decided to pack it in and go to her chambers. Unless the thing that The Eight couldn’t bear to disrupt was Snape getting intense eye strain and Outstandings in all his NEWTS, she didn’t think he was going to get up to anything remotely timeline worthy that night.

She was just cautiously stretching out her foot to test whether it was okay to walk on when she noticed Snape stop writing and drop his quill.

He’d spotted something.

And Hermione watched in some fascination as a gamut of emotions ran their course across his face, before settling into something that she guessed was determination. Despite it being morally questionable, it was interesting to observe Snape when he didn’t think anyway was watching. He definitely let go of at least some level of control.

He stood and gathered up his papers and texts and placed them into his bag. Hermione noticed he still had her book.

Which he bloody better not be writing in, she demanded fiercely to herself.

Hermione followed him through the labyrinth of shelves until they came across, to her surprise, Lily. She was standing between two tall bookcases and was reading a text book avidly. Hermione peered to her right to catch the title, which was Wizarding Etiquette Volume XII.

Yikes, thought Hermione. Finally someone had found a book that wasn’t about Quidditch that she didn’t actually want to read.

“Hello,” Snape said quietly.

Lily turned with a flash of auburn hair. “Oh, hello,” she said in a similar tone. She didn’t smile but she didn’t look angry.

Snape opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

Well this is awkward, Hermione decided.

“I’m really sorry about your mum,” Lily said suddenly and quite sincerely. “I wanted to come and see you. But. Um. Anyway. Your mum was really nice.”

Snape shut his mouth suddenly before speaking. “Oh. Yes. Thank you. She was.”

“Are you okay? My parents said I needed to make sure you were doing all right. They don’t really know we aren’t, well...” Lily said awkwardly.

“Friends,” Snape finished her sentence in a monotone voice.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t still care whether you are sad or not,” Lily said. “So are you all right?”

“Sort of,” said Snape. “I think.”

“If you want to talk about it, we can you know,” said Lily self-consciously.

“Thanks,” said Snape. “I’ve talked a bit with Professor Granger and that’s helped.”

Lily raised her eyebrows in surprise . “Oh have you? That’s good. She’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, she’s okay,” agreed Snape with a shrug.

Well that was almost a compliment, thought Hermione. She was surprised Snape didn’t burst into flames immediately.

Lily shuffled her weight from one foot from another. “Okay. Well, I have to go. It’s nearly curfew. Um, your mum was always telling my parents how you well were doing at school. She was really proud of you.”

She went to walk away, which appeared to finally spark something in Snape.

“Wait!” he said urgently

Lily turned and frowned at him slightly.

“I mean, please,” Snape said in a gentler tone. “Wait.”

She huffed a little. “Yes?”

Snape stood silently for a few seconds, and Hermione could see Lily getting slightly irritated until he finally adjusted his bag more firmly over one shoulder.

“Why are you so different in class now?” he asked baldly.

Lily blinked at him. “What do you mean? Different? Are you spying on me?”

Hermione noted the tone in Lily’s voice had hardened at his question,

“No!” Snape insisted. “No. But. You don’t sit up the front any more. You aren’t the first finished. We always use to be the first finished,” he trailed off.

Lily narrowed her eyes to emerald-green slits. “Well we’ve both changed I guess. Is that all? It’s nearly curfew and I need to do my rounds.”

“But...but why did you drop advanced transfig? I thought it was one of the potential apprentice options,” Snape asked.

“Oh that. I don’t have time for any of that anymore,” said Lily quickly. She shifted her gaze away from Snape’s.

“You had time for it before you took up with Potter,” Snape said.

“Oh for....so this is what this is about. James. It’s not even about me,” Lily said angrily.

“It’s about what he’s done to you!” Snape retorted.

“What are you talking about?” Lily snapped.

“You always used to say you were going to be the first person to win two apprenticeships. Didn’t you?” Snape asked.

“Maybe I don’t want to do that anymore,” Lily said.

“I just think,” Snape said hesitantly then visibly straightened up and spoke more confidently. “I just think that you, you know, you don’t do anything you want to do anymore.”

“And you think you can have this conversation with me, when I know how much you hate James because....” Lily asked.

“Because you know why!” Snape almost shouted.

Lily blanched. She sighed, and her face relaxed into the first truly gentle expression she’d shown since Snape spoke to her. Hermione watched a small flush creep up Snape’s neck. Lily placed the text on the shelf and turned more towards Snape.

“He’s not like that,” Lily said in an even tone. “Not everyone will be like your dad, Sev.”

“Well,” began Snape.

“We might even get married when school finishes,” Lily added softly.

Oh shit, Hermione thought. She saw Snape’s face go white.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh okay. Okay then.”

He turned around, his shoulders and spine stooped again. He began walking away a few steps before turning back.

“I just think if he really liked you he wouldn’t get you to change anything,” he said in a voice that probably would have sounded more firm if his voice hadn’t cracked slightly on the last word.

“Everything changes,” said Lily. “We aren’t little kids anymore. You can’t tell me you haven’t. I’ve seen you with Malfoy. I mean. Come on. He’s foul Sev.”

Snape rolled his eyes, “Not this again.”

“Oh, but you can say James is a problem, but I can’t mention your precious Lucius,” Lily challenged.

“Fine. Fine! Do whatever you want,” Snape sneered.

“Perfect,” Lily snapped back at him. “I will.”

She turned her back to him, picked up the volume and for all appearances was immediately once more immersed in reading the preposterously boring tome.

Snape stood there for a moment longer, then frowned and spun on his heel before stalking out of the library.

Hermione didn’t feel like following Snape anymore.

She also hadn’t felt like eavesdropping on a conversation between two former... friends? Hermione had no idea... trying to warn each other off people who, to be fair, would put them both firmly on a path that lead to each of their deaths.

It was ghoulish. And it was desperately, desperately sad.

Hermione left the library and took the long way back to her chambers. She wanted to be by herself with her own thoughts for a while. Even if those thoughts were scattered and not remotely comforting, it was better than sitting in her chambers ruminating. She walked up and down the moving staircases, and past grumbling portraits complaining she should be in bed.

“I’m a Professor,” she snapped at one particularly mulish wizard. “I don’t have a curfew.”

He muttered to himself in a way that reminded her a lot of when she’d had Phineas Black stuffed into her bag. He also muttered to himself constantly. Mostly about blood purity and the lack of discipline in Hogwarts since he left the post of Headmaster. He had been a lovely companion.

“I don’t take orders from mudbloods.”

Hermione stopped suddenly. She wasn’t quite sure whether she imagined what she just heard, or whether by thinking about Phineas Black she’d summoned him and his blood supremacist ranting like a vengeful demon.

“I’ll report you to Professor Dumbledore!”

Ah, Hermione thought with some relief. Those were familiar voices. And not the oil representation of a thoroughly irritating Hogwarts alumni.

The second voice she recognised as Lily.

“I’ll report you to Professor Dumbledore!” repeated another voice mockingly. “Honestly mudblood, you’re so pathetic. They only made you Head Girl because everyone knows you’re Mcgonagall’s pet.”

“And Potter’s little experiment,” added the first voice to a resounding chorus of nasty laughter.

Hermione suddenly remembered she was still under her Don’t Mind Me charm. She cancelled it and marched forward angrily.

“You’re breaching curfew,” she heard Lily say cooly. “I have the right to take points.”

“Points?” said the first voice. Hermione could see it was Mulciber.

Great.

“No one cares about points anymore. It’s much more than that,” he said threateningly, leering over the shorter girl.

Lily stood firm.

“Well then please don’t keep us in suspense,” Hermione said and the group turned to her. “I for one, am dying to hear what you mean.”

“Nothing Professor Granger,” said Mulciber quickly. “We were just kidding around with Evans.”

“Oh you do know her name then,” said Hermione. “Because it sounded like you didn’t before.”

“They’re out after curfew, Professor,” said Lily somewhat unnecessarily.

“I see this,” said Hermione. “And also, heard it as well.”

She looked at the three Slytherins and one Ravenclaw in front of her. Mulciber and Barnaby weren’t that much of a surprise. But she was a little disappointed to see Evan standing next to a very guilty looking Carys Fawley. They scuffled their feet and jostled with each other under her withering stare.

“I’m not exactly sure what to do with all of you. It seems you have learnt nothing from our last encounter Mister Mulciber,” Hermione said to the taller, dark-haired boy. “Which is a shame because I do not like to think I have neglected my teaching duties.”

“Sorry, Professor Granger,” said Mulciber in a very insincere tone.

“How I long to believe that apology was genuine,” said Hermione dryly. “But unfortunately I was not born yesterday.”

“It was just a joke,” suggested Carys.

“Was it?” Hermione asked. “Because I didn’t hear Miss Evans laughing. Which either means it wasn’t a joke, or it was a terrible one.”

“Evans thought it was funny,” Damien piped up. “Didn’t you Evans?”

Lily stepped back as they all moved towards her.

“I’m a little insulted you thought I would fall for that Mister Wilkes,” Hermione said. “Back to your common rooms immediately, and I shall pass this on to your respective Heads for deciding your punishment. I expect Professor Flitwick will be particularly disappointed,” she said, eyeing Carys. The girl averted her eyes from Hermione’s.

“Yes, Professor,” they all mumbled.

“And I know you don’t care about points, so I’ll give Gryffindor House twenty points for having to endure your offensive language,” Hermione finished.

Evan frowned but none of the other perpetrators said anything.

“I said,” Hermione repeated sternly. “Back to your common rooms.”

She watched the group walk in the direction of the Ravenclaw and Slytherin common rooms. One headed up the stairs, and three went down.

“Well that was unpleasant,” said Hermione. “I thought you showed a lot of fortitude Miss Evans.”

“Thank you Professor,” said Lily. “I don’t feel very brave though. I’m glad you showed up.”

“Would you like an escort to your own Common Room?” Hermione offered.

“No thank you,” said Lily. “I’m quite close and I think I’ll be fine.”

“All right. I hope the rest of your night is more peaceful,” said Hermione.

She’d lost a bit of motivation to bring up dropping Advanced Transfiguration with Lily. After witnessing first the conversation with Snape and now the altercation with Mulciber’s little group she was over her normal emotional limit for the day.

Instead of meandering she went directly to her chambers where she came across Snape, who was appearing to have an internal dilemma about whether to knock on her door or not.

“Hello,” Hermione said.

He turned around quickly. “Hello Professor. I’ve got a really bad headache. I was just seeing if you had another pain potion.”

“After curfew? That’s a bold move,” Hermione said.

“Is it after curfew?” Snape asked innocently.

Hermione laughed. “Right. Of course. You weren’t aware. Sure. Come on. I’ll give you one and a note so you can get back to your Common Room without getting in trouble.”

He followed her inside and put his bag neatly by the door as he walked over to the armchair and sat down. She went to her cabinet and took out a potion which she gave to him. Then she sat across from him and watched him drink it.

“Not worried it’s poisoned this time?” she asked.

“I’ve started to trial a self-developed antidote,” said Snape. “Drink it once a day and it counteracts most low grade poisons.”

“Once a day hey? You must endure a lot of poisoning attempts,” observed Hermione.

“One can never be too careful,” Snape said seriously.

“Oh definitely,” said Hermione. She took out her quill and wrote him a note on a piece of parchment. “I mean, you know what they say—hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”

“Exactly,” said Snape in a satisfied tone.

She handed him the note. “Anything else you require Mister Snape?”

He frowned a little as he took the paper and tucked it into his robe pocket.

“Have you ever regretted anything really badly?” he asked suddenly.

“Many things,” said Hermione lightly. “I like to start the day with at least one or two regrets.”

“I mean serious ones,” said Snape. “Ones you wish you had a time turner to change.”

Hermione sat back in her chair. “Of course,” she said. “But even with a time turner you know you may not even be able to change what happened.”

“Right,” he said.

“So all you can do is look forward. Think about how you can learn from that regret,” Hermione said.

“Oh,” he said sadly,

Hermione tried to be a bit more comforting. “It’s awful when you’ve done something you want to take back,” she said. “But everyone makes mistakes right?”

“Not everyone thinks like that,” said Snape. “Some people think if you make one mistake then that’s it.”

Hermione suddenly remembered one thing Harry had told her about his mother’s time at school. An altercation that Hermione didn’t know the specifics of except apparently whatever it was between Snape and Harry’s mother, that event had broken it irrevocably.

Eeeeeeeek, said Hermione’s brain. Dangerous waters ahead!

“Well,” Hermione said carefully. “It depends how big the mistake was.”

“Huge,” admitted Snape with a sigh.

“Hmmm,” Hermione said. “It takes time to get past a really huge mistake. Maybe with a bit of time they’ll realise it was a mistake and you regret it.”

“They know it was a mistake and I regret it!” Snape said angrily, “I don’t understand why they can’t forget about it.”

ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT Hermione’s mind commanded.

“You have to let people get over things in their own time,” suggested Hermione’s mouth as her mind refused to commit any further resources to the imminent train-wreck . “Not in a time that’s convenient for you.”

“And what if they don’t?” Snape asked.

You are on your own with this, said Hermione’s brain, good luck.

“I’m sure anyone that is smart enough to be your friend, is smart enough to see when you are truly remorseful,” said Hermione diplomatically.

“But what if I can’t stop making mistakes?” Snape asked quietly.

“Then, I’m afraid Mister Snape, you are just like the rest of us. Burdened by the curse of imperfection,” Hermione commented in a wry tone.

“Will you forgive me if I make I make a huge mistake that I regret?” Snape questioned, but didn’t look up to meet her eyes as he asked, instead focusing on picking at the threads on the arms of the chair.

Hermione figured that he wouldn’t ask that question if he had any even the slightest comprehension of what her inaction—mistake—in this time would mean for his future.

“I will,” said Hermione. “If you promise to forgive me if I do,” she added somewhat selfishly.

He glanced up at her.

Hermione offered her hand. “Deal?” she asked.

He reached across and shook it. “Yes,” he agreed.

Chapter Text

Hermione had promised herself she would wake up early to make it to breakfast in case something else interesting happened, but she was woken way earlier than expected by a knocking on her door.

She cast a Tempus. Four o’clock in the morning. The knocker better have a good reason, she decided, or she would be very put out.

Maybe it was a booty call. Did wizards do that? The seventies was a time of sexual freedom right? Oh god she hoped they didn’t. There wasn’t anyone in the castle who’s call or booty or those two things combined that she was interested in.

She blearily opened the door to find Minerva there in a shiny red dressing gown.

“Minerva?” asked Hermione sleepily. “What’s up?”

“Put a coat on and follow me,” said Minerva.

Hermione grabbed her robe, threw it over her head and tugged her boots on before hurrying out of her chambers and in Minerva’s footsteps. The older witch led her down staircases and through the halls and the kitchen corridor until they arrived at the nook which concealed the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.

Hermione was surprised to see Filius, Pomona, Horace and even Dumbledore standing around the stack of barrels.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked again.

Filius turned around. “Hermione, it’s a terrible business I’m afraid.”

Hermione looked up and saw the red writing above the door.

AVADA MUDBLOODS

“Oh,” she said.

“Still think it is a little prank Pomona?” Minerva asked cattily.

“How terrible that my first response was to believe the best of people,” Pomona responded in turn. “I shall immediately become as cynical as you and always think the worst and then we can all be suspicious of each other all of the time.”

“Hermione, I am aware you came across a few students out after curfew last night,” Dumbledore said, cutting across the sniping of the two professors.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Lily Evans came across a group of them. There was a bit of unpleasantness, including calling her a mudblood. I broke it up and sent them back to the common rooms.”

Filius and Minerva exchanged a look.

“Who were the students the group?” asked Dumbledore.

“Ophiuchus Mulciber, Barnaby Wilkes, Evan Rozier and Carys Fawley,” answered Hermione, ticking them off on her fingers.

“I am unfortunately not surprised to hear those names,” Horace said sadly.

“Carys Fawley you say?” Filius asked. “Well that is a disappointment.”

“I told her that would be your response,” said Hermione. “Besides them, Severus Snape came to my chambers for a pain potion after curfew. But I gave him a note.”

“Was there any chance Mister Snape was with the other students, and left before Miss Evans caught up with them?” Dumbledore asked.

“I doubt that,” interrupted Horace before Hermione could speak. “He very rarely moves in a group.”

”Besides,” added Minerva. “He’d do something far more sophisticated. Like put the entire school under a Fidelius Charm.”

“Merlin, Minerva don’t give the boy any ideas!” squeaked Filius.

“I’ve obviously missed something,” said Pomona in a slightly cross tone.

“Mister Snape is not a suspect,” Hermione summarised kindly.

“Right,” Pomona said. “Er...was he ever?”

“No,” said Filius, Minerva and Hermione in unison. They looked at each other in surprise.

“He is still mourning the loss of his mother,” said Dumbledore. “My only concern would be if someone decided to take advantage of his current vulnerability.”

“Who would do that?” Pomona asked in a horrified tone.

Filius, Minerva and Hermione swapped another look. Hufflepuffs.

“We shall conceal the words for the moment,” said Dumbledore and Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed at how quickly the graffiti vanished. “Filius, can you stay with me? I’d like us to work through some diagnostic charms. It may unearth some information about the perpetrators.”

“Of course Albus,” said Filius.

“Everyone else please try and maintain normality,” Dumbledore suggested.

“I have zero idea how to go about maintaining something I’ve never experienced,” said Hermione.

Minerva snorted. “Come on. Let’s go have breakfast, like a normal person would. Then try and teach classes which may or may not include the nasty pieces of work that did this.”

“Children used to be nice,” Pomona said wistfully.

“No they didn’t,” Minerva counteracted in a bracing manner. “It’s only your lot that are always nice. The rest fit somewhere along a a continuum of decent enough to inferi,”

“You’re really selling this teaching job,” said Hermione.

Minerva laughed.

At breakfast Hermione pondered briefly whether The Eight wizards had perhaps managed to breach the wards. Had they stirred up this trouble? Hermione turned this idea over in her mind before abandoning it. They wouldn’t bother. It was a complete waste of their time and attention. If they completed their task here in the seventies, they could be Avada-ing all the Muggleborns they wanted in their own time soon enough.

No. They only had one target in this timeline.

And that particular target had Hermione wandering around the castle the rest of the day.

She’d double-checked her wards, her jinxes and her charms. She’d even been tempted to dash out to Hogsmede but didn’t want to risk leaving Snape at the school by himself.

She could, Hermione supposed, get Minerva or Filius or even Horace to help out. But she knew at the heart of it there was something she was prepared do that they might not. She’d protect Snape with her own life and she wasn’t sure if they would.

But then again, they didn’t know what was at stake.

After his morning classes Snape didn’t go to the Great Hall for lunch, instead he went out onto the grounds and sat beside one of the oak trees that was still clinging on to its brilliant autumn foliage.

Hermione lay on the grass across the grounds, slightly behind another tree. She cast a tricky little telegraphing spell and lay there, occasionally scanning the flora around Snape. Just in case someone tried to jump out and hex him. She’d also cast her protection spell on him earlier as he’d walked into herbology, so she knew she had a few minutes up her sleeve if something happened.

Surveillance was completely boring most of the time. And watching Snape writing in a notebook was probably one of the least interesting things she’d observed. Hermione was almost wishing for something to happen, anything to happen when she realised someone was approaching her from behind.

She cast her shield charm just in case was something nefarious and let a small blue ball of flame unfurl itself inside her hand. She could fling it in their face pretty damn quick if the need arose and she could attest from experience that and no one liked having their face burnt off.

“What are you doing?” the voice of Regulus asked in a curious tone.

“Professor stuff,” said Hermione casually, still lying on her stomach. She let the flame dissipate.

“Really?” Regulus asked doubtfully. “I’ve never seen another Professor do that before.”

“Well this is your lucky day,” Hermione said. She turned to look at him. “Is there something you need my help with?”

“Everyone seems to be in a bit of a dither,” Regulus said in an usually casually manner. “Something to do with Hufflepuff House?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Regulus’s eyes were too innocently wide and his face way too blank.

“Nice try Mister Black,” said Hermione. “But I’m a Gringott’s vault. You won’t get it out of me.”

Regulus laughed. “Yes, the others suggested not bothering with you but I thought I’d try.”

Hermione smiled. “Well that’s very flattering.“

“Did it work?” Regulus asked.

“No, but at least you gave it an honest go.”

“That’s me done then,” said Regulus and sat beside her. “Can I watch what you are doing?”

“If you answer a question for me,” bargained Hermione.

Regulus shrugged. “Yes, why not?”

“Do you know who did it?”

He met her eyes steadily. “No.”

He was a good liar, thought Hermione. But in her job she divined truth from lies every day. And he was just a boy. She’d broken men before.

“That’s a shame,” she said with a shrug. “And who’s next do you think?”

“What do you mean?”

Ahhh, he was curious. Got you!

“Well If you are the type of group that needs to divide people...to get power by creating a dichotomy of the powerful versus the subjugated then what happens if you get rid of one of the groups entirely?” Hermione posited.

Regulus frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“First muggles. Then muggleborn. Then you have to start looking for the lower status within the powerful group. So then you have to have pureblood traitors. And who’s next after that? Anyone. Anyone that thinks differently,” Hermione pointed out.

Regulus stood up suddenly. “That’s...you shouldn’t be talking about that,” he stammered, in a flustered manner very unlike his usual calm demeanour.

“Why not?” asked Hermione. “I like to think for myself. And that’s the type of stuff I like to think about.”

“Yes,” said Regulus, who had managed to calm himself. “A very interesting perspective. Thank you Professor Granger. I don’t think I’ll stay and watch you anymore. I have revisions to attend to.”

“No problem. Goodbye Mister Black,” said Hermione.

She rolled over onto her back and watched him walk back towards the castle. Once she couldn’t see him anymore she rolled back again. She was nervous about Snape being out of the castle for this long, so decided to disturb his peace in the hope he’d return to the area protected by the stronger wards.

When she neared Snape she could see him writing furiously in a notebook. Then pausing to murmur something, frown, and write again.

“Mister Snape,” Hermione greeted him as she walked closer.

“Professor Granger,” Snape said.

“Enjoying the paltry sunlight?” she asked.

“I’ve cast a warming charm,” said Snape. “So I’m actually quite comfortable.”

“Sensible,” said Hermione. “May I asked what you’re working on?”

“I’m perfecting something,” Snape responded, moving his hand slightly to cover the spiky handwriting in the notebook,

“And what are you perfecting?” Hermione asked.

“The counter spell to Sectumsempra,” Snape said. “I worried about using it without knowing how to heal it.”

“Good point,” said Hermione. “You never know when you could get hit by a bit of friendly fire or vice versa. I personally never cast a spell I can’t counter.”

Snape stared at her. “I was more thinking along the lines of someone stealing it and purposely using it on me.”

“Ah,” said Hermione. “That’s also a good point.”

Snape smiled and returned to his notebook.

“So after Sectumsempra, what next?” Hermione asked.

“What do you mean?” Snape said.

“Well that’s one spell. Just one. And you saw the damage it has the potential to cause. In reality a sensible witch or wizard would know the counter spells to every spell they thought their enemies might try to use.”

“Every spell?” Snape repeated doubtfully.

“As many as you can think of,” confirmed Hermione. “And once you’ve mastered them. You need to know every spell your friends use.”

Snape gave her a very confused look.

“Friends can become enemies very quickly,” said Hermione. “And enemies become friends. It’s a changeable world.”

“I know that,” Snape said with an eye roll.

“Never underestimate the usefulness of being forearmed,” Hermione said seriously.

Then she stopped talking suddenly.

He’d said almost those exact words in her presence. Well, the adult version of him had at any rate.

It had been after the trap Voldemort had set in the Ministry. She’d been hit by a bad curse. Very bad.

Everything had been red hot tearing agony, and there’d been screaming screaming screaming. She thought it was her maybe, but in that strange removed way that extreme pain sometimes brought out.

At times hands held her gently and firmly onto the bed, and magic whispered across her, the pain dulling momentarily before roaring back to life.

“I can’t close the wound,” Madame Pomfrey had said frantically to another person after a while. “It just reopens.”

“Oh, Hermione,” came Professor Mcgonagall’s voice.

Water was dropping on her face and into her mouth. Salt water.

Was her Professor crying?

Maybe she was dead. Which would almost be a relief. She was in so much pain.

But why was being dead so painful?

“What the fuck is going on here?” demanded someone else.

“Severus, it’s Dark Magic. We can’t heal her. She’s dying,” Professor Mcgonagall said.

“Move over,” she heard Professor Snape bark.

She felt the pressure of his hand on her forehead then a cooling rush of magic through her body. The claustrophobic, squeezing feeling of a diagnostic spell followed. After a brief moment there was an electric, pins and needles wave buzzing through her body and radiating into her chest where the pain was strongest.

“Hold on Miss Granger,” whispered Madame Pomfrey in her ear. “Hold on.”

“Don’t be overdramatic,” Professor Snape had snapped. “She’ll be fine.”

And just like that the pain had stopped.

Hermione had finally then drew her first breath, in what felt like eons, that hadn’t sent agonising tremors through her body and made that sucking, rattling sound.

“It’s done,” said Professor Snape in a bored tone. “But if you keep crying like that over her she’ll get hypothermia and die anyway.”

“You snarky git,” said Professor Mcgonagall with a half-sob. “Shut up. Thank Merlin you were here.”

“Thank Merlin at least one person in this room realised the usefulness of being forearmed,” Professor Snape retorted.

His hand had still been on her forehead as he’d spoken. She remembered that part as she lay in the hospital bed, marvelling in being free from pain. She had felt the callouses on his palm and the slight static fizz of magic remnants clicking and sparking between their skin.

Hermione thought she must have fallen into a deep sleep after that, because when she’d opened her eyes she’d been alone.

Huh.

She wondered briefly if his adult self had perhaps now been referring to her.

Maybe.

Or maybe it was just a coincidence and she was searching for something that wasn’t there.

Something she hoped was there?

The younger version of Snape on the grass next to her sighed and put his book and quill down. “I don’t think I understand people very well.”

“Neither do I,” Hermione agreed. “People can be hard to figure out. I’ll let you know when I do.”

“I’m eighteen in a few months,” Snape said suddenly. “An adult.”

“An adult,” Hermione teased. “Shall I rush and grab a firewhiskey from my chambers? We can both toast to our arthritis while picking out a suitable cane for you.”

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a very Professor Snape stare.

She bit her lip to stop herself laughing. “I’m sorry Mister Snape. Go ahead. There’s nothing funny about being an adult. Trust me.”

“Do you think I could come and see you after I leave school? And still talk like this?” Snape asked.

Hermione looked at him in surprise, but there was no sarcasm in his voice and his face was open and quite pink. He was genuinely interested.

She chewed her lip slightly. She knew when they eventually would meet again exactly how much he would enjoy talking to her. And the answer to that was not at all.

“Maybe when you’re an adult you’ll look at me and think how young I am. With nothing interesting to say,” Hermione said nervously.

“No I won’t!” Snape said defensively.

“Well then,” Hermione said, and she couldn’t help but smile at him. “You will always be welcome to talk to me. No matter when it is.”

“Always?” Snape asked, and he looked so hopeful Hermione almost couldn’t bear it.

“Always,” she promised.

Chapter Text

They hadn’t figured out who had done the graffiti. And despite the efforts of the professors of course it had got out. The door. The graffiti. All of it.

And beyond the first urgent flashing during a few days earlier, Hermione had not received any indications the wizards had attempted to break the wards of Hogwarts.

It seemed the whole school was heavy with suspicion. Classmates chattered less, the Great Hall was subdued and the classes became almost silent.

Hermione, who had previously wished for quiet, respectful obedience in the students, found it actually quite disturbing when presented with it in real life.

She was also following Snape around like a bad smell, and decided that surely she had finally found the undisputed King of the Swots. He dashed any claims she had to the title through unswerving dedication to studies. He didn’t seem to do anything else.

He was most often to be found holed up in his common room pouring over textbooks (oh god was he still writing in her book?). Hermione knew this as she had bribed a Slytherin painting to report back to her, by moving the witch in question’s second frame next to a lovely watercolour impression of Hogsmede and the Three Broomsticks.

“Lovely. I can just pop in and out,” the witch had said happily.

“You deserve it,” said Hermione, who wasn’t quite sure what paintings of people drank, or whether they even could get drunk. But the Slytherin witch appeared to believe so, so that was good enough for Hermione.

Besides the common room. Snape was in classes, or eating, or in the library, or most annoyingly, wandering alone in the grounds, reading, making himself an irresistible target.

This was why no one had written what he had done at school, Hermione scoffed. In her experience no one in the department appreciated the pursuit of knowledge for knowledge’s sake. So someone studying wouldn’t have been deemed worthy of records. Philistines.

She’d managed to figure out where he went and what he did. So while she was confident about keeping him safe, she was at a complete loss as to what significant event he was required to kickstart. Perhaps The Eight had got something wrong? And if they had, maybe they’d just decide to off him the first chance they got.

These thoughts were troubling Hermione as she sat at the head table in the Great Hall.

“I know how you feel,” said Pomona to her right. “I always get a bit stressed when I’m chaperoning a Hogsmede trip as well.”

“What?” Hermione asked.

“I left Hermione off the roster this time,” Minerva said. “She helped me out with the last one. I’m giving her a break.”

“Which years?” questioned Hermione agitatedly.

“Sixth and seventh,” said Pomona.

“I’ll sit this one out,” Hermione said firmly,

Minerva looked at her. “Are you sure? It’s the chance to observe teenagers in their natural habitat? To remind yourself how glad you are that you are no longer seventeen and completely defenceless against the onslaught of hormones?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed. Her gaze found Snape’s black head, bent over a book at the far end of the Slytherin table.

Minerva followed her eyes. “All right then. You’re missing out on something. I’ll give you that. Our last trip was tame. I didn’t have to tell anyone to put their wand away.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully,

Pomona elbowed Minerva. “Oh Min! Don’t be cynical. They’re just young.”

“I thought we just had a Hogsmede trip,” commented Hermione.

“It’s a distraction,” said Minerva. “Dumbledore’s idea.”

“Right,” said Hermione.

“They are meeting us at the gate in fifteen minutes,” said Pomona. “If you want to get changed Min.”

“No, thank you. I look exactly how I want to. Like the last thing I want to do is escort children to Hogsmede,” said Minerva.

“Have fun,” drawled Hermione.

It only took her twenty minutes to dash back to her room, grab her satchel, smash out a quick Never Mind Me and head for the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor. She pulled the statue back and headed into the tunnel, carefully undoing and resetting her jinxes as she moved through. By the time she climbed out into Honeydukes cellar only forty-five minutes had passed. Hermione was pleased. She hadn’t lost her touch.

She ignored a very bored looking Minerva shepherding a gaggle of sixth years and snuck past Pomona who was staring longingly, with two other Hufflepuff witches, into the window of Gladrags at a very slinky pewter dress. She ducked and weaved though people until she saw the lanky, slightly stooped figure of Snape walking into the Three Broomsticks.

Phew.

Hermione picked up her step to catch up, then entered the pub, choosing a seat to the right of the door. It was tucked away behind a rack people had tossed their robes onto and felt somewhat secluded.

Snape was at the bar, leaning on the counter and speaking to Rosmerta. His face, Hermione couldn’t help but notice, was very red.

Hermione idly wondered, and not for the first time, what life was like for beautiful people. She’d read a fantastic article on how people tended to view attractive people as more intelligent, competent and trustworthy than average or unattractive people.

It was useful for work. Whenever she interviewed a thorny, recalcitrant suspect she often used a beautification spell. She always got better results. If she looked like that all that time, she might have even been Minister for Magic. A symmetrical face and well-shaped lips seemed to help people overlook a grating personality.

Oh, and a massive rack if you were a witch.

Hermione glanced doubtfully down at her not so massive rack.

Maybe not the Minister then. Maybe just head of her department.

She sighed. Stupid unrealistic beauty standards.

Meanwhile Snape seemed to have at least managed to order a drink from Rosmerta which was quite impressive given her presence appeared to have removed his capacity for rational thought.

Hermione sat back in her chair. She’d keep and eye on him until it was time to return to—

“I told you he’d be in here didn’t I? Sniffing around Rosie like the total cretin he is.”

Hermione turned to her left.

Oh for fuck’s sake. It was James and his band of merry animangi.

“You were right all right. Disgusting,” sneered James.

They made their way towards the bar, with a reluctant looking Remus and a very excitable Peter trailing behind them.

“Oi Snape,” James said loudly as he rounded on Snape.

Hermione watched Snape immediately make for his left but was blocked by Sirius. So instead Snape turned back to James with a neutral expression.

“Potter,” he said cooly.

“Shut up,” said James. “I’m here to tell you to leave Lily alone. She doesn’t want your big, greasy, nose in her business. Don't talk to her again,” James repeated angrily.

Yikes, thought Hermione.

“I was under the impression I can talk to whomever I want,” said Snape.

Oh... he was fighting back now. Hermione was intrigued. She thought he sounded very calm although he obviously wasn’t.

“Your impression is wrong,” said Sirius languidly. “You should only talk to people who want to hear from you. And that’s nobody,”

“What are you going to do? Hex me so I can’t talk?” Snape asked.

“Don’t tempt me,” James sneered.

“You couldn’t do it anyway,” shrugged Snape. “It’s a fifth year spell. It’s way beyond your capacity.”

James didn’t say anything. He looked across to Sirius.

“Snivellus has decided to grow a backbone. Interesting,” said Sirius.

“Trying to impress Granger,” guessed James. And apparently it was a good guess as Hermione could see the back of his neck grow scarlet.

“Now that’s pathetic,” said Sirius. “She feels sorry for you. You didn’t think she actually liked you? Did you?”

“He did,” said James. “Look at him.”

Both the boys laughed, with Peter joining in. Remus crossed his arms uncomfortably.

“Come on James,” he said. “You’ve spoken to him. Let’s go.”

“Not yet,” said James. “I’m just making sure he got the message.”

“Pretty sure I did,” said Snape. “You’re a pathetic bully who can’t satisfy his girlfriend so is looking for someone to blame.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

James and Sirius looked completely discombobulated.

Hermione held back a laugh with difficulty. Now there was the biting humour she remembered.

She could see James reach for his wand, but a black and silver cane pressed against his wrist and held the boy’s hand still.

“Oh no I don’t think so,” said Lucius. “In Rosmerta’s establishment? That’s very rude.”

“You can’t buy class,” agreed Narcissa smoothly from behind him. She glided between the boys like they weren’t even there.

“Cissy,” greeted Sirius.

Hermione couldn’t see Narcissa’s response but she didn’t think it was friendly based on Sirius’s frown.

“Run along children,” said Bellatrix. “Play time’s over.”

James took a step backwards and ran into Peter. The smaller boy sent him a look of surprise and stared at the newly arrived trio.

“Come on. Rather not stay here anyway. The place is full of snakes,” said James loudly,

Bellatrix blew him a kiss and went around to Severus’s right and leant back against the bar. Narcissa crossed to Severus’s left and turned the full force of her icy glare onto the group. Finally, Lucius turned as well, blocking the view of Severus from the Gryffindors.

“Let’s go,” Remus complained.

James nodded and the four boys left the establishment, passing close to Hermione but not paying attention to her. Peter turned and sent a final questioning look into the pub.

That was a bit intense, thought Hermione. Then she realised her wand had started to softly buzz against her thigh in her pocket.

Shit!

She cast a quick diagnostic.

Wait.

It was her ward inside the Broomsticks. She looked over at the seemingly vacant table, concentrated and immediately got a headache.

Ahhhh. Disillusioned.

Clever.

She let her finite spell free and suddenly she could see the two wizards she’d be searching for sitting there watching Snape and the others.

They realised immediately the moment their spell failed.

Both wizards stood and looked around wildly. Her own spell held and they looked past her.

After they couldn’t locate the person that revealed them, they promptly disapparated, disintegrating the table and chair in their haste to get away.

There was a brief moment of chaos. Rosmerta leant over the bar while exclaiming loudly about the damages, and still looked beautiful while doing it. How was that possible? Lucius and the Black sisters stared at the broken furniture with confused expressions, and Snape was looking right at her.

Wait.

She glanced back at him. He lifted his hand in a silent greeting and she sent him a tight little smile in reply.

Hermione nervously checked her spell, and to her consternation she found it was still in place. How had he negated it?

It didn’t matter. It was negated now at any rate so she had to make herself scarce. While the other patrons were still commiserating with Rosmerta about the rudeness of some people these days, and Bellatrix was looking terribly, terribly bored with the entire room, Hermione left the pub.

She didn’t go far though, just across the street into an alley full of her latent wards. She transfigured a stool and sat down, just able to catch a glimpse of Snape talking to Lucius at the bar. Another wizard had come over to the group and, from the looks of it, was trying to chat up Bellatrix.

Well, thought Hermione, good luck to him and that’s the the last day he’d probably have any type of intact genitalia.

Hermione was busy admiring the bravery of the unknown wizard when she noticed a solo figure walking back to the pub.

Peter Pettigrew.

Hermione frowned as the boy stopped at the door of the pub, took a deep breath and entered. She didn’t think Peter had the stones to try anything on Snape on his own without James and Sirius, but here he was, apparently with the stones she had thought he didn’t have.

She watched Peter walk towards the bar and be met by an agitated Lucius. There was obviously some harsh words, and quite a bit of dramatic cane flailing as Peter stepped backwards. Then Snape got up from his seat and joined them. She saw him speak to Peter, arms crossed. There was a conversation between Snape and Peter, as Lucius tossed his hair and returned to stand at the bar with the witches. Finally Peter put out a hand and Snape, with obvious reluctance, shook it.

Hermione, in some shock, saw Snape lead Peter over to Lucius, Narcissa and Bellatrix at the bar. Narcissa obviously said something marvellously cutting as the group laughed. Peter as well.

Shit on a brick.

And of course Hermione knew what it was. It was so blindingly obvious. Even The Eight knew the importance of Peter in the scheme of things. He was the Secret Keeper. The loyal follower who brought Voldemort back and cared for him in his weakened state. He’d lied and spied with the best of them.

How he had fallen in with the Death Eaters, while still playing animal capers with the marauders was mainly scuttlebutt. Back in her time the best guess was he got sick of being the hanger-on and decided to change to the up and comers.

And here, across the road from her right this moment was the beginning. Snape smoothed Peter’s way into the good graces of Voldemort’s top two recruiters. The rest, of course, was very much history.

Oh Mister Snape, thought Hermione. How terrible for him.

When did he eventually find out it was Peter that sold Lily out? It must have been years. Years and years. Perhaps it had even been when Remus had taught at the school—and also nearly eaten them—before everything had come out in the shrieking shack.

The prophecy was one thing. One nail in the coffin. And then there was the recruitment of Peter Pettigrew. The second nail that the Order hadn’t known about.

Hermione would not have predicted this small thing was so important. But then again, she hadn’t done the arithmancy, and The Eight had. To think that this was what they were waiting for, and that was it for Snape. He was done. His usefulness had played out before being outweighed by his talent for duplicity.

She thought of her own small moments that had built up to where she was today. Like the hat debating where to put her before she’d tentatively said her favourite colour was blue.

Ravenclaw has nothing to teach you that you don’t already know, it had argued while perched on her head.

She’d put in her claims for Hufflepuff as well, but the hat had told her there was only one House for her before shouting Gryffindor loudly, and subsequently given her a searing headache.

Stupid hat. Her favourite colour was green anyway. It went to show that you couldn’t fool a magical accessory.

It was how she met Harry and Ron though. And Neville. And Luna.

Then the troll incident, the philosopher’s stone and even dropping out of a ski trip with her parents (she’d give anything for that now). All these things were pebbles that rolled and rolled, until boulders were dislodged, until she was running through the woods heart pounding in her chest and then crying on the floor of the Manor, wishing she was dead.

But it also led to here. So there was something. She wouldn’t change any of it. Even the worst bits. Even to have her parents back.

Hermione wondered if Snape had the time device whether he would change anything. Whether if, lying on the floor of the shack, he’d decide to activate the sand and go back. Would he? What would he change?

What if he knew more than his own death? If he knew that it had been the end of Voldemort?

And what about Lily? Minerva? Remus? Even Dumbledore....

They all had things they might be tempted to change, if given the chance.

But they wouldn’t have the chance. Even if Hermione survived the trip back (exceedingly doubtful), she knew the department would seize the device and it would be tucked away in the Time Room. To be studied and never used again.

So all the little pebbles would remain as they were, poised and ready to fall.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore announced the hiatus on Hogsmede visits over dinner. Hermione had asked him to, without explaining why, and he’d done it. She watched as he spoke to the students. There were resounding groans from the Great Hall but Minerva clinked her goblet against Hermione’s with a big grin.

“How lovely,” she said. “No more chaperoning.”

“Now we’ll just be finding them snogging in corners while on curfew patrol,” interjected Pomona.

Minerva’s face dropped. “You’re right. Merlin’s hairy ballsack.”

Hermione clinked her own goblet on Pomona’s. “Here’s to coitus interruptus,” she proposed.

Pomona laughed. “I like that. Yes!”

They both giggled as they drank.

“Well then you’ll both love that I rostered you both on tonight,” said Minerva smugly.

“Boo,” grumped Hermione. She was going to be patrolling anyway, checking on her various protection spells, but things always seemed less interesting when one was forced to do them.

“Don’t worry,” said Pomona. “I have a particularly exquisite bottle of wine in my quarters. We can have a celebratory glass after our uneventful evening.”

“Lovely,” said Hermione. “I couldn’t bear the possibility of enduring a night sober.”

Pomona shot her a look, but she relaxed once she spotted Hermione’s sly grin.

“I’d say something disapproving but I’ll be having a dram or too myself,” added Minerva.

“You’ve got a quidditch game tomorrow remember Min,” Pomona said. “You need your wits about you.”

“Oh, who are you playing?” asked Hermione.

“Slytherin,” Minerva answered. “And Horace is back in charge in case you had any more sneaky little strategies up your sleeve.”

Hermione laughed. She’d had her one quidditch foray, and wasn’t that interested in a repeat performance. Go out on a high—that sort of thing.

She looked to her right far down the table to see Horace deep in conversation with Rolanda. She hid a smile. She didn’t think Horace was going to go down in the next game without a fight. Maybe she would watch the match. Just in case it was interesting.

Although. It was quidditch.

Therefore it wasn’t terribly likely.

The students were still unnaturally subdued in classes that day, and even the usual back row of recalcitrants in each class (either Gryffindor or Slytherin depending on the teacher) were reasonably well behaved.

Because of this, Hermione was tentatively optimistic that her evening patrol would uneventful. And if she’d stopped to think more on that little fantasy, she would have remembered that often life didn’t work that way. Well, at least her life didn’t work that way. An uneventful day at work generally meant that the evening shift would include an urgent investigation into some weird time paradox where a wizard messing about with a time turner ended up being their own brother and was begging the department to help them sort out the resulting inheritance issues.

So she wasn’t really surprised when she heard the raised voices ahead of her in the corridor in the last quarter hour of her patrol. Hermione sighed loudly to herself. One night. That’s all she wanted. One night where she wasn’t dealing with drama.

How had Minerva and the rest lasted until she, Harry and Ron turned up a decade or so later? Hermione felt she’d aged twenty years in the months she’d been in the past and was sure she’d be grey as a ghost it she stayed much longer.

It wasn’t long until Christmas either. Less than a month. Would anyone be around the castle? She assumed a few teachers would stay, perhaps, if some of the students did. She was used to be a tag-along at Christmas anyway, but she would like some company.

But until then, she was still dealing with daily dramas. She concentrated on the ruckus.

The raised voices were all too familiar to her unfortunately.

“Your Death Eater boyfriend isn’t here to look after you now, is he?” James asked in a nasty tone.

Oh not these two again, Hermione groaned to herself. She wasn’t quite sure what it was about Snape that bothered them so much, but whatever it was, they were stuck on him.

“I can look after myself,” retorted Snape cooly.

Hermione came around the corner. Snape was facing off against James and Sirius. His wand was clutched in his hand, and his hair was falling around his face.

James raised his wand and Snape spun towards him. The hex sent by James bounced harmlessly off Snape’s shield, and James and Sirius were both flung off their feet with the simultaneously released stunner.

Quite inappropriately, Hermione first reaction was to clap her hands together in pleased surprise. The perfect double cast! And he didn’t chop anyone’s head off! She was very proud.

Snape stalked, stalked!, along the corridor until he was standing over the two boys.

“Next time it won’t be a stunner,” he said in a flat, sneering tone.

He was standing very straight, legs apart and shoulders squared. And his head was tilted back in an arrogant manner, throwing his features into sharp relief in the flickering light of the sconces. He looked untouchable, unruffled and even cruel.

He looked very much like Professor Snape. He sounded like him too.

Hermione frowned slightly. She felt like she’d lost something, but something she wasn’t quite sure what it was she’d had to start off with.

“And what is the explanation for this?” came the very shocked sounding voice of Pomona. Hermione saw her at the other end of the corridor. They’d planned to meet here in the middle of this corridor at the end of their patrol before retiring with a nice glass of wine.

“Snape attacked us!” James said indignantly from his prone position on the floor.

“We were just on our way back to our common room!” added Sirius in a wounded tone.

Snape looked away angrily. He didn’t say anything.

“Yes. That’s all very interesting and probably almost believable except I observed you sending the first hex,” said Pomona.

“Er,” said James as he flushed a bright red.

“Ten points each from your Houses for fighting in the halls,” said Pomona.

All three boys winced.

“And detention with me for the next two nights Mister Black and Mister Potter,” Pomona added. “I have quite a lot of manure to spread on the garden beds, without magic, that I need two strong boys to assist me with.”

James’s head dropped back onto the floor as he groaned.

“What about Snape?” asked Sirius petulantly, “He was part of it too!”

“Yes,” said Pomona. “Two nights detention with Professor Granger I think should do it. Do you think Professor Granger?”

All the boys turned towards the direction in which Pomona had directed the question, and noticed Hermione for the first time.

“Yes. I think that’s appropriate,” she said.

James and Sirius stared at Hermione, their eyes bulging. She knew they were dying to complain but weren’t quite sure how to do it without getting in more trouble. She knew the feeling.

She glanced over at Snape, who met her eyes with his usual blank expression. She raised an eyebrow

....well?

“Yes, Professor Sprout,” Snape muttered.

“All right then,” said Pomona commandingly. “I’ll escort Mister Potter and Mister Black to their common room. You escort Mister Snape and shall we still catch up afterwards to discuss that...Er... lesson plan?” Pomona said meaningfully to Hermione.

“Definitely,” said Hermione. “It’s an important one that we’d already agreed we’d work on together.”

“Excellent,” said Pomona. “Come on boys. Let’s go.”

She led the downcast figures of James and Sirius in the direction of the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione stood and waited for Snape. With the others gone he deflated somewhat, looking like a himself again, and not his imposing adult version.

“I’m sorry Professor,” he muttered as he caught up with her.

“What are you sorry for? It was brilliant! A perfect double-cast and no one lost any limbs or worse. I’d call that a roaring success. Although roaring does seem a bit Gryffindor. Can I say it was a hissing success? Is that preferable?” Hermione trailed off when she noticed Snape’s expression.

She suddenly felt nervous. He was looking at her with bewilderment.

“I thought you’d be angry,” he said.

“How could I be? You remembered our training, You defended yourself. They’re alive. It’s a perfect outcome.” Hermione repeated.

Snape shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, then grinned. “Still got detention though,” he said.

“Indeed you do,” Hermione said with her own grin. “I shall endeavour to set you something particularly terrible. So you can suffer appropriately.”

“Perfect,” said Snape in a very low drawl. “I like to feel properly punished for my misdemeanours.”

Hermione blinked rapidly.

Bloody hell, her libido pointed out, if the adult Snape had said that to her in that voice she may well have had some issues in the knickers department.

“Er yes,” she said a bit frantically. “Then let me dig out some other spells we can work on.”

“That would be great,” said Snape. And he sounded, thankfully, like a teenager again.

A few moments passed before Snape spoke once more, in a slightly more hesitant tone.

“I was really scared back there,” he said.

“That’s normal,” said Hermione. “It’s scary to be outnumbered.”

“I’m the only one that’s ever scared,” he said glumly.

“Everyone is scared,” said Hermione. “It’s how you use being scared that distinguishes you.”

“I’ve never seen you scared,” Snape challenged.

“Oh I’m excellent at hiding it,” Hermione laughed. “But trust me. I’m scared.”

She looked at him. “You’re good at it too. I wouldn’t have guessed you were scared at all back there.”

Snape looked satisfied at this comment and smiled a bit smugly. Then his face changed back to questioning.

“What do you mean use anyway?” he asked.

“Fear is our mind telling us that it thinks something is dangerous,” Hermione said. “It’s good. It means we can be cautious. But it’s not always correct. It might think something is more dangerous than it is.”

“Right,” said Snape.

“But the release of the hormones from the adrenal glands prepares you to deal with the dangerous situation in the best way,” Hermione finished.

Snape gave her a sideways glance.

She felt herself get a bit hot. “Right, right. Not the best time for a lecture.”

“But I like when you say stuff like that,” said Snape. “It’s interesting.”

You’d be the only one, Hermione thought dryly.

They’d reached the staircase to the dungeons, and as they continued down both of them didn’t talk again until Snape cleared his throat.

“Er. Professor Granger are you coming to the match tomorrow?” he asked.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Hermione and she noticed his face fell a bit at her comment. “But I think I’ll tag along to watch. Should be a good game.”

He exhaled loudly. He obviously had been holding his breath as he waited for her response.

“Any tips?” he asked.

Hermione thought hard. “Only that I’d keep an eye on Mister Potter. He does tend to hold a grudge. And quidditch is a dangerous sport.”

“Only for idiots,” said Snape dismissively.

She rolled her eyes.

Wizards.

She got him safely to the hidden Slytherin passageway before making her way to Pomona’s chambers. She knocked on the door and Pomona answered it and immediately placed a glass of wine into her hand.

“Thank you!” Hermione said. “Here’s to our patrol which almost passed uneventfully.”

“Almost,” agreed Pomona. “But not quite. Still, it was easily resolved and nothing beyond a few bits of pride were hurt.”

“Bits of prides of teenage boys should be considered a mortal wound,” observed Hermione.

“Indeed!” laughed Pomona. “Hopefully that’s the end of it.”

“I strongly doubt that,” predicted Hermione.

*

It was, according to Rolanda’s proclamation over breakfast the next day, a perfect day for quidditch. Clear skies and only a very gentle breeze. Hermione, who had previously been under the impression from Harry, Ginny, Ron and Griselda that any day was a perfect day for quidditch, listened with feigned interest.

As she made her way onto the grounds Hermione was swamped by a group of fourth years, clad in their house colours. What would a group of Slytherins be called, wondered Hermione. A den? A nest? A rhumba of Slytherins?

“Professor Granger! Professor Granger!” the group of girls chattered around her excitedly.

“Yes?” Hermione asked, laughing a bit at their exuberance.

“Are you going to sit in our stands?” Aya asked.

“I thought I should probably sit in another stand for this match Miss Baqri,” said Hermione. “So I don’t appear biased.”

“Please? We made you this!” Aya held up a very, very long scarf. It was green, of course, with tiny silver snakes coiled around each other in a intricate pattern.

“How lovely!” said Hermione. She took the scarf from them. It felt very soft and was warm in her hands. An interesting little charm for fourth years. They’d obviously taken their time with the magic.

“All right then,” she said. “I can’t say no now, can I?”

She wound the scarf around her neck, and looped it over her shoulders twice. The girls celebrated her decision, and clapped and giggled before dragging her along in a current of bubbling over-excitement to the Slytherin stands.

The teams were warming up on the grounds and she got a few cheery waves from players of both teams. Sirius waved from across in the Gryffindor stands. Hermione modded politely in return. She couldn’t deny he had a heaping helping of both optimism and persistence.

The younger Black brother, Regulus, corkscrewed in impressive ever-decreasing spirals over to where Hermione was seated.

“Professor Granger,” he called.

Anya clutched at Hermione’s shoulders and squeezed as a small squeak popped out of the girl’s mouth.

Ah, a favourite with this group then.

“Hello Mister Black,” said Hermione. “Focused on the game?”

“Completely,” said Regulus as he dug his hand into his uniform and presented her with a slightly crumpled black orchid.

There was a collective sigh from the fourth year girls around her.

“Thank you Mister Black,” said Hermione, who wasn’t really sure what to say. “How unsettling.”

Regulus grinned and flew back into the grounds, and subsequently received a buff to the back of the head from Fern. Snape also added a few words. Neither of these things appeared to have any effect on Regulus, who simple hung upside down on his broom until Fern laughed and Snape shook his head and flew away from him.

Hermione passed the flower to Aya who held it to her cheek before passing it amongst the other girls.

In front of Hermione, Rolanda soared onto the pitch, blew her whistle and the game began.

Hermione had to admit. She was bored already. All quidditch games looked the same to her. She’d only been interested in the last game she watched, as she was worried her strategy wouldn’t work. So. She guess that meant the only part of the last game that had held her focus was concern for her reputation. Now that was an searing insight into her personality that did not work in her favour.

She watched and tried to concentrate on the shrieks and shouts around her the hope it would spark some latent quidditch love within her.

It didn’t.

She liked watching the players flying though. It was fascinating to watch people so skilled in something she wasn’t. They could do things on brooms she was entirely sure were against the laws of physics. And if she remembered what Tong had told her, there were parts that were.

Corban and Snape were the fastest fliers on the Slytherin team, although James was definitely as speedy as them. Regulus wasn’t quite as fast, but seemed to have managed to combine an air of recklessness with an utter disregard for his own personal safety. It appeared to work in his favour. At least in terms of quidditch.

Fern and Demelza were wonderful to watch. Strong, commanding and with the ability to send bludgers flying across the field with unnerving accuracy. Several times the Gryffindor chasers lost control of the quaffle as they swerved to avoid the ball hurtling past them.

It was almost halftime when one of the Gryffindor chasers threw the quaffle high up above the field. Snape shot up after it with the chasers and one beater hot on his tail. He plucked the ball out of the air with one hand and spun quickly, shooting down towards the Gryffindor goal. The chasers followed, but the beater stayed high.

That’s weird, Hermione thought. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as the skin goosebumped.

Something was wrong.

“Something’s wrong!” she shouted as she jumped to her feet. But no one could hear her amongst the noise from the crowd.

She jostled her way through the seated students until she was at the wooden rail.

“Rolanda!” she called. But the white-haired witch didn’t hear her.

“Fucking hell!” Hermione swore angrily, and some of the students behind her tittered.

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to do. She looked up to see what was going on just in time to see someone from below bash a bludger up towards the waiting beater.

Oh they were stealing her moves! Hermione thought indignantly.

This thought was wiped from her mind by sheer panic as the beater struck the bludger as hard as he could, barreling it directly into the back of Snape’s head as he sped towards the goal.

“Snape!” she shouted as he immediately dropped, motionless, from his broom.

There were screams of shock around her, and Hermione sent out everything she could into an slowing charm towards the plummeting figure.

Nothing happened.

It had no effect.

In desperation, Hermione shot a Molliare charm at Snape as he neared the ground and put every inch of power she could dredge up from within. She felt an almost ripping-like sensation deep inside her, but she ignored it. There was a bright flare of light around Snape, and a large crack that echoed around the stands as he hit the grass.

He lay where he fell, crumpled and unmoving.

Chapter Text

“Fractured skull. Vertebrae broken here and here. Both tibia broken and the collarbone on this side,” said Poppy in a brusque, official manner. “Fingers and wrist broken on the left as well.”

“Should we move him to St Mungo’s?” asked Horace with concern.

Poppy pursed her lips. “He will get better attention at Hogwarts. I can fix it all here. But it will take time. It’s too delicate to do everything at once. It will be excruciating and if not done properly, he will have issues with dexterity.”

“Then take the time,” insisted Hermione. “It’s so important for everything.”

She looked down at the unconscious boy lying on the bed in the corner of the sick bay. She felt a clench inside her. She was supposed to protect him, and she hadn’t.

“My first spell didn’t work,” she said out loud, mostly to herself.

“There’s a dampener on the quidditch field,” said Horace. “It’s to prevent cheating.”

“But what if someone falls?” asked Hermione. “That’s completely irresponsible!”

“There are cushioning charms embedded into the grounds,” said Poppy in a defensive tone.

“There were,” corrected Dumbledore. “Filius and I have discovered that they were interfered with.”

Poppy and Horace shared a shocked look.

“There was nothing to circumvent Mister Snape’s fall,” he continued. “Except Hermione’s second spell broke through the dampener and slowed Mister Snape.”

“It didn’t work but did it?” Hermione said miserably. “I mean, look at him.”

“Hermione,” Dumbledore said as he put a gentle hand on hers. “Without your intervention he would likely not have survived the fall.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. And promptly burst into exhausted tears.

“It was a very strong charm,” said Horace in what he probably though was a reassuring manner. “Impressive under the circumstances.”

Hermione cried harder. She felt an arm across her shoulders and someone press something into her hand.

“There, there Hermione. You did well. You saved the boy’s life and I’ll make sure he’s as right as rain. You’ve drained your magical reserves and you were lucky not to do yourself damage in the process. You just need some chocolate. come on. Eat up,” Poppy crooned.

Hermione nodded and bit into the chocolate, immediately feeling stronger and less weepy.

“We shall have to inform his father immediately,” said Horace.

“I can call him on the telephone if you have the number,” said Hermione. “I don’t think he’d appreciate an owl.”

“Thank you Hermione,” said Dumbledore. “You can use my floo to the Ministry.”

“Can I look at the field first?” Hermione asked.

“Of course,” said Dumbledore. “I was going to meet Filius there to see what we could uncover.”

“Is there anything you need to do with Mister Snape in the next two hours?” Hermione asked Poppy.

“No. I’ve given him some pain potions and skelegrow to start with. That will do him for now. I will keep him sleeping for another day or so,” Poppy said.

“Right,” said Hermione.

She opened her satchel and pulled out a small figure and sat it on the floor. She smiled ruefully at the confused expressions on Horace and Poppy’s faces, although Dumbledore merely nodded in a pleased way.

When Eurydice had taken over their division within the department she’d told them all, to Hermione’s delight, that it was time to embrace Diversity of Thought. This caused some consternation to Declan, who wasn’t interested in diverting in any way from his way of thinking, but Hermione had been ecstatic. Eurydice had opened the doors for innovation and once open, they couldn’t be closed. They’d tried experimenting with muggle tech, deconstructing ancient spells, and consulting with experts in a variety of cultural magic.

One day Sera had brought in her bubbe who had given them all a fascinating lecture in the construction of golems. Hermione had been obsessed and eventually Sera had to tell her to shut up so she could take her bubbe home for tea, as Hermione had bailed her up and asked a thousand questions. Hermione hadn’t even got the hint when the older witch had eventually transfigured the table into a recliner complete with woollen blanket.

In any case, Hermione always kept her golem with her. Just in case the need arose.

And the need had arisen.

After she’d enlarged the figure, Hermione placed a cloth over its head. She then took out a piece of parchment, sliced the end of her finger and wrote her instructions using the blood. She lifted the cloth, popped the paper into the hole in its blank facade and whispered the incantation.

The golem moved instantly next to the prone figure of Snape and began its vigil.

“What’s it doing?” asked Horace.

“It will protect him for at least two hours,” said Hermione.

“Protect him?” said Poppy indignantly. “Nothing is going to happen in here!”

“Not now it won’t,” said Hermione.

“What will it do?” Horace asked.

“Nothing. Unless someone tries to get near Mister Snape,” said Hermione.

She thought it prudent not to add that it would probably rip the arm off anyone that did.

Before she left the room she glanced down again at Snape’s still figure. The pale, unmoving face, and the bruises around his face and neck reminded Hermione of the last moment she’d seen the adult Snape. When she’d snuck a final glance at the still figure, lying inert in a pool of blood on the wooden floor of the shack.

She hadn’t thought much more of it at the time. But later, when she was able to believe there could be a future, and where she could afford to think and feel again she thought of all the dead. Of Remus, Tonks, Fred and Lavender. And finally she’d thought of Snape. His imposing stride, cutting remarks and ego-decimating eyebrow raise. But also his quick hands cutting ingredients for wolfsbane, the feeling of his hand on her skin after he’d countered the curse that had ripped open her chest and how very, very tired he’d looked at the Head table.

Hermione closed her eyes. She wasn’t really sure about anything now.

“Are you ready?” she heard Dumbledore ask.

“Yes,” she lied.

Horace and Hermione followed Dumbledore down to the quidditch field where Filius was waiting. He was holding a snitch.

“Is that a win for Ravenclaw then?” Dumbledore asked jovially.

Filius looked down at the small, golden ball in his palm. “I found it on the field. I think everyone forgot about it. Amazingly enough.”

“May I?” asked Dumbledore.

Filius handed the snitch over and Dumbledore clasped it in his palm briefly and closed his eyes. Hermione watched in fascination. She’d read, of course, the historical discourse on how powerful Dumbledore was. But unlike Harry, she’d never got to witness anything. He’d always been a bit of an enigma.

Dumbledore released the snitch and it buzzed away into the star-speckled sky. The older wizard watched it fly away with a contented expression on his face. A cool evening breeze ruffled Hermione’s curls as they waited.

After a few minutes they saw a golden light pulsing in the far right hand corner of the field. Hermione, Filius and Dumbledore trampled over the ground, a bluebell flame hovering ahead of them for light, until they reached the snitch. It was hovering, while emitted the pulses of light, over a stake driven into the ground. Around the stake the grass was dead, and there was a pungent smell of decay.

“Dark magic,” observed Filius.

“Must have been a strong one,” said Hermione. “See there where it split the stake as the spell was released.”

“And so we find the culprit to why our cushioning Charm was not functioning,” said Dumbledore.

“What would be the purpose of this?” Filius asked.

“Something nefarious,” said Dumbledore.

Hermione didn’t say anything immediately but she knew exactly what the purpose was. It was to kill Snape. Which meant, if her hypothesis was correct, then the wizards from The Eight had known what the Gryffindor team was planning and they were able to get the stake past the wards and into Hogwarts grounds.

“The purpose was obviously to hurt one of the quidditch players. A fall from a broom at that height without the charm would be fatal,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore. “This is most alarming.”

“Who are we talking about?” asked a bewildered Filius. “Do you mean a student did this?”

“We don’t know who is responsible,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Yet.”

The snitch flittered across to Dumbledore, who calmly plucked it out of the air and tucked it into his pocket.

“I have to go call Mister Snape’s father,” said Hermione.

“I’ll escort you back,” said Dumbledore. “Filius, can you and Muzzamir see what you can do here?”

“Of course,” said Filius.

Hermiome left Filius to find the DADA Professor and followed Dumbledore back to his office. After retrieving the telephone number for Snape’s father from the student files, he opened the floo for her and she stepped through.

When Hermione arrived at the Ministry, the night guards were satisfied with her explanation about the accident and the telephone call and helpfully adjusted the floo within the Ministry atrium to spit her out at an exit close to a telephone booth.

Hermione panicked a bit when she realised she hadn’t the right coins to make a call, then helpfully remembered she was a witch. She transfigured a sixpence which the phone accepted without qualms and she dialled the numbers written on the piece of parchment.

As the phone rang she worried what she’d say. Perhaps she should have practiced it, or at the very least wrote something down. How do you tell someone their child nearly died?

“Yes?” the low drawl of Tobias came through the handset.

“Hello Mister Snape. This is Hermione Granger. I’m not sure if you remember me.”

“I do,” said Tobias. “Your Sev’s young ....Professor was it?”

There was a low, soft chuckle on the end of the connection and Hermione’s skin crawled.

“Yes. I’m sorry to contact you this late Mister Snape—“ she said in her best Important Person voice.

“Tobias,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Er..Tobias. I apologise for the late call however there has been an accident at the school,”

“What’s happened?” Tobias asked, his tone completely changing to become less lighthearted and more menacing.

“Severus was injured during a quidditch match. He fell from his broom from quite a height. He’s recovering in the infirmary. He’s quite banged up but he will be fine,” said Hermione.

“How injured?” Tobias asked in the same slow, deliberate manner.

“He has a fractured skull, several broken vertebrae as well as both tibia bones broken and his right collarbone. He has some broken bones in his left wrist and fingers on the left hand,” said Hermione.

There was a long pause.

“Where is he?” Tobias asked finally

“In the school infirmary,” said Hermione.

“And he isn’t in the hospital because...?” Tobias’s voice was beginning to sound angry.

To be fair. Hermione couldn’t really blame him. She thought quickly the best way to answer him.

“Mister..Er I mean Tobias, they have better ways of fixing these type of injuries then we do. In a normal hospital Severus would be there for months maybe, but if he is treated at the school he will recover in a matter of weeks,” she said.

“But I can’t see him at the school,” Tobias said. He said the words carefully, as if speaking to someone with very poor levels of comprehension.

“It’s possible,” said Hermione. “It will take some organising though.”

“Wonderful,” Tobias said and Hermione didn’t need to see his expression. The level of sarcasm practically was eating through the connection.

“It’s not great. I’m sorry,” agreed Hermione. “Would you like me to arrange a visit?”

There was a longer pause.

“No,” he said. “I won’t go to the school. I want regular updates though. Can you arrange that?”

“Yes. Someone from the school can contact you every day or so,” promised Hermione.

There was a humourless laugh. “You’re the first one that’s ever rang me. The others sent ruddy birds.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. She really didn’t want to talk to Tobias again.

At all.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promised. “At the moment he is sleeping. He recovers faster while asleep.”

“You look after him Professor,” said Tobias. “Us Muggles have to stick together you know.”

“But I’m not—“ Hermione started to say then realised she was talking to a dial tone. She shook her head as if by doing so she could shake Tobias out of her mind.

Before she left the Ministry she visited the garden again, taking a few minutes to sit on the grass by the pond and try and centre herself. She diverted her path to pass by the clusters of herbs on her way out, once more pinching a cluster of mint in order to smell that sharp, green tang she loved.

She missed home very much.

She returned to Hogwarts feeling somewhat better than she had the minute the dial tone had clicked in her ear. Dumbledore was waiting by the floo, and he closed it behind her as she was dusting herself off on the carpet.

“How was Mister Snape?” Dumbledore asked.

“As expected,” said Hermione. “Worried.”

“Will he be attending the school?”

“No,” said Hermione somewhat regretfully. “I’ll update him by telephone.”

“Minerva is on her way up,” said Dumbledore. “I’m anticipating news about the accident.”

“Incident,” Hermione said firmly. “I don’t think it was an accident.”

“Perhaps,” said Dumbledore in a calm tone Hermione found thoroughly irritating.

As she was silently fuming Minerva stomped into the room, a look of utter fury on her face.

“Well, I’ve put my whole team on detention,” she said.

“The bludger was purposeful?” asked Dumbledore.

“Of course it was,” Hermione scoffed.

“It was,” said Minerva. She shot an apologetic glance towards Hermione. “But they didn’t know the field had been tampered with. They were expecting him to fall, but not to be hurt so badly.”

Hermione bit back a sarcastic comment that would do nothing to help the situation but would certainly make her feel better.

“So, the culprit for the field,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully. “Remains unknown.”

Hermione’s brain decided to give her a little shove, just to remind her she was an Unspeakable and suddenly right in the middle of something wonderfully familiar. “Oh!” she said.

Minerva and Dumbledore turned to her.

“I know a diagnostic that picks up lingering magic on persons,” she said. “I could use it to see if any students touched the stake.”

Dumbledore clapped his hands with the same pleased expression as if she’d announced she’d just developed a new sweet that tasted like caramel but also made everything you ate for the next twenty four hours taste like caramel.

“Excellent idea,” he said. “Perhaps this could be of assistance.”

He took the snitch from his pocket and gave it to Hermione.

“Yes, I think so,” she agreed.

“I’ll get Horace, Pomona and Filius to gather the students in the Great Hall,” said Minerva helpfully.

Hermione examined the snitch as she walked with Dumbledore to The Great Hall. She sat at the head table, moving the snitch between her hands, while waiting for the Heads to gather their students. She held the small, placid ball in her palms for a moment, then to her ear, in an imitation of Filius. She could almost feel what the spell was. Something that thrummed softly within the golden orb, with a faint, tinkling bell-like chatter from deep inside. Hermione decided if she made it back, she was going to study that type of diagnostic more. She wondered why no one she knew used it. Unless it was uniquely Filius. Which was a distinct possibility.

She was so enraptured by the snitch, and by her attempts to weave her own spell amongst those cast on it by Dumbledore that she lost track of time. She looked up when there was a hand placed on her shoulder.

“They’re all here,” said Minerva.

“All right,” said Hermione.

She released the snitch. It flittered around her head briefly before shooting off around the hall. All the students sat at their tables, chatting with each other. Some students watched the snitch with interest, others studied textbooks they had brought with them and the rest made use of the time by applying it to the pursuit of popularity.

The respective teachers also tracked the route of the snitch, some almost wincing when it appeared to slow over the heads of their students. Hermione had to stifle a little giggle at Horace’s smug expression when the snitch showed no intention of heading in the direction of the Slytherin table. There was probably a first time for everything, Hermione supposed.

But there was nothing funny about the slowly dawning horror written across Pomona’s face when the snitch stopped, hovering over the head of a cherubic faced sixth year Hufflepuff still clinging doggedly on to the pinchable cheeks of childhood. The student, unaware of the significance, beamed in delight at the object above his head.

Oh dear, Hermione thought.

The other students were allowed to depart to their common rooms while the student was taken to Dumbledore’s office and sat on the most comfortable armchair.

Hermione, Pomona and Dumbledore stood in front of the chair. The Hufflepuff (who went by the unassuming name of Terrance Smythe), smiled at them.

“Did I win something?” he asked in an expectant tone.

“It must have been the Imperius curse,” Pomona burst out. “It’s the only explanation!”

“I tend to find the simplest answer is the most likely,” said Hermione.

“Mister Smythe,” said Dumbledore in his most twinklified voice, “did you put anything in the quidditch field?”

The boy abruptly shut his mouth and wriggled slightly on the chair.

“Um...what type of thing?” he said.

“What Professor Dumbledore is asking,” Hermione cut in and decide to get right to the heart of the matter “is when did you put the stake in the field?”

“Oh,” said the boy. “Yesterday afternoon.”

Pomona choked out a strangled cough. “Mister Smythe! Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” the boy answered. He looked at Pomona with a concerned expression.

“Definitely Imperius!” Pomona stage whispered to Hermione.

“Did someone, perhaps a friend, force you to do it?” asked Dumbledore.

“Not really,” said Mister Smythe.

“What about you just explain to us how you got the stake,” offered Hermione.

“Well it was supposed to be a joke,” said Mister Smythe. “Some Gryffindors talked to me at Hogsmede and said it would be funny. The piece of wood had a latent spell that would send up fireworks halfway through the game. A big lion eating a snake. It was going to be amazing. They paid me five galleons!” he added proudly.

Pomona and Dumbledore exchanged a glance.

“Which Gryffindors?” Dumbledore asked.

The boy frowned slightly. “I didn’t really recognise them. But they were wearing their scarves. I’ve seen them before at school, I just can’t seem to remember their names.”

“Perhaps Professor Granger could have a look at your memory of them,” Dumbledore suggested.

“You mean Legilimency? Yes! Awesome!” said Mister Smythe.

“Try and concentrate on your conversation with them,” instructed Hermione as she readied her wand. She didn’t like doing Legilimency with wandless magic. Anything involving the mind was delicate and needed the added focus the wand provided.

It only took one look at his memory of the event to cement her suspicions. It was the two wizards. They’d obviously consumed a short-duration youth potion and either stolen or transfigured some Gryffindor scarves. The boy’s mind was hazy on their identities, but he was convinced they were familiar. If he could only just remember their names...which were right on the tip of his tongue...he couldn’t quite remember....but he’d definitely seen them at school.

“It’s them,” Hermione sighed as she withdrew from the boy’s mind. “And a Suggestibility Charm.”

Pomona tightened her lips and Dumbledore furrowed his brow.

“Do I still get to keep the five galleons?” Mister Smythe asked plaintively.

Chapter Text

It turned out that Snape was kept asleep for nearly three entire days.

On the morning of the third day, Poppy told Hermione Snape’s skull and vertebrae were almost healed, and once they had she would feel more confident to allow him to wake.

Hermiome nodded from her transfigured armchair. After the revealing conversation with Mister Smythe, Hermione had gone to the infirmary and transfigured the chair. She then had positioned herself next to the bed Snape lay in, and just simply refused to move.

Poppy had tutted and fretted and made several under-the-breath comments about “not being trusted to do her job”, but Hermione had a number of years of wizarding Britain public service employee under her belt. She was the Queen of ignoring passive aggression. Her tolerance was sky high. Poppy’s comments rolled off her without affecting her and Hermione simply smiled and nodded at whatever was said until Poppy just shook her head and walked away.

By the end of the second day Poppy decided she actually liked the company and that night she’d sat next to Hermione in her own armchair, shared some tea and biscuits and talked magical remedies before she retired for the night. Hermione set up her wards and then fell asleep in the armchair.

They repeated this the next day as well. Hermione had never consumed so many biscuits in a twenty-four hour period. She was dozing slightly in the evening of the third night in a butter-induced stupor, having also binged on a 1978 copy of Hogwarts: A History, when she was roused by a noise.

Hermione sat up abruptly, wand in hand and adrenalin rushing through her.

“Mam? Is that you?” questioned a pitiful sounding voice from the bed next to her.

Hermione scrambled from the chair and went to the head of the cot, summoning a bluebell flame that hovered above her head.

“Mister Snape. It’s Professor Granger,” she said.

She saw he blink slightly as he looked up at her with a confused expression.

“Why are you in my bedroom?” he asked.

“You’re in the infirmary. You were injured during quidditch. Do you remember?”

“Quidditch?” Snape repeated. “I don’t remember quidditch. The game is at the end of the week isn’t it?”

“What was the last thing you remember?” she asked.

He closed his eyes. “Um. I have two nights detention with you?” he finally said.

“That was almost five days ago,” said Hermione.

Snape began to move but Hermione put a hand gently on his blanket-covered chest. “Wait, Mister Snape. You are recovering from many serious broken bones. Don’t move until Madame Pomfrey checks you over,” she said.

“Why are you here?” he asked her.

“I love hanging out in infirmaries,” said Hermione. “Beats doing patrol,”

Snape demonstrated that his eyebrow muscles remained perfectly functional with a withering look.

She smiled. “I’m here to keep you company. Being here is pretty boring and you’ll be here for weeks probably. Do you mind?”

“You’re going to sit with me here while I recover?” he asked slowly.

“Yes,” Hermione. “I thought I would. Unless you’d rather Madame Pomfrey or another Professor.”

“No,” he said hastily. “No. You’re fine.”

“A gushing torrent of exuberance I see,” laughed Hermione. “You’d better be nice. You’re bed-ridden, and I may just decide to read to you from this.”

She reached over and held up the Hogwarts tome.

He huffed slightly. “I like that book anyway. Do your worst,”

“You are I are two of a kind then,” said Hermione. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that’s even read the whole thing, let alone enjoyed it.”

Snape closed his eyes. “Maybe we are,” he said.

He looked very pale in the dim light from her flame.

“I shouldn’t have kept you talking,” said Hermione. “Let me grab Madam Pomfrey.”

She went across to room to the door to Poppy’s chambers and knocked softly. After a few moments Poppy came out, a purple gown wrapped around her.

“Mister Snape is awake,” Hermione said almost apologetically.

“Excellent,” Poppy said she bustled past Hermione to the cot. She cast a number of diagnostic spells, making pleased noises under her breath as she did so. Then finally looked down at Snape with a broad smile.

“Your skull and back have healed very well Mister Snape,” she said.

“My skull?” he asked.

“It’s fine now,” Poppy said soothingly. “We can focus on your arms and legs now. I’ll start the wrist and hand now as well but I’ll do them very gradually.”

“Can he sit up?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Poppy said. “But be careful with his legs. And no wand until I say,” she added sternly.

“No wand?” Snape asked, aghast.

“No,” she repeated. “Now, would you like a sleeping draught?”

“No thank you,” Snape said. “Not yet. Can I be awake for a bit?”

Poppy looked across to Hermione with an unspoken question.

“I can sit and talk with him,” said Hermione.

“All right,” said Poppy. “But not too late and you have to take this.”

She reached forward and held a vial to Snape’s lips. He frowned, but eventually took a sip. Then almost choked when Poppy took the opportunity and expertly tipped the contents into his mouth.

“Good boy. Well done,” Poppy said. “I’m back to bed. Just call out if you need me.”

Hermione settled back in her armchair as Poppy and her purple gown sashayed back to her chambers.

“No wand,” Snape said mournfully. “For how long?”

“Not sure,” said Hermione.

“Well that’s great,” Snape sulked.

“Perhaps it’s a great opportunity to practice your wandless magic,” Hermione suggested.

“Sure. That’s useful,” he said. “If I want to frighten someone to death with my pathetic-ness.”

“Wandless magic isn’t pathetic,” said Hermione.

“Mine is,” he sighed.

“Wandless magic is powerful,” Hermione said. “And with control, it can be more powerful than using a wand.”

“But I just can’t seem to get my wandless magic to be as powerful,” Snape protested.

Hermione pursed her lips in thought, seeking a way to explain it to him that would assist.

“Did you ever burn anything with a magnifying glass when you were little?” she asked finally.

He frowned in concentration. “Yes. But nothing impressive, just barely scorching pieces of paper. My da showed me.”

“It’s sort of the same,” said Hermione. “The shape of the glass, pushes the photons—you remember what they are? The pieces of energy?” she asked him, making sure he understood the reference.

He nodded.

“Okay. Well the curve of the glass pushes them to one side and forces them through a single exit. Your wand works the same way. It focuses your magical energy, which emits from your body, through that single exit point. That’s why it is stronger when you use a wand. But you if can can learn to control it between, you can be just as powerful without your wand,” Hermione said.

“My magic emits from my body?” Severus asked dubiously.

“Yes,” Hermione said, laughing at his tone. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding less than enthusiastic.

“I’ll show you,” Hermione said. “Do you mind if I touch your arm?”

Severus’s eyes widened at her question and he looked down at his arm, lying on top of the blanket.

“No,” he finally said. “That’s fine.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “I’m going to cast a Warming Charm. Nothing fancy. But it will be wandless. See if you can feel the magic.”

After pushing up his sleeve, she placed her hand softly on his forearm and let her magic go. She knew he’d felt the crackling between their skin when he sucked in a breath. She felt the hairs on his arm prickle underneath her palm. He met her amused gaze.

“Oh,” he said.

“You felt it,” she said.

“It was a bit zappy,” he said.

“It can be,” she said. “I don’t really know why it feels different between people. I’m sure if I had the time and energy it would be a fantastically interesting topic of research,” Hermione said.

“Why doesn’t everyone just do wandless magic all the time?” Snape asked.

“Well it takes more effort and concentration. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” Hermione said in a conspiratorial whisper, “but most people like doing things the easy way.”

He laughed. Which pleased Hermione.

Then he winced. Which didn’t.

“Ow my ribs!” he gasped.

“Oh sorry!” Hermione said. “I didn’t mean to make you hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “So what about the cores? Wand lore has entire books but they’ve never mentioned photons.”

Hermione tucked her legs under herself in the armchair and sat back a bit as she explained. “The photons was just an example. The wand core is important, as different types seem to be aligned to different magical signatures. The whole wand should be the one that works best with your magic. That’s why it feels weird using someone else’s.”

“Why don’t they just explain that?” Snape demanded.

Hermione shrugged. “I’d say most people wouldn’t care. The upside to being magical is magic. But the downside to being magical is everything can be explained away by magic. How do wards work? Magic. How does conjuring work? Magic. Where does magical ability come from? Magic.”

“So that’s why you read all about the muggle stuff,” said Snape.

“Not completely,” said Hermione. “I do find it interesting as well. But yes. Muggles are forced to try and understand the world in a different way. And by taking both viewpoints you often can come to a novel perspective.”

“Hmm.”

“Madame Pomfrey says you’ll be here for possibly a few weeks more,” said Hermione. She was about to break some bad news and didn’t really want to.

“Okay,” Snape said.

“It means you won’t be able to go home for Christmas,” she said bluntly.

He looked up at the barely visible ceiling. “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“I apologise,” said Hermione. “I shouldn’t have made the assumption. Of course not everyone does.”

She nearly smacked herself in the forehead for the oversight. What an idiot!

Snape turned his head towards her. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said we don’t celebrate it.”

“Ah,” said Hermione.

Well that was slightly depressing.

“I’ll call your father tomorrow and let him know,” Hermione said.

“Call him?” Snape asked.

“I’ve been updating your father by telephone on the progress of your injuries,” Hermione said. “He’ll be pleased to hear you’ve woken up and have improved so much.”

“You’ve been speaking to him on the telephone,” Snape said with an air of disbelief.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I didn’t think he’d appreciate an owl.”

“He wouldn’t,” agreed Snape. “How did I get hurt in quidditch?”

“Bludger to the back of the head,” said Hermione. “I think you were going to score a goal when it happened.”

“Oh,” said Snape. “So...you were watching then?”

“I was,” said Hermione. “Wearing this amazing scarf.”

She pulled out the Slytherin scarf from her bag, and draped it around her neck with a dramatic flourish.

“It’s very long,” Snape observed dryly.

“It’s perfect,” said Hermione airily. “I like long things.”

As the words left her mouth her brain frantically tried to claw them back. It sounded way more suggestive than she’d intended.

He gaped at her and even in the dim light she was fairly sure he had gone red.

“Well. You should probably try and get some rest,” said Hermione, trying to put space between herself and her words.

She picked up the sleeping draught from the table next to the cot and held it up. Snape sighed and opened his mouth. Hermione tipped it gently in, being careful not to make him choke. After he drank it he closed his eyes and Hermione put the empty vial back down on the table. She waited until his breath lengthened into the deep, even rhythm of sleep and sat back in her chair.

She had an idea for Christmas that she decided to get started on. Then sleep.

Before she closed her eyes she cast protective wards around the bed and her chair, pulled up a blanket and snuggled into her voluminous scarf. She would have a quick nap. Nothing long. Just a brief nap to regain some energy.

She’d only just closed her eyes when she was irritated to hear voices.

“How is your head?”

“All right I guess.”

“Has Professor Granger been here the whole time?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Everyone says you’d be dead if she hadn’t stopped your fall.”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t know she did that.”

Hermione opened eyes blearily to discover a few unexpected things. One, it was morning, suggesting her nap had been significantly longer then planned. Two, her neck hurt from what she assumed was a very unglamorous sleeping position. And three, Fern was standing a few steps away from the bed talking to Snape.

“Hello Miss Burke,” Hermione croaked as she sat up.

“Hello Professor Granger,” said Fern. “I came to see Severus, but I think is bed is warded.”

“It was,” said Hermione as she removed the wards. Fern cautiously stepped forward, then sat on the bed.

“I thought I’d check on you after Professor Slughorn said you were awake,” the girl said.

“I’m fine,” said Snape.

He looked over to Hermione who gave him a reasonably stern glare.

“Apparently I’m not fine,” he added.

“I wanted to let you know they’ve given us the points from that game. And the entire first pick of the Gryffs are banned for the rest of their matches. They have to use their reserves. And we all know they’re hopeless.” Fern grinned.

“Okay,” said Snape.

“So looks like we’ll be in a good place for House Cup!” Fern said triumphantly.

“Okay,” said Snape.

“All right. I’d better get to class. Hope you feel better soon,” Fern said.

She hopped off the bed and smoothed out her school robe.

“Goodbye Miss Burke,” said Hermione.

“Goodbye Professor Granger,” said the girl cheerfully before she left.

“That was nice of her,” said Hermione.

“Maybe,” said Snape. “They’re probably happy I got hurt now. Think about all those House points.”

He looked very gloomy.

“People say thoughtless things all the time,” Hermione said. “Try not to take it personally.”

He frowned and didn’t reply.

Hermione picked up Hogwarts: A History. “Don’t make me do it,” she threatened.

“You don’t have to hang around,” said Snape. “You’ve probably got better things to do.”

“No, actually,” said Hermione. “I don’t.”

There was a long pause.

Hermione sat back in her armchair and opened the book, pretending to read it.

“Maybe we could talk more about wandless magic,” Snape finally said.

“Better than that,” said Hermione. “Let’s practice it.”

“Can...Er...can you show me what it feels like again?” Snape asked casually.

“You appear to be angling for another head injury,” Hermione said, but softened the comment with a smile.

He smiled. “Okay. Sure. It was worth a try. No more demonstrations.”

“Instead,” Hermione said with relish. “It will be unrelenting practical work.”

“I’m too weak,” Snape said and closed his eyes.

“It’s the best time,” said Hermione. “If you lose control you won’t explode us both.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Snape.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” said Hermione. “You are already quite skilled and powerful, and you are still at school. As an adult you could be one of the most powerful wizards in Britain if you wanted.”

“I do want,” said Snape. “I want that very much.”

“Everything you need is already inside you,” said Hermione. “You proved it with the double-cast didn’t you?”

He looked sideways at her from under his lashes. “Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”

Hermione laughed. “I already know I’m not,” she said thoughtfully. “No. There’s something special about you Mister Snape. It’s nice to pretend I’ve anything to do with it. But I’ve just nudged you faster towards something you would figure out eventually,”

“I think you underestimate yourself,” said Snape.

“Well then I guess we are two of a kind then,” said Hermione.

Chapter Text

Snape didn’t really receive a lot of visitors. In one awkward encounter Lily brought him her notes from potions and transfiguration. Hermione tried valiantly to spark a conversation but Snape appeared to have lost the ability to do anything but stare mournfully at Lily. For her part Lily doggedly took through a silent Snape through her notes and appeared as if she regretted every minute of her decision to visit the infirmary. In the end Poppy’s bustling arrival with an armful of potions was a relief to seemingly everyone.

The only other visitor was currently talking to Snape.

Hermione watched with a detached interest as Horace spoke with Snape. The boy sat unnervingly still, while his Head of House was a constant maelstrom of activity; gesticulating to emphasise a point, raking his hand across his face and tip toeing his weight from one foot to another. Hermione, who had spent many years trying to control her own tendency to fidget, was one part amused and another part mortified.

When Horace finished speaking he looked at Snape expectantly. But Snape simply shrugged in a manner that all teenagers seem to unnervingly do, and with likely full knowledge of how overwhelmingly irritating it was.

Horace tapped his fingers lightly on his thigh and smiled at Snape, who shrugged again.

Hermione shook her head slightly. She was annoyed on Horace’s behalf. But, in fairness to him, he didn’t appear annoyed at all. His face was calm and he exuded joviality. Hermione observed Horace leave the bedside, and walked towards Hermione.

“Everything all right?” Hermione asked.

“There is an apprenticeship opportunity that has arisen,” Horace said. “I recommended it to Mister Snape.”

“He’s taking it?” Hermione asked.

Horace shrugged. “He said he’d consider it. I’ll need the answer before the end of the year. I hope he takes it on. He is very talented, and these don’t come up very often.”

“I’ll talk to him,” said Hermione, although she what she actually meant was that she’d try and convince him.

“Thank you,” said Horace, “There are far worse options than a potions mastery.”

“I know,” said Hermione, thinking about the predatory smile on the face of Lucius at the bar.

After Horace left she went and sat next to the bed.

“So what do you think?” Hermiome asked.

“I don’t know,” said Snape. “I know why Professor Slughorn offered it to me.”

“Because you’re talented and the most sensible choice and only an idiot wouldn’t want to have you as an apprentice?” said Hermione.

“No,” said Snape. “He was offering it to Lily before. She must have turned it down.”

“Ah,” said Hermione. “Perhaps she wants to do something else.”

“She does. It’s called James Potter,” Snape said darkly.

Hermione gave him her frostiest stare and he wilted somewhat.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter who it was offered to before. It’s being offered to you now. It’s a great opportunity,” said Hermione.

“For the second choice person,” Snape said. He frowned at her through his hair.

Hermione’s temper bit. “Don’t be so stupid,” she snapped. “Do you think the third in line person will turn it down? Will they call them third-choice Master? No. They’ll just be called Master.”

There was a uncomfortable pause.

Snape looked hurt. “You’ve never talked to me like that before,” he said.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” Hermione said. “But you’re self-sabotaging and it’s infuriating.”

Snape looked away from her. “I don’t need your advice anyway. I can make it on my own you know. I was doing just fine before you turned up.”

“Well too bad if you don’t need it,” Hermione said. “I tend to give advice whether people want it or not.”

“Is that why you don’t have any friends?” Snape asked with a nasty sneer.

Hermione tightened her lips over a retort. She knew it was his tendency to lash out when he felt challenged but it still hurt her feelings. She had friends. Didn’t she? Good friends.

Great friends.

Then why did his comment carry such a sting?

“That was mean,” Hermione said. “You purposely tried to hurt my feelings.”

Snape stared at her left eyebrow and didn’t say anything.

“Well,” she said. “Perhaps you just need some time to yourself. You’ve been dealing with a lot after all.”

She stood up and pulled her satchel onto the armchair, digging out her golem. She didn’t even look to see if Snape was watching but instead went about quickly enlarged the figure and methodically stepped through the procedure until it stood up and moved to the side of the bed.

“It will protect you while I’m away,” said Hermione without turning to Snape. “And don’t worry, it doesn’t talk so you won’t have to worry about unsolicited advice.”

Hermiome shoved the Slytherin scarf into the bag and slung it over a shoulder somewhat forcefully.

As she walked to her chambers she had a long, silent discussion with herself about Being Taken For Granted. This was a very familiar speech. She done it many times during her school life, and seemingly every day during the horcrux hunting. Whether people did actually take her for granted or whether she just felt like they did was largely irrelevant. Her perception was her reality after all.

Being Taken For Granted was a particular talent of Hermione’s that she’d very firmly tried to leave behind her once she left her teens. Of course, upon starting work at the Ministry she’d discovered that being competent and enthusiastic took Being Taken For Granted to a whole new and exhausting level.

She sighed.

She probably shouldn’t have gone off in a huff. But she was tired. Her neck hurt from sleeping in the chair for days upon days. But she felt weird about making it into a bed. Sleeping in a chair next to Snape was one thing. But a bed... Speaking of bed. When Hermione opened the door to her chambers she could almost hear her own mattress calling like a long lost love.

She went into her bedroom, sat down on the blanket and let out another enormous sigh. After taking her shoes off she lay back and closed her eyes.

When she awoke it was morning.

She had a bath and washed her hair. Wonderful.

She had the elves clean the clothes she’d been abusing with cleansing charms. Fantastic.

She went to the Great Hall and ate an enormous breakfast and drank two very strong coffees. Perfection.

As she looked out across the Hall over her second coffee she realised the tables were practically empty. Everyone had left for the Christmas holiday while she’d been in the infirmary with Snape.

The enormous Christmas tree at the end of the room almost reached the gauzy, stormy ceiling. It was covered in a multitude of tiny, coloured lights that blinked on and off as she watched them. Around the hall were six other trees, and small silver birds perched in the branches, trilling their bell-like calls. Stars glinted on the top of each tree.

Seeing the display made her remember the times she’d stayed at the school over break with Harry and Ron. Once she even spent quite a bit of time with Myrtle in the girl’s bathroom over a bubbling cauldron of Polyjuice potion. Myrtle knew some amazing details about the male anatomy that had really opened up the eyes of teenage Hermione, and also scandalised a slightly older Ron when she’d decided to experiment a few years later.

That was in her past, but wouldn’t actually happen for more than a decade. Hermione couldn’t believe she was still in 1977. She definitely hadn’t expected to stay as long as she had.

And now it was Christmas.

Shit.

Snape’s present! She nearly forgot. She swallowed the rest of her rapidly cooling coffee and made her way back to her chambers. Her golem had at least half a day or so left before the spell diminished and she wanted to finish off the gift.

She stood up and started push her chair away.

“Hermione!” called Minerva as she walked towards the table. “How is Mister Snape?”

“Improving,” said Hermione. “I just have to finish something off then I’m going back to the infirmary.”

“Well we are having Christmas drinks tomorrow afternoon. In Dumbledore’s office at about three. The password is Spotted Dick,” Minerva said.

“Sure,” said Hermione, who wasn’t that found of spotted dick, the pudding or the sexually transmitted wizarding disease, but was fond enough of Christmas drinks to overlook both these issues.

She hurried back to her chambers, with only a slightly rueful look at the bowl of crystals she still had yet to charm. She’d never get home at this rate, even if she did stop the wizards killing Snape. Then she’d be forced to live through another war.

Hermione decided if it came to it she wouldn’t stay. If she was done, but hadn’t been able to fix the time device, she would leave Britain. She would go somewhere else and try to live some type of life. Something that wasn’t linked to the increasingly complex timeline she’d come from. Something about making that decision made her feel better about everything. Like she’d wrestled back at least some control over the situation.

She worked steadily for a few hours until she noticed she was straining to see. It was quite dark. A quick tempus told her it was almost seven o’clock. Hermione had a brief moment of panic when she couldn’t remember whether her golem would still be active.

She grabbed the item she had completed, her satchel and bolted from her chambers. She dashed down the stairs, across the castle and back up some more stairs until she arrived at the infirmary. She couldn’t see any light from under the door so she pushed it open very carefully.

The sconces were barely visible, only giving off enough light for her to make out the tall, broad figure of her golem standing motionless by Snape’s bed. She started to walk towards it and was relieved when it shifted slightly in response. She hadn’t left him defenceless.

An extremely relieved Hermione cancelled the spell and collected her shrunken figurine before settling on the armchair. It was comfortable, but having reminded herself what sleeping in a bed was like, she wasn’t thrilled about being back on the chair. The chair squeaked a complaint in response to her shifting around, trying to find a better position. As the sound seemed to echo interminably in the infirmary, she froze, hoping she hadn’t woken Snape. But a movement from the bed next to her indicated she had.

“Professor Granger? Is that you?”

“Yes, Mister Snape. I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep,” said Hermione.

There was a moment of silence. Then he spoke up from the darkness.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said.

“Why?” Hermione asked.

“Because I was horrible,” Snape said.

“I thought you probably regretted it,” Hermione said.

“I did,” he said.

“We made a deal didn’t we? To forgive each other. Didn’t we?” Hermione reminded him.

“Yes,” said Snape. His voice choked up a little on the word. Hermione thought it may have even be an half-sob. But she couldn’t tell for sure and she could only vaguely make out his face.

“There’s nothing to worry about then except going back to sleep,” said Hermione. “I’ll be here.”

“I do want the potion apprenticeship,” he said into the darkness.

“I think you’d be great at it,” said Hermione diplomatically,

“But Lucius already told me he has found me an apprenticeship,” said Snape. “I don’t need the other offer anyway.”

“I see,” said Hermione. “It’s always nice to have more than one option.”

“Yes. But I think it’s preferable to keep on Lucius’s good side,” said Snape.

“Sure,” said Hermione. She adjusted her position on the armchair so she could tuck her feet underneath her. “But it’s also preferable not to owe Mister Malfoy anything. I would think. If it were my choice, I think I’d take the option that was least likely to leave me in a situation where someone could leverage my choice over me.”

“That’s a good point,” said Snape.

“Take the one offered by Professor Slughorn,” suggested Hermione. “And you can always say it came with a job offer attached. Too good to turn down.”

“Hmm,” said Snape. “You really don’t like Lucius.”

“I know what type of person he is,” said Hermione. “He wants you do things that ultimately benefit him. It may benefit you incidentally, but that certainly wouldn’t be his main motivation. I want you to be beholden only to yourself. You don’t need to be constantly trying to appease people you think you owe something to.”

The oath flared up in Hermione, a twisting, burning and searing bolt through her spine. She bit back an incredibly inventive profanity that had sprung to her lips at the first twinge in her back.

“Everything is conditional with people,” said Snape from his bed. “Everything. If you don’t do want they want or say exactly what they want they don’t like you.”

“People are largely terrible,” said Hermione, who wasn’t quite sure what else to say now the oath was telegraphing the conversation should be abandoned.

“You’re not terrible,” said Snape.

“Some people think I am,” Hermione laughed.

“Some people think I’m terrible too,” Snape said.

“We can be two terrible people together,” suggested Hermione. “That aren’t terrible people to each other,” she added as a disclaimer.

There was a rustling of blankets as Snape moved in the bed. At that moment the clouds drifted across the sky and the room lightened as the moon was uncovered. Hermione could see the sharp outline of Snape’s features on the pillow, his hair flattened across the pillow in a slash of blackness. He turned his face towards her.

“You’ve never been terrible to me,” he said softly.

“Give me time,” joked Hermione. “I have a history of it.”

“I’ve been terrible to you sometimes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you,” said Hermione. “We made the deal didn’t we? I don’t expect you to act like anyone but yourself. Who is occasionally terrible, but regrets it. And if you stuff up, it’s okay. Everyone does.”

Snape didn’t answer her.

Hermione opened her mouth to say that he didn’t owe her anything either, and that he didn’t need to ever worry about making things up to her, but her teeth clacked together as the worst pain she’d experienced to date wracked through her. She let out an involuntarily gasp as she tried to ride out the agony. The oath ripped its invisible flames along her flank and she could feel tears running down her cheeks she didn’t even know she’d shed.

“What’s happening?” Snape asked. She could see him start to sit up.

“Nothing,” Hermione gasped. “I’ve got a back injury from something that happened a long time ago. It flares up sometimes. I’m okay now. It’s late anyway. Go to sleep and we can talk more tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he said and lay back down, turning onto his side.

Hermione lay back in the chair and closed her own eyes. Despite having a good rest the night before, she felt herself drifting away. She relaxed and let sleep find her. After all, there was nothing she could do but sleep. Every thing else seemed so far out of her control.

When she awoke it was morning and Snape was sitting up in bed, poised over an enormous looking breakfast that rivalled the one she’d had the previous day. He had just speared a sausage when he noticed she was awake.

“Hello,” he said awkwardly.

“Not only hello,” Hermione said as she stretched. “Merry Christmas!”

She reached into her pocket and passed him the small box. He took it from her and stared at it.

“It’s for you,” she said. “You said you liked Christmas.”

“I do,” Snape said. “But I didn’t get anything for you.”

“I don’t need anything,” said Hermiome dismissively. “Come on. Open it up.”

He carefully unwrapped the crinkly black paper covered in tiny stars, folded it and put it carefully to one side. He examined the box for a moment before removing the lid. Hermione watched as Snape pulled out a thin, silver chain with a small, silver cylinder, almost like a scroll, suspended between. He looked up at Hermione with some confusion.

She reached out and took the necklace before allowing it to hang in the air between them. As Snape watched, the cylinder pulled apart to reveal a small, brilliantly-glossy green bead. A strong waft of mint bloomed between them. Hermione slowly and delicately used her magic to manoeuvre the bead back into the cylinder, which then closed with a satisfying click.

He looked up at her with a questioning glance.

“The green bead is a Portkey,” said Hermione in explanation.

Snape took the necklace from the air and stared at it as if it would suddenly take him somewhere mysterious. “A Portkey?” he finally said.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “It will take you to the memorial garden in the ministry. No one knows I made it for you. It’s completely illegal.”

“Why did you make it?” Snape said.

“If you ever need to get out of a bad situation,” said Hermione. “Break the cylinder and catch the bead. It will take you to the Ministry. And better than that, an area of the Ministry where offensive spells are prohibited.”

Shape bent forward over the necklace, his hair covering his face. Then, in a smooth movement he flicked his head back, dropping the chain over his head so the scroll-like pendant lay flush against the top button of his shirt.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve never used a Portkey before.”

“It feels weird,” said Hermione. “But it’s fast and it will get you away even if you don’t have your wand. You might want to put it out of sight,” she suggested, “I could get into a lot of trouble if people found out about it.”

Snape immediately reached up and tucked the pendant under his collar. “Don’t worry Professor Granger,” he said. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

He smiled a tight little smile at her, which she now knew he’d purposely cultivated to hide his teeth. But who else knew that? Maybe no one from where Hermione had come from. He’d died, leaving a multitude of unanswered questions about about his life that Hermione wasn't quite sure whether anyone even bothered to ask.

“I have no doubt of that Mister Snape,” said Hermione.

Chapter Text

“This is all very promising Mister Snape,” said Poppy. “You can leave the infirmary today. No wand for a few days yet, as that hand is still fragile. But you can go about your day and enjoy Christmas.”

Poppy had finalised another round of exhaustive diagnostic tests, which Hermiome had watched silently and frantically tried to remember so she could dash some notes into her notebook later. Snape had sat placidly on the bed, wearing plain navy pyjamas that were just a little bit ‘off’ in look and feel. A sure sign they were transfigured. Hermione decided they were probably a standard pair from a pile that Poppy pulled out and altered to suit. She had vague memories of having a similar pair during the polyjuice-cat-hair embarrassment.

Snape looked up at Hermione. She smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging way.

“So. I just go back to my common room?” he asked.

“If you’d like,” said Poppy. “Make sure you make it to lunch.”

“We’ve got something else first,” said Hermione. “Then lunch.”

Poppy nodded. She reached into her pocket and took out a small box tied with a red ribbon and gave it to Snape.

“Lovely,” she said. “Happy Christmas dear.”

Snape looked down at the box and back up at Poppy.

“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” he said.

Poppy flicked her wand and curtains shot up around the bed. Hermione left Snape to get changed while she raided Poppy’s biscuit tin.Those chocolate dipped shortbread would be the death of her. After she’d consumed two and a half (no point leaving a broken one in there) delicious crumbly biscuits she heard a noise behind her. Snape was standing there in his jeans and t-shirt and tugging a thick, chunky, woollen sweater over his head.

“Where are we going?” he asked when his head re-appeared. She held back a giggle at his hair. People with unmanageable hair needed to have each other’s backs—which meant not laughing at bed hair. No matter how unruly it was.

“I thought,” Hermione said a little nervously in case it was a terrible idea. “I thought you might want to visit your mum today. You know, for Christmas.”

Snape tightened his jaw a little, but gave a quick little jerk of his head she took for a nod.

“All right,” she said with some relief. “Professor McGonagall is in the Headmaster’s office this morning. She’ll let us through the floo.”

“Okay,” said Snape.

Hermione was slightly unnerved by how quiet Snape was during the walk to The Headmaster’s office, the trip through the floo and the eventual toil up the long staircase and to the garden. The witch at the door recognised them and let them in with a smile.

They walked together in silence until they came to the pond and the familiar flat rock. Hermione sat down the grass as Snape leant over and reached out a finger to the surface of the water. Ripples spun out from his touch, revealing the smiling face of his mother.

The stillness of the garden seemed overwhelming to Hermione for a brief moment as Snape stared into the water. She felt like she was intruding, but wasn’t sure what to do about it.

“Happy Christmas mam,” he said very softly.

He stepped backwards twice and sat down next to Hermione. He furtively wiped an eye with the sleeve of his charcoal-coloured sweater. Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. She handed it to him and he took it, but didn’t do anything but hold it. Eventually he handed it back to her and she put it away.

“Did your mum like Christmas?” Hermione asked.

Snape lay back on the grass and plucked a tall stem from next to him, which he stuck into his mouth and chewed.

“She did,” he said finally. “Last Christmas da was away. Don’t know where. He just left a few days before and didn’t come back for a week. We had a nice day.”

Hermione lay down next to him and looked up at the roof of the garden. It reminded her of the ceiling at Hogwarts, charmed to resembled a sky. At the moment it was very blue, with small puffy-looking clouds meandering across the struts.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Mam cooked up some potatoes with some ham. And we listened to music all night,” he said. “I even had a bit of lager with some blackcurrant in it.”

“That sounds lovely,” said Hermione. “The best type of Christmases are the ones which are unexpected. Did you listen to carols?”

Snape laughed. “No way. The Ramones. The Damned. The Clash. Every record I had.”

Hermione laughed with him. “I can see that,” she said. “Your mum sounded very punk.”

“You think?” Snape asked.

“Of course,” said Hermione. “A pureblood witch who ran off to marry a muggle? She was thumbing her nose at blood supremacy bullshit. Then when her son grew up to be magical, she up and sent him to Hogwarts against what the muggle world would say. She played by her own rules, your mum.”

Snape breathed out a long, slow sighing breath. He drummed his fingers on his chest for a minute or so. More clouds drifted across the ceiling above them.

“I never thought about her like that,” he said after a while.

“I bet she liked the angry songs the best,” guessed Hermione. “The ones with people overthrowing oppression and sticking their fingers up to authority.”

“She did,” Snape said with a grin. “She definitely liked the angry ones a lot.”

“Well, there you go,” said Hermione. “Totally punk.”

Snape took the piece of grass out of his mouth and lifted up his arms before crossing them behind his head. “She’d like that.”

Hermione closed her eyes as she lay on the grass. The stillness felt peaceful now, not oppressive.

After a few minutes, half an hour, and hour...who knows? Hermione opened her eyes.

“We should probably get back,” she said

“Okay,” said Snape. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“That’s all right,” said Hermiome.

They made their way back to the floo, where Minerva was waiting in the office wearing a bright red robe with embroidered fir trees forming a green trim. The effect was startling yet perfectly Christmassy.

“All done?” she asked briskly.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” said Minerva. “See you at lunch!”

Hermione and Snape walked down the winding stairway and past the gargoyle.

“I feel like I’ve only just had breakfast though,” Snape said.

“That was a few hours ago,” Hermione said. “Besides, Christmas is about excess isn’t it?”

“I think it’s about a Christian festival celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ that probably also co-opted a pagan winter solstice festival,” said Snape in a dry tone.

“That does sound excessive though,” said Hermione. “Come on. Let’s sit in the Great Hall, and pull some crackers until lunch.”

The House tables in the hall were gone, along with the Head table where the teachers sat. Instead there was one long table set with cutlery.

“What’s going on?” asked Snape.

“They do it for Christmas lunch,” said Hermione. “Everyone sits together. Early birds get the best seat!”

They choose the ones with the best proximity to the fireplace. That was, near enough to be comfortable, but not too close so their backs started sweating. Hermione picked up a cracker and convinced a dubious looking Snape to pull the other end. She put the crown, that fell out and expanded, on her head immediately. She pulled out her wand and tapped it to side of the crown, which immediately started playing Jingle Bells.

“I feel Christmassy already,” she said in satisfaction.

“I’d feel more Christmassy with a wand,” said Snape sourly.

“That sounds like something someone who really wanted to practice wandless magic would say,” said Hermione. “Hang on a minute.”

She picked up the the satchel she’d sat at her feet and rummaged through it until she retrieved two items that she placed triumphantly on the table between her and Snape. He looked down at the items and back up to her with a very confused expression.

“A needle and thread,” he said.

“Yes!” said Hermione. “Perfect for practicing. It’s a tapestry needle. Er...do you know what tapestry is?”

“It’s basically the Dark Arts of the needlepoint world,” Snape said with a completely deadpan face.

Hermione burst out laughing. “It is possible the most evil thing on the planet. And you’ll agree once you try this.”

She sat back in the chair. The needle on the table lifted up into the air almost on level with Snape’s eyes. His eyes followed the ball of thread as it also lifted, and the end unwrapped itself and snaked through the air and perfectly through the eye of the needle. Then it withdrew, wrapped itself up and both settled back down on the table.

“Ah,” said Snape. “That does look terrifying.”

“It’s great practice,” said Hermione.

“I have never seen anyone practice wandless magic like this before,” said Snape.

“It’s how I started out,” said Hermione.

“Did a teacher put you onto it?” asked Snape. As he spoke, he concentrated on the items and the needle and thread rose into the air a few inches and swayed drunkenly. The thread wobbled a bit as it unravelled, then made an ineffective stab at the eye of the needle but missed. The items dropped to the table.

Hermione smiled. “Oh that’s good! You’re a natural. No, no one put me onto it. It was just something I just decided to do myself. I think I only ever talked to one teacher about it,” she ended thoughtfully.

She thought back.

Yes. Only one teacher.

Hermione had been sitting at the kitchen table after a very exciting, though a little scary, altercation between Sirius and Professor Snape. Everyone had stormed off in different directions, and Mrs Weasley had taken a still recovering Mr Weasley to the sitting room. Mr Weasley had looked slightly askance at being taken from his hospital bed directly into a verbal stoush but was whisked away on a torrent of red hair before it could sink in. Sirius and Harry secreted themselves into another dark, weird room and were deep in conversation, which had left Hermione to her own devices.

She’d been seething with jealously after she’d read the letter left on the table. And by the way if people didn’t want letters read they shouldn’t leave them lying enticingly open on a shared dining table. Harry was going to learn Occlumency from Professor Snape.

Hermione longed to learn something that interesting, and from such a intimidating and powerful figure as Professor Snape! Harry got dead lucky sometimes. Teenage Hermione knew exactly the type of luck Harry was experiencing, as she’d read about it in a book her mother had given her. It was nepotism. How else was Harry hand picked for all these exciting things? He wasn’t even doing that great at school. She could have learnt it and taught it to Harry. That was a far superior plan than trying to teach Harry, the Boy Who Never Studied.

In an attempt to calm herself Hermione had got out her tapestry needle and thread. Needlework was something her mother and her did on the holidays together. It was the closest thing she got to creativity and she loved it. But she wasn’t doing tapestry at Grimmauld Place. She was using the needle to practice her wandless magic. Sort of in secret. Sort of to get better, but mostly to get better than everyone else, faster.

She was concentrating very hard on the needle, when the door banged open and a very cross-looking Professor Snape entered the room. He went to the counter and grabbed a small bag which he had apparently left behind. Perhaps making a dramatic exit used up a lot of cognitive functioning, Hermione thought. Hence this small example of uncharacteristic absentmindedness.

“Hello Professor,” said Hermione politely.

He swung around to her with a thundercloud face and saw her sitting there with the hovering needle and thread. He closed his eyes. At the time Hermione had thought he was so disappointed to see her in the kitchen that he’d shut his eyes in desperate silent plea she’d vanish by the time he re-opened them.

“I’m...Er...practising my wandless magic,” Hermione explained a bit pathetically. She wished very much she hadn’t sounded so much like an idiot.

“Thankfully Miss Granger,” Professor Snape had said in an extremely cutting manner, “the cones in my retina are functioning effectively, allowing me to witness this without need of a description.”

“Its quite dark in this kitchen,” said Hermione without thinking, “wouldn’t it be the rods?”

Her sense of self-preservation looked aghast at her, but her Need To Converse Intellectually pushed it out of the way. Here was an opportunity for science talk and she was having it even if it meant getting on Professor Snape’s bad—or even worse—side.

Professor Snape opened his eyes and looked at her with a strange expression. “Yes. You are right.”

She was too shocked he hadn’t slammed her immediately with an Insufferable Know-It-All related insult that she hadn’t said anything else.

He watched her for a moment, then tapped a finger against his upper lip.

“Do you find that an effective method of practicing wandless magic?” he asked.

“It’s probably not the most effective method,” Hermione said. “But if anyone asks what I’m doing I just tell them tapestry. A five minute explanation on tapestry tends to frighten away even the most ardent questioner.”

Professor Snape’s left eyebrow lifted. “Sneaky.” he said.

“Is it?” Hermione asked, “I thought it was sensible.”

“Being sneaky can be the most sensible option sometimes,” said Professor Snape. He folded his arms and looked away from her.

Hermione, who had already ignored most of her brain’s advice on the current situation, surged forward.

“Do you have any advice for me, Professor?” said Hermione. “On wandless magic?”

“My favourite part about not being at Hogwarts, Miss Granger,” said Professor Snape, “is not having to teach.”

“Oh, sorry Sir,” she said. “You just seem to be so much better than everyone else. Did you learn wandless mostly yourself?”

Professor Snape paused briefly, and leant against the kitchen bench. “I had a good teacher,” he finally said.

“Are they still at Hogwarts?” Hermiome asked excitedly.

Please say yes, she had thought, already planning ways to hit up whoever it was as soon as she returned to the castle. She was going to be so much better than everyone else.

He stood upright abruptly. “No,” he said. “She left a long time ago.”

Before Hermione could ask anything else the kitchen door opened and Mrs Weasley entered.

“Severus, you’re still here!” she said warmly.

“No I am not,” he snapped, and promptly walked out the back door.

“Oh, he’s impossible,” Mrs Weasley sighed. She turned to Hermione. “What were you two talking about?” Mrs Weasley had asked Hermione curiously.

“Tapestry,” teenage Hermione had said, and had felt an small inner glow of satisfaction at the hint of disinterest that had immediately shown in Mrs Weasley’s eyes at her response.

Hmmmmm.

Adult Hermione looked down at the needle and thread between them. There was a building feeling of dread inside her.

The expression on Professor Snape’s face when he’d seen her sitting there at the table with the items in front of her.

The fact he even spoke to her for a few moments without his usual scathing tone.

His comment about the teacher.

Was it her?

This was the strongest evidence yet to support her concerning hypothesis she was already part of her own timeline. Which was confusing enough.

But then again, the less sure part of her argued, it was all just circumstantial wasn’t it? And maybe a teeny bit narcissistic to think he meant her. After all, there were ridiculous amounts of clever witches that could have taught him, and perhaps she was reading too much into the memories. Viewing them through the subjective lens of her current context was clouding everything.

And besides. Professor Snape had been a bit of a bastard to her at school.

She looked across at Mister Snape, who was concentrating hard on the needle and thread. The thread almost pushed through the eye of the needle this time before the items fell. He glanced up and saw her watching and flashed her a grin. She smiled back at him and saw the flush rise on his neck and cheeks. There was a moment of awkward silence before the crown suddenly began blaring Jingle Bells again. Their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.

No.

There was no way.

Chapter Text

Christmas passed, New Years and so on into the start of a new term. The children returned, largely happy from time spent with family, and the castle was filled with shouting, noisy humans once more. Hermione, who had mixed feelings about noisy humans, had retreated to the potions laboratory to start yet another round of the wolfsbane potion.

She’d invited Snape to join her via the strangely convoluted internal House Elf messaging system. She imagined it was the closest thing the wizarding world got to a text message, except instead of a discrete tone, a House Elf suddenly popped into existence with a piece of parchment. This was generally while Hermione was doing something where she didn’t actually want to get a message right at that moment, such as being on the toilet, or picking her nose, or in the middle of a bath. But the House Elf would stand there until she took the message from them and read it, and if she didn’t, would begin remonstrating themselves loudly until she took pity on them and grabbed the paper. She very much missed her mobile phone.

Snape had turned up just after lunch, halfway through an apple and with ink on his fingers.

“Mister Snape,” said Hermione warmly. “I have something for you.”

“Do I want it?” he asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I haven’t given it to you yet.”

She motioned to one of the stools near the cauldrons and he sat down cautiously. She put a package into his hands, wrapped in the same star-dotted paper she’d used at Christmas. He looked down at the package, then up at her.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

He looked down again. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I guess you just felt like a Capricorn,” Hermione said in her best Professor Trelawney voice. Her attempt of course was completely wasted on Snape, who was a few years away from even meeting the divinity teacher. So she just sounded batty. Hermione decided to pretend she hadn’t done that, and certainly hoped Snape would as well.

“Really?” he asked sceptically.

“No,” Hermione said. “But you mentioned a few months ago it was going to be your birthday. So I went and looked it up in the school records. It was probably a blatant disregard of all sorts of privacy concerns but last time I checked, wizarding Britain had apparently no concept of what privacy is anyway.”

While she was suffering for acute verbal diarrhoea, Snape was carefully unwrapping the gift. He sat the neat roll of brown, supple leather on the table, before unclasping the buckles and letting it flatten out. In front of them was a long line of knives, mallets, stilettos and strange objects that resembled corkscrews.

“It’s a potioneer’s kit,” Hermione said unnecessarily.

Snape picked up one of the knives and examined it before carefully retuning it to its clasp. He did the same to each of the items, turning them over in his hands and feeling the weight of them, even testing the blade on some.

“I should note,” Hermione said, “it is second-hand. But it’s the best quality. The silver blades are pure, not cut with nickel. And these knives to the right are charmed to stay sharp, whereas those ones aren’t. It took me ages to save up for it. I hope you don’t mind it’s not new.”

“This is yours?” Snape asked.

“Well, technically it’s yours now,” said Hermione. “You can use it for whatever apprenticeship you choose.”

“Don't you need it?” Snape asked.

“I had fantasies of being a potion master,” said Hermione. “But I really didn’t have the aptitude for it. I’m competent enough, but I was never good at improving them or, let’s be honest, creating one. But you do. And a kit like this is far and away better in your hands than mine. I think you can do amazing things with your talent.”

“Thank you,” said Snape. “It’s really great.”

“I changed the monogram too,” said Hermione, pointing to the corner of the leather and the ends of the tools. Each had a neat intersecting swirl proclaiming ‘SS’.

Shape traced his fingers across the letters, but didn’t say anything.

“Well then,” Hermiome said a little awkwardly. “You can go enjoy the rest of the day if you like. I just wanted to give you your gift.”

“Can I help you here?” he asked. “I might as well try out the tools.”

“Of course,” said Hermione. “It’s my latest wolfsbane cycle. I’m just starting preparations for the potion.”

“So it takes a month,” observed Snape.

“It does,” bemoaned Hermione.

“This is the pickled myrrh?” Snape asked as he looked over the table full of items.

“Yes. And what is this ingredient?” Hermione asked, pointing towards the basket that had three pale yellow-tinged flat mushrooms.

“Bitter oysters,” said Snape confidently.

Hermione looked at him expectantly and he shuffled his feet.

“Fine,” he said. “Panellus stipticus, then.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione witheringly. “It’s all I wanted.”

“They smell a bit,” Snape said as he wrinkled his nose. “Are you sure they’re still fresh enough for the potion?”

“They are,” said Hermione. “But I don’t have enough for this batch anyway. I’ll have to get some more. They grow in the Forbidden Forest.”

Snape watched her deftly cut up the first mushroom then handed the knife to him to slice the second. He followed her movements and replicated the slicing easily. He was slicing the last one when he put the knife down and turned to her.

“Do you think perhaps the slice on the forty degree would cut some of the brewing time?” he asked her, tenting his fingers slightly up on the table.

Hermione considered this. “Maybe?” she guessed. “You’re the potions prodigy, not me. Perhaps you could improve this potion as your apprenticeship project. It’s very new, so could do with some reviewing.”

“I think it might,” said Snape thoughtfully. “I’d have to play around with it. But it’s not really something you can test.”

“True,” said Hermione. “If the werewolf in the experiment that gets the potion variation keeps eating everyone you may run out of potion masters pretty quickly.”

“But imagine the promotional opportunities,” countered Snape.

“Every cloud has a silver nitrate lining,” she said.

He smiled and turned back to the collection of tools again.

“Well,” said Hermione. “Tonight I will go and collect some more while the moon is still full. They’re more potent for this potion when it is.”

“Can I come?” asked Snape.

Hermione frowned. “Well, firstly, is that really how you want to spend your birthday? And secondly, it’s very dangerous in the forest at night.”

“But I do want to spend my birthday like that,” argued Snape. “And I’d be with you. So isn’t that safe?”

“Er,” said a wrongfooted Hermione. “Maybe?”

“Maybe doesn’t sound very comforting,” said Snape.

Hermione paused. The forest was dangerous, but so was the castle really. It was probably better to have Snape near her at any rate.

“Definitely,” said Hermione. “Definitely, probably safe......or possibly. Definitely, possibly, somewhat safe.”

“Oh, very comforting,” said Snape. “But you can’t put me off. I want to come with you.”

“Fine,” said Hermione. “Meet me at the entrance at six o’clock.”

Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon with Filius’s first years being adorably inept and watching the increasingly bad weather outside the castle. She’d have to make sure they were well charmed when they went to the forest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen so much snow.

She wasn’t therefore, surprised to join a very rugged up Snape at the entrance to the castle. He even had a black woollen cap tugged over his head. Hermione had gone with one she found shoved in her satchel, and it was bright pink.

“Your hat is very...Er...bright,” said Snape as she joined him.

“I assume bright means stylish in Mister Snape speak,” said Hermione primly. She cast warming charms on both of them before they stepped out of the warmth of Hogwarts and into the freezing night air.

They walked along the path together towards the forest. The path had no snow or ice on it, and obviously had been charmed, as despite the flakes falling around them, it remained clear. When they reached the edge of the forest Hermione stopped.

“Hang on a minute,” she sad.

She pulled out her golem from the satchel, placed it on the ground and methodically worked through the steps until it stood next to them.

“Do you think that’s overkill?” Snape asked, looking at the golem warily.

“Not at all,” said Hermione without thinking. “There used to be a giant talking spider that lived in here,”

“Really?” asked Snape. “An Acromantula? In this forest?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “But it wanted to eat people so let’s not try and find it.”

“Their venom is very valuable,” said Snape.

“It is,” said Hermione. “But I particularly enjoy my ‘not being eaten by a giant spider more than money’ life as it is.”

“Spoilsport,” Snape sulked.

They began to walk into the forest, but the weight of the golem soon meant it lagged behind. There was the occasional crash and crack as it broke through branches and pulled itself out of boggy ground. Every now and then Hermiome paused to wait for it to catch up. Then, as soon as she could see the solid figure trudging through the trees towards them, she allowed Snape to continue.

They were quite far along into the forest, so the canopy of leaves almost blocked out the cloudy sky, but also protected them from the falling snow. As they lost light, Hermione had cast her own spell to at least keep them from falling into holes that may or may not contain massive, talking arachnids.

Ahead of them, Hermione could see the foxfire, the bluish-green light showing them the way to the patch of fungi. They carefully made a path towards it. When they reached their destination Hermione looked down at the small, luminous mushrooms. She squatted down to examine them and her back cracked. Getting old was fun.

“They’re so beautiful,” said Hermione, ignoring her thighs that had joined in the complaining. “I like how they look magical, but they aren’t.”

Snape hunched down onto his own heels next to her. “Science is sort of magical but, isn’t it?” He asked in an distracted manner.

“Yes, it is,” agreed Hermione.

He turned his head and Hermione took a moment to examine his profile, lit only by the light from the bioluminescent patch in front of them and her bluebell light behind. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in concentration over his prominent nose, and he was tapping his forefinger against his lip in a very familiar way.

Something flipped within her stomach. She suddenly was gripped by a wish that she could have known he was like this, before the war ended. Would she have gone back to the shack? Or tried something drastic to save him? As opposed to just conjuring a vial to catch his memories, and putting a hand on his arm as his feet thrummed uselessly on the wooden floor. She remembered crying. He’d seemed so powerful and untouchable. It had scared her a little to see him dying.

If Snape could die, then anyone could right?

She watched him pluck one of the fungi and examine its gills. “It’s the oxidation the creates the glow,” he commented.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “The enzyme luciferase. It’s like Mister Malfoy, except it does more than just look pretty.”

Snape snorted a small laugh.

“Do you think understanding things makes them less magical?” she asked.

“No,” Snape said. “Definitely not.”

“I agree,” said Hermione. “How everything works. Why things are. It’s all incredible.”

He looked up from the fungi he was holding and into her eyes, before shaking his head a little in what appeared to be amusement.

“Too much?” Hermione asked. “I do have a tendency to get a bit excited about knowledge,” she added ruefully.

“It’s not too much,” said Snape. He looked back down at his hands and appeared to be studying it intently. “I think it’s perfect,” he said.

Oh, thought Hermione. She’d never been described as perfect before.

“Perfectly awful?” she teased. She wasn’t quite sure how to deal with the situation.

“No,” said Snape in the same casual tone, with his head down and hair hanging toward his face under the woollen cap. “Just perfect.”

“Oh,” repeated Hermione, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She reached out a palm and he placed the fungi onto it. It leapt on the wool of her glove, and a bioluminescent butterfly settled in place.

“I thought we wouldn’t miss one,” said Hermione.

The insect, having pumped its wings a few times, lifted from her hand and danced around their heads before flittering off into the night.

“I hope it doesn’t try and mate with anything,” Snape said.

Hermiome laughed. “Now that would be an interesting scientific development,” she said.

“Except for the other butterfly,” said Snape.

She laughed even harder.

“Maybe it would develop a fetish for mushrooms,” Snape added.

“Stop!” gasped Hermione between breaths. “My stomach hurts.”

“Stop what?” asked Snape in an innocent tone. “We’re discussing biology. It’s not my fault you have a dirty mind.”

“Says the man who just invented a new and disturbing kink,” retorted Hermione.

They grinned at each other. Hermione felt that weird flip again in her stomach. She wished she’d known Snape in another time and place. She wished they’d met both as adults without the chasm of a power differential between them. She thought they might have even gotten along. Or more. Not that she knew exactly what she meant by more. Except that no one else had ever joked about science with her.

Or said anything she did was perfect.

She wished. She wished. She wished.

Hermione smelt the wolf before she saw it, and she’d already pulled Snape up towards her, pushing him away from the danger when it slunk into the clearing. She knew the moment Snape had caught sight of it, as his muscles tensed like steel under her clutching fingers.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he said. “It’s Lupin.”

He sounded completely terrified, which Hermione thought was a rational reaction to their situation.

The wolf was as large as Hermione remembered from when she’d seen it outside the shack, but it was a lot darker with barely any grey in the fur. As it slunk into the clearing towards them she could make out blood on the muzzle and marked along its’ pelt. As it didn’t look injured, Hermione assumed the blood belonged to whatever forest inhabitant was unlucky enough to have crossed its path.

“Mister Snape,” said Hermione very softly and deliberately. “I’m about to do something. And when I do it I want you to run. Okay?”

“Yes,” Snape gasped into her ear. She could feel him pressed up against her back, trembling terribly.

The wolf sunk down in front of them, a low, ominous snarl emanating from its bared muzzle. Behind its enormous back, its tail was held stiff, almost horizontal, to its body.

“Shut your eyes,” she hissed. She hoped he was listening to her.

Hermione held out her hands and lights exploded out in front of her as a ground-rumbling boom shook the saplings beyond them. It was a standard department-taught Non-Lethal engagement spell. The department considered it an offensive spell but Hermione had always thought of it as more on the offensively-defensive side of the scale. Hermione had found that, due to the temporary disorientation it caused, it was a handy little spell to cast when she needed to get the hell out of a bad situation, fast.

And she considered this a Bad Situation. And she wanted to get the hell out of it fast.

The wolf ducked its head, growling a strange whimpering growl. It pawed at its ears almost frantically.

Hermione turned and started to run, pushing an initially frozen Snape onwards. Once motivated however Snape proved his legs were up to the task. He was much taller than her, so he began to outpace her quickly. He turned towards her and started to slow but Hermione shook her head frantically, and made a universal ‘go’ flapping movement that she very much hoped he had understood. His eyes widened as he glimpsed something over her shoulder.

She flicked her head backwards to see the wolf galloping behind them.

Fuck.

She stopped running and turned towards the wolf, flicking out her magic and pulling branches and trees down into its path. But it barrelled ahead, crashing through the wood and splintering it underfoot. The stunning spells she sent its way glanced uselessly off its hide. It leapt towards her and she conjured ropes that jerked it backwards before it shook them off easily.

Hermione had spent a lot of time campaigning for the rights of magical beings back in her time. She’d unionised the House Elves to take care of their own bargaining and linked performance bonuses (which largely consisted of not being regularly beaten by wizards...who knew?) and had brought in laws to stop discrimination in employment for many others. This generally had meant she was well liked amongst the magical entities community, so it was bloody Sod’s Luck she was going to get eaten by a werewolf.

And by Remus.

Which meant she couldn’t use any stronger spell that would stop the wolf, but almost certainly kill it...Remus....whatever.

That would certainly screw the timeline.

Time travel sucked.

The wolf was almost upon her and she could smell the heavy, tangy reek of blood, and that wild animal-scent that triggered a bubbling panic within her. In a last desperate attempt she cast her shield, knowing it wouldn’t hold against the wolf but it would hold long enough for Snape to reach the edge of the forest and make it to the castle.

The wolf scrabbled against the invisible barrier and she started to buckle under its weight. She sucked in a breath and tried to force more magic through. Suddenly it was easier. The shield pushed forward with a shove and the wolf’s maw was inches above her face, frothing and steaming in the night air. It snapped down, hitting the shield and leaving a smear of blood hovering at eye level.

“Professor Granger,” gasped Snape behind her.

She looked behind her to see him with his wand out. He’d added his own spell to the shield.

“Mister Snape, you have to run to the castle. Please!” she said desperately.

“I’m not leaving you to be eaten!” Snape said.

“Go to the castle!” she shouted.

“No!” he yelled.

There was a yelp and Hermione turned to see the wolf being lifted up in the grey, stone arms of the golem. The animal struggled wildly in the unyielding grasp, tearing at the figure with its claws, rendering chunks from the clutching limbs.

Hermione turned to Snape.

“We have a minute. Quick. Get the Portkey and use it,” she ordered.

Snape nodded and scrabbled at his neck. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder with one hand before awkwardly twisting the pendant with the other and catching the bead.

Nothing happened.

He looked down at the bead in his hand and back up at her, and his face was white with terror.

“It doesn’t work,” he said.

“It does,” said Hermione. “But it’s only strong enough for one person. It’s illegal, remember?”

“What can we do?” he asked.

“We do exactly why I made it,” said Hermione. “To protect you.”

She wrenched her shoulder out of his grasp and the Portkey activated almost immediately. Before he was pulled away into nothingness she barely caught his cry of dismay, and his hand reaching out for her again.

There was a large crunching behind her and and she swung around to see the wolf rear up and bear down in a mighty thud, snapping the arms from the golem. It turned towards her with a growl, but yelped as the golem bent down and charged, head-first, into its ribs. There was a crunching sound that could have been bones cracking under the force of rock, or rock cracking under the force of teeth, as the wolf swung around and caught the golem between its jaws.

Her silent companion, torso bereft of arms like a nightmarish Venus de Milo, swung back and forth in the mouth of the wolf, kicking up viciously with its legs and occasionally hitting the mark.

Snape was safe, Hermione thought wildly. He was safe.

Safe.

She dropped the shield and the broken branches around the wolf shuddered and began to twist together in an approximation of a cage. She was trying to form something as fast as she could to hold it or pin it down when there was a resounding crack, and Hermiome screamed.

The headless body of the golem dropped to the forest floor. It’s magic had been crushed in the jaw of the wolf. The wolf spat chunks of stone out and shook itself, violently splintering the wood around it. In a last act of desperation Hermione cast Avis.

Instead of her flock of tiny golden birds, a group of large vicious-looking crows sprung into existence. They immediately flew at the wolf, attacking its eyes and ears. The wolf snarled and bit at them, its canines clacking ominously together even as she called forth more. Soon there was a swarm of them snapping their sharp, black, beaks at the predator and filling the air with their angry, raucous calls.

With a few seconds breathing room Hermiome concentrated and expelled what felt like the last of her magical reserves. The heavy fragrance of mint suffused in the air, overwhelming everything. It was the best she could do, and hoped it would hide her scent for a least a few minutes.

Then she ran.

She ran like she’d run from the snatchers what felt like a hundred years ago. That type of terrified running where there was a little scream caught in her throat, and her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would crack her sternum. She ran through the forest, branches catching at her coat and hair, and scratching her neck. She was sobbing for breath or maybe she was just sobbing. She couldn’t tell.

The ground opened up in front of her, and Hermione realised she’d made it out of the forest and could see the outline of the castle in front of her. She felt a delirious laugh bubble up inside her that was quickly squashed as she heard a crash behind her.

She turned as the wolf was leaping and she fell backward in panic. She was exhausted. The wolf lunged at her and she rolled suddenly to the side and flung her bluebell flame into its muzzle. The animal struck out at her with a paw and she screamed in agony as the claws raked down her face.

She was going to die, the crystal clear realisation came to her. She was going to die.

As the wolf reared over her, blood-tinged froth dripping from its mouth onto her face, there was an enormous crack of thunder and the subsequent flash of lightening was so piercingly bright Hermione reflexively squeezed her eyes shut. Suddenly an incredibly heavy weight dropped onto her and she couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.

Everything was going dark and she couldn’t breathe.

She struggled against it.

Everything was dark.

Chapter Text

When she opened her eyes the weight was gone, and Dumbledore and Minerva were standing over her. Hermiome tried to sit up but was immediately struck with incredible, searing pain on the left side of her face. She gasped in reflex and her body attempted to distract her by also producing excruciating pain in her left side, through her ribs and down into her hip.

“Don’t try and sit up,” said Minerva. “You’ve got some broken ribs. I’m going to take you to the infirmary. “

“I can walk,” Hermione insisted.

“Of course you can,” Minerva said, and flicked her wand.

Hermione felt herself drifting off into unconsciousness, despite her best efforts to resist the spell.

When Hermione awoke she was in a bed, in the infirmary with Poppy applying something to her cheek. She looked down at herself to find she was wearing the ubiquitous navy pyjamas.

Her face hurt a lot.

“It’s all right Hermione. I got to them very quickly and sealed them up with powdered silver and dittany. They’ll scar, but they’re closed.” Poppy said soothingly.

“Okay,” said Hermione. She closed her eyes she didn’t have to see the pitying smile that Poppy was making.

Would she look like Bill? He sort of looked a bit dashing with his scars. But he also was tall, reasonably handsome and a man. Which helped. People seemed to think scars on men represented some type of collateral damage from an act of bravery, whereas scars on women often were interpreted to be as a result of being victimised.

Hermione rubbed her the scar in her sternum absentmindedly. She already had her bravery scar.

“Can I have a mirror?” she asked suddenly as she opened her eyes.

The expression on Poppy’s face immediately told her what a terrible idea that was, but the matron replied with a very gentle voice. “Of course.”

Hermione lay back on the pillow while Poppy bustled away and retuned with a small mirror which she placed in Hermione’s hand. Hermione took a small, nerve-inducing breath and held the mirror up and looked at her reflection.

It was quite bad.

The scars jagged cruelly down the left-hand side of her face. In a direct kick in the vagina kind of twist of fate they were almost like a lightening bolt shape.

She could be scar twins with Harry, Hermione thought wildly.

She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She never really considered herself attractive. A lot of hair product and beauty charms could make her passable, a la the Yule Ball, but she was generally sort-of average. And Hermione had thought her intellect was her strong point. Yet despite this she mourned her pre-scar face. How had she ever thought her skin was bad? Or worried she had too many freckles? In light of what was in front of her now, she would have called her old face beautiful. She should have.

Hermione wished she had a Fleur to swish in with her beautiful silver hair and dramatically tell people how the scars made Hermiome look brave. And then look scathingly at anyone who dared to dispute the fact. And then maybe rub her back and tell her everything was going to be all right.

“The right was always your best side anyway,” the mirror commented.

She refrained from smashing it against the wall, but instead placed it lightly, and firmly glass side down on the blanket.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You must be in pain,” said Poppy. “Young Mister Snape has been waiting outside for some time. He refused to leave until I let him know you were awake. Shall I tell him to come back later?”

Hermione sat up again. “Of course not. I’m fine,” she said. “He can come in.”

Poppy nodded brusquely and left her beside, returning with a very anxious looking Snape who paled visibly at the sight of her.

“Professor Granger,” he said.

“Mister Snape,” said Hermione. “I assume it was you that fetched Professor Dumbledore. Thank you. You saved my life.”

“Saved?” Snape said, aghast. “You saved me! I wanted to stay. I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I know you didn’t,” said Hermione. “But you had to.”

Snape looked at her. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I thought you had been eaten.”

“Not eaten,” said Hermione. She motioned to her scars. “Just thoroughly chewed.”

He thrust a hand through his hair. “I thought you were dead. The witch at the garden let me through the floo. I don’t even remember what I said to her.”

“Obviously something very convincing,” Hermione said.

“Yes,” Snape said. “Professor Dumbledore seemed surprised when I came out of the floo, but I told him where you were and what was happening and he just vanished.”

“Interesting,” said Hermione,.

“I thought you couldn’t apparate within Hogwarts?” Snape asked.

“Perhaps Headmasters have special privileges,” said Hermione.

She lay back. Talking was hurting her face. Snape put a hesitant hand on the blankets next to her hand.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“A new face,” said Hermione. “This one’s damaged.”

“No,” said Snape, shaking his head.

“I look terrible,” said Hermione, and she was a bit mortified to feel the pricks of tears returning.

“But you aren’t any different,” said Snape.

Hermione laughed a strange, sobbing laugh. Snape apparently had similar perspectives on her attractiveness as a teenager and as an adult. At least some things never changed.

“It’s reassuring to learn that having massive disfiguring scars on my face has not altered my appearance in any way for the worse,” said Hermione. “I must have been operating at a pretty low baseline.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Snape said hurriedly. “I meant that there’s lots of things that make you great. And, um, it doesn’t matter if you have scars. You’re still smart and funny and nice and....cool and...well that type of stuff,” he trailed off.

Hermione looked carefully at him, but he was looking back at her with a completely serious expression. He was not being sarcastic.

She moved her arm and covered his hand with her own.

“Thank you, Mister Snape,” she said. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”

He flipped his hand on the bed and in a unexpectedly bold move, linked his fingers through hers. She squeezed his hand slightly, and he squeezed back.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” he whispered.

“Me too,” she whispered back.

He sat there for a few moments, and so did she. She left her hand where it was, and so did he.

“I’m sorry I got so scared,” Snape finally said.

“What do you mean? I was bloody terrified!” Hermione said.

“You didn’t seem like you were,” he said. “You just started fighting. Then you made me go.”

”Anyone would be scared,” said Hermione. “It was very scary.”

“Right,” said Snape. Hermione decided that he must have had a small jolt of courage, as their hands remained entwined but he ran his thumb gently over her fingers in a soothing motion.

“Mister Snape,” said Dumbledore.

Hermione looked up to see the older wizard walking towards her bed. He was wearing the same robes he had when she’d seen him standing above her in the forest, a rich purple with embroidered spots of varying colours as a trim. As he neared the bed Hermiome noted that they weren’t spots, but dozens of tiny stitched Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans.

Snape hastily withdrew his hand from hers

“It’s time to leave Professor Granger to recuperate,” Dumbledore said. “Horace is waiting outside to escort you to your common room.”

“Yes Professor Dumbledore,” said Snape.

He stood up, and cast a reluctant look towards Hermione. There was a broken twig still stuck to the shoulder of his jumper and his hair was disastrous—likely brought on by the combination of the woollen cap and running for his life from a murderous werewolf. Hermione had caught a brief sight of her own hairstyle in the small mirror earlier, and only the gruesome scars on her face had distracted her attention from it. The battle for her most unattractive feature was rapidly become a contested zone.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Mister Snape. Thank you for visiting,” said Hermione.

“Yes,” said Snape. He opened his mouth and hesitated, before closing it tightly over whatever it was he had considered saying. Hermione tried to fashion an encouraging smile but she was in quite a bit of pain, and was very tired, and most probably suffering from shock.

Dumbledore stood near her bed silently until the door close, signalling Snape leaving the infirmary.

“How is Mister Lupin?” Hermiome asked (a little pointedly to be honest).

“He is back in the confines of the shack,” Dumbledore said. “And will be asleep until the morning.”

“Can I point out,” said Hermione, “how completely unsuitable the shack is to house a werewolf?”

“You can indeed,” said Dumbledore.

“Well,” said Hermione crossly. “It is. You can’t have a werewolf able to just roam the grounds of a school.”

“He was, on this occasion, released,” said Dumbledore.

“Who by?” Hermione demanded. She swore to herself she would punch James Potter and the rest right in the groin if it was them. She’d punch them so hard they’d cough up pubic hair for months.

“I was hoping you would tell me,” said Dumbledore. He motioned over to the far end of the infirmary where Hermiome could see a curtain was pulled around a couple of beds.

She hoisted herself up on her elbows and gradually levered herself into a sitting position. Once that proved successful she swung her legs over and stood up. The navy pyjamas dragged slightly on the floor.

She walked beside Dumbledore to the curtain and she pulled it back to see two prone figures, side by side, wearing black robes. They apparently had not passed the Poppy Pomfrey standard that gained them access to the navy pyjamas.

At first Hermione thought there was something wrong with her eyes, but then she realised there was something wrong with their faces. Both of them had completely indistinguishable features, as their entire face kept shifting and blurring, changing every feature in an endless loop that was nauseating to watch.

“Are they unconscious?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “They will not wake unassisted. The centaurs located them in the forest not far from where I discovered you. Apparently they were quite eager to leave without being detained.”

Hermione bent forward and shifted the arm of the figure closest to her, pulling the sleeve of the robe up. And there it was. The stylised version of the dark mark, with the eight and infinity symbol imposed on the skull.

It was them.

“You recognise them?” Dumbledore asked.

“Not their faces,” Hermione said. “But the tattoo yes. I’m guessing they’ve devised a spell to get around my facial recognition wards. I’d like to take photographs for evidence,” she said.

“The wards did not alert me to their presence either,” mused Dumbledore. “Interesting.”

“Perhaps they will be students here as well,” guessed Hermione. “Like me.”

“Seems a reasonable hypothesis,” agreed Dumbledore.

Hermione stared at the wizards. She was so blisteringly angry with herself. Of course they would have been trying to get around her wards! That was what happened. Someone would invent a spell, then someone would develop the counter spell. Then there would be a stronger spell, and so on and so on in an endless upward spiral of people seeking to out-magic each other. She knew this. She knew it!

And she didn’t even consider it. She was getting sloppy. Or comfortable. Or both.

“Hermione! I’m glad to see you up,” said Minerva from behind her. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m in a bit of pain,” said Hermione. “As well as I have a few concerns about the effect of the scratch.”

“A scratch is less problematic than a bite,” Dumbledore said. “Poppy cleaned the wound with silver, neutralising some of the impact as well. I anticipate you will not develop lycanthropy, however you may suffer some ill effects as the lunar cycle moves through its stages.”

“Great,” said Hermione.

If she hadn’t known Bill, and seen his lived experience, she would not find any of this comforting. But he seemed very happy, and had three very non-werewolf children and Fleur still had all her limbs and an intact face so it couldn’t be that bad. As a result, she was slightly mollified.

“I’m sorry this happened Hermione,” said Minerva.

“How did it happen?” Hermione asked. “Did you not supervise Mister Lupin’s consumption of the wolfsbane?”

“I was supervising Mister Lupin,” said Minerva, “until he clearly demonstrated his commitment to taking the potion independently.”

Hermione tried to keep her voice calm as she questioned Minerva. “So he took the last dosage himself?”

“Yes,” said Minerva. “Mister Lupin understood how gravely important it was. I don’t understand what happened.”

“An unfortunate oversight,” Dumbledore cut in.

Hermione squeaked in what was the only sound she could let out as her larynx battled with the frothing, roaring wave of anger washing over her.

“Mister Lupin also deserves our sympathy, Hermione,” said Dumbledore gently. “It is a terrible burden to bear.”

Hermione shut her mouth with an audible snap, which actually made her face hurt even more. She knew it was a burden. Why else had she diligently ground her way through the laborious and finicky wolfsbane each month? Why else had she excused Remus from class just as the phase of the moon began to impact him negatively? Why else everything?

She had always tried to champion the cause of underrepresented magical entities. She still didn’t have much privilege as a muggleborn in the wizarding world, but she had a bit as one of the Golden Trio and that wasn’t bad.

There were two lycanthrope Unspeakables within the department—Stella and Gerrard. They both worked compressed hours, due to their adherence to the lunar calendar, but were friendly and competent and Hermione had always enjoyed working with them. She’d volunteered to partner with them on missions when no one else would. Then she’d argued for the policy to be brought in that made the discrimination an internal offence, and everyone had attended an information session. It was all very satisfyingly enshrined in departmental policies and procedures.

Hermione was not aware of one time Stella and Gerrard had forgotten to drink their wolfsbane. And she was almost positive they’d never eaten anyone. They went out for cocktails after work sometimes, and Stella had been to Hermione’s house many times to watch television, and pretend Hermione wasn’t a terrible cook.

And even before, back at school she’d tried to think about things in a different way. Not that anyone appreciated what she was trying to do. They mostly laughed at her attempts to get S.P.E.W up and running, and mocked her ideals on the rights of magical beings.

Down at the bottom of her old school trunk were a pile of school essays. She’d kept some of the ones she was proud of, including the meticulously researched one on werewolves she’d written for Professor Snape in her third year. She’d enjoyed Remus as a Professor. He was knowledgeable, kind and only slightly bias in Harry’s favour, which was a nice change.

She may have had a teeny little crush on him, but only a minuscule one! To be fair to her teenage self, she did tend to be drawn to birds with broken wings, and the thin, pale man who’d seen off the dementors in the Hogwarts Express carriage seemed a good prospect for a crush. Mysterious, skilled...possibly dying of consumption. So when Professor Snape had turned up instead of Remus to teach one of the DADA lessons one day, she’d initially been disappointed. But the essay had was tantalisingly interesting, and she had never got an Outstanding from Professor Snape. It had become an obsession.

Every single tome in the library even remotely connected to werewolves had been borrowed, crawled over inch by inch, returned, then borrowed again. She’d written four feet and, in a surge of what she believed was some type of divine inspiration, she added a three foot Annexe extolling the benefits of the wolfsbane potion. She’d explored the long-standing discrimination faced by those suffering from the condition and described the potion as critical in assisting them to integrate into wizarding Britain. There is nothing to fear from lycanthropes living and working among us, thirteen-year old Hermione had written with a warm glow of righteousness and a determined flourish.

The paper had been returned, well, tossed in front of her, with ‘Acceptable’ scrawled across the top. Hermione had thinned her lips and scanned down the scroll until she’d come to her annex. Most of the lines she had written were neatly lined through with red ink with the word ‘No’ written firmly under her final triumphant sentence.

Teenage Hermione had found this unacceptable, particularly as Lavender had also got an Acceptable for writing less than one foot and that she’d copied straight from the text! This was not to be borne.

Hermione had taken her scroll up to the desk at the end of class—against direct advice from both Harry and Ron, but what did they know about anything anyway.

“Excuse me Professor Snape,” Hermione had said in only a slightly nervous voice. Professor Lupin may have fallen in the ‘potential for crush’ options, but Professor Snape was firmly in the ‘completely intimidating’ camp.

“You’re excused Miss Granger,” Professor Snape had drawled without looking up.

“I want to ask about my paper, Sir” she said.

“You want to complain about your grade,” said Professor Snape, still writing on the other essays piled in front of him. Hermione could see a poor unfortunate soul heading for a Troll. This made her feel slightly better.

“Professor Snape, Sir, I’d like to renegotiate my grade,” said Hermione.

“Negotiations occur when individuals disagree and wish to come to an agreement,” said Professor Snape. “You expected a higher grade. I expected a better essay. We have no disagreement.”

“I think my paper deserved a higher grade,” she said bravely. “Er...Sir,” she added not so bravely.

Snape looked up at her as he stopped writing. “And why do you think that?”

“Thorough research and sound reasoning,” said Hermione in her most confident voice.

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. He plucked the paper from her hands and made an exaggerated throat clearing sound.

“There is nothing to fear from lycanthropes living and working among us,” he quoted. “I challenge your description of this reasoning as sound.”

“But it’s true!” Hermione said. “With the Wolfsbane potion, it’s true.”

“You are staking the safety of the general population on a potion that afflicted persons drink voluntarily,” said Professor Snape. “And I don’t know if you’ve met people Miss Granger, but they are largely idiots. I certainly wouldn’t trust them with something so important.”

“But of course they’d remember to drink it,” said Hermione. “How could they forget?”

“How indeed,” said Professor Snape in a slightly mocking tone.

“You don’t trust Professor Lupin to drink the potion then, Sir?” Hermione asked suddenly. She’d had a hunch on the wan DADA Professor that she was dying to spill to someone.

Professor Snape’s second eyebrow joined the first up near his hairline. “I never said Professor Lupin suffered from lycanthropy,” he said carefully.

“Well no,” said Hermione. “But after I did the research for my essay it was pretty obvious.”

Professor Snape drummed his fingers on the table a few times as he stared at her. Hermione tried very hard not to fidget under his unrelenting gaze.

“Finally, a demonstration of reasoning from you,” he said at last and handed her back her parchment. Hermione was pleased to see it now graded Exceed Expectations.

“Thank you Professor Snape,” she said.

“You have a lot of sympathy for werewolves,” Professor Snape asked. “Have you ever seen one?”

“No, Sir,” admitted Hermione.

“They are quite terrifying in close quarters,” continued Professor Snape in a flat, bored tone. “I imagine you wouldn’t feel quite so certain there was nothing to fear if you had had the pleasure.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Hermione, who had received her new grade so just wanted to leave.

“Do you think you would run?” asked Professor Snape as he leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He looked intensely at her with his strange, black eyes. “If you and your little friends came face to face with a wolf?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Hermione.

He shrugged at her response with a disbelieving scoff.

“But I’d like to think I’d do anything to protect my friends,” added Hermione. At the time she had liked to think she would. But it had been the untested boast of a child.

In response to her statement Professor Snape had sat upright in his chair, looking furious. “You have your grade Miss Granger. You have no pressing requirement to waste any more of my time. Out.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

And she had left the classroom, clutching her precious Exceeds Expectations.

Chapter Text

It was strange how anti-climatic it all felt really. It was over. And yet Hermione wasn’t quite sure whether she felt any real closure, or even a vague feeling that her current situation had any connection to her original mission.

Under the firm control of Dumbledore, they’d woken one of the wizards and administered Veritaserum. Hermione was accredited to do this in her time, and although she wasn’t exactly sure how that played out almost thirty years in her past, she was still the most qualified person in the room. Or at least she would be.

Eventually.

Besides, no one else wanted to do it, and Hermione was also vastly experienced in doing things other people didn’t want to do. So ergo, she was the preferred candidate for the position.

The wizard, to Hermione’s relief, confirmed what she’d hypothesised; that the third wizard had been splinched. She hoped, for his sake, that the rest of him was back at the department with Eurydice, and not sliced throughout time. There would be nothing more inconvenient than having a leg in this decade, an arm in that one, and the head somewhere in between.

As the potion took affect, the wizard began spitting out his story, often mumbling his words together he was so desperate to answer the questions she put to him.

As it turned out, the two wizards first breached the wards of Hogwarts using the Fuzzy Face Charm (Hermione made a mental note to return to this later and severely question who decided on the name of the spell) and were making their way towards the castle when they heard noises from the shack. They quickly discovered the noises were made by a very angry and possibly hungry werewolf.

With some brilliant spur-of-the moment decision-making skills, the wizards had decided to make hay while the moon shone, so to speak. They’d agreed with each the best course of action was to let Remus out, then lure Snape to the forest—somehow. Hermione and Snape had solved this particular dilemma for them by appearing in the doorway of Hogwarts and voluntarily walking towards their toothy trap.

Meanwhile, within the Forbidden Forest—the wizard had explained—there had been a surprising and slightly unwelcome turn of events when the wolf had tried to eat them instead of being patient and waiting for Hermione and Snape. They had both subsequently legged it through the forest until they stumbled across a herd of centaurs. The wizard admitted they had given themselves up, hoping that by the time someone had decided what to do with them, Snape would be quietly digesting somewhere in the wolf’s lower intestine.

The wizard was quite put out to discover Snape was still alive, and despite the Veritaserum there was a brief but exciting struggle between the wizard and Filius for control of Filius’s wand. Which, of course, the wizard lost and Filius won.

Hermione, having heard enough, had asked Dumbledore to put him back to sleep.

The Eight duo were then sentenced to continue their slumber under the watchful eye of Poppy in the infirmary, and Hermione had ducked back to her room to gather together the piles of crystals required for the time device. She’d taken them up to Dumbledore’s office, past the gargoyle, and gingerly up the stone staircase. There, she’d arranged them on either sides of the table, while Filius had placed the actual device in the middle.

Filius, Minerva, Hermione and Dumbledore stood in the centre of the headmaster’s vast round office, all looking pensively at the time device. Fawkes napped in the corner of the room on his perch, occasionally making funny little squawking noises in his sleep. Hermione wondered if he was dreaming of fire.

“I have repaired the device in so far as I understood it,” Filius finally said. “Which, I must stress, was not at all.”

“The device is one thing,” Hermione said to the others. “I also need the time sand. And I’ve got so much left to charm,”

Hermione waved her hand in a vague indication towards the medium pile for crystals on the table just to the right of the group, which dwarfed the smaller pile to the left.

“I can’t go anywhere without them,” she fretted.

“That shouldn’t be an issue,” Dumbledore said and flicked his hand in a casual way.

The crystals in the larger pile began lighting up as they were imbued with the time reversal spell, each one jumping a little as it occurred, giving the impression of kernels of corn popping in a skillet of hot oil.

“And there we are,” Dumbledore said with a warm smile.

Hermione stared, a little dumbfounded, at the pile of freshly charmed crystals. Thoughts of the hours of time she’d wasted each night charming little handfuls of them flittered across her consciousness. She was reminded again, just like on the quidditch field, that behind the twinkling eyes and confectionary themed clothing, Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard.

He was also, Hermione thought uncharitably, kind of a jerk.

“Thank you,” said Hermione stiffly.

“Where will you leave from?” Minerva asked. “Here?”

“No,” said Hermione. “If it works. I don’t want to turn up in the office of the headmaster unexpectedly. Or worse, my dead body turns up and she has to deal with that.”

“You hear that Albus?” Minerva said cheerfully as she dug an elbow into Dumbledore’s side. “She. At least you finally retire!”

Er...... Hermione’s brain scrambled into an emergency brace position, awaiting the oncoming crash.

“Perhaps I do,” Dumbledore said with the same level of cheer, to Hermione’s deep level of guilt. “Or you badgered me until I left.”

“Also highly likely,” shrugged Minerva. “There’s nothing wrong with ambition.”

“In any case,” Filius interrupted. “I really must stress the danger of your decision Hermione. I do believe you were very lucky to survive one trip, let alone attempt to replicate such luck.”

“I should take both the device and the others back as soon as possible,” said Hermione. “It is too dangerous for everyone else if I stay, and they do as well.”

“Do we wish me to obliviate the students?” Dumbledore asked.

“No,” said Hermione. “Our research shows that the spell has a deleterious effect on brain cells. After an obliviation people performed worse on cognitive tests, and their decision making ability particularly was impacted compared with their pre-obliviate self. So, I’d rather not.”

“I see,” said Dumbledore.

“What about Mister Snape?” asked Minerva. “You said he doesn’t like you where you are from.”

“No. He didn’t really,” said Hermione baldly. “And I rather think I like his brain as it currently is. Besides, I don’t think it matters whether he remembers me.”

“Maybe not,” said Minerva. But the witch gave her a curiously searching look.

“I think I shall miss you Hermione,” said Filius. “And not only because you kept the back row in line,”

“We’ll see each other again,” said Hermione. “This period of time will seem like a blip of a moment in comparison to everything else.”

“I shall try and remember to be nice,” said Minerva. “When I do see you again that is.”

Hermione grinned. “Well, good luck on that. I’m even more annoying as a child.”

Dumbledore flattened his palm and the time sand collected itself into a rolling sphere, and then a spike, and finally trickled into the time device.

“I want to set off the device in the room I arrived in,” said Hermione. “At the White Wyvern in Knockturn Alley.”

“A splendid idea,” said Dumbledore. “I shall organise a Portkey so we can take our two guests as well.”

“While you are doing that,” said Hermione. “I want to say goodbye to Horace, Pomona, Rolanda and Poppy.”

“A wonderful idea,” said Dumbledore.

“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Minerva.

“No thank you,” said Hermione. “But I’d like you to accompany us to Knockturn when we go. If that’s all right.”

“I will,” said Minerva.

When Hermione walked down the stairs she felt slightly guilty for lying to Minerva. She wasn’t going to see the other teachers at all. She’d seen them earlier to say goodbye. Horace had shook her hand, and promised to invite her to a Slug Club gathering when they next met. Pomona and Rolanda had been largely philosophical about her departure, although Rolanda brightly suggested she couldn’t wait to meet the younger Hermione and instil within her a burning love for quidditch.

Lastly Hermione had visited Poppy. The mediwitch had examined Hermione’s scars and, after pursing her lips over the injuries, had filled Hermione’s hands with chocolate dipped shortbread.

“You’ll keep out of trouble as a student won’t you Hermione?” she had asked.

“Um,” Hermione had struggled to find a diplomatic way to answer that one. She was fairly sure between her, Harry and Ron, Poppy had aged thirty years in six.

Poppy had sighed at her hesitation. “Well, that’s something to look forward to then.”

Hermione was now looking for Snape. The other students were by the by really. Sure, they’d shrug their shoulders at her departure but wouldn’t worry too much. If her school years were any comparison at least. Hermione remembered they’d even had Voldemort on the back of one of their teacher’s heads one year and it was largely forgotten the year after. Children were resilient...or egocentric...or maybe resilient because of their egocentricity? Either way, they would likely have no fucks to give she was gone.

After a quick alternative hypothesis analysis on the likely location of Snape, she decided the best place to look was on the grounds by the lake. He seemed to like going there, and, after all, past behaviour was the best predictor of future behaviour.

As she made her way across the snow covered ground, Hermione could see Snape ahead, under the same willow where she’d found him after Lily passed on the news of his mother’s death. He was in his standard studying pose, leaning against the trunk and scribbling in a notebook. The clear patch around him signified he had cast warming charms.

“Mister Snape,” Hermione called, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up and saw her, and he smiled in a manner that Hermione would not have previously believed possible for Snape. As she neared he closed the notebook and put it carefully to one side.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Good,” he said. “I’ve got an idea for my potions apprenticeship.”

“Excellent!” Hermione said. “You’ve decided to accept one of the offers then?”

“Yes,” said Snape. He crossed his legs at the ankles and tapped the book with a long, slender finger. “I’ve already got some ideas.”

“And I don’t even need to look at them to know they are brilliant,” said Hermione. “Please remember me when you develop something amazing. Perhaps with some kind of profit dividend?”

Snape laughed. “Naturally,” he said. “It goes without saying you’d be a silent partner.”

She sat down in front of him. “I actually came here as I wanted to talk to you about something important,” said Hermione.

“Okay,” said Snape. He closed his eyes as a sharp, little breeze stirred up some snowflakes around them, scattering them onto his hair and eyelashes.

“Remembered how I said I was only a substitute Professor?” Hermione asked carefully.

“Yes,” said Snape, his eyes snapping open again.

“I’m no longer needed here,” said Hermione. “So it’s time for me to go.”

There was a long silence while Snape stared at her, his brows drawn together as if he was considering what she said.

“You’re no longer needed?” he repeated.

“No,” said Hermione.

“And when are you going?” he asked.

“I’ll leave this afternoon,” said Hermione. “I’m sorry it’s such short notice. But I wanted to see you before I went. So I could say goodbye.”

“Where are you going?” asked Snape. “Can I send you owls? You promised I’d always be welcome to come and see you, remember?”

“You always will be,” promised Hermione. “You just won’t be able to find me for a while,” she said. “I’m muggleborn, and now I’ve got these scars. So, it’s not a good time for people like me. You know this.”

Snape sat there, still looking pensively at her until he lurched forward slightly towards her.

“I’ll come with you,” he said firmly.

“Er...,” said Hermione.

“I don’t really care about school anyway. I learnt more from you than I ever did here. And da, well, he won’t care what I do,” said Snape. He stopped talking as he saw her expression. And his own dropped.

“You don’t want me to come with you,” he said sadly.

Fuck this, thought Hermione. She couldn’t leave like this. She couldn’t. But she had to.

She leant forward and took his hand in hers. “If it were possible Mister Snape,” Hermione said. “I would take you with me. In a heartbeat. But I can’t.”

This time she took the initiative, threading her own fingers through his, until their palms rested against each other. She was suddenly very aware of his warm skin under hers, and the faint throb of his pulse. When she returned home. If she returned home. He’d be dead. And would have been dead for a decade.

“Don’t cry,” said Snape in a gentle tone.

“I didn’t realise I was,” said Hermione. But she definitely was.

Snape looked down at their entwined hands. She could see the pale skin of his scalp through his hair, and he suddenly seemed so vulnerable to her. Like he could vanish into nothingness, just as the transfigured butterflies had.

She pulled him forward slightly, making him wobble off balance slightly until she released his hand and put her arms around him. There was a brief moment, seemingly endless, before his own came up around her in return.

“I’ll miss you,” Hermione said into his shoulder. It seemed easier to say it to his shoulder, which was slightly bony and muffled her voice, but was reasonably harmless beyond this. Shoulders, she decided, we’re her new go-to conversation target. She’d give up talking to people’s eyebrows. It was shoulders or nothing from now on.

“I’m pretty great, so that’s understandable,” Snape said into her hair.

Hermione laughed. “You git,” she said and pushed away slightly from their hug so she could see his face. His eyes were slightly glazed with his own unshed tears.

“I’m actually much more of a git than great,” said Snape and he grimaced at his comment.

“You’re ninety nine percent great, and one percent git,” pronounced Hermione.

Snape’s face deepened in colour as he blushed. “One per cent?” he complained.

“No one is perfect,” said Hermione.

Snape’s eyes darted away from hers, and she remembered what he’d said in the forest.

Perfect.

“I have to go now,” said Hermione. “Remember everything we talked about, and keep practicing.”

“I’ll make sure when we see each other again, I’ll be the most powerful wizard in Britain,” Snape said jokingly.

“Then you’ll be teaching me,” said Hermione, abruptly realising the disheartening truth to that statement as the words left her mouth.

“I’m pretty terrible at teaching,” said Snape. “So let’s hope not.”

Hermione stood up. She looked down her him and smiled.

“It really was a pleasure to meet you Mister Snape,” she said.

He nodded and there was an awkward pause before Hermione decided to leave. It was already so incredibly weird that she didn’t want to make it even weirder. There needed to be a textbook on people, she decided, that clearly set out what to say, what not to say and when to say it. And perhaps some scenarios of various types of common interactions, and a multiple choice practice exam in the back. And she didn’t mean an etiquette book, like that six volume monstrosity that Narcissa had palmed on to her when she first started spending time at the Manor. She meant one that just helped her understand how to be normal. And how to do and say normal things.

“Professor Granger!”

There was the sound of running footsteps behind her, so she turned around and waited.

“I still have your book,” he said.

“The one you definitely aren’t writing in?” Hermione asked.

“Er..., sure,” said Snape.

“Keep it for now,” said Hermione. “It’s a useful book.”

“I can give it back to you the next time we see each other,” offered Snape.

“Thank you,” said Hermione.

She was very sure he never returned her book, as the one she had given him she’d bought with her first ever pay check. None of the teachers had ever let her borrow that particular text from the library’s Restricted Section. Although in hindsight (foresight?) Hermione supposed that she’d never thought to ask Professor Snape for a permission slip.

“Good luck in your apprenticeship,” said Hermione. “I have no doubt you will be one of the most skilled potion masters in Britain.”

“I’d like to be great at something,” said Snape.

“You are already great at lots of things,” said Hermione.

“If you say so,” said Snape. “I think my mam would like it if I became a master,” he added.

“She’d be very proud,” agreed Hermione.

“And would you be proud?” Snape asked in a casual tone but the staccato tapping of his left foot against the ground belied his nerves.

“I’m already proud of you,” said Hermione. “So I guess I’d be extra proud. Is that a thing?”

“I’m not sure,” said Snape with a grin. “It seems excessive.”

“I thought we’d already covered my penchant for excessive things,” said Hermione. “Go, do your apprenticeship, make your mam proud and be true to yourself. The rest will fall into place.”

“Thank you, Professor Granger,” said Snape. “For everything.”

“Thank you, Mister Snape,” Hermione said.

She lifted her hand in a half wave and turned back towards the castle. He didn’t follow her this time.

And if she cried a little on the way back, what did it matter? No one was there to see anyway.

Chapter Text

Severus was buzzed.

He didn’t know what he was thinking, letting Minerva talk him into a few quick whiskeys before the welcoming feast. The witch was losing her mind. He swore she was getting wilder as she aged. Or she may have always been this wild, but he was finally seeing that side of her.

He tried to look stern, in preparation for the first years. Minerva had already gone to collect them from Hagrid, which meant the first years may or may not have made it across the lake. Hagrid was not on Severus’s list of “most responsible guardian for children” list. But then again, he wasn’t on it either. Actually, neither was Dumbledore. He supposed Minerva was all right, and Filius seemed sensible. Rolanda thought breaking everyone bone in the body was a standard childhood ritual so she was out as well.

Poppy was normal. Pomona wasn’t, but he liked her the more because of it.

So almost half of the teachers at Hogwarts probably shouldn’t be trusted with children. Hmmm. That seemed fairly standard as per his own experience.

He drummed his fingers surreptitiously on his thigh. He couldn’t wait for the sorting to finish, when he could take his new Slytherins back to the dungeons and put the fear of Snape into them. Then put on the warm and fuzzies so they felt all right about their first night in a gigantic room under the lake, with a squid that put its giant eye against the bathroom window just when your digestive system was preparing to evacuate.

He’d already stocked the bathroom shelves of the dormitories with numerous contraceptive and hangover potions. He wasn’t in denial about what the first night back consisted of for the older students, and it was better to stop the pretence he didn’t know and just do what he could to stop any unwanted consequences.

He looked up and saw Minerva leading a line of very nervous children. Merlin, they got smaller every year. He could see the pointy, pinched face of Draco. He’d have hell to pay if he didn’t get into Slytherin. Snape had even gone to the effort of having a small discussion with the sorting hat about it. The hat had been reasonably obtuse, as expected from a magical fashion accessory. He supposed Draco would be given to him to look after though, largely because of the enormous amount of money Lucius poured into the school, and even the hat was fiscally astute. It knew who made sure Hogwarts’s bread was buttered.

Minerva strode forward to grab the stool, as she picked it up she winked at him. He rolled his eyes and scowled at her.

She placed the hat on the stool and then, as every year, Severus endured the sorting song. Fuck it was tedious. It was like when he was a kid and his da got drunk and told him all about How The World Was. The same old shit. Blah blah Gryffindor is great, Hufflepuffs are sooks, Ravenclaws are giant walking brains, and Slytherins insert type of deviance here. Still, he listened to the song half-heartedly while he fantasised about dessert. The hat, crooning it’s lyrics, suddenly drew his attention.

Ah, he thought, this year Slytherins were where people made their “real friends” apparently.

Interesting.

That was new.

Maybe there was a little firstie in that crowd just waiting to embrace their Slytherin best friend. He snorted at that thought. Right. Sure.

The hat finished and everyone applauded, including Severus. He made sure his clap was very slow and deliberate, and he was somewhat pleased when Pomona kicked his shin under the table. He was blaming the whiskey. He wasn’t halfway this belligerent normally.

Well.

Okay he was.

Minerva was up to the bit she loved. The names. He watched her unroll a scroll and put on her most important voice before declaring.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"^

Severus watched the girl walk forward and half trip over before reaching the stool.

She looks normal, he thought, Hufflepuff for sure.

“Hufflepuff!” the hat declared loudly.

Severus smiled smugly.

Another thoroughly average girl walked forward and was Hufflepuffed before Severus had time to have a sip of his wine. Pomona would be excited to have another direct-centre-of-the-bell-curve student.

And on it went until Millicent Bulstrode was called forward. The small girl with dark hair and a serious expression walked towards the hat and eyed it suspiciously before it was placed on her head.

She seems sensible, he mused to himself, Slytherin for sure.

“Slytherin,” the hat confirmed.

If he ever decided to quit potions, Severus decided, he was going to be the sorting hat. Except of course, it suddenly occurred to him, the whole putting first years inside him would become very illegal very quickly. He discarded that thought immediately.

“Granger, Hermione!” Minerva called.

Severus fumbled with his goblet and spilt a substantial splash of red on the white tablecloth. He watched the young girl run to the stool and look up excitedly as the hat was placed on her head. He allowed himself a moment of deep shock.

He’d often wondered where his former professor had gone. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to contact her for many years. Had even looked for her, searched for her, yet he’d never found her. She said she’d be hard to find. And he should have believed her. She’d always told him the truth.

Professor Granger must have had her daughter not long after leaving Hogwarts, Severus thought. She was in the same year as Draco, and Draco had been born when Severus was only barely out of his teenage years. He snuck another peek at the girl. She looked very much like her mother.

There was a brief strange stab within Severus—something deep inside him as he watched the child. Over the years since school he’d had a few thoughts, within the secret and safe cocoon of his bed, about Professor Granger. They found each other. They talked. They reconnected. They did lots of things in fact. Things probably best left to the secret and safe places of his mind. Those fantasies had even had the audacity to envision a child. One that looked more like their mother than him. She was perfect after all and he was one per cent git.

“Gryffindor!” the hat bellowed.

Severus allowed himself a sneer. He was already composing the owl in his head to Professor Granger, careful constructing an elegant poke at her about her little lion cub. She’d been a Head of Slytherin for Merlin’s sake. What was the hat thinking?

Even the thought of writing to her, communicating with her, had his pulse racing. His hand fluttered almost unconsciously to his neck, where the high collar of his coat and robes hid the silver chain and the matching scroll. It had lain against his skin for over a decade.

He wondered if she’d thought about him.

Why hadn’t the owls he sent ever reached her?

Why hadn’t she contacted him?

How could she have found someone else, when even after all these years his own head was still so full of her?

“She’s muggleborn,” he heard Quirinus whisper to his left. “Not Slytherin material I’m afraid.”

“No she’s not, you fatuous git,” said Severus crossly. Quirinus had been a complete pill since his sabbatical, and had taken to wearing a turban despite both Severus and Filius pointing out it was outrageous cultural appropriation. What a fucking tool.

“I happen to know her mother,” he said airily.

“You know a dentist?” asked Quirinus. “Both her parents are muggle dentists. Apparently they have something to do with teeth.”

Severus looked over at the girl sitting at the Gryffindor table, but she was blocked from his sight as there was a roar from the table and all the children stood to clap. He turned his eyes towards the sorting hat to see Minerva removing the hat from a James Potter clone.

Oh fuck off.

He’d been dreading this day for years, and yet seeing the Granger girl had completely distracted him. Minerva looked smug as shit. Well good luck to her having a new Gryffindor with Potter’s genes. The boy didn’t even look anything like Lily. He was all James. So....that meant he was probably dumb and nasty.

Severus hated him already. A walking, breathing exhibit of all the broken pieces of life that took Lily. She was brilliant, but by the time they’d left Hogwarts she was barely scraping through her classes. Just spent her time hanging onto Potter in the back row like he contained all the oxygen in the world. She was as beautiful as anything he’d ever seen, but he’d chanced upon her once after school and she was faded, like his mam had been, wilting in the shadow of that cretin Potter.

Potter.

Who’d caught her up in that fevered dream of Dumbledore—the Order. Severus had tried a few times to exfiltrate her, even managing at one point to convince Riddle of her skills. But Potter’s claws were so deep he couldn’t have ripped Lily free without her losing everything of herself that was left.

Then Severus himself had tripped on the snowflake that had eventually become an avalanche. The stupid fucking prophecy. Well, and the whole getting caught up with Lucius and the rest even before that. When they said the wanted to change everything, to throw out all the old stupid bullshit including the ministry he was hooked. It’s what he had yearned to do for years. They were going push out people like Potter and his idiot friends, to make space for intellectuals. Wizards and witches who thought differently, was what Riddle had said.

What Riddle has actually meant was murder people like Potter and his friends, to make space for even more backwards thinking purebloods. And then hunt down and eliminate every wizard and witch who thought differently. It wasn’t exactly what the induction briefing had promised.

After it became clear to him that Lily was in the firing line, Severus had escaped the constant meetings and parties at the Manor and headed back to Spinner’s End to think. He had felt like he’d started to run down an incredibly steep hill, and now with the combination of the incline, speed and gravity he was moving his feet as fast as he could just to stop himself falling over. He had no control over his descent. Everything had become self-preservation.

He’d sat on his bed, head in his hands, trying to think. And he’d done what he should have done when Lucius had asked him to come to the first meeting with Riddle; he wondered what Professor Granger would say. He closed his eyes.

You can always change your mind. It’s never too late to decide to do something different.

That’s what she’d said to him.

It’s never too late.

He had cringed as he considered doing what he knew he had to do. There was only one wizard Riddle feared, and that was who Severus had to go crawling back to. Could he do it?

He’d squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, imagining Dumbledore. Those cold, blue eyes that never seemed to warm up when they were focusing on Severus. No. He couldn’t do it.

If you stuff up, it’s okay. Everyone does.

He relaxed. Yes. Everybody made mistakes. And if he was going to see Professor Granger instead of Dumbledore he wouldn’t hesitate. She’d glare at him initially, and cross her arms over whatever ridiculous muggle t-shirt she would be wearing, and then when he told her how much he regretted everything she’d forgive him. He knew this. Without hesitation she’d give him that. And then smile at him like he was her favourite person in the world.

And that had got him through it. What did Dumbledore’s words matter when there was someone out there that would never turn their back on him? He had prostrated himself in front of Dumbledore that very night, begging him for help and the necklace was around his neck like a talisman.

She’d been there when he’d found out Lily had been killed. An unseen comforting presence that came at night when fatigue had won out, and he’d collapsed into a fitful sleep. He’d dreamt of her before, and there she was again when he needed her the most. He even imagined her in the rows of faces at his Wizengamot trial. He sat in the chair, shackled to the floor as Dumbledore plead his case and she was there, putting her warm hand in his cold one as he awaited the decision.

She’d been there at Hogwarts, as he decided he was just as terrible at teaching as he’d imagined he’d be. So he just, well, did and said what Professor Granger had done. He’d treated his Slytherins like she’d treated him, saving the same icy politeness for the miscreants of Gryffindor that she had. And he written to her about it all. Month after month. Year after year. Despite the letters always being returned to him. One day an owl would find her.

“Bit miffed you didn’t get the Potter boy?” the voice of Quirinus cut through his woolgathering.

“Completely,” lied Snape.

“You’ve got the Malfoy though,” observed Quirinus.

“Thank you Quirinus,” said Severus witheringly. “I do have eyes you know.”

Severus used the aforementioned eyes to attempt sneak another peak at the Granger girl but unfortunately met the eyes of the junior Potter, who was staring at him curiously. He scowled and looked away. He’d already had enough of the boy and they hadn’t even got to dessert yet. He had no idea how he’d make it through the next seven years.

After dinner was the usual eccentric old wizard act Dumbledore liked to play out each welcoming feast, and this night he was laying in on extra thick. Severus imagined it was for the benefit of Potter and he grimaced into his pudding. The boy was already getting special treatment and they were only a few hours into the school term. Finally it was the excruciating school song that made Severus wish Voldemort was still alive, and finally (finally!) they were able to leave.

Severus began to stalk off towards the dungeons when he heard Minerva calling him from behind.

“Severus,” she wheezed. “Hold up, you ruddy twit, I want to talk to you.”

“If you’re gloating about Potter I’m not interested,” sneered Severus. “You can keep him.”

“It’s about Hermione Granger,” said Minerva.

Severus swirled back to her with a flourish of robe. “Why does Quirinus think she’s muggleborn? Did Professor Granger hide amongst muggles? Pretend not to be magical?”

Minerva looked confused. “Oh. No. Look Severus. It’s about the girl.”

“Don’t gloat about her either,” said Severus. “I’m going to write to her mother now and tell her what a disastrous mess that hat has made, and I have no doubt in expecting an immediate reply that requests a re-sorting.”

Minerva stopped in her tracks, her mouth working wordlessly.

“Well. I don’t think that would help,” she said finally.

“I expect you wouldn’t,” snapped Severus and in his best flounce, strode off down the hall to his rooms. He quickened his stride as he made his way to his rooms. The Slytherins could wait. He would not put off sending the owl a minute longer.

He drafted the owl, smirking a little as he did, imaging Professor Granger’s face when she read it. Maybe she’d even come to the castle. He could tell her about his mastery. There was so much he wanted to say.

After he finished the letter he decided to add something. He picked went to his shelf and picked out the Self-Defensive Spellwork text. He ran a finger along the broken spine and opened the book, thumbing though it, amused at the copious notes he’d scribbled in the margins. She’d be furious. Perhaps he could send her the new copy he’d purchased instead. It purported to have an entire chapter devoted to entirely new spells to create personal wards that was missing from the older text.

He opened the new book and looked at the index. He frowned a little as he realised it was identical to the one he owned. He opened it the new much-hyped section on wards, and was puzzled to see it matched what he already had.

Curious.

Severus cursed the wizarding habit of not dating anything. But there was something off. He couldn’t bear it and jumped up, almost running to the library, past a dozing Mrs Pince and into the Restricted Section. It held the same copy of that text that they had since he’d been at school. He’d never bothered to try and borrow it after he’d been given the one from Professor Granger, Severus picked it up and flicked through it. It was different from his text. This copy was missing the chapter on wards.

Severus felt a bit sick. What was this?

Minerva, he suddenly thought. She knew something.

He was at her chambers before he could think twice, knocking hard on her door as he could barely keep from shouting and demanding entrance. When she opened it he pushed past her onto the room.

“If you wanted another drink so badly, you just had to ask,” Minerva said indignantly.

He was not in the mood. “Why is the book Professor Granger gave me all wrong?” he asked. He knew the question would make no sense to her, but he had no idea what else to say.

To his surprise, Minerva sighed. “Ah, yes.”

Instead of answering, she walked across to her cabinet and poured two healthy slugs of scotch.

“I can’t tell you much,” Minerva said as she handed him a glass. “Albus made us take a wand oath.”

“What you are on about?” said Severus. “And by the way, this appears to be a situation where more alcohol is not the answer.”

“Trust me on this one,” said Minerva. She patted her armchair and he reluctantly sat down.

“The Hermione Granger that is currently unpacking her chest in the Gryffindor dormitory is the same Hermione Granger you and I knew from when you were at school,” Minerva said.

“That’s not possible,” Severus said.

“Not at the moment, no,” said Minerva. “Our time turners only go back an hour, but where she was from—“

“You’re being ridiculous,” Severus cut in, panic rising within that threatened to suffocate him. “What is really going on?”

“It’s true,” said Minerva. “She’d used a time device. She knew me as her Head of House.”

“What?” Severus felt sick.

“She knew you as well,” Minerva added in a gentle voice. “As her teacher, Professor Snape.”

“Why?” Severus asked plaintively. “Why did she come back?”

“I can’t say,” said Minerva. “But she attempted to return to her time when she’d completed her task.”

Severus bent forward, trying not to vomit. Attempted. What did that mean?

“Before she left,” Minerva said. “She told me you’d come back to Hogwarts and that I’d find a friend in you.”

“Did she?” asked Severus, still bent forward, mouth watering from nausea.

Minerva laughed. “She was very fierce about it. She said there wasn’t anyone else she’d met that was even half as interesting and certainly no one as smart. She described you as irreplaceable.”

Severus didn’t say anything, but he thought back to when he arrived at Hogwarts, fresh from his Wizengamot acquittal, twenty-one years old and terrified. Severus had purposely worn long sleeves, to hide the Mark, and a frock coat over the top, to conceal the necklace. He had no idea whether any of the other teachers would even talk to him.

Hence his surprise when Minerva was at the gate, waiting for him. She took him firmly under her wing, piling him with whisky, giving him advice on being a Head of House and adopting him so firmly into her life he was helpless to do anything but adopt her right back. He wasn’t sure where he’d have been over the years without her friendship.

Professor Granger’s last gift to him.

Merlin.

No wonder the owls never made it to Professor Granger. He’d thanked the stars he’d never addressed them to Hermione Granger.

He felt an overwhelming surge of irrational anger towards the small girl with the bushy hair who had ran so excitedly towards the sorting hat. He didn’t want that small girl to be Hermione Granger. He wanted his Hermione Granger.

He wanted her intellect, her humour and her kindness. He wanted her to turn around and smile at him like she used to, and he wanted how she always said the right thing to make everything seem possible. He wanted to learn from her, to explore new things with her, and to challenge each other and laugh like they used to. He wanted the woman to who he exposed the very worst of himself; his family life, his temper, the treatment he experienced as school, and who took all that and still held his hand, and still hugged him harder than he’d even been hugged (then and now).

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

His Hermione was gone. She no longer existed. She was now eleven years old now and knew nothing.

Severus felt utterly, utterly alone

Chapter Text

It was Severus’s long held dream to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. It wasn’t a secret. He applied every year. And every year Minerva would tut sympathetically when the job went to someone else, and they’d get outrageously drunk and make fun of whoever got the role. But he kept applying.

Just in case he would get a chance to teach it. Who was more on qualified? No one.

But, as was typical for him and his standard level of luck, his dream came true in traditional Monkey Paw style, with a big fat fucking dose of fate laughing at him once more on the side.

He was a substitute. And the only reason he was even that was because Lupin was currently lying on his back licking his own balls somewhere. At least, Severus assumed that’s what werewolves did when they weren’t terrorising innocent classmates.

Lupin.

Reunited at Hogwarts.

Life had a funny way of making even the most humdrum parts of an existence unbearable.

First, he had the whole time debacle to deal with, and he still wasn’t halfway through processing that.

Secondly, he had Potter reincarnated, which was just lollipops and sunshine every day. The child, who was turning out to be equally annoying as his father and nothing at all like his mother, appeared to be addicted to mortal peril.

That would have been enough. But he’d turned up for new school year to discover that Dumbledore had declined his request for the DADA position. Again! Then, upon swooping on Dumbledore at one of the first meals together to argue his case, the old man had the gall to drop causally into conversation that Lupin won the role.

Lupin!

That wet sack of dog fur.

And then, before Severus’s open mouthed stare of astonishment could morph into anything resembling a neutral expression, Dumbledore had dipped a buttery, toast soldier into a soft-boiled egg and informed Severus of his new duty to brew Wolfsbane for Lupin every month. It had been promised you see, Dumbledore’s calm tone had stated. As part of Lupin’s contract.

Severus had been so furious he’d initially refused to partake in his and Minerva’s traditional first dram of the school year.

To make matters worse, Lupin had then neglected to actually turn up when the staff were supposed to, which meant Severus was tasked with writing the lesson plans for the first term of DADA as well as potions. As usual, luck shat on Severus. As while he was stuck in his office finishing up paperwork, neck and back aching, fingers cramping and jittering from too much coffee, Lupin had caught the Hogwarts Express, saved the students (including ugh Potter) from a swarm of dementors and arrived as a conquering hero.

Upon hearing the news from a delighted Minerva, Severus ground his teeth so forcefully he was surprised they didn’t crack.

Then of course there had been welcome drinks, and Lupin had been genial and friendly and smiled at Severus with his pointed canines. Well. Severus hadn’t survived the Bellatrix’s and Lucius’s of the world and navigated the Death Eater ranks without developing his own acting skills. So he’d been almost genial and a very good approximation of friendly and had smirked at Lupin from behind his goblet. All while wanting very much to hex his stupid, friendly face off.

No. Not a hex in the face. What he really wanted to do was push the man into the nearest floo and close it behind him. Had Dumbledore leant nothing from his previous ‘werewolf introduced into a magical boarding school with no suitable safety measures’ experiment?

It had made the staff room abominable. He’d never been the most popular staff member, but he previously liked to think he had a hidden roguish charm that a few pointed sarcastic barbs brought to the surface. He could always get a laugh out of Minerva, and Pomona liked to sit next to him at dinner or whenever they had staff drinks. She said it ‘kept her on her toes’. He could even make Hooch spit ale out of her nose when he tried really hard. But when Lupin entered the fray, it soundly dismissed any aforementioned belief that he had any type of charm at all.

Instead Severus was forced to the sides again as everyone fawned over Lupin. Pomona slipping him herb tonics, Filius whisking him away for quick chess games between classes. He’d even caught Poppy handing over some of her Hogwarts-renown shortbread for Lupin to tuck into his pocket. She’d had the decency to blush under Severus’s black stare, as she’d always told him it was for the students (and would playfully smack the back of his hand when he tried to grift one or two from her stores).

And worst of the worst, when he’d finally slunk back to Minerva’s room to fulfil their first dram of the term tradition there had been Lupin. Sitting in his chair! Minerva had blithely indicated she’d invited him as she thought they would want to catch up. And Lupin had sent him that fucking wet, ineffectually apologetic smile that he’d worn at Hogwarts. The one Severus used to see on Lupin’s face after a particularly nasty run in with Potter and the crew. It was enough to turn a man to avada kadavra. It really was.

There was also the whole boggart debacle that had been the talk of the staff room. Which by the way wasn’t even in the fucking lesson plan he’d slaved over so thanks very much Lupin for that complete waste of time. If he’d known Lupin was just going to ignore what he’d written he just would have stuck a dog biscuit between some blank parchment and been done with it.

Somehow everyone had found out about the Severus boggart. And they ribbed him about it. He tried to take the high road by just pretending everyone was dead. Usually an effective strategy. He didn’t think it was very funny. In fact, he thought the whole boggart thing was another example of how he didn’t fit in.

It would never have occurred to him to put students in a situation where they faced their worst fear. Perhaps that type of thing only was thought up by people who grew up in nice, middle-class families. After all, what harm would there be in seeing a child’s worst fear? Spiders? Snakes? Snapes? All fairly standard.

Severus wondered what he would have seen as a child, if he had been forced to confront a boggart. Possibly the impossibly tall spectre of his father, face contorted with rage and fists clenched. Or maybe the sight of his mother at the foot of the stairs, bloodied and unmoving. Or even the marauders, and the malicious glee on their faces when they corned him alone, at night. That would have been wonderful to relive in front of his classmates.

It was like Hogwarts all over again. Pushed to the side. Isolated. Reminded of his differences. As usual.

And Merlin did he hate that.

It had also made the Granger thing even worse.

As the term progressed, and he felt more and more isolated, even the sight of her filled him with a deep, aching loneliness that rapidly morphed into disgust-tinged anger. She was there. Right there. Right in front of him every day. But she wasn’t there. It was maddening. She was also an excruciatingly annoying child. And sometimes he felt himself snapping at her for not being the intelligent, competent woman he wanted her to be.

What was the real sting in the tail, and probably the real reason he was so dark on the girl, was she had chosen the two most brazenly idiotic and foolhardy students in the whole of Hogwarts to befriend. Honestly, if the Weasley boy had half a brain cell rattling around in his head it would be lonely. He wasn’t a patch on the older twins, who had taste for creativity and anarchy. Something Severus grudgingly admitted to himself he admired. And the less said about Potter the better. Mainly because Severus couldn’t think of any words to describe him that weren’t the four-lettered type and incredibly offensive.

And he was jealous.

That was the heart of it.

He was jealous of their friendship. She might have been a small, painfully precocious girl but he could see she was a better friend than either of them deserved. Probably better than he’d deserved either. But that was by the by. He needed a friend more than them anyway. Potter was practically drowning in friends. And Weasley had eight thousand siblings, which were like friends your parents made for you. He assumed anyway.

So instead he had to endure her writing their homework, saving them from whatever malady the Potter boy had got them into, and watching them ignore her when they were too busy with each other.

He wouldn’t have expected her to write his homework.

So he largely tried to avoid her. Except when forced to interact in the classroom. Which wasn’t that much. Just potions. Of course until Lupin was having his time of the month, so Severus took over the DADA teaching.

In a fit of pique he’d set them the homework on werewolves. Forewarned was forearmed after all. The Granger girl had done quite a good essay, and he’d been almost tempted to mark it accordingly when he read the dross she’d tacked on the end. He’d set his lips in the thinnest line imaginable and carefully and purposely drawn a line through every offending sentence. And finished with a flourish and a No.

The graded essays has been disseminated and then, of course, there were more essay to grade. There were always more essays.

Fuck teaching sucked.

He was working his way through a turgid vomit on a page that a fifth year Hufflepuff had decided to creatively hand in as their completed essay on wards, when he heard footsteps approach the desk.

“Excuse me Professor Snape,” asked an almost familiar voice. She sounded very nervous.

He refused to look up. She made him nervous anyway. What was good for the goose and all that.

“You’re excused Miss Granger,” he answered and congratulated himself inwardly for how neutral he sounded. He was getting the hang of it after all.

“I want to ask about my paper, Sir” the girl continued. She sounded less nervous now.

“You want to complain about your grade,” said Severus. He continued to scratch his red ink along the parchment in front him. It really was a terrible essay.

“Professor Snape, Sir, I’d like to renegotiate my grade,” said Miss Granger.

“Negotiations occur when individuals disagree and wish to come to an agreement,” said Severus. “You expected a higher grade. I expected a better essay. We have no disagreement.”

Stick that in your craw. He thought to himself. Look at how well he was doing! He was practically completely over the whole time thing and not even remotely affected. This was how normal people acted. So very, very normal.

“I think my paper deserved a higher grade,” Miss Granger said in a much fiercer tone.

He stopped writing as a stab of recognition flooded through him. She sounded like Professor Granger almost. Almost.

“Er...Sir,” Miss Granger added far more tentatively.

He finally decided to look up at her and put his quill down. She stood before him, looking very, very young and earnest. He felt a rush of shame. He had stood before her in a similar way hadn’t he? And she’d never gone out of her way to intimidate him. Severus decided he was a terrible person. Probably the worst of the worst.

Maybe not counting Bellatrix.

Or Voldemort.

Or Lucius.

“And why do you think that?” he asked her, trying to sound calm and soothing but it actually came out sounding like he was bored shitless.

“Thorough research and sound reasoning,” said Miss Granger with all the confidence of an overachieving thirteen year old girl.

Severus couldn’t stop a very dubious eyebrow raise at her response. He reached out and delicately took the essay from her hands. He cleared his throat and she looked at him with her own eyebrow raise.

“There is nothing to fear from lycanthropes living and working among us,” he quoted. “I challenge your description of this reasoning as sound.”

“But it’s true!” said Miss Granger. “With the Wolfsbane potion, it’s true.”

“You are staking the safety of the general population on a potion that afflicted persons drink voluntarily,” said Severus. “And I don’t know if you’ve met people Miss Granger, but they are largely idiots. I certainly wouldn’t trust them with something so important.”

“But of course they’d remember to drink it,” argued Miss Granger. “How could they forget?”

“How indeed,” said Severus sarcastically. That was the million galleon question wasn’t it? How the fuck could someone forget?

Severus knew Lupin hadn’t forgotten this time. He knew this for a fact as he’d had stood over the other man and watched him down every drop of the potion. For each night. He wasn’t risking it this time. Even when Minerva had told him to lay off he’d turned on her so fiercely she’d shut up. How she could even think to raise that with him after what he’d seen. After what he’d experienced? After what had happened to a Professor Granger?

“You don’t trust Professor Lupin to drink the potion then, Sir?” Miss Granger asked.

Severus was startled from his revere by the question. He looked at her. Her brows were drawn down across her eyes and she was looking at him questioningly.

She’d figured it out.

He was momentarily impressed before feeling panicked. Potter was chummy with Lupin. He knew that Lupin was giving the boy extra lessons. Shit, maybe Granger would tell Potter, Potter to Lupin, then Lupin would complain to Dumbledore and Severus would be up to his neck in it.

“I never said Professor Lupin suffered from lycanthropy,” he said carefully.

“Well no,” said Miss Granger. “But after I did the research for my essay it was pretty obvious.”

Severus drummed his fingers on the table while thinking. Miss Granger stood before him, appearing completely serene despite his glare. It was this that cemented his decision regarding his next course of action. She’d admitted to him many years ago, half-jokingly, she had an unhealthy need to prove herself to authority figures. There was no malice. No desire to skirt work or to start trouble. She just wanted her grade.

“Finally, a demonstration of reasoning from you,” he said at last and handed her back her parchment, which now showed the grade of Exceed Expectations.

“Thank you Professor Snape,” she said.

“You have a lot of sympathy for werewolves,” Severus asked suddenly before his mind could stop his mouth. “Have you ever seen one?”

“No, Sir,” said Miss Granger.

“They are quite terrifying in close quarters,” said Severus in what he thought was his best approximation of a conversational tone. “I imagine you wouldn’t feel quite so certain there was nothing to fear if you had had the pleasure.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Miss Granger.

“Do you think you would run?” asked Severus. He leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

He wondered what she would say. Would she be worried about Potter and Weasley? They’d do well as a distraction, with both of them probably too hard to swallow, thus allowing Miss Granger ample time to flee while the wolf was dislodging them from the back of its throat. “If you and your little friends came face to face with a wolf?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Hermione.

Severus shrugged and huffed a bit. She was nothing like the woman he knew. What was he even thinking? She was only a child.

“But I’d like to think I’d do anything to protect my friends,” added Miss Granger fiercely. And she looked straight through him like she knew his secrets.

And in that moment he could see another version of her face, the thinner, adult version. It was turned toward him. There was the metallic tang of blood and an overwhelming animal scent. The wolf was struggling in the arms of something tall and grey, and she pulled away from him and he tried desperately to reach for her. Then he was surrounded by the smell of mint.

She would do it. She would definitely do it. For him.

And she would pay the price.

He couldn’t bear it anymore. He wanted her out of his sight, and out of his memories.

“You have your grade Miss Granger. You have no pressing requirement to waste any more of my time. Out,” he ordered.

“Yes, Sir,” said Miss Granger.

Chapter Text

Severus was smack bang in the middle a conundrum. He was facing two increasingly dire realities.

One. The Mark on his arm had darkened considerably over the past six months. It was almost as black and clear as the day it had spread onto his forearm from the Dark Lord’s wand, settling into his skin indelibly. He knew what it meant, and he was pretty sure Karkaroff knew what it meant, given the amount of effort he was going to to try and corner Severus. The Dark Lord’s presence was somewhere out there. And they were both royally fucked, but in different ways. Neither enjoyable.

Two. He was soon going to have to attend the ball.

He wasn’t entirely sure at this point which situation was causing him more anxiety.

“Severus!” Minerva’s voice called from his floo.

“Bugger off!” he shouted.

There was a peel of laughter. “Shut up git. I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I’m not interested,” Severus called back as he buttoned up the cuff on his right sleeve.

There was a indignant huff that echoed in the fireplace. “In your dreams. I’m more witch than you can handle boy. Forget trying to satisfy me and failing miserably. I’ll take dance floor duty tonight if you take the rose garden.”

Severus paused to consider the offer.

“Well?” Minerva’s strident voice demanded.

“I’m thinking about it!” he said.

“How about we make a wager? Every snog we break up gets a point. The loser takes the other’s night patrols for a month.”

Severus smirked to himself. She’d never win this one.

“Done!” he said. She would definitely regret this, he sniggered to himself.

“I can hear you congratulating yourself from here,” scoffed Minerva. “Don’t get too cocky!”

The floo extinguished itself.

Severus finished buttoning up his jacket. On the table was a few Christmas gifts from his colleagues despite his repeated insistence ever year he didn’t celebrate the festive season. There was also an enormous jar of boiled sweets from Dumbledore that tasted like raspberry, and made you smile radiantly for an hour. Severus was thankful he’d tested one in the privacy of his chambers. The student body would have run screaming from the castle if they’d seen him.

A quick flick of his fingers adjusted the chain against his neck, and also made sure the scroll sat flat against his collarbone. He touched it gently. The silver had not tarnished despite the passing years. It had been strong spellwork. She was very talented. He tapped a finger. No. That wasn’t right.

She would be.

He frowned. She was currently. Besides his own efforts, and direct intervention from the goddess of Giving Luck To Undeserving Little Shits, she was the reason Potter was still alive.

Severus knew it had been her that had taught Potter the summoning charm. His clever, clever witch. He could just imagine her researching the spell, and forcing the boy to concentrate on something for an hour—a monumental feat that Severus himself was yet to achieve.

While he was partially relieved the Potter boy was still alive, Severus also wondered if the boy had felt like he had while being taught by Professor Granger. Did Potter notice they way the right side of her lip curled up more than the left when she smiled? Did he even realise how powerful she was? Did he even consider the fact that teaching someone a spell was difficult? Even more so when that person was a dim as Potter? Probably not. Severus decided Potter was just like his father, used to things falling into his lap, and completely oblivious to anything that wasn’t scarlet and gold, or flying around a quidditch pitch.

The strategy the boy had used to pass the first test had been innovative and sneaky. Not breaking the rules per se, but bending them just enough for Potter to have an advantage. Perfectly Slytherin. Just like the quidditch match. Severus had known straight away who’s devious little mind was at play there. Certainly not Potter’s. And definitely not the Weasley boy.

He was both angry at the sorting hat and yet oddly grateful. Of course she wasn’t Gryffindor. It was obviously going senile. But, oh, how could he have born her being sorted in Slytherin? And with her muggle parents it would have been difficult. The inhabitants of Slytherin house, like all the others, could be tough on differences. He’d learnt this the hard way.

Children could be very cruel.

So could adults. Fuck. His mind prodded at him and slyly pushed forward a memory from earlier in the term.

Severus had been walking along a corridor, rolling his eyes as he heard the shrieks and yelling in front of him. Children were so tiresome. And above the shouts he could hear the unmistakably irritating voices of Draco and Potter squealing at each other. For fuck’s sake. He had picked up his pace, excited students parting in front of him as he made his way towards the noise.

It was just what he needed on top of everything else.

He shouldered his way past Pansy Parkinson and her gang of wannabes, and saw Draco and Potter shouting at each other. Goyle was apparently amusing himself by turning into a mushroom, and Miss Granger was leaning against the wall, hands over her face. Severus felt a stab of concern. If those little fucking idiots had hurt her. He would end them.

“And what is all this noise about?” he asked in a low, deadly voice.

The group of students around him erupted in an indistinguishable cacophony. He grimaced and held up a hand. The students immediately quietened, and Severus pointed a finger at Draco.

“Explain,” he ordered.

“Potter attacked me Sir-“ Draco began to whine in his whiney little voice. It always managed to pierce right into Severus’s brain and give him a headache. Which made pretending to like Draco even more difficult.

“We attacked each other at the same time!” the Potter boy shouted, interrupting Draco. “And he hit Goyle - look- ”

Severus turned to Goyle. His nasal cavities had completely closed over and he was huffing in a strange little hyperventilating gasp through the small gap left for a mouth. Severus sighed. He turned the boy’s face to examine it from each side. It was pretty bad.

“Hospital wing Goyle,” he said flatly.

He hoped Goyle would make it there before he passed out from lack of oxygen. Although, to be fair, that result would immediately raise the grade point average of the Slytherin cohort. He mused on the best outcome before deciding dealing with Goyle’s parents would be too much of a pain.

“Malfoy got Hermione! Look,” Weasley shouted.

Severus turned back and before he could say a word the boy put his grubby little Weasley fingers onto Miss Granger, and with a forceful wrench, pulled her hands away from her face. His actions revealed a tear-stained face and incredibly long front teeth. Teeth that were still growing, past her mouth and nearly down to her collar. She looked miserable. Her obvious discomfort tore at him.

There was a titter from the crowd of students around her.

Severus felt a wash of anger surge up inside himself. He wanted to shake those idiot boys and their petty, pointless rivalry. What did it all matter? The Dark Lord was coming and they would all fall like so much dust.

And Miss Granger. They had no fucking idea who she was. Who she’d become. She was worth a hundred Dracos. A thousand Potters. And her value in Weasleys was unable to be characterised by a numeric value known to humans.

She wasn’t the hair. The hand waving. The teeth. She was so much more.

They had no idea.

He hesitated before speaking. “I see no difference,” he said stiffly.

As the words left his mouth he regretted them. He wasn’t seventeen anymore and a bumbling, fumbling wreck. But he certainly felt like one.

With a strangled cry, Miss Granger shook off Weasley’s clutching hands and ran off down the hallway, sobbing.

Fuck.

Potter and Weasley began yelling angrily at him, and he just could not deal with their stupidity any longer.

Let's see," he said, in his most venomous tone. "Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it'll be a week's worth of detentions."

After he’d got everything under control he went to check on Goyle in the hospital wing. He was still alive. Good for him.

Severus had then taken Poppy to one side and explained the situation with Miss Granger. Poppy had patted his hand, popped a shortbread in the other and told him in a very comforting tone that ‘Poppy would handle it’. He was momentarily mollified.

He’d only been back in his chambers for three minutes when Minerva had come charging in.

“Severus you horrid man, whatever did you do to Hermione?” she demanded.

“Nothing!” Severus sneered. “It was Draco and your beloved Potter fighting with their standard terrible aim. I think the muggles call it friendly fire?”

“Oh I know about the curse. I meant what you said. Why would you be so awful? She was always so....well....she very much liked you,” Minerva trailed off.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Severus defensively. He was absolutely dirty on himself. She went to Minerva? He must have hurt her feelings very badly. “It came out wrong.”

“No kidding,” sniped Minerva. “No wonder she thought—“ the witch sighed and didn’t finish what she was going to say. Severus’s interest was piqued. “Never mind. I’ve sent her to Poppy.”

“I’ve already spoken to Poppy about the hex on Miss Granger,” said Severus tightly.

Minerva grunted. “Right. Of course you have.”

She had turned to leave his chambers, then paused and turned back.

“I know it’s very hard on you having her here, Severus. But please remember. She’s only very young,” she said gently.

“I know that,” Severus had snapped back. Why did Minerva think he needed reminding? That fact was obvious to him every, single, day.

He regretted what he said, and how he said it. But he had no idea how to take it back.

Severus closed his eyes on the memory, and tried to quell the suffocating feeling of mortification that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t know why he was like this. But it was how he was.

He sighed. If his Professor Granger was here, she would have said something to make him feel better about being such an asshat to her younger self.

The irony.

Still though. He thought about the first triwizard task. The Summoning Charm. The broom. Her shrewd mind. He allowed himself a small smile. And that reminded Severus of the cup debacle, and the strange niggling feeling that it was inevitably linked to the darkening tattoo on his arm.

His wand chimed.

Someone had disturbed the wards on his door. Probably Karkaroff.

Severus groaned. He was not in the mood. He closed the final button on his collar and strode to the door, wrenching it open with a tart reprimand rising to his lips.

There was Professor Granger, standing at his door and looking up with a half-smile on her face and holding a Christmas card.

His heart stopped in his chest.

She was here. He felt a hysterical laugh building inside himself.

She was here!

But then he focused, and realised it was Miss Granger. Her hair, and even the dress robe she was wearing mirrored almost exactly how she’d dressed for Horace’s party many years ago. Her dress had been green he remembered, not blue like the one she was currently wearing.

He used every inch of his willpower to reign in his emotions, and calmly crossed his arms and stared down at her with the most neutral face he could create given the circumstances.

“Miss Granger, what are you doing?” he’d asked her in a low whisper. The last thing he needed was any of the Slytherins to slither past.

The half-smile faded slightly and the girl squirmed as he stared at her. “Oh. Um. Merry Christmas....Sir.”

She had held out the card to him, and smiled a full smile at him.

Severus was known for his impressive willpower and self-control. He had developed these both and honed them over many years. He was unbreakable.

But he allowed himself a few undisturbed moments of that smile.

Just a few wouldn’t hurt. Right?

He realised he’d been standing without moving for too long, when Miss Granger stopped smiling and drew her arm back.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” he tried to explain.

He knew the cards she had made. All the other professors had gone into raptures over them in the staff room. A Christmas scene on the grounds of Hogwarts, with falling snow and smells of the forest. That’s what it was. Even Karkaroff had been impressed, which indicated Severus that no one had mentioned to the Durmstrang Headmaster she was muggleborn. Minerva had been in raptures, flashing it to Severus and he smiled a tight smile and nodded a tight nod.

He’d been hurt when he hasn’t received one of course, although he couldn’t really blame her. Given the teeth episode. So he wasn’t jealous at all. And certainly wasn’t expecting one. At all. Not really.

Still.

They didn’t know the efforts she’d gone to. Experimenting with transfiguration to get it right.

He knew.

He kept a blank facade and all the stirring, whirling maelstrom of thoughts were tucked away behind it, unseen as always.

“Oh,” Miss Granger said.

Her head dropped and Severus berated himself silently. She appeared to be studying the card. They both stood like this for a few moments until finally she took out her wand.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the day in a cold hallway with you, Miss Granger,” Severus lied.

He would have given anything to spend the day in a cold hallway with Professor Granger. She would have looked at the Mark, and immediately made a sensible conclusion about Voldemort, but withholding judgement on why it was on his arm to start with. Then they could have worked out what to do. Together. Even the fantasy of having someone other than Dumbledore to speak with was intoxicating. Especially someone he actually, well, someone he felt strongly for. It was as much as he could admit to himself.

Suddenly, he realised she was holding out the card again.

He looked down at it and saw the peaceful vista, he could smell pine and something else. Spices? Gingerbread? He wasn’t sure. Snow drifted gently down onto the Christmas tree with its flickering, coloured lights. As he watched the scene unfold an unmistakable figure in black strode into view, lifted a wand and blitzed the tree before turning and storming off. The smouldering ruins of the tree remained. Then the tree was whole again. And back came the figure. Destroyed the beautiful tree and left again. And it repeated.

It was perfect.

It was exactly what Professor Granger would have done. He thought of the other magic she done for him. Just for him. Just like that. Something that showed she knew exactly who he was.

And he knew she was in there, and only time would bring her out.

“A infinitesimal improvement,” he said.

But he reached out and took the card from her, looking at it more closely, and trying to decode where she’d transfigured certain parts. He could almost hear her rueful tone.

I decided to try manufacturing different smells as part of a transfiguration. I mean, you’re messing with molecules anyway so why not go the whole hog?

He looked back down at Miss Granger who was now smiling again.

He wanted to say something. But what?

Thank you?

Merry Christmas?

I miss you?

He sighed. Miss Granger fidgeted slightly in front of him, so he decided to take pity on her.

“Miss Granger, don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asked.

“Yes Sir,” she said. She lifted her hand as if to wave. But dropped it quickly as if she remembered who she was about to wave to. He watched her turn and glide off down the hall in her beautiful blue robes.

Severus went back in his chambers and shut the door behind him. He walked into his bedroom and placed the card on his side table, where he put his books in the evening. That way he could see it when he lay down at night, and when he woke up in the morning.

Satisfied with his decision, Severus grabbed his robe off the bed and shrugged it on with a determined grimace. He had a contest to win.

Chapter Text

There was a small, black pouch sitting on the countertop of the grimy kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

The owner of said bag stood outside the kitchen door, grinding his teeth in frustration.

How had he forgotten his bag?

He tried to Summon it, but there wasn’t an open window to sneak it out of.

Fuck.

There was no way he was abandoning it. It contained his potions kit for one thing. And his Defensive Spellwork book. And beyond the importance of that particular tome, it also held a small Christmas card tucked safely between the pages. He had to get it back.

Fuckity doo dah.

He was already fuming with rage about having to teach the Potter boy Occlumency. Fuck you very much for that by the way Dumbledore, Severus complained to himself. On top of that news, dealing with Umbridge in the castle was a daily struggle between trying to act like she didn’t bother him, and wanting to push her off the Astronomy tower.

There was a part of him that acknowledged her brilliance of course. One didn’t live amongst monsters like Yaxley and Dolohov without gaining an appreciation for real evil. Umbridge had a penchant for it, and certainly took every opening she could.

The only slightly bright spark in the coal mine of darkness had been the pensieve. Dumbledore had lent him one, so as to protect some of his memories from the boy. Or, as Severus uncharitably decided, to protect Dumbledore’s reputation. The old wizard must know how he’d come off in Severus’s memories. Like the Machiavellian grandfather he was, Severus assumed.

The first night of his reign as custodian of the pensieve of course Severus had taken out quite a few significant moments from his final year to relive. He may have been known for his willpower but he also wasn’t stupid. When else would he get such an opportunity?

His first surprise on diving back in was how young Professor Granger looked to him now. He’d remembered her as being so far beyond him, but now Severus guessed she was her late twenties at the oldest. A few calculations in his mind suggested it would be at least a decade or more until the Miss Granger in his class caught up to herself.

A decade.

That was fucking depressing.

His second surprise was their interactions. Part of him had almost wished that digging back through his memories would extinguish whatever it was inside him that still burnt for her. After all, teenagers had crushes all the time. He witnessed them on a daily basis. And they waxed and waned as flames in a breeze. Alight one minute, cold and dark the next.

So he was hoping viewing the memories would help. He could see her for what she was. Someone who had shown him a bit of polite, detached kindness, and the lonely boy he’d been had spun it up into something else. Just like with Lily. If he saw that then he could be free of it all.

But it didn’t show him that at all.

It probably worsened the situation, if Severus was honest with himself.

She liked him.

As a teenager he’d fantasied that she had. Tried to tell himself that she did. But as an adult it was obvious. Watching their interactions, and the way she was gentle with him, encouraged him, and cared for him after his mother had died—it was so obvious. He could hardly bear to stand there as the memories flowed around him. When she laughed at his jokes, danced with him at Horace’s party, and their conversations in the forest pre-Lupin. It was all there.

What was slightly more intriguing was her comments—that at the time had passed over the head of his younger self—but were very clear to him now. Part encouragement, part warning. Some were even just hints of the future. The Christmas card, her unwavering belief in his potions expertise. It was all adding up to something. But Severus couldn’t quite understand what that was.

But what he did know was Black might be all buddy-buddy with Potter and friends now, but t was glaringly obvious how much Granger had disliked the teenaged version.

Eat shit Black.

Severus thought it would make dealing with the man easier, knowing that. But it didn’t. He still hated him. And he hated watching Black interacting with the Granger girl—all smiles and friendliness. Whereas Severus couldn’t do anything but be his normal self. Which was his standard interaction with most students—fairly horrid. He couldn’t deviate from this. Not without upsetting Dumbledore, his position within the pureblood circles, and the permanent reminder on his forearm.

Did Black even remember her? Or were his brain and memories too addled from Azkaban? Severus didn’t know, and he certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. He hadn’t even asked Lupin. But once Lupin had fucked up with the potion and nearly murdered her again, Severus preferred not to talk to him at all.

How he loathed them. He loathed the Black house. He loathed what his life had become.

And now he had to skulk back inside, tail between his legs to get his bag.

Boo.

Severus took a deep breath, embodied his most ferocious Fuck Off And Die scowl, and wrenched open the door. He was immediately relieved he couldn’t see Black’s stupid dopey face, but he could see his bag on the counter. Severus crossed the floor in two long strides and snatched it up.

“Hello Professor,” he heard from behind him.

Severus spun around to see Miss Granger sitting at the kitchen table with a needle and thread levitating in front of her.

He felt his stomach lurch, and he closed his eyes in a vain attempt to quell the nausea that rose up.

Perfect for practicing. It’s a tapestry needle.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Severus wondered if time would fall apart. He knew that inside his bag, tucked away in the bottom corner was an old tapestry needle and a small ball of yarn. They’d been given to him by Professor Granger. And, before he shut his eyes, he instantly recognised that they were the same as the items that currently hung motionless in the air in the old kitchen. If time did implode, would he even care? Frankly, it would be a relief.

He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to open his eyes again. It was a real shame as he liked his eyes. He had very good vision and was currently developing a potion to allow the consumer of the aforementioned potion to see in very low light. He intended to be the consumer of course.

Lots of things happened in low light that he was very interested in getting all the details of. Things like Pettigrew killing students, grave robbing and resurrecting the Dark Lord. All which occurred in a lowly lit cemetery where Potter was hazy on the details. Severus, on the other hand, was fully intending on being very detailed focused if he was was presented with the same situation.

“I’m...Er...practising my wandless magic,” he heard Miss Granger stammer nervously.

It’s great practice, Professor Granger said in his thoughts. He screwed his eyes up against the memory.

“Thankfully Miss Granger,” Severus said tightly without opening his eyes, “the cones in my retina are functioning effectively, allowing me to witness this without need of a description.”

“Its quite dark in this kitchen,” said Miss Granger conversationally, “wouldn’t it be the rods?”

His brain fizzed to a halt and rapidly flicked its fingers through his mental notes on the anatomy of the eye. He had a very detailed scientific text he’d found in a bookshop that he’d been using to design the potion.

She was right.

Probably the only other person who had read an anatomy textbook in the entirety of wizarding Britain was sitting across the room from him. Of course she had. Hadn’t they had scientific discussions? She’d tried to explain magic to his other classmates with science, which he’d thought was odd at the time. Only later he’d realised it was the most sensible approach, and one he’d pursued diligently for years.

Professor Granger was still be decade still in the making, but the raw ingredients were there; patiently practicing wandless magic, reading about science and engaging in friendships that were increasingly hazardous to her health.

He opened his eyes.

“Yes. You are right,” he said.

She grinned at him, and Severus thought briefly about returning the smile, before realising how monumentally stupid that desire was. He tapped his lip as he thought of a way to proceed without completely fucking everything up.

“Do you find that an effective method of practicing wandless magic?” he finally asked.

“It’s probably not the most effective method,” Miss Granger said. “But if anyone asks what I’m doing I just tell them tapestry. A five minute explanation on tapestry tends to frighten away even the most ardent questioner.”

Severus nearly (but caught himself before it burst out) laughed. Stupid sorting hat. Gryffindor. Pffft.

“Sneaky.” he said, and was not able to quell the small tone of admiration in his voice.

“Is it?” Miss Hermione said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I thought it was sensible.”

I bet you did, thought Severus as he mused on his own interactions with the older version of Hermione Granger.

Maybe you think in a sneaky way. That’s a good thing. It means you think differently from everyone else. You can outsmart people because they’ll will be thinking one way and you think another.

No wonder the Potter boy was still alive and apparently thriving.

Severus laughed inwardly as he had a mad idea that Granger should really be on Dumbledore’s retainer. For services rendered in regards to her role as close personal protection for the Boy Who Got Lucky. But then he immediately remembered they were both trapped in protecting the boy, albeit for entirely different reasons, and this stifled the brief flare of amusement.

“Being sneaky can be the most sensible option sometimes,” Severus said. He crossed his arms and stared at the door, wary for any sign another person may enter the room and break their moment of connection.

“Do you have any advice for me, Professor?” asked Miss Granger. “On wandless magic?”

“My favourite part about not being at Hogwarts, Miss Granger,” said Severus, “is not having to teach.”

“Oh, sorry Sir,” she apologised. “You just seem to be so much better than everyone else. Did you learn wandless mostly yourself?”

Severus paused. Merlin. What to say? He could lie of course. But the memories showed she knew who he was as an adult. Though she never mentioned anything negative. Maybe it was a chance to let her know he knew who she was as well. However it all worked. It was enough to give a man a headache.

“I had a good teacher,” he finally said.

“Are they still at Hogwarts?” Miss Granger asked with an excited tone.

Yes.

No.

“No,” he settled on. “She left a long time ago.”

Miss Granger looked at him right in the eye, and he looked right back at her. He hadn’t exchanged this many words with her one on one since she had left Hogwarts a decade or so earlier.

Before he could say anything else, the kitchen door opened and Molly Weasley entered.

“Severus, you’re still here!” Molly said happily.

The spell was broken. The moment was over.

“No I am not,” he snapped, and escaped out the back door.

*

Five months later Severus was waiting at his floo, in Hogwarts, for word from the Order. He’d ascertained that Black was safely ensconced at Grimmauld Place and halfway into a bottle of whiskey. After confirming Black was still alive, not in the possession of Voldemort but still an utter prick, Severus alerted the other members of the Order about Potter’s vision. A few hours had passed since then and Severus was stuck in his chambers waiting. Waiting to hear what was going on.

He paced for a while.

The he sat for a while, tapping his feet restlessly.

Then decided to order his bookcase by the number of times he had read something. He was just deciding between Hogwarts: A History and Self-Defensive Spellwork for the coveted number one position when a silver cat sprang through the wall.

“Severus, we need you in the infirmary immediately,” the cat ordered in Minerva’s Scottish brogue.

Severus groaned. What was wrong with Potter now?

He hurried out of his chambers and made his way to the infirmary. Minerva had only just returned from St Mungo’s herself, he hoped she wasn’t exerting herself too much over the boy.

As Severus arrived at the infirmary the first thing he saw was blood. Lots of blood. His heart quickened and he suddenly realised for all his posturing, he didn’t actually want Potter dead. He wanted him alive and stupid.

Minerva and Poppy were bent over an infirmary cot that was drenched in blood.

“I can’t close the wound,” he heard Poppy say to Minerva. “It just reopens.”

Severus had never heard such concern in Poppy’s voice before. He began to stride over. Potter must be in a bad way.

“Oh, Hermione,” Minerva sobbed.

Severus was quite sure someone had stabbed him directly through the heart as he realised exactly who was lying on the cot. The blood on the floor. It was her blood. What had Potter got her into now?

He moved forward with the urgency that only terror could provide until he was next to Minerva. He looked down at Miss Granger. Her shirt had been undone and Severus could see a large gash in the centre of her chest, the paleness of the cartilage and rib cage showing through. Muscle and flesh had been severed. There was blood everywhere and the sides of the gash were black and weeping.

Dark Magic.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he asked angrily, fear turning to sharp, stabbing feelings of rage. He did hope Potter was dead, because if not, Severus was going to hex him into next year for what he was seeing.

“Severus, it’s Dark Magic. We can’t heal her. She’s dying,” Minerva said. Tears were running freely down her face. She was looking at Severus with a desperate expression.

“Move over,” he ordered.

Minerva stepped backward and he lent over Miss Granger. He placed his hand on her forehead and cast a quick transferral spell, sending some of his own magic into her body to maintain her strength. She would need it. He followed this up with a diagnostic spell and almost gasped with relief when he realised he knew the hex. A favourite of Dolohov’s. And nasty enough that Severus had bothered to work out a counter curse years ago.

He cast the counter on her, focusing on pushing as much power as he could into the spell. So much in fact, he felt slightly light-headed.

He could hear Minerva’s quiet sobs behind him.

Poppy was clutching one of Miss Granger’s pale, limp hands in hers. “Hold on Miss Granger,” she whispered. ‘Hold on.”

What were they on about? She would not die. Could not. Severus would not allow it while there was any magic left in his body. He would give it all to her if needed. Fuck Potter, Dumbledore and the Dark Lord.

“Don’t be over dramatic,” he said tersely. “She’ll be fine.”

There was no other outcome Severus would accept. She would be fine. Otherwise there was nothing.

Suddenly he felt an answering crackle of familiar magic under his palm, and Miss Granger drew in a long breath. Severus watched as the black smoked away from the closing wound, filling the air with an acrid scent. He sent another flood of magic into her and the muscle and skin inched over bone and cartilage before meeting in the middle of her chest. All that remained was an angry, raised scar between her breasts.

Poppy lent over the girl, still weeping, tears falling onto Miss Granger’s unconscious face.

“It’s done,” Severus said, weak with relief. “But if you keep crying like that over her she’ll get hypothermia and die anyway,” he added, as he observed both witches sobbing over the girl.

“You snarky git,” said Minerva through her tears. “Shut up. Thank Merlin you were here.”

He could still feel the magic bristling between their skin. Had she meant to warn him about this?

A sensible witch or wizard would know the counter spells to every spell they thought their enemies might try to use.

How could he be angry at her for not trying to divert him from Lucius, from Voldemort when she’d given him everything he’d needed to do so? He just hadn’t. It had been his choice. And he’d regretted it. But nothing could change what he’d done. Otherwise surely she would have?

He sighed.

“Thank Merlin at least one person in this room realised the usefulness of being forearmed,” he said.

To her credit Minerva had simply rolled her eyes at his comment. Severus had then stepped away as Poppy had busied herself cleaning Miss Granger, changing her torn, bloodied clothes into standard navy blue pyjamas and tucking her under a crisp, white sheet.

“She’s good now,” Poppy said in a pleased voice. “The diagnostics are much better.”

“She’ll need a course of potions,” Severus said. “I’ll deliver them tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said Poppy.

“I’m exhausted,” said Minerva. “I need a drink. We can catch up properly tomorrow.”

Severus looked down at the sleeping girl. “I will sit with Miss Granger for a while,” he said.

He pretended not to see the glance shared between Poppy and Minerva.

“Of course,” Poppy said smoothly and a chair popped quietly into existence next to the bed. “Don’t tire yourself out though.”

“Don’t fuss,” snapped Severus. He frowned as she patted him softly on the head, like she had when he was a student. He’d spent a lot of time with her over the years. She was probably the only one he’d let do that. And even so he ducked out from under her hand as quick as he could.

Severus drew the chair close to the bed. Miss Granger was still, slumbering peacefully with no sign she’d been close to death. Her arms were on top of the sheet, both palms facing the ceiling. Severus glanced over his shoulder, but Poppy and Minerva had left. He could hear conversation emanating from Poppy’s chambers. There was no one else in this section of the infirmary.

Before he could change his mind Severus reached forward, and took one of her hands in his. He laced his fingers through hers, and lent forward, bracing himself on his knees.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” he whispered.

Her eyelashes fluttered in her sleep, but beyond that there was no response.

Severus sat there for some time, holding her hand in his, feeling the slow and steady pulse under his fingers. He must have dozed off eventually, as he awoke to a touch on the shoulder that jerked him awake.

“Severus,” said Poppy. “It’s early morning. Everyone will be awake soon.”

The witch nodded meaningfully at Miss Granger. Severus looked down. Their hands were still clasped together. He let hers go with some regret.

“I’ll let you know how she goes,” said Poppy gently.

“I’ll start the brewing process,” said Severus in an abrupt manner. He felt like she was pitying him, and he didn’t want that. “I’ll bring the potions she needs up later.”

“Thank you,” Poppy said.

Severus took one final look at Miss Granger before standing up. As he walked back to the dungeons he fancied he could still feel her hand in his.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore was dying.

He was a dead man walking.

The black and withered hand that hung almost uselessly from the man’s arm was a constant reminder to Severus of his own impending doom.

Draco was charged with killing the old wizard. And Severus had taken the vow to assist him.

If he had the energy he would have wept at the enormity of the seemingly impossible mountain he had yet to climb. But instead, he was in the basement of Grimmauld Place, slicing Panellus stipticus for Lupin’s Wolfsbane.

Maybe he would die. Maybe it would be a relief.

What he did know was that if he was dead he no longer would have to go to the Manor and pontificate on the state of wizarding Britain with bored and often drunk Purebloods, while the Dark Lord told everyone How It Should Be. And he also wouldn’t have to go to Grimmauld Place and report his intelligence to the suspicious faces of the Order, while Dumbledore told everyone How It Should Be.

He’d be dead and no one could tell him anything. It actually sounded quite peaceful.

Severus realised he’d been slicing without paying attention, and he looked down.

Fuck.

He’d cut it at the wrong angle.

He sighed loudly and Vanished the ingredient and pulled another from his pouch. He allowed himself a grim smile as he sliced the fungi. He’d spent quite a bit of time on the potion, and he thought he’d probably cracked the taste problem. But then, he wasn’t going to sell the potion was he? He was brewing it for free.

More to the point. He was being forced to brew it.

Lupin couldn’t afford it and there was no way else he could obtain it. Sure, someone else in the Order could have bought it for him. But far better to compel Severus to make it. Which of course, Severus did. Because he was a good little boy that always did what his masters told him to.

Except of course, for one part. He did what they told him too. And yet nothing more or less. He would brew the potion, but he wouldn’t brew his alteration that didn’t taste like horse piss. He would make hallucinogenic potions for the Dark Lord’s parties, but he never made the follow up potion that stopped the migraine-inducing backlash.

He would do what they asked, but only that and nothing more. It was the tiniest mutiny he could afford.

Severus had finished cutting the mushroom perfectly. He shouldn’t really whine. If he wasn’t stuck downstairs dealing with Lupin’s Little Helper he’d be stuck upstairs with Moody and the rest. And for some reason, Potter. As if he hadn’t seen enough of the boy during detentions.

Sure, that reason had a lot to do with the fact that Potter now owned the house, but that was it. The boy owned a house at seventeen. Actually, Severus realised, did he own the the house in Gordric’s Hollow as well? Did he own two houses? Was he some kind of property magnate orphan that collected houses? Either way, Potter turned up regularly from Hogwarts when they had an Order meeting, dragged sometimes by Minerva. Severus always made sure he’d already left the castle so he wouldn’t have to escort Potter. Or the Weasel.

Or Hermione.

Severus sighed again, and pulled the bowl of valerian roots towards him.

There was a very small cough behind him.

There had been a very faint scent in the air as he began working within the cramped bedroom that he used as a potions room. Some type of herb-rich shampoo that probably was muggle and almost certainly had an image of a vacant eyed woman caressing her hair on the bottle. He recognised the scent of course. She obviously liked the shampoo, as she’d used it even years later when he knew her. It made him feel strange when he smelt it. Happy, yet melancholy. Happy-choly? Was that a thing?

There was a small part of him that wanted to order her out, and let him wallow in his own misery alone for a bit. But there was a larger part of him that craved the engagement. Even if it wasn’t the real engagement. It was a weak part of himself, yet it always seemed to win out.

He looked down at the table in front of him and saw his tools, spread out neatly, the SS monogram still clear despite years of use. And there the weaker part of him reared it’s head. He sighed. He shouldn’t. But he was going to.

“If you’re going to insist on hanging around being a bother Miss Granger, you may as well make yourself useful,” Severus said without turning around.

There was a rustle from behind him, and Severus pointed towards the cauldron.

Hermione walked past him to the cauldron. She was wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt which said “Hex the patriarchy” in startling orange lettering. He hid a smile.

Severus observed her adjust the flame on the cauldron with her wand until it was low, but burning hot and blue. Perfect. He nodded in satisfaction, and he almost melted when she smiled at him the same big, warm smile he remembered.

This was a very bad idea.

Very, very bad.

Or, the weaker part of him suggested suddenly, exactly what we need.

He handed her a knife and pointed towards the aconite, which needed to be shredded and distilled. She picked it up carefully, and he was pleased to see her test the weight slightly before moving towards the bench.

The room was quite small, so Severus found himself standing very closely next to the girl. In this room she was very unlike her classroom behaviour, and worked in a silent and focused manner on the intricacies of the slicing method. He critiqued her technique without speaking and must have made her feel nervous as she looked up at him questioningly. He reached down and turned her hand, the one holding the knife, to the correct angle. She had been fine really, the one percent wasn’t going to make a difference but he liked when things were done exactly right.

And also, the wheedling inner voice suggested, you touched her hand.

His inner self was a creep, Severus decided.

He resolved to not do anything more stupid and instead turned back to his own ingredient preparations.

The girl worked steadily next to him, not uttering a word, but placing the tool on the table once she’d completed her step. Then he only needed to point her to the next ingredient, demonstrate the technique, and she copied him almost perfectly. Without talking, and with her hair tied back and the frown of concentration on her face, it could have almost been real. Real enough to be dangerous at any rate.

He was getting sentimental. And that meant he was getting sloppy.

When he’d finished the final step for the stage, he extinguished the flame and began to put his tools away. He noticed one of the knives missing but realised that Hermione had cleaned and polished it with a cloth as she handed it to him.

Severus wasn’t exactly sure where to go from there, but the girl solved his dilemma by picking up her discarded robes by the door, and shooting him a quick smile before leaving.

Only seven days had passed before Severus was at Dumbledore’s door, for the second time in so many weeks. He held one of his the potions in his hand that was the only thing staving off the creeping, black curse that was eating the old wizard alive. It was Severus’s justification for making the trip to the office, although the real reason was a jittering, pressing itch he needed to scratch.

“Severus,” said Dumbledore as he welcomed Severus up the stairs. “Ah, my potion. Thank you. You do not have to deliver it personally. It is a fair walk from your own chambers. You can always send an elf with it.”

“Yes,” said Severus. He thrust the potion at Dumbledore slightly more abruptly than he had planned.

As the Headmaster drank the potion, Severus looked around the room.

“Is there something else?” Dumbledore asked. Severus could hear the air of curiosity in the wizard’s voice and he winced inwardly. He hated being transparent, when opacity was his raison d’être.

“Could I use the pensieve?” he asked. “I have some memories that require close study.”

Dumbledore nodded at Severus and he was relieved. But as he crossed the floor towards the floating bowl he heard the man clear his throat quietly.

Merlin. What now?

“Severus. It wasn’t that long ago I gave you some advice regarding the Mirror of Erised.”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Severus froze, but steeled himself to reply with an air of nonchalance.

“That was almost a decade ago,” he said. “You’re losing track of time.”

“Time is an easy thing to lose,” admitted Dumbledore. “There is so much of it, and I am rather poor at keeping track of it.”

“I assume you have a point,” said Severus.

“Often I do, yes,” said Dumbledore.

“Do you have a point for this particular conversation?” Severus asked with clenched teeth.

“It is interesting to me that I had a similar conversation with young Harry not so long ago regarding the same object,” Dumbledore said.

“Fascinating,” said Severus sarcastically.

“Like you, he was drawn to dreams of what could be. And this was preventing him from focusing on what is,” Dumbledore said.

“I can’t see how this has any relevance to me,” Severus said. “I’m merely using it as a tool to find out information. Isn’t that what you want me to do?”

“Does that information coincidentally include Lily Potter?” Dumbledore asked.

Severus felt two very conflicting emotions simultaneously. He felt overwhelming relief that Dumbledore hadn’t ascertained the real reason he sought out the mirror, and the pensieve. Yet he also was somewhat disappointed. Did the man not know him at all? He had fooled himself that they were almost close, having shared so much and relied on each other over the years. Or perhaps Severus had seen what he wanted to see, and so had Dumbledore. Both deceiving each other.

“No,” said Severus truthfully.

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. But he didn’t sound like he believed Severus. “Then by all means. Begin your examination.”

It was slightly disconcerting to remove the memory with Dumbledore sitting in his armchair and doing a very poor job of pretending to read the Daily Prophet. Almost like getting changed in front of someone you didn’t really ever want to expose your vulnerable, naked body too. That included most of the population for Severus. He couldn’t think of many people he’d trust his body with, and certainly almost none with his naked body.

Almost none.

He decided not to think about that and instead put his face in the pensieve.

When he lifted his face out of the bowl he wasn’t quite sure what to think. He felt completely discombobulated. Turned out and wrung out.

“Did you get what you needed?” he heard Dumbledore ask. He sounded far away. Almost inconsequential.

“Yes,” said Severus. “I must go to Grimmauld Place to finish the Wolfsbane.”

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Harry is there with Minerva and the other members of the Order.”

“Fine,” said Severus without argument, which went to show how mixed up his thoughts were.

He thought about what he had watched as he made his way to the dreary house (although it paled in dreariness in comparison to his own grand palace of gloom).

She asked me to kill her. She was in so much pain. But...Well...There is one spell that causes an instant, painless death.

Severus set up the potion kit almost robotically.

Intent was the key. But I didn’t want her dead because I hated her. I wanted her to be free of pain, and for her suffering to end because I loved her. She was my friend and I loved her very much. And that was enough.

He began to prepare the pickled myrrh.

Was it terrible?
Very. Even though I believed it was the right thing.

Severus placed the knife carefully on the table, unable to keep cutting. The conversation had suddenly become terrifyingly clear to him. What he’d initially thought as an interesting conceptual discussion around how intent was perceived, was in actuality something different. He closed his eyes. She’d been trying to warn him.

Oh, Merlin — Hermione, Severus whispered to himself. I can’t do it. He felt like lying down on the ground and never getting up again.

The noise behind him raised him from his stupor, and he turned to look to see Hermione had entered the room. He didn’t even have the energy to scowl at her, or anything but be his true self. After all, she knew it all didn’t she? He must kill Dumbledore. He knew this now. That was what she’d been trying to tell him. She’d be telling him how to do it, without irrevocably losing himself while doing it.

Severus had made the promise to Dumbledore. He’d made the oath with Narcissa. But he’d never really believed it would come about. Dumbledore seemed so invulnerable. Draco so reticent. He’d believed the curse would overtake Dumbledore before the boy would finally make his move. But he now knew that was wishful thinking.

Hermione looked up at him and smiled. Severus mutely pointed at the knife on the table and the small pile of myrrh. He was on a tightrope, so close to falling, so close to the edge. He couldn’t trust his mouth.

The girl took up the knife and began shedding in small, neat cuts. Severus watched her for a while. She looked up once, and smiled again.

She’d smiled at him when she was Professor Granger. After knowing everything he’d done. After killing Dumbledore she’d still smiled at him, held his hand and everything,

They added the final ingredient and boiled the potion, and she watched intently as Severus carefully stirred the potion in the figure-eight motion the requisite amount of times. Finally, when the thin lines of blue smoke began to curl up he doused the flame and placed the cauldron under stasis. He turned to the girl, but she was already cleaning the knives and tidying up scraps of ingredients.

Severus pretended to clean as well, but he just snatched little glances at her. If he was to kill Dumbledore soon he imagined he wouldn’t be too welcome in the Order after that, and that there was to be no more brewing in his makeshift lab. A week ago he would have welcomed that thought with relief, but now he dreaded it.

The lab was clean. Everything had been packed away, and she was standing there looking at him.

What could he say?

It was only part way through June, and there was still some of the term left, but Severus was overcome with a creeping feeling that he wouldn’t see her again.

He nodded at her, trying to say everything in the sharp, small movement of his head. And then he opened the door for her to leave.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape’s gravestone was in a corner of the central London Cemetery reserved for Witches and Wizards Of Note. He would have hated it.

Hermione thought he might have wanted to be buried near his mother, but she guessed no one had ever asked him what his funeral plans were. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to have been interned at Hogwarts, so that was at least something. But Hermione knew in her heart he would have loathed being in the VIP part, that’s for damn sure.

There were fresh lilies on the grass at the foot of the white stone, and after what she’d seen and shared Hermione couldn’t bear to move them. She cast a new stasis on them to keep them fresh a while longer. Their creamy, clove-like scent hung in the air.

Besides the date of his birth and death, the stone merely proclaimed his name: Severus Snape. And underneath in flowing cursive were the words ‘Never through me Shall you be overcome.” Hermione traced them with a finger and wondered who had picked the words, penned by the same hand as the ones on the grave of Eileen.

It was a lovely day. More than she would normally expect at this time of year. But she certainly wasn’t complaining. She touched the grass near the grave, and once she had ascertained it was dry she lay down. There was a movement next to her and she saw it was Mister Snape, lying beside her and still in his threadbare Damned T-shirt.

Hermione closed her eyes. She could feel the sun warming her face, hear the drowsy sound of the buzzing insects around her and smell the damp, earthy scent of the grass around her. She opened her eyes and turned her head towards the boy lying next to her.

“I’m so sorry about what you had to deal with. I wish I could have changed it,” she whispered.

“Not as sorry as me,” said Mister Snape. “Being dead sucks.”

She laughed hollowly. “I think I’m a terrible person.”

He turned his head towards hers, and they lay there together, inches from each other.

“We already established that you are,” said Mister Snape. “And that I was as well. And we could be terrible together.”

“Well, that’s lucky then,” Hermione said. She rolled slightly over so her head rested against his.

“So why are you visiting the grave of some old, dead man you didn’t even know?” Mister Snape asked.

“I don’t know,” Hermione answered truthfully. “I’m so sad. I think I miss you.”

“I am pretty great. So I’m not surprised,” Mister Snape replied airily.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You are. You are also a total git. One hundred per cent.”

“Were,” corrected Mister Snape. “I was a total git. Past tense. I’m dead remember?”

Hermione burst into tears. She felt a hand close against hers and she clutched at it, curling her fingers into his palm.

“Don’t cry, I probably wanted you to cry over me at some point. But more because you were desperately in love with me, not because I’d made you sad,” Mister Snape said. “Although the latter is far more likely with me,” he added with a touch of exasperation.

“Desperately in love with you, you say? You’re pretty sure of yourself then,” Hermione said, giggling a bit through her tears.

“But I’m not,” Mister Snape said seriously. “I’m not at all. And anything I’m sure about is because of you.”

“Don’t say that,” Hermione said. “I did nothing. Don’t thank me for doing nothing.”

“I’m not.”

Hermione closed her eyes again. “Do you regret meeting me back then?” she asked. She held her breath to prepare herself if he had.

“I only regret one thing,” she heard Mister Snape say.

“And what was that?” Hermione asked.

There was a movement next to her and a light feather touch of something brushing against her cheek. Then the warm pressure of lips against hers and the rasp of stubble against her chin.

“That I didn’t do that,” he whispered, and Hermione smiled.

She opened her eyes.

There was a blue sky above her, but paper planes were whizzing silently across the flat-looking face of the clouds. Hermione frowned. It didn’t looked right.

She turned her head to the right and instead of the cemetery she saw Sera, sitting in a chair reading a book. Hermione looked around. She was in a large white room, with a few chairs and a lot of flowers. Some of them were lilies.

“Sera?” she asked and was surprised when her voice croaked. Her colleague looked up.

“Hermione? Oh! Let me get the medics,” Sera babbled. Before Hermione could respond Sera had raced out of the door, the book dropping unnoticed to the floor. Hermiome wondered if the spine had cracked.

She returned with two medi-witches, one medi-wizard clutching some potions and close on their heels was Eurydice.

“Hermione you bloody hard nut! Thank Merlin you woke up. You had us worried,” said her supervisor as the medics surrounded her and began casting various diagnostic spells.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked in her gravely voice after hastily swallowing the vial of whatever it was they shoved at her.

“We’d kept a rotating shift at the Wyvern in case you came back,” Eurydice said.

“You were gone for months,” Sera added. “At least five.”

“Was I?” Hermione asked.

“We even kept someone in the Time Room,” said Eurydice. “In case, you know, everything went pear shaped and we needed someone who was still linked to the former timeline.”

“I had two men with me,” Hermione remembered suddenly. She tried to sit up but found she couldn’t. The medics tutted at her and gave her another vial.

“Yes. One didn’t make it. Sorry. The other is still unconscious. You both were almost dead. A lot of internal injuries,” Eurydice said. “And the medics said your scars are from a lycanthrope.”

“They are,” said Hermione.

“You’re a bad-ass Hermiome,” said Sera. “Fought a werewolf, and then you got them both and brought them back. You’ve been unconscious for two weeks by the way.”

“The timeline,” Hermione began to ask. She wanted him to be alive. He had to be right? It was ridiculous to think of any other outcome.

“All fine,” said Eurydice. “Well done.”

Hermione began to sob.

“Are you okay?” Sera asked.

Hermione kept crying.

“It’s normal,” said one of the medi-witches. “She’s only just woken up, and has likely been through immense trauma.”

“We can get some close friends in,” said Eurydice.

“That may help,” said the medi-wizard.

Hermione rolled over and faced the wall. She didn’t feel like talking.

After a while it sounded like everyone left and Hermione stared at the wall and wondered what she had done. Eurydice had said well done but she didn’t feel like everything was very well done. Actually, she felt like everything had been badly done. Very badly done.

But.

She’d made it back. They’d fixed the time device.

Which meant she could use it to return.

She just had to get out of here and get back to the Ministry. Then get her hands on the device.

“Hermione!”

There was absolutely no mistaking Harry’s voice. Hermione rolled over, and Harry was beside her bedside in a few steps, gathering her up in a hug.

“You has us all worried old girl,” he said. “The Department wouldn’t say what happened. Only that you were away on an assignment.”

“You’ve been gone for months!” Ron said as he added his own weight to the hug.

It was a very hot and sweaty hug, but it was a very hot and sweaty hug that Hermione needed. She let herself cry a little bit more on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hermione, what happened to your face?” Harry whispered.

“Looks like werewolf stuff,” said Ron over Hermione’s head. “Like Bill’s.”

“Leave off you two. She’s bloody recovering,” Griselda called from behind Ron’s shoulder.

“My hugs are better than a pain potion,” said Ron.

“More like a dung bomb,” his girlfriend scoffed. She sat down on Hermione’s bed as the boys reluctantly let her go. “I brought you some things.”

“Chocolates?” asked Ron.

“Things Hermione might actually want,” Griselda said.

Hermione watched as Griselda enlarged a basket. From it she took out a pile of books, a photo frame with Hermione hugging Crookshanks, and a beautifully vibrant woollen blanket, which was a riotous mess of colours. Griselda set the books next to Hermione on the table and adjusted the frame next to them. She spread the blanket over the stark white of the hospital bed.

“Why didn’t you bring a photo with me in it?” Ron asked.

“She doesn’t like you,” Hermione heard Ginny say from behind her brother.

“Hermione are you okay?” Ginny asked. “We left James with mum. Nothing like a screaming toddler to make someone want to slip back into a coma.”

“I’m all right,” Hermione said. “Not great. But all right. It’s wonderful to see you all.”

Ginny came around to hug her as well and Hermiome felt the hard press of a belly against her ribs. She looked down at Ginny’s stomach, then looked back up at Ginny with the question in her eyes.

“Even post-coma Hermione is smarter than us,” complained Harry when he noticed her expression.

“Yes, we’re five months along now,” laughed Ginny. “Another boy.”

“Us too!” said Ron.

“I love how you say us,” said Griselda. “When I’m the one vomiting every morning.”

“Babies,” said Hermione and she felt herself starting to cry again. “How lovely.”

“Oh Hermione!” said Ginny as she rubbed Hermione’s back soothingly.

“I feel like crying too,” Griselda said. “Have you seen the size of Ron’s head?”

“That’s enough everyone,” said a brisk voice from doorway and one of the medi-witches_—with a very stern face—was standing there with three vials. “Time to leave and let your friend rest.”

“You can stay with us when you are out,” Harry offered. “We’ve set up the spare room.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Hermione. “I still have my flat don’t I?”

“At least let me drop around some meals for when you get out of here,” said Ginny.

“I’ll do it. Don’t overtax yourself,” said Harry, “Albus is not a very thoughtful tenant remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” sighed Ginny.

“Albus?” Hermiome asked. She took one the vials offered by the medi-witch and downed it in one swallow.

“The baby,” said Ginny. “Harry’s idea of course.”

“Albus Severus,” said Harry proudly.

“Severus?” Hermione repeated.

“Don’t bother trying to talk him out of it,” said Ron. “We’ve all tried.”

Hermione couldn’t say whether she liked it or not, as she couldn’t really talk at all. There was a large lump in her throat. She wished Mister Snape was here so she could tell him James Potter’s grandson was going to be named after him. She could picture him now, his face screwed up in confusion, and then he’d say something wonderfully cutting and they’d both laugh. And it would be a running joke between them surely, which would be brought up occasionally when they needed another reminder of how ridiculous life was.

But he was dead wasn’t he?

“Hermione?” Ginny was asking gently.

“You’ve traumatised her,” said Ron. “Told you the name was a stupid idea.”

“It’s a nice gesture,” said Hermione finally. “I’m just not with it at the moment.”

“Of course you aren’t,” tutted the medi-witch. “But nothing some rest, and a good course potions couldn’t solve.”

Her visitors took the hint and said their goodbyes, Harry lingering enough for another hug.

“Anything you need Hermione, just ask,” he said.

Hermione nodded mutely.

Well I’d like Mister Snape to be alive, she thought.

And barring that I’d like you to break into the Department and steal the time device for me, her mind added.

“Okay thanks I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

She was only required to stay within St Mungo’s for just on five days. She read the books Griselda had brought in, and after a few days Declan came to visit her bearing a cartoon of finger-burning-hot, crispy spring-rolls and her satchel.

He sat beside Hermione as she clutched the bag to her and began to make her way through the rolls.

“So they’re releasing you tomorrow?” he asked.

Hermione nodded, her mouth full.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I was there when you appeared in the Wyvern.”

Hermione swallowed. “Oh,” she said. “Was it a bit awful?”

“A pile of what I thought was dead bodies dropping out of nowhere? Yeah I’d say it was a little bit,” he said.

“Thanks for looking after me,” she said.

“Of course,” he said. “We’re a team right?”

“Right,” Hermione said.

“Eurydice was here this morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” sighed Hermione. “They’re giving me two weeks paid leave to recover. Then I’m to report back for debriefing.”

“No kidding,” said Declan. “There’s a lot of people wanting to know what it’s like to go back that far.”

“Great,” Hermione said listlessly.

“And there’s no sign of the other guy waking up yet, so they’ll be looking for a pretty detailed report on the entire period you were there for.”

Hermione sighed. “Even better,” she said.

“I shouldn’t tell you, but you’re up for an Order of Merlin for this. First class and everything!” Declan whispered excitedly.

She forced a smile. “That’s fantastic,” she lied.

“It’s not everyday someone saves the wizarding world,” said Declan.

“It has been done before,” said Hermione dryly. “Several times actually.”

“Well you’re in good company then,” said Declan.

And there really wasn’t much she could say to that.

When Hermione was eventually escorted back to her house via Portkey she found she didn’t really want to be there. It had a air of disuse, despite the department sending in a team to freshen it up for her arrival. There was Harry and Ginny’s house, but she didn’t want to go there either. Not that she didn’t want to spend time with her friends, but she needed something. She needed to talk to someone who understood.

Hermione knew who that was.

A quick owl later she was where she wanted to be; the front gates of Hogwarts. It was evening, and very cold, but Hermione steadfastly made her way up the path, through the enormous entrance and to the gargoyle at the foot of the Headmaster’s office. Minerva was waiting there.

“Welcome Hermione! It’s a little unusual for you to visit so late, and during a school term. Can I—“ Minerva’s warm and welcoming voice dropped away as Hermione walked closer. Her eyes flicked to Hermione’s face, and the scars.

“Oh my dear. My dearest dear,” Minerva strode forward in her achingly familiar speed, and closed the gap between them almost instantly. She put her arms around Hermione and hugged her very hard.

“Hello,” said Hermione, who wasn’t quite sure what else to say. She felt like crying again. She’d never cried so much in her life. She was going to dehydrate.

“Come upstairs,” said Minerva, and gargoyle moved out of their way, revealing the twisting staircase. She led Hermione upstairs, one arm still around Hermione’s shoulders which Hermione was very glad for. She was feeling a bit shaky.

Minerva settled Hermione in a chair and poured her an enormous scotch which Hermione balanced cautiously on her knee

“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” Minerva eventually said.

“It’s been a long time,” Hermione agreed.

“For me,” said Minerva. “Not for you.”

“No,” Hermione said.

She sipped the scotch. Then coughed. Then sipped it again. Minerva raised an eyebrow.

“Would you like a top up?” she asked.

“No thank you. I don’t know even why I’m here. I just needed to talk to someone,” Hermione said.

“You can talk to me whenever you want,” said Minerva.

“You are always welcome, of course, to talk to any of us,” said a voice behind Minerva.

Dumbledore’s portrait. Hermione craned her head to look around the walls around the room but there was one missing Headmaster portrait.

“I’m sorry Hermione but there isn’t one,” Minerva said, immediately grasping what she was searching for. “We found a fragment of framing in the fireplace. Filius and I think he burnt his. Possibly as a final safety measure for Dumbledore’s plan in case we lost, and his portrait would then have been bound to reveal his secrets to the new Headmaster. Which would have been whomever Voldemort appointed.”

“He was good at thinking strategically,” said Hermione. She felt a crushing ball of defeat inside her. She’d thought maybe they’d be able to talk. Even that was denied to her.

“He was indeed,” Minerva said. She leant forward. “Thank you for what you said before you left Hermione. He was a good friend to have here. Although I cannot say the same for myself.”

“I didn’t change anything,” said Hermione. “But I think maybe I should have.”

“I do not feel any fault lies with you. Looking back,” said Minerva. “As I have of course. Mostly to remind myself of my own pig-headed stubbornness and what I missed because of it. I thought you gave me clues that I never even thought to examine.”

“Did I?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Minerva said. “You only ever spoke of Severus in your time in past tense. I’m not sure you even realised this.”

“Oh,” said Hermione.

“I definitely understand now your reticence with Albus,” sighed Minerva. “Everything in hindsight is clear. But at the time, I’m not so sure.”

“Do you think he might be alive?” Hermione asked quietly. Finally putting voice to the question she’d had burning on her tongue since she’d woken from her sleep.

“If anyone was sneaky enough to fake their own death, and get away with it,” said Minerva. “It would definitely be Severus.”

Hope surged through Hermione. Bright and glorious.

“Though his remains were found in the shack,” Minerva added. “What was left after the fire of course.”

“Right,” said Hermione dully. “Of course.”

The crushing ball of defeat was back, expanding within her and swallowing everything.

“I want to give you something,” Minerva said. “Wait here.”

Minerva got up and walked out and through a door that Hermione guessed probably led to her private chambers. She sat in the chair and ignored Dumbledore’s portrait trying to get her attention. Instead, she drank some more of the scotch while she waited.

Eventually Minerva came back and she held something small in her hands.

A very, very faint whisper of spices and pine wafted up from the card Minerva put on the table. Hermiome looked down at the familiar image. A tall, stern figure in black strode across the snow towards a beautifully decorated Christmas tree and and blitzed it with a spell. She hadn’t seen the card in years. Years!

“He kept it,” Hermione whispered.

“It was by the bed,” Minerva said. “On the nightstand. I found it when I. Let’s just say, when I came back after everything.”

Hermione reached out and picked up the card. She felt a bit foolish doing so but she pulled it towards her, almost hugging it to her chest.

There was a long moment of silence in the room.

“You must know,” said Minerva. “He loved you very much. Right until the end.”

“I loved him too,” Hermione said, and even though she tried to blink them away the wretched tears were back. And she realised it was the truth. She loved him. “But I never got the chance to say anything. Why didn’t I?” Hermione asked Minerva almost angrily.

Minerva walked around to the chair and put her arms around Hermione.

“He knew,” she simply said.

And Hermione let herself be held.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay on her side, looking at the card propped up on her side table. Her bed was full of crumbs that she could have Vanished, but she didn’t really feel up to it. Since her visit to Minerva, Hermione hadn’t really felt up to anything. She felt hollowed out and empty, like there was something missing that she needed to hold herself together. Something that obviously was significant for her to maintain structural integrity.

The card helped. Or made it worse. She wasn’t sure which one.

She sighed.

The small Professor Snape stormed across the snow to destroy the tree again. She smiled and reached out and touched the front of the card as the figure strode forward on his unending task. The card’s magic bristled slightly under her fingers.

“I miss you,” she said aloud.

Mini-Severus had almost got to tree when another figure stepped out from behind the trunk. Hermione blinked in surprise as she recognised the olive-green t-shirt and its rounded pink lettering, teamed with a shocking-pink wooly hat.

It was her.

Card-Hermione threw a snowball at card-Severus, which hit him in the face and he dropped his wand. The scene reset.

Hermione sat up. What was this?

Card-Severus copped the snowball to the face again.

She grabbed the grabbed and stared closely at it. She wasn’t hallucinating. The card had definitely changed. At this proximity she could clearly make out it was her. Card-Hermione turned to throw the snowball and for a small moment the side of her face was exposed. They were small, and only visible for a moment, but there was definite scars on the face.

Hermione raised her hand to her face. She gently let her fingers trail over the raised welts. She wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

Was it a message?

Many years ago, after Sirius had died, Hermione had spent countless hours with Harry talking about his godfather. Harry had not truly believed Sirius was dead, and every slight detail about the Ministry fight—and everything really—was exhaustively worked through from every angle. Hermione patiently sat with him during this time, letting Harry talk through his pain, and wondering what it was that drove him to reject so concretely what he’d seen with his own eyes.

Now Hermione knew. She was doing the same thing, clutching to anything and trying to claw out explanations that might not even be there. Severus would have been the only one to change the card, surely. Who else would so perfectly replicate the shirt, the hat, and the scars?

She made her decision. After all, it wouldn’t hurt to check out an assumption. No matter how silly it may seem to someone else.

A quick shower later, Hermione was halfway out the door when she stopped and rummaged through her satchel. The pink hat she retrieved was shoved onto her head firmly before she pulled on her boots and left her house.

The Apparations tired her quickly. She was definitely not up to her full strength still. As a result Hermione walked the last mile or so until she found herself at the cemetery. It had changed over years. The slightly shabby old church had been rebuilt, and was a smart, modern structure with enormous glass windows. The cemetery definitely had more inhabitants since her last visit, and was neatly manicured. Hermione remembered the pretty wild flowers that had previously been left unchecked amongst the rows. She felt the new look gave an impression it was well-kept, but it had lost the natural, untamed and chaotic feel. It was a sense of peace wrought by the hand of humanity, not found in the uncontrolled growth of nature.

Hermione made her way towards the gravestone. She could see there was a marker next to it that wasn’t there on her last visit. A few steps more and she could make out the name. Tobias Snape. From the date on the grave it was clear he had died not long after Severus left school. With Lily gone and both his parents, Hermione imagined Severus would have been very alone. Perhaps that was why he was drawn in by the ready-made family offered by Voldemort.

She sighed. It was all just guesses really.

Except for the fact that perhaps she’d also left him too. Had everyone?

The grass in front of the grave with closely cropped, and a quick Warming Charm meant she was able to sit quite comfortably on the ground. Once seated, Hermione could lean closer to the stone, and she could feel her spell was still there. It had been years. Decades. Yet it was still there. She couldn’t help but feel slightly impressed at her spell-work.

Hermione looked around furtively but she was the only person in the cemetery. And she couldn’t even hear the buzz of traffic from where she was seated. Slightly mollified, she cast a Revilio.

Immediately the alyssum flowers unfurled in front of the stone. They were reminiscent of fireworks as each bunch bloomed in front of her. The silver petals gleamed in the faint winter sun and the specks of emerald buried within each flower were still there.

“Oh lovely,” Hermione whispered as the memory of sitting there with Severus came flooding back. She couldn’t help herself. And even knowing they would vanish at her touch she reached out a finger towards the closest bloom.

As expected, as the tips of her fingers met the silver petals the flowers dissolved. But not into nothingness. Instead the petals fell, and as they dropped they formed into scores of tiny, silver butterflies which settled on her arms. She looked down at the small insects and the slow opening and closing of their minute wings. She lifted her arms and they vanished.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. It was an enormously clever transfiguration.

And it felt really personal.

She wasn’t sure what prompted the movement, but she turned around, and there, standing on the far edge of the cemetery, head pulled into a scarf and hands shoved deep into jacket pockets, was Severus. Hermione jumped up from the ground, her thighs and knees both immediately submitting complaints about the sudden movement. Her satchel slipped off her shoulder and she bent down to pick it up. As she stood and swung it over her head and across her body she looked back towards the figure.

He was gone.

It only took a short jog to get her over the the edge of the small cemetery. Hanging off a tree was an old, ragged shirt. It was worn almost translucent from years of bleaching by the sun. She touched the shirt. Perhaps she had wanted to see him so badly she had. She cast her Show Me, hoping that would answer her question. The grounds lit up with footprints and she examined them closely, Vanishing those she wasn’t interested in; the paw prints of a dog, the long stride and rippled sole marks of a jogger, and lines of small steps that could only have been a primary school outing. There was no other prints from the last twenty-four hours.

Hermione dropped her face into her hands.

She was going mad.

Despite her weariness, Hermione made the Apparation leaps towards home without Splinching herself. She trudged up the few steps to her door and leant against it briefly, exhausted. She let herself in and hung up her coat and scarf. The pink woolly hat was carefully removed and put back in her satchel. She didn’t think she could bear to put it on again.

As Hermione was walking back up the stairs towards bed her mobile phone trilled. She dug into her jeans pocked and looked.

Harry.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hey, Hermione. I wanted to see how you were doing,” Harry asked.

Terrible. Horrible.

“Fine,” she said.

“Would you like to come over for a few days?”

“I’m okay thanks,” said Hermione. “I just need to rest I think.”

“Are you eating?” Harry asked somewhat accusingly.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“Anything other than crisps?”

No.

“Er, yes.” Hermione lied.

“At the very least I’ll drop something over for you,” Harry said.

“I said I’m fine. Really. I promise I’ll eat a carrot or something,” Hermione offered.

“It will take a minute. I’ll just pop over and drop it off,” said Harry,

“Seriously Harry. I’m fine. Please,” Hermione said.

“Hmmm,” she heard Harry’s voice thrum from the phone’s speaker.

“I’m actually going to bed now anyway,” said Hermione. “So maybe I’ll call back later and check in.”

“Right,” said Harry. He didn’t sound convinced.

Hermione disconnected the call and was halfway up the stairs when there was a knock on the door. She groaned.

Bloody Harry! Never took no for an answer.

Hermione thudded back down the stairs and towards her entrance. She patted her hair slightly in a pointless attempt to calm it and opened the door.

Standing on her front step was a very familiar figure. He was tall, lean, stooping slightly against the cold Southerly wind, and hunched down into his scarf. He eyed her somewhat guardedly between messy locks of black hair of questionable cleanliness.

“Oh!” Hermione said before she could think. “You’re alive!”

“Until I freeze to death here,” Severus said sulkily.

Hermione nearly burst out laughing at how pleased she was to hear his snappy, petulant tone. The grumpy thing. God she’d missed him.

“Come in,” Hermione said and she opened the door wider. He walked past her and into her living room. Hermione shut the door and took a deep, calming breath.

Was she dreaming again?

She turned to the man who was unwinding the scarf from around his neck and shrugging out of his jacket. She had longed to see him again and had to physically restrain her first reaction which was to run into his arms. Not, she pointed out to herself, that his arms were seeking her out in any way or indicating any sudden rush towards them would be welcomed.

“Hello—“ she paused briefly as she considered what to say.

He stopped mid-movement, halfway through placing his jacket on the back of a chair, looking up at her expectantly.

“Um, Professor,” she ended lamely.

His eyes closed briefly in what looked very much like disappointment. He picked his jacket up again and began manoeuvring his long arms back into the sleeves.

“This was a mistake,” he said.

“Well hang on,” said Hermione. “You can’t just show up, not be dead and then just leave.”

“I didn’t risk—“ Snape snapped back at her wildly then gave up. He ran his hands through his hair and looked defeated. “I didn’t come back so that Professor Snape and Miss Granger could have a little tête-à-tête,” he finished in a sad, dull tone.

Oh, Hermione’s brain said. You idiot Hermione.

She tried again. And this time she tried to remember this was Mister Snape. He was just older, that was all. She may not know how to talk to Professor Snape, but she knew how to talk to his younger self.

“Well thankfully age has not wearied your flair for the dramatics Mister Snape,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and get comfortable so you can complain how poorly I brew tea.”

Hermione knew she’d said the right thing as she watched him visibly relax.

“I don’t remember ever complaining about how you brew tea,” he said airily as he discarded his jacket, scarf and bag, and sat on the couch.

“Well you’ve had a few years to dwell on it,” called Hermione as she popped into her small kitchen to put the kettle on. “Perhaps you’ve developed an issue over time.”

“So you think that in the past decades the thing foremost on my mind mind was your ability to steep leaves in hot water?” she heard Severus answer.

“Wasn’t it?” she shouted back as she readied the teapot and arranged biscuits, a jug of milk, sugar and some wedges of lemon on a tray.

“Undoubtedly,” Severus said. “Nothing else of significance occurred in my life to redirect my attention from it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Hermione said as she returned to the living room. “I like to feel important.”

She was rewarded when he rolled his eyes, but laughed a small scoff of a laugh.

“You used to take it black,” Hermione said somewhat apologetically as he eyed the milk. “I’m not sure whether you changed.”

“I haven’t changed,” said Severus quickly.

Hermione met his eyes. “Good,” she said.

She poured tea into both the cups, trying very hard to hide the fact she was shaking a bit from nerves. She then sat down next to him on the couch.

Ask him how he survived, her brain nudged her.

Or, her own sense of survival countered, stay clear of that and ask him something innocuous.

“What made you come to see me?” she asked casually.

“You said I’d always be welcome didn’t you?” he said, and crossed his arms in a defensive motion. “Didn’t you?”

“I did,” said Hermione. “and you are. Of course you are. I’m just wondering why you chose now?”

Severus didn’t answer, but pulled a folder scrap of paper from his pocket and put it on the table. It was rumpled but Hermione recognised herself in the Daily Prophet headline.

Hermione Granger’s mystery injuries.

In the image she had just left St Mungo’s and turned away from the photographer. The claw marks on her face were obvious.

“Oh,” Hermione said as her hand instinctively rose to cover the jagged scars.

“No. Don’t,” Severus said. He reached up and caught her hand in his. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

Hermione had no idea what to say, and was worried Severus could hear her heart beating. It was thundering in her ears.

“I got my mastery,” Severus said suddenly.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I knew you’d be brilliant at it.”

“I was a teacher too, but I don’t think I was very good,” he added.

“You were,” said Hermione. “One of the best. I guess you finally figured people out then.”

He laughed. “No. I never managed that. They remain a mystery.”

“They are,” said Hermione. “I guess that remains on both our ‘to do’ lists.”

“I made some mistakes,” he added and she felt him loosening his grip on her hand.

He was turning away from her, dropping his gaze and looking at her shoulder. She tightened her own, and threaded her fingers through his. Like she had when they were at Hogwarts. When he was just Mister Snape.

His fingers were different, the knuckles larger, possibly swollen from years of clutching knives and pestles. There were black hairs on his wrist and his nails were clean and bluntly cut. She looked down at their hands. His seemed much larger than hers. Was it always the case?

“Me too,” said Hermione. “Terrible ones. Ones I regret more than anything, Do you forgive me?”

There was a pause. Severus turned to her and inched forward, his knees engulfing hers so she was almost straddling one of them.

This is promising, said Hermione’s libido.

“Of course,” he said. “We made a deal didn’t we?”

Hermione smiled. “We did.”

He looked up into her eyes and Hermione’s libido made a strong claim to take over the situation which she ignored. “I missed you,” he said. “You were gone for so long.”

Hermione’s libido immediately retreated at this pronouncement and her eyes welled up, a large lump choking her. She had been the most terrible kind of friend to him. The one that ended up hurting him the most.

“Oh Mister Snape,” said Hermione. “I never thought I’d see you again.” She was slightly embarrassed when her body decided to punctuate the end of a sentence with a sob.

He frowned slightly and Hermione was expecting him to remonstrate her but instead he leant forward and kissed her.

Hermiome had barely enough time to register the chaste press of his lips against hers, when he just as suddenly pulled away. She gaped at him.

Severus raked a hand through his hair and looked downcast. “Sorry,” he said. “I was too young and now I’m too old.”

“No!” Hermione said forcefully.

The loudness of her response surprised Severus, and herself.

“I mean no,” she repeated at a less hysterical volume.

“No?” he asked hopefully.

Hermione moved forward herself, and pressed her own mouth to his.

When life presented opportunities to kiss people she wanted to kiss, Hermione had always taken these opportunities. As a result, she’d kissed a fair sample of men. She’d kissed men where kisses had seemed like a passionate tongue wrestle, entirely a creation of lust and saliva. She’d kissed men where it became immediately obvious there was no spark. And it just felt like colliding body parts without purpose. And she’d kissed men when she’d fancied she’d loved them and she’d imagined it was the first kiss of many with the same person.

Kissing Severus was an entirely new sensation for her.

His lips moved gently against hers, and in terms of kisses it was very restrained. The slightest hint of tongue across her lower lip, and she could feel one hand on her her thigh and the other move hesitantly up her neck onto the back of her head. She felt a rush of desire through her entire body, and she released she was halfway to clambering onto his lap.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said.

“Why are you apologising? I was enjoying that,” said Severus. He was very pink-cheeked. Hermione felt a slight thrill inside her that her ability to make him blush remained.

“I’m worried I’m taking advantage of the power imbalance,” Hermione said primly. “As your teacher, and of course my superior levels of maturity go with saying.”

“Neither of those statements are correct,” Severus said. “Unless you are me.”

“I was your Professor,” Hermione teased.

“I was yours first,” he countered.

“Good point,” Hermiome said.

“How about we both agree we are terrible deviants taking advantage of each other, and get back to the taking advantage part,” said Severus.

“Sounds perfect,” said Hermione. She let out a very undignified squeal as Severus stood up and gathered her up in his arms.

“Right,” he said. “Bedroom?”

“Um, upstairs,” said Hermione.

Severus turned around, still holding her, to observe the steep, narrow staircase. “Ah,” he said. “I have some regrets.”

She laughed, and he leant forward and kissed her. Only a slight fluttering in her stomach alerted her to the Apparition. When she looked over her shoulder she saw they were now just inside the doorway to her bedroom.

“I find competence extremely sexy,” said Hermione in admiration.

“You are a terrible deviant,” said Severus. And he deposited her onto the bed as he wore what could only be described as a somewhat predatory grin.

“And what now Mister Snape?” Hermione asked.

“Hopefully not at the end of the competence part,” said Severus.

Hermione decided to get things moving by tugging off her t-shirt. She’d very helpfully decided against a bra that day, mostly by just not bothering to put one on. Which, by the looks of Severus’s face, was very much appreciated.

“I hope my advancing age doesn’t scare you off Mister Snape,” she said.

He pulled off his own shirt, a few buttons popping and clattering onto the floor and clambered onto the bed towards her. She lifted her arms out towards him and he came into them, clasping her to him as if he would never let her go. Hermione’s eyes were drawn to the silver necklace around his neck, and the small scroll that swung gently on it.

“I’ve never been with an older woman before,” Severus whispered into the skin of her neck as his other hand dipped past her lower back and onto the rise of her buttocks.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Hermione said, gasping a little at the small shocks of desire igniting within. “It just means I’ve had loads more experience and I’ve got really high expectations.”

Severus sat up and looked down at her with some trepidation.

“Oh Merlin I hadn’t thought of that,” he said with wide eyes. “I think I’ve just developed performance anxiety.”

“Did I ruin the moment?” asked Hermione, knowing full well she had ruined the moment.

“Maybe you’re the type of woman who’s used to disappointment, and is looking to be pleasantly surprised,” offered Severus. “You did date Weasley after all.”

Hermione laughed. “Oh, that’s mean!”

Severus smirked. “I thought you liked mean.”

“No,” Hermione said. “I like you. You just happen to be mean,”

“Painfully accurate,” said Severus and bent down again to kiss her.

Hermione decided she could probably kiss Severus forever and be blissfully happy. It was just the right amount of pressure, tongue and saliva. She certainly hoped she was matching him in the kissing department, and immediately began worrying she wasn’t.

“Stop thinking,” he murmured against her lips.

“How did you know I was thinking?” she asked.

He levered himself up on his arms above her and looked at her thoughtfully.

“Hmmmm,” he said. Hermione watched in fascination as he pursed his lips slightly, and his hair hung down around his face and across his eyes.

Holy fuckamoley, thought Hermione. This is fucking hot as fuck.

“You’re always thinking,” he finally said.

She laughed. “You’ve got my number there.”

“I’m very clever and insightful,” Severus said airily.

Hermione laughed even harder. “And modest,” she said.

“My best feature,” he said with a grin.

“My my,” teased Hermione. “You’re obviously genetically superior to me.”

“Obviously,” he said seriously. “Oh, that reminds me. Genetics and all that. I’m, er, I’m on the potion.”

“I’ve got an implant,” Hermione said and waved her left arm slightly.

Severus paused to look at it. “Interesting. An implant in your arm?” he asked.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “It releases hormones into my bloodstream. Um, to prevent ovulation and other stuff.”

“Fascinating,” said Severus. He sat up on his knees and gently took her arm in his hands, pressing gently until he found the slight bump of the implant under her skin. “Possibly could be used for potions. Something to think about maybe. Could even trial with a few different types,” he said in a distracted manner.

Hermione felt a bubble of joy rising up in her. She was completely head over heels. Who else who stop mid-foreplay to think about scientific experiments and innovations? She wanted to clap a hand over her mouth to stop a stupidly big smile from taking over her face, but he had taken one of her arms hostage.

“What are you grinning about?” he asked, an eyebrow elevating three degrees precisely.

“I was thinking about how wonderful you are,” she said truthfully.

Severus closed his eyes on her pronouncement. He rolled off her and next to her on the mattress. Hermione felt a stab of alarm that quickly settled as he reached over, and with one arm scooped her up and pulled her into his side.

“You make me believe I could be,” he said.

Hermione snuggled into his side, and crept her arm across his chest. “You are,” she said firmly. “I won’t be disagreed with on this.”

He laughed. “I know that tone. I wouldn’t dare.”

They lay together for a few moments in silence, Severus running his fingers gently up and down Hermione’s arm.

“I went and saw your mum today,” Hermione said. She immediately regretted her comment, but Severus continued his slow caress of her arm without break so she relaxed.

“Yes,” he said.

“You did a wonderful transfig on the flowers,” Hermione said. “It was beautiful.”

“I did it for you,” he said.

“I thought I saw you there,” Hermione said. She didn’t respond to his comment as she couldn’t let herself run free with her thoughts.

I loved it. I love you.

“You did,” Severus said lazily. “I had gone there as my wards on the grave had been breached. I couldn’t imagine anyone else that would go there. But you saw right through my Notice Me Not. I panicked and left.”

“I couldn’t find evidence you were there,” said Hermione.

“Master spy,” Severus said with a slight smirk.

“Of course,” Hermione agreed mock-seriously. “You know,” she added thoughtfully, “you saw through a charm of mine a long time ago. It was in the Three Broomsticks. You’d just had a fight with James Potter.”

Severus closed his eyes. “Ah yes. I remember that. I also remember that at the point there was no one I wanted to see more at that moment than you. And then there you were.”

Hermione frowned. “That was me today. I just wanted to see you so badly. And there you were. What does that mean?”

“It means we can’t use that particular charm with each other when trying to avoid cleaning cauldrons,” Severus said.

She laughed into his ribs.

”Or beds,” he added.

”Oh no, the crumbs!” Hermione said. She Vanished them with a speed propelled by extreme mortification.

Severus chuckled softly and she hid her face against his sides. She. Was. An. Idiot.

After a few moments she felt brave enough to venture out again.

“Did you leave the card for me?” Hermione asked.

“I wasn’t quite sure how I’d see you again,” said Severus. “Or even if you would want to see me. I left some breadcrumbs. To test the waters so to speak.”

“I liked the changes,” said Hermione. “That pink-hatted woman is feisty,”

“She’s a firebrand,” said Severus. “With disastrous taste in men.”

Hermione sat up. “Is that a dig at me or you?” she asked.

“Me,” he said. “Naturally.”

“Lucky Minerva found it and kept it,” Hermione commented.

“Luck never had even the slightest thing to do with it,” said Severus. “The card itself is layered with so many charms it’s bordering on being comprised entirely of magic. Including one to destroy it should I have died. And a very nice one that compelled Minerva to keep it. Just in case you came looking. And finally one that was linked to you.”

“Clever,” Hermione said.

She lay back down, and rested her cheek on Severus’s chest. Her eyes were almost level with the necklace.

“You still have your Christmas present,” she said.

“I do,” he said. He picked up the scroll and shook it slightly. Hermione could hear a slight rattle within the scroll.

“Did you make another Portkey?” Hermione asked.

“I made two,” Severus said.

“Two?”

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Severus’s hand stilled, stopping the gentle movement of his hand on her skin. She looked up at him with a questioning glance and discovered he was looking intently at her, with a familiar intense gaze.

“I promised myself I would never leave you behind again,” he finally said.

“Oh Severus,” said Hermione.

She again was left struggling for the right words so instead she simply shimmied up his chest and kissed him. He kissed her back with a sense of urgency that was echoed in herself. And it seemed they were conversing, without words, everything they hadn’t been able to say before.

Chapter Text

“Hermione. I have to go. I have some things to do,” said Severus’s voice.

“It’s too early,” complained Hermione into her pillow.

“Is nine o’clock too early?” asked Severus. “This is a whole new interesting side to you. The slacker. I’m intrigued,”

“Nine o’clock!” said Hermione and she sat bolt upright, forgetting she was completely naked. “I haven’t slept like that in ages.”

Severus’s expression immediately became smug, and he also appeared to be sneakily looking at her breasts. Hermione felt a bit smug herself.

“I’ll consider that result a raging success them shall I?” he said.

“Could be down to chance,” said Hermione as she lay back down with an air of nonchalance. “Scientific method begs us to replicate the results over a number of iterations.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “I am dedicated to the pursuit of scientific method,” he said.

He bent down and kissed her, and she took the opportunity to pull him against her, and threaded her fingers though his hair. His hand moved down to cup her breast, and she wriggled against him. He laughed against her mouth.

“Hang on. I’m quite sure I was in the process of leaving,” he said.

“We were in the middle of an experiment!” said Hermione with mock outrage. “This is sacrilege.”

“I could come back later,” he said. Then looked slightly embarrassed. “That is. If you want me to.”

“Yes. Please come back,” said Hermione. She put her arms above her head as she lay back on the pillow, and smiled at him.

Yes.

He was definitely looking at her breasts.

“Off you go then,” she said sweetly.

“The practical nature of scientific discovery is fundamental,” said Severus. “I feel I must put aside time for a systematic exploration through observation and activity.”

“If you’re sure then,” said Hermione. “I mean. For science.”

She watched in satisfaction as he pulled his shirt over his head.

“Definitely,” he said.

She giggled as he crawled onto the bed towards her.

*

When Hermione awoke it was ten o’clock and she was alone. She stretched luxuriously and grinned to herself. She felt quite satisfied thank you very much. The difference in her mood between just twenty-four hours ago and now was immense. She still hadn’t quite got a handle on exactly how Severus was alive, and had shagged her within an inch of her life, or what was going to happen, but was intent on enjoying whatever it was that was happening.

Humming to herself she grabbed her robe, wrapped it around herself and wandered dreamily downstairs to make herself a coffee.

On her kitchen table was a small package, wrapped in crinkly black paper covered in tiny stars and placed on top of a very well-used notebook. Hermione wrapped her robe around herself and picked up the gift. She unwrapped it carefully to reveal a jar which she turned it in her hands until she could see the hand-written label.

Professor Granger’s salve.

Hermione nearly dropped the jar in surprise. She fumbled it briefly before carefully putting it back on the table. She reached for the notebook and opened the first page.

It was a laboratory notebook. Every page was full of notations, results of experiments and ideas on different measurements of various ingredients. Severus had dated each entry, and Hermione could see he started the book the day she’d left 1978. There were detailed sketches here and there, some very lifelike approximations of potion ingredients, others a neatly labelled diagram of the size and shape of an experimental slicing method. She turned the pages with growing interest, seeing him working through different versions of the salve until she came to another sketch.

Going by the date at the beginning of the entry before the drawing, It was almost a year after she’d left. Yet there she was. And it was obviously her. The impressions of the ingredients he had drawn previously were good, but there had been time as well as effort put into the drawing of her face that was in front of her on the page. In the drawing she was smiling, looking out from the paper at whoever was looking in. A broad, welcoming, and warm smile that Hermione hadn’t even known she could give.

She kept on skimming through the book. The experiments continued with variations made and results carefully recorded, and every now and then there was another sketch of her. Some finished. Some not. In one she was standing straight, with her hair curling out like Medusa, wand pointed out in front of with an expression of deep concentration. In another she was opening her arms and a swarm of butterflies were spilling out. Yet another was a simple line drawing of her sprawled asleep in an armchair.

There was one that took up two pages, of her from behind, dwarfed by an enormous, snarling wolf. The figure she assumed was her was standing, legs wide apart, with hands up and branches hanging in midair. In the drawing her face was turned slightly to the reader, her eyes narrowed and set determinedly. Hermione traced the drawing lightly with a finger, remembering the forest and the feelings for a few minutes.

She flipped through more pages, smiling at how the scrawl of an adolescent gradually gave way to neat, precise writing of an adult until she found an entry with a savage, slicing cross through it. Her smile faded. Under the cross, that had been rendered so forcefully it had torn through the paper, half the page had been ripped out. She checked the date of the entry.

It was the day she was sorted at Hogwarts.

There were no entries for almost three years after that date.

I’m sorry, she thought. I’m so, so sorry.

She sat down heavily in the kitchen chair, thinking about that time in Severus’s life. How horrid it must have been. As she wondered, her mobile phone buzzed on the table. She suddenly remembered she hadn’t called Harry back and grabbed the phone.

It was Draco.

She answered the phone. “Draco?”

“Hermione! What have you been? The Ministry said you were on Ministry business and would tell me where. It’s been months!”

Hermione winced at the slightly recriminating tone in his voice.

“I’m sorry Draco. But you know what my job is like. What’s up?” she answered vaguely.

“You missed the announcement from Astoria and I. She is pregnant,” Draco said.

“Congratulations!” said Hermione. “Who’s the father?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“I’m joking of course Draco,” she said quickly. “I really am pleased. If you have a girl will you call her Hermione?”

“Not after that,” Draco said in an injured tone.

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “Consider me scolded. How are you?”

“Is it possible you can come over?” Draco asked. “Father is extremely agitated. Mother has taken Astoria away for the safety of herself and the baby. I wouldn’t mind someone here with me. Maybe it’s time he can’t stay with us anymore.”

“Of course,” said Hermione. “I’ll be right over. Adjust your wards and I’ll Apparate within the grounds.”

“Thank you,” said Draco and he disconnected the call.

Deciding against wearing her robe with nothing underneath, Hermione changed into jeans, and a thick jumper. With Severus still on her mind she decided it was time to resurrect the Slytherin scarf, which turned out to be lovely and warm half tucked into her coat. She struggled back into her boots and twisted on the spot.

She was met at the Manor gates by Draco, who was pacing back and forth and looking very worried. His eyes darted from her scarf to her scars but said nothing.

“You’re here. Excellent. This way,” he said, pulling her along by the sleeve.

“Hang on Draco. What’s going on?” Hermione asked.

“You’ll see,” Draco said grimly.

Draco led Hermione into the conservatory, by way of a beautiful cobbled white path that was only slightly let down in aesthetics by the occasional mound of peacock shit. As Draco opened the side-door Hermione could already see Lucius striding impatiently back and forth within the glass atrium, and between the rows of orchids. The man Hermione saw was no longer vacant and confused, with his hair plaited back neatly by Narcissa. He was once more in his ornate robes, blonde hair halfway down his back and the arrogant tilt of his countenance was familiar.

He turned at their entry.

“Ah Professor Granger! What a pleasure,” he purred and strode forward towards them.

“Er. Hello Mister Malfoy,” said Hermione.

Draco shot her a look. “Father. This is Hermione. She isn’t a professor,” he said patiently.

Lucius ignored his son. “Severus is coming to visit me today,” he said. “I assume that’s why you are here.”

“Severus is dead, father,” Draco pleaded.

But Lucius merely rolled his eyes and turned his charm offensive back onto Hermione. She fixed him with a stern stare.

“Is he?” said Hermione. “I hope you aren’t being a bad influence on him, Mister Malfoy.”

Lucius laughed and smiled a very white and carnivorous smile. “Never,” he said in a flirtatious tone.

Draco pulled at her arm. “I told you. He’s been like this for the last two days. He keeps insisting Severus is going to visit him and doesn’t even know who I am.”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say. “That must be hard on you,” she said.

Draco slumped slightly. “It is,” he sighed. “It’s like he’s almost back to normal but he isn’t really.”

“Draco,” said Hermione gently.

“He honestly believes Severus is going to walk in the door any minute. He even had the elves do his hair,” said Draco.

Hermione put a comforting arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“Finally!”

Hermione and Draco turned towards Lucius as they heard him call out with excitement.

Severus stood in the doorway.

“Hello Lucius. Draco,” he said.

If Hermione hadn’t been nervous about how she should react to Severus, or how he was going to react to her, she would have found Draco’s expression hilarious. Astonished and confusion fought for supremacy as his main reaction. As Severus walked towards them Draco merely followed the man’s movement silently. As he reached them Hermione decided on a small smile. To her delight he smiled back and leant down and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Hermione,” he said.

“Severus,” she answered in a matching tone.

He strode over to Lucius and Draco was across from Hermione mouthing “what is happening” silently yet urgently. She shrugged.

Draco poked Hermione in the side somewhat forcefully. “Explain yourself!” he hissed at her.

“It’s a long, complicated story,” said Hermione. She wasn’t even sure what she could say. Let alone what she wanted to say.

“And the abridged version?” Draco asked.

“Um. He’s alive and we’re kind of together,” Hermione said.

Draco rewarded her with another expression of furious disbelief. If there was such a thing. Which there was. As Draco was currently experiencing it.

“How could you keep something like this from me?” he asked.

“I only found out he was alive yesterday!” Hermione said defensively.

Draco flapped his arms in a show of exasperation. “But that only raises more questions!”

“Draco,” Severus interrupted.

They both turned towards him.

“I may be able to assist your father. I have some potions that may address the deteriorating condition of his brain. There is potential that some of the areas may improve. There are mixed results so I cannot promise you anything,” he said.

Hermione watched Draco’s mouth move wordlessly for a moment. He was obviously struggling with what to say. And not exactly sure how to say it. Finally he settled on something.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It would be discourteous of me not to invite you to dine with the family. Mother has not seen you for years, and would be delighted to reacquaint herself.”

Purebloods. Hermione thought. Was there nothing that etiquette couldn’t solve? She was now determined to read the enormous book Narcissa had given her. Apparently there was even the correct advice on dealing appropriately with the abrupt appearance of long dead family associates.

Amazing.

“I will,” said Severus. “Could I trouble you to keep your council on my return? I am not sure how long I will stay, and whether I wish to announce myself so soon.”

An icy stab went directly into Hermione’s heart at these words.

“Yes. Of course,” promised Draco.

Hermione looked up at Severus.

“Was this one of your errands?” she asked.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m going to go home now. Will I see you later?”

“You could see me now,” Severus said. “I could come with you. But only if you want me to.”

“I do,” she said.

She suddenly noticed Draco watching the exchange with slack-jawed incomprehension. She felt herself growing quite hot, and was sure she had gone very red.

“You are welcome to bring a guest when you come to dinner,” Draco said slyly.

Severus rewarded the comment with a blank expression.

“Expect an owl,” he said shortly and reached out to Hermione. Before she could say anything he’d Apparated them into her living room.

“I’ve always wanted to be part of one of your dramatic exits,” she said.

“Now you understand how useful they are in avoiding difficult or boring conversations,” Severus said, and then sent her a crooked smile. She felt herself smiling soppily back.

“A handy life tip,” she said. “Tea?” she asked.

“Please,” he said.

Hermione went to the kitchen and busied herself with brewing a pot, before she brought everything back into her small living-room where he was sitting on the couch looking fatigued. He’d rid himself of his winter jacket and scarf and had rolled up his sleeves. After divesting herself of her own outer-garments, she took to opportunity to sit very close to him and he immediately put his arm around her.

Hermione brought his arm over her chest and intertwined her fingers in his, turning his arm slightly. The faded grey of the Mark was still there, but on top of the skull, covering the empty eye sockets and the twisting serpent was an hourglass.

“Is this a tattoo?” she asked idly.

“Yes. I had it done a year or so after Voldemort was killed. I was very concerned with time, for various reasons. It made me focus,” he said in an amused tone. “Hiding part of the other image was also a motivator.”

With her free hand Hermione traced its outline. It was slightly stylised and with the curvature of the connecting glass bulbs it could be mistaken for a figure eight. Or perhaps even an infinity symbol.

Her heart dropped.

She let go of his hand and twisted around to face Severus. He was watching her, with a small sad smile on his face.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Hermione,” Severus said. “You’ve always been two steps ahead of everything in your life. I think you know.”

“You?” she asked haltingly. “But why?”

Severus sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. “Did you know there is a portrait of Dumbledore in a small town in Hungary?” he asked.

“I didn’t, no,” said Hermione.

“There is,” said Severus. “I came across him unexpectedly. I wasn’t looking for him. Please understand that.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” said Hermione.

“I’d be moving around for years. Waiting. But also living. Living without attachments. Without masters. Without anything,” he said.

“It sounds like you were free,” said Hermione.

“I suppose I was,” said Severus. “I went places I’d never thought I’d see. Some places were beautiful. And others were terrible.”

“The world is an interesting place,” Hermione said carefully.

“I kept an eye on Britain. But time moved on. And as it did I became worried, impatient. I was waiting for you. But you weren’t showing up,” Severus said.

Hermione didn’t say anything, but she placed a hand on his chest, hoping it felt comforting and not smothering or patronising.

“I was in Tihany about two or so years ago. Do you know it?”

“Grindelwald was born there. Is that right?” said Hermione.

“Yes,” Severus nodded. “There’s a very close knit magical population there. And a small museum about the first wizarding war. I went to visit it. I don’t know why. And there I found Dumbledore.”

“Did he know it was you?” Hermione asked.

“I wasn’t expecting him. I wasn’t wearing a glamour or anything. Perhaps I’d grown complacent,” Severus said.

“Or maybe you just felt safe for the first time,” Hermione countered.

“I won’t bore you with the details of our meeting,” Severus said, “beyond his comment on my arm. It was warm. I was in shirtsleeves. No one cares about tattoos in the Muggle world.”

“Not especially,” agreed Hermione.

“He questioned me at length about it,” Severus said. “And if I know one thing, Dumbledore never was interested in anything for interests sake.”

Hermione caressed his side, hoping he would keep talking but also wishing he would stop.

“He’d seen it before,” said Hermione. “A long time ago.”

“Indeed. When a young woman turned up at Hogwarts, claiming to be from the future,” Severus said.

“She sounds wonderful,” Hermione interjected.

Severus laughed. He turned his gaze back on her for a moment. “It turns out she was looking for some wizards who had traveled there with her. They were targeting a student,” he said.

“Ah,” said Hermione. “He told you.”

“He barely knew anything,” said Severus. “You’d been so careful.”

Hermione smiled tightly at the compliment.

“He did remember when he wizards were captured. He remembered your interest in their tattoo that apparently confirmed their identities,” he continued.

“It was their version of the Mark,” said Hermione. “But not like the one Voldemort did. It was only decorative.”

“I used every strategy I knew to find them. I used cut-outs on top of cut-outs. Sources on top of sub-sources. I tried to find out what I needed without exposing myself. Until I came to the only conclusion I could,” Severus said.

“And what was that?”

“I was the genesis of the group,” Severus said. “And I was faced with the choice. Should I resurrect the festering wounds of blood supremacy? Or should I leave it, walk away, and forget we ever met? If the group never existed. Then you would have no need to travel.”

Hermione sat up. “Don’t tell me anymore,” she said. “You don't owe me anything Severus. We had a deal.”

“We made a deal to forgive each other if we made mistakes we regretted. But I don’t regret it. I did it out of pure selfishness,” he said.

Hermione thought about her plan to steal the time device and use it to go back and save him, knowing it might change everything. Even for the worse.

“Well. So what?” she asked.

He eyed her. “You don’t find it alarming I created a persona to bring some aggrieved pureblood together and planted the idea of time travel as a way of winning the war for Voldemort?”

“Well. When you put it that way it does sound maybe a little bit terrible,” said Hermione, trying to lighten the moment.

“It was terrible,” said Severus. “Look at the price you paid for my selfishness.”

He traced the side of her face gently.

“I don’t care,” said Hermione. “If it was the price I had to pay to know you then I consider it a fair trade. Besides. You were the one most in danger. They were going back to kill you after all.”

“I hadn’t planned on that part of it,” admitted Severus. “I merely created the idea. Then allowed it to be developed. I let them know how corruptible the Ministry could be. They did the rest themselves.”

“I nearly lost you,” said Hermione. “You utter git. You were the only irreplaceable one.”

She tilted her head up and kissed him lightly on the lips. When she lifted her head again he was smiling.

“Yes. You said that to Minerva,” he said. “I wondered about your comment for some time. Until I understood what you’d been trying to say.”

“I was trying to say how important you were. Not just to the Order, or to Hogwarts or for the war. But to me,” Hermione said. “Without you there would have been nothing. But it was only when I came back and thought I’d lost you I realised that without you everything had become nothing.”

“Hermione,” said Severus. He sat up and drew her to him, clutching tightly to her. She put her arms around him and pressed he face into his collarbone.

“I couldn’t have got through anything without you,” he said.

“That’s not true,” Hermiome whispered. “You’re so smart, and powerful and sneaky. I didn’t really do anything.”

“For me you did,” Severus said. “Can’t you see this? You are irreplaceable to me. I would break the world for you.”

Hermione blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to get rid of the tears that were forming. “What did I do? Beyond leaving you for dead you mean?” she said.

“No. You gave me many things,” he said, and he touched a hand to his necklace. “An exit when I needed one. A place of sanctuary when I had nowhere else to go. Advice to prepare myself—to expect the best but prepare for the worst. And handy practice advice for wandless magic,” he added with a slightly embarrassed grimace.

Hermione felt her face grow hot. “Oh the tapestry needle! At least it was useful.”

“You’d be surprised how useful perfecting wandless control of a needle is,” said Severus. He gestured to the scar on his neck. “In sewing all types of things.”

Hermione realised what he’d done. “Oh,” she said. “How awful.”

“Better than being dead,” he said.

Hermione was silent for a moment, then decided to put into words something that had layed on her mind since the Manor.

“You told Draco you didn’t know how long you’d be here for,” she said cautiously. “I had hoped you would stay.”

“I can’t expect you to see me in the same way,” said Severus. “I’m very different now. I think I’m harder. I don’t know. And I won’t blame you if that makes a difference. That meant you couldn’t commit to anything with me.”

“I want to be with you,” Hermione said. “But you’ve been exposed to some pretty ordinary characteristics that I have. I can’t expect the same of you. It’s been a long time.”

He took her hand. “I am terrible,” he said with a smirk.

She grinned. “Me too,”

“Why don’t we agree to be terrible together?” he suggested.

“But not to each other,” she finished.

And then his lips were on hers and she couldn’t think of anything else rational to say

Chapter Text

The street looked nothing like he remembered. The small terraced houses were painted in matching shades, and each front garden was neat and brimming with a riot of blooms. Even the footpaths were new, and there were no longer potholes filled with muddy water and discarded cigarette butts dotted along the road. There was a community allotment a few blocks down with neatly arranged roads and an enormous scarecrow with a bright yellow hat. The sign on hanging around it’s neck cheerfully announced “Cokeworth’s Community Lot!”.

Most shocking of all was the river. Instead of clumps of rubbish and the odd shopping cart, there was a score of rowing boats racing each other across the glossy surface. They probably could fall in and not immediately acquire Hepatitis C, Severus decided. Which was not remotely like he had last seen it.

Severus and Hermione were standing in front of the only house that hadn’t been dragged kicking and screaming into the present state of gentrification. The Ministry had assured them the Muggle Repellant Charm was at full strength and it likely was. His old brick house was still grimy and neglected. The yard was a tangled mess of green. And the old bicycle lent up against front wall was rusted. This was the first time Severus had returned to the house since he left it to reluctantly take on mantel of Hogwart’s Headmaster, almost ten years ago.

He pushed the latch to the gate and they walked into the small overgrown garden.

“I can’t believe they let it get like this!” Hermione huffed next to him. “How disrespectful.”

He loved that she was angry on his behalf, when he had found it so overwhelming to be back he could really only stand silently and take it all in.

“There’s something over here!” Hermione called. She’d walked further towards the front door.

Severus strode over to her and as he did he felt the heavy, thick feeling to the air. There was definitely something there. He cast a Revilio and the marble unfurled so quickly in front of him it knocked against the toe of his right boot.

“Wow,” said Hermione. “That’s, um, unexpected.”

A large marble statue of Severus was now pride of place among the weeds and overgrown blackberry bushes of the front yard. The statue stood erect, wand at the ready, and peering around the folds of the cloak was a small doe. Severus looked up at the statue. He supposed it was him, although he was quite sure he’d never looked that good.

“This is like the one at Godric’s Hollow,” said Hermione as she walked around the statue towards a small plaque. “Oh there’s writing on this one too!”

“Is there?” he asked distractedly. He found the statue a bit disturbing actually. Everything about him in death seemed greater than in life. Braver, nicer, and according to this statue, definitely better looking.

Hermione was clicking her tongue in the way which alerted him to her extreme displeasure about something. He walked around the statue to her.

“You seem perturbed,” he said.

“It’s nothing,” said Hermione. “I just remembered how much I hate people. Do you want to go into the house?”

“Is this a generalised hatred or something specialised?” he asked with some amusement. People tended to be the bane of her existence. Generally through some display of inanity. It was nice they had that in common.

“Generalised,” she sniffed, and crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

She was wearing the t-shirt he had bought for her birthday. He’d seen it in a shop and even though he could have easily transfigured something exactly to match it, he hadn’t. He’d wanted her to have the Muggle one. So he’d parted with twenty(!) pounds and they’d carefully wrapped it for him. It was bright scarlet-red with white lettering spelling out Badass Feminist Witch.

He knew he’d got it right when she unwrapped the present and laughed delightedly. The t-shirt was currently the most highly rotated in her wardrobe and he always felt a little spark of victorious satisfaction when she came out of the bathroom after showering in the morning, wearing it.

He noticed she was standing in front of the statue’s plinth and the small sign. Blocking them both in a nonchalant way.

Very nonchalant.

Too nonchalant.

“What are you covering up?” he asked. He hoped it wasn’t a epitaph written by the Ministry or something equally as odorous. What rhymes with Severus anyway?

We remember Severus, who always was the cleverest?

No. Definitely not. He grimaced.

“Don’t bother with it,” Hermione said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Severus rolled his eyes and moved forward to look. The sign itself had writing in golden ink that solemnly proclaimed:

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left unchanged as a monument to Severus Snape and as a reminder of his sacrifice for the wizarding world.

He could see the scrawls of graffitied writing all over the sign. The memorial was struggling, it appeared to Severus, with cognitive dissonance. He read a few of the sentences in front of him,

You’ll always be my hero....good riddance fucking bully.....obsessed creep....Fuck off...Why did you hate Harry?....You were so brave....Creeper!....ugly fuck....you saved us....One less Death Eater....Lily hated you....

Severus stopped reading.

“Ah,” he said.

“Don’t read them Severus,” said Hermione. “People are idiots.”

“A common refrain,” he said.

Hermione shrugged. “I can’t help it if they are,” she said.

She smiled a squinty sort of reassuring smile, as the sun was in her eyes, and he wanted to take her into his arms and forget about everything. He had previously thought himself quite a sensible person, but these days he often found she rendered him quite insensible. She consumed far more of his thoughts than was probably normal. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t be sure.

He looked back at the statue.

Obsessed creep.

Was he? Perhaps he was.

He caught himself staring at Hermione as she muttered angrily to herself, stabbing cleaning spells at the statue. His da used to stare at his mam as well. Dark, covetous stares. When she walked around the house, when she sat in her chair—whatever she did. Tobias didn’t want anyone else to have a piece of her, and gradually she grew fainter and fainter unless there were no pieces left to have. Severus wondered if he was like his father. Would his particular brand of regard wear Hermione down as well? Would she fade too? Broken under his oppressive infatuation?

Maybe he only knew that type of feeling. After all, who else would have clung so desperately, for so long, to someone that they’d spent only a brief time with?

“Would you like to leave?” he heard Hermione ask. “We’re due at Draco’s anyway.”

Severus didn’t answer her. He lifted a hand to the statue, running his fingers across the smooth muzzle of the deer.

“I haven’t cast a patronus in a long time,” he said thoughtfully.

“Not as much need these days,” said Hermione. “No dementors. No Order. More efficient postal system via the Floo”

“Is yours still an otter?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Hermione. “Last time I cast the charm it was,”

He nodded, his hand still on the doe.

“Is yours the same?” he heard her ask.

“I’m not sure,” said Severus. “It already changed once before.”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “When....,” she trailed off.

He looked over at her. She looked slightly uncomfortable, and her arms were still crossed over her chest, and he could now only read the word Badass on her shirt. He smiled and shook his head slightly.

“I taught myself the charm in my last year of school. Someone,” he emphasised meaningfully, “had demonstrated its usefulness as a messenger.”

Hermione blushed. “In hindsight that was a mistake. But I shall mourn my stupidity in private later. Go on.”

“My patronus was a crow,” Severus said. “And it wasn’t very friendly.”

Hermione laughed. “Of course it was! How wonderful. A clever, snarky avian version of you.”

Severus lifted a solitary eyebrow to tell her exactly what he thought of that, but she only laughed harder. He had lost any ability to intimidate her. In saying that, she caught his mood and calmed herself down and put a hand on his arm.

“When did it change?” she asked.

“When I decided to meet with Dumbledore. After Voldemort drew his own conclusion on who the prophecy was referring to, I couldn’t think of any option that wouldn’t compromise me,” Severus said. “The Death Eaters controlled the Ministry. They knew what owls were sent. Then I remembered the patronus.”

“The Order used that to communicate,” said Hermione.

“They did,” said Severus. “Although I didn’t know it at the time. Dumbledore said it was probably the only reason he agreed to meet with me.”

“So your crow didn’t show up when you cast the charm?” Hermione asked.

“It didn’t,” said Severus. “I wasn’t in a good place. Really. I’d condemned Lily to death. I’d made a lot of mistakes.”

“Everyone does,” Hermione reminded him.

“Yes. You said that. I remembered it. You said I could always change my mind. And take a different path. And that’s what I wanted. Then she appeared,” Severus looked toward the doe.

“You wanted to save Lily,” said Hermione diplomatically. “She meant a lot to you. Everyone says significant emotional events can change a patronus.”

“I didn’t know Lily’s patronus was a doe,” said Severus. “I was as surprised as anyone when I found that out.”

Hermione’s face registered confusion. “Oh! But I thought. I mean, well, everyone thought.”

“I know what they think,” Severus snapped.

She frowned a little at his tone, but didn’t bite. She was probably giving him the benefit of the doubt, as she often did. Probably more than he deserved.

“The idea of everlasting love is universally appealing,” she said finally.

“Yes,” Severus said. “Even when applied erroneously.”

“People have the capacity to love more than one person,” she said. She was not meeting his eyes, instead directing her comment to his right shoulder. A tactic he also used when he was nervous or worried about the topic of conversation.

Love.

He’d never used the word with her as yet. He was afraid of it. She used to it all the time however. It obviously didn’t frighten her in the same way.

“I spent a bit of time researching why it might have changed,” he said.

“Did you find out anything interesting?” asked Hermione. “It’s such a fascinating charm. I should probably read more on it myself,” she added with a wistful expression.

“There doesn’t appear to be widespread agreement on exactly what prompts a change,” said Severus. “Only agreement of the charm’s form as a manifestation of the caster. It would probably help if we applied psychological concepts to understand even that aspect.”

“Maybe the answer to that is magic,” Hermione joked. “As a magical being who abhors science or logic, it’s my go-to when there is no other explanation.”

“Did you know an otter represents creativity? And imagination?” Severus asked abruptly.

“Really?” said a pleased sounding Hermione. “I like that.”

“A deer represents regeneration—shedding old life for new,” said Severus. “And vigilance. Also being able to change the direction of your path quickly.”

Hermione looked up at him. Her eyes were a bit glassy. She got a bit teary when he talked about the Bad Old Days. But who didn’t?

“Severus,” she said. “That is utterly perfect for you. I hope your patronus hasn’t changed again. Honestly.”

“You’re not worried about my fragile masculinity?” he asked, having experienced quite a lot of long and descriptive lectures on the concept.

“Not at all,” said Hermione. “You’re dripping with potent virility.”

“How clumsy of me,” he said.

She laughed and stood on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his. He felt, as he always did, a rush of overwhelming protectiveness of her. Of her kindness. Of her trusting nature. And of her heart. He didn’t want to hurt her, yet was terrified he would.

“Let’s go to the Manor,” she said after only a gentle ravage. “The food is always fantastic and I’m worried that Narcissa will want to keep Griselda.”

“Why is the Weasel attending?” Severus complained lightheartedly. He secretly didn’t mind Ronald Weasley these days. Weasley was harmless enough, and had a voluptuous French wife who Severus found equal parts amusing and terrifying.

“Because I’m going. Draco invited Harry as they are on the verge of being friends and he thinks I like that, and then Ron was invited as Draco believes it makes him look good if all three of us turn up to his parties. It’s all impression management,” Hermione said.

“And why am I going?” Severus asked.

“Because you are the godfather of sweet little Scorpius and you are escorting me, and you wouldn’t dare be so cruel to leave Narcissa with only us to talk to,” Hermione said.

“All excellent points,” Severus agreed.

“Maybe we can ask the Ministry to take away the statue,” suggested Hermione. “I mean, if you want to live here. If you want. You’re more than welcome to stay at our place.”

He darted a look at her, but it was obvious she didn’t realise she’d said our place. After he returned to Britain and sought Hermione out, he hadn’t really left. And that had been over a year ago. The debacle of returning from the dead had been a monumentally stressful experience. If he hadn’t been motivated to return to the house each day, and to her smile and into her arms he probably would have given the whole thing up as a Bad Idea and buggered off back to his itinerant life.

“Let’s discuss it later,” he said. “Narcissa must be frantic by now. We are almost one minute late. In pureblood terms that’s almost cause to send out a search party or strike us permanently from future guest lists.”

“Last one there has to hold the baby,” said Hermione. And she immediately Apparated.

Fuck, thought Severus. He spun after her.

He Apparated right next to her and immediately punished her with a long kiss, which she broke by laughing as he tickled the sensitive spot under he right rib.

“You’ll keep Granger,” he growled in her ear.

“Mmmm I hope so,” she whispered back in a throaty voice that made his blood drain immediately into lower parts of his anatomy.

“Finally!” Narcissa said behind them. “Severus, Hermione. We’ve been waiting in the drawing room for you.”

Severus watched Narcissa’s eyes flicker over Hermione’s t-shirt and then away. He hid a smile. He was entirely convinced Hermione had worn the Muggle attire for exactly that reaction. His badass punk witch.

“Wonderful!” said Hermione and she set off for the front door.

Despite her threats to make him hold the aforementioned child, by the time he and Narcissa made it to the large room Hermione had already scooped up Scorpius and was plastering the giggling boy with kisses. She was immediately surrounded by two other toddlers who were grabbing at her skirt, demanding their own snatches of affection. He watched with amusement as she blew kisses, which formed in the air as cartoonish lips, zooming around like paper planes before landing on their cheeks. The air was filled with excited shrieking as the children examined each other’s faces and touched their own. As they pressed their chubby fingers to the red lips they made an enormous smooching noise, followed by a raspberry, then vanished.

“She is very good with the children,” observed Narcissa.

“Don’t start plotting Cissy,” warned Severus, who had already had the same thoughts. He’d had them a long time ago too. But perhaps he was too old now. And would he even want to be a father? It wasn’t as if he knew what to do.

It was better not to mention it. Or maybe he would.

“Hello Severus,” said Weasley’s wife, who had walked across the room to greet him.

“Hello Griselda,” he said.

“If you’re thinking of having children you can have mine,” she offered. “I’ll take her back when she’s eighteen thanks.”

“I’m tempted, but I must regretfully decline,” said Severus. “It seems like something I’d regret. And my new life focus is not doing things I regret.”

“Sounds boring,” said Weasley from behind his wife.

“That’s exactly the attitude that led to you breaking your arm yesterday,” said Griselda.

Weasley grinned at Severus. “New quidditch trick. Didn’t work out though,” he said conspiratorially.

“A tragedy,” said Severus.

He was trying Very Hard to get along with Hermione’s friends. After all, she was doing the same with his. He went dutifully to dinner at Grimmauld place and put on his best Happy Face with Potter and Ginerva. He went to Weasley functions and allowed Molly to fuss over him terribly. He spent some time with George, whose ability to seek out chaos had improved over time. And he even went to a quidditch match with Arthur, his sons and Potter. A week after that he was voluntold to attend another match with Molly, Ginerva and the utterly intimidating Griselda. He quite enjoyed it. Hermione had pretended to be sick (which wasn’t a lie she had insisted to him, she was sick—sick of quidditch) and instead went to a concert with Astoria, Pansy and Millicent.

They regularly caught up with the old Hogwarts crew, and Severus always brewed extra hangover potions when Minerva, Pomona and Rolanda decided Hermione needed a “witch’s night out”. The following day she was always a bit tender. He was usually catching with with Filius or Poppy while the others were busy making the patriarchy fear for its life. There were more friendship threads then he imaged he’d ever have.

To his surprise, they even found themselves attending a Horace soirée, and enjoying it. They danced together, and Severus remembered when they’d danced before, except this time he was able to run his hand much lower down her back, and nibble at her delectable collarbone. Horace has seemed inordinately pleased with their relationship and insisted on toasting them. It had been unexpected, but nice.

Across the room, back in the Manor, Hermione was popping Scorpius onto the lap of an indulgent Lucius. Severus knew what the man had done to her, Draco had told him about it. And despite his allowance that Lucius was ill when he’d attacked her, Severus could hardly believe how gently Hermione placed the child into the man’s arms, until he noticed how rigid her posture seemed. He kept a careful watch.

Lucius had improved somewhat. The potions had helped. Some days he believed Scorpius was Draco, and they were back in the glory days of the Dark Lord, but there were more days where he knew his son as a grown man. And that the glory days were ashes and he was glad of it.

Astoria eventually manoeuvred everyone outside onto the beautifully manicured back lawn, which was free from peacock excretion but not from peacocks. The three toddlers immediately began chasing them. The peacocks scattered with loud screeches and the lawn was no longer free from anything.

Narcissa sighed.

“I really hate those birds,” she said. She wandered away from Severus and towards the largest group of terrified peacocks, all cowering behind an enormous fir that was elegantly sculpted into a striking serpent.

Subtle. Very subtle, thought Severus.

He sat down on a garden chair and kept one enticingly free next to him. Hermione was talking to Potter and Ginevra. Severus Summoned a drink and drank it slowly while trying to watch her surreptitiously from under his eyelashes. Their oldest son (James, fuck off) was a nice enough boy, and certainly knew enough to steer reasonably clear of Severus. The smaller boy (Albus, fuck right off; Severus, what in Merlin’s name were they thinking) was not so experienced. He had made his way to Severus’s knee to solemnly present him with a peacock feather.

“Thank you,” said Severus seriously and handed it back to him as a black crow’s feather.

The boy stared at the feather suspiciously and then back up to Severus. Severus laughed.

“You seem sensible. Slytherin perhaps?” he said to the boy.

He earned himself a very drooling, gummy grin in return.

“Hello Albus!” cooed Hermione as she walked up to him. “I think your daddy has a biscuit for you!”

The toddler looked over at his parents, and Harry was indeed waving a biscuit. Decision made, Albus made his unsteady way—in that amusing drunken-zombie walk of a small human—across the lawn. Hermione sat next to him and giggled as he Summoned a drink for her as well.

“Am I that transparent?” she asked.

“Patently,” he said.

They clinked their glasses together, and sipped their drinks.

“Potter seems tolerable now,” Severus said.

“Well, he’s grown up a bit,” Hermiome said diplomatically. “And you’re bordering on being civil to him now. It’s a revelation.”

“I’d better rectify that immediately lest I lose my reputation,” Severus said.

“Your gooey marshmallow centre of sweetness is safe with me,” Hermione whispered.

He glared at her. Which didn’t work. She only winked and drank some more wine.

“Before I forget, I’ve got Scorpio’s birthday present in here,” Hermione said.

“What exactly does a one year old human want or need?” Severus asked as she dug her hand in her satchel.

“Something loud and colourful,” Hermione said. With a victorious cry she pulled out a large package wrapped in green and silver paper.

“I’ll just give this to Draco and Astoria,” she said. “Guard my drink.”

“With my life,” Severus promised.

Hermione jogged across the grass and Severus took the time to admire her bottom as she did this. She was so very attractive to him. Fuck knew what she saw in him, but whatever it was, she liked it and he was certainly not going to argue against it. He placed her glass down next to her satchel and saw a folded piece of parchment had fallen out. He reached over and picked it up and unfolded it.

“I can’t wait until they open it,” said Hermione as she returned. “It’s a toy that sings the alphabet loudly and continually. I charmed it so it doesn’t need batteries. But fear not. For Astoria’s sanity I told her the counter charm so she doesn’t throw it out the window.”

“Hmmm,” Severus said.

“What’s that?” Hermione asked.

Without replying he held up the paper. Her eyes widened.

“Oh your secret! I forgot I took that. Do you still remember what it was?” she asked.

Severus looked down at the paper in front of him. Although it was blank to Hermione the writing was as clear to him as the day he had written it. He couldn’t believe it. His younger self, free from years of self-doubt and recrimination that currently burdened him, had put his heart on the page. And had known the truth of something that he was afraid to admit some thirty years later. He could be that boy again, and shed the prickly armour accumulated over the years.

“I do,” he said.

“I’m dying to ask but I won’t push you,” said Hermione. “It’s your secret after all.”

He looked up at her. And in her warm smile he could see his future stretching out wonderfully in front of him.

“I love you,” he said. And her eyes widened as the words on the parchment obviously became visible.

I love you.

“I love you too, my delightfully cranky man,” she said with only the slightest hint of a sob.

He laughed. And then she was laughing too, and crying, and in his arms.

All was well.