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Chapter Text

November 23, 1999

What makes you think she left anything there for you to find? The Voice murmured like silk in Sadie Knight’s ear, only heightening her sense of helpless fear further. She repressed a shudder, and attempted to remind herself that the disembodied voice wasn’t real. It’s all in my head. It has to be all in my head.

Just turn around. Go back to the snake den.

Sadie scoffed, “That’s just what you’d like me to do, isn’t it?”

She never—

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” the seventh-year Slytherin muttered as she crept around the corner of the furthest bookshelf alongside the back wall in Hogwarts’ Library. Sadie wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans. She could do this-- she could find the book!-- she just had to focus on the task at hand and not on The Voice in her head.

She abandoned you.

Sadie waved the air next to her, desperately trying to dismiss the conversation. “Eden is my friend, she’s always been my friend. She wouldn’t have left me without a reason.”

The Voice taunted her, She’s gone. However, I will never leave. You know this.

“I already said to shut the bloody fuck up,” Sadie hissed, her heart beginning to race unsteadily at the insinuation.

Do you suspect that I lie?

Sadie grimaced but otherwise chose to not answer. The air was damp in the aisle, due to this area of the library abutting against the upper sections of the dungeons. Flickering to life, the sconces flared brightly as she walked by them. She chose to ignore how they dimmed again behind her, reacting to something unseen. It’s not really happening. Sadie knew her mind was simply betraying her while she was at her lowest, just like Ms. Clearwater, the school’s St.Mungo-appointed counselor, emphasized in treatment. Brains were tricky things, and her’s was just having more fun at her expense. Sadie brushed her hair away from her sweaty face. Rubbing her forehead, Sadie reminded herself, It’s just post-traumatic stress...

Determined to find the book, Sadie refused to be deterred from her mission. She knew exactly where she was going and what she would find on the shelf; it was a yellow hollowed out book on the bottom shelf in the furthest corner of the library. Madam Granger did not know it existed nor did she have a record of it in the catalogue, and for good reason. The book functioned as a dead drop, a secret-kept tome that two friends had used during the worst of The Occupation two years ago.

Being a Slytherin during The Occupation did not grant automatic immunity; Sadie and her fellow snakes had not been entirely spared from the bloodlust of the Carrows. Their torture was indiscrimate across student affliations. Indeed, even the other professors had been blinded by their fear and prejudice against Sadie’s House, and erratically slid between offering them clandestine support or outright animosity. Professor Snape--then Headmaster--did what he could to protect them from both advancing sides. For the most part, however, Slytherin had been on its own.

The one bright and beautiful thing that Sadie had during that horrid year was Eden Lawson. And now she was gone, fleeing from the school without a word. If any clue remained in the Castle as to why Eden had left Hogwarts suddenly, it would be in that book, the one item that had consistently kept both of their secrets safe. Sadie had given her friend vital intelligence about Slytherin’s divisions; some students from Salazar’s House, like Sadie, didn’t find Voldemort’s ideologies palatable and had been working to undermine those who did. Meanwhile, Eden had passed on information not readily available to those in Sadie’s House in regards to Dumbledore’s Army and Potterwatch.

However, the book was much more than a secret keeper. It also held dreams and hopes in its hollowed out cavity--a favored best case scenario featured the two of them renting a Parisian apartment together, far away from the Scottish Highlands and the associated troubles. Their book was the only safe space for Sadie and Eden for the span of an entire school year. With every slip of handwritten paper it held, it reinforced an attachment between two girls--a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff--who had initially bonded on the Hogwarts Express their first year. The book and dear Eden’s support held within had saved Sadie from her darkest self two years ago. Now she hoped it would do it again.

Eden wouldn’t have gone home without a good reason. Not without talking with me first...

Halfway down the aisle Sadie slipped a little on the satiny carpet in her ballet flats. The carpet this far away from the Library’s Common Area was like new despite its age; there was very little foot traffic to wear down the fibers in the row of Creatures of Germanic Muggle Folklore.

Be careful now, The Voice said mockingly. It would be a terrible thing if something were to happen to you sneaking around in the dark like this…

The grim whisper slowly rolled up her spine. Sadie shook her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the chilled sensation. Don’t engage with it. She willed herself to be strong. Her blue eyes swept over the bottom row of books until her gaze snagged on to the familiar yellow cover.

Dropping to her knees, Sadie reached for the thick volume titled “The Unabridged Caretaking Manual for Wolpertingers” with shaking hands. Whether her tremors were from relief or from fear she wasn’t sure; inexplicable fear was not an uncommon or foreign feeling to many of those who had survived the War, or so she had been reassured of by Ms. Clearwater. Suddenly, the hairs on her neck stood up and she became aware of a presence edging up against her back. Sadie shivered.

Are you going to open it? Or will you show yourself to be a coward here, too?

Sadie felt the presence loom over her. Its invisible mass felt unnaturally large, as if it was curling over her with an opened cloak intending to envelope her whole like a lethifold. Would Sadie disappear completely if it were successful? Or would something remain of her like a breadcrumb for whoever eventually came across this dark corner?

“Leave me alone,” Sadie whispered, clutching the book protectively in her hands.

What do you expect to find in there, little girl?

“Answers,” Sadie replied, fingers gripping the book harder.

It whispered into her ear, You realize you can’t hide it from me, don’t you? You can never hide…

Just as quickly as the staticky mass arrived, it dispersed into the ether leaving her alone. Sadie shakily released a breath, and it clouded in the chilled air in front of her. Oh Eden, she thought as tears pricked her eyes, what happened? Why did you leave me?

Sadie wiped her eyes before slowly, reverentially, opening the well-loved book. In the cavity was a folded note and one other object. She immediately recognized what it was, and a devastated sob burst from her. Nestled in the bottom corner was a half-heart pendant with its carefully spiraled gold chain resting beneath it. It was the twin to the one around Sadie’s neck.

She placed the book on the floor in front of her, and carefully unfolded the parchment. Her tears obscured her vision, making the words blurry as she read her friend’s deliberately loopy handwriting:

November 20, 1999

Sadie,

I’m so very sorry I didn’t tell you. I was worried you’d either think poorly of me, or worse, persuade me to stay. Hagrid will be escorting me home tomorrow before breakfast. If anyone asks, please tell them that there has been a death in my family and I needed to help with arrangements. (Trust me, the advantage of being a Muggleborn is that hardly anyone, including the Headmistress, questions “silly” Muggle customs.)

There is no such death, Sadie. I just can’t stay at Hogwarts anymore. I’m not coming back.

Do you remember when we wrote over the summer and how relieved we felt to be home? How we had assumed it was because academics and responsibilities grow more heavy in our sixth year (not to mention the memories of the War are everywhere here)?

Hogwarts and its secrets have been suffocating me for weeks and I can’t take it any longer.

I saw something over Halloween, Sadie. Something is happening here. Something evil and dark. Maybe even more evil than Voldemort. Do you think Marsh already knew that? Is that why he didn’t return this year? I need you to be careful. Please be--

To Sadie’s surprise, the rest of the letter had several aggressively scratched out lines, making them completely unreadable. Eden’s handwriting even changed slightly, the loops less curly and more jagged.

Actually, I think he didn’t return because of you. You did taunt him last year didn’t you? You were always a hateful bitch.

What makes you think I even wanted to be your friend, myself? Did you believe all my lies? Pathetic.

You’re a poor excuse for a Slytherin and you’d never fit in in Ravenclaw. You’d have been better off as a Squib.

Keep the damn necklace, Sadie. I don’t want it anymore.

Chilled by more than the air, Sadie sat still as she re-read the letter. The first half sounded like her friend. However, the lines after the scratched out passage did not. It sounded more like The Voice in Sadie’s head. The angry, dark, harassing voice that crept out of the shadows when she was at her most vulnerable. Sadie’s thoughts raced with questions as a heavy revelation washed over her. Was it possible that Eden heard this voice and was affected by it too? How many others did? Had Ronan Marsh, this year’s presumed Head Boy, heard it as well and that’s why he didn’t return? Is this what Eden referenced in her letter in regards to Halloween?

Eden had been Sadie’s oldest and most loyal friend. Even after Sadie was sorted into Slytherin, rather than her family’s traditional Ravenclaw, Eden’s fidelity never wavered. Sadie was certain that after the Muggleborn witch learned more about her friend’s bigoted housemates Eden would turn her back on her. Eden never did. She was a true Hufflepuff: accepting and ferociously protective when it came to her friends. Eden wouldn’t have said those nasty things, and she wouldn’t have left her necklace behind. Not if she was in her right state of mind.

Something had to have happened to Eden.

Why hadn’t Eden told her that something was wrong? Why hadn’t Eden confided in her? Heart heavy with loss, Sadie understood why Eden had kept the mysterious incident to herself. It was the same reason why Sadie herself hadn’t shared her own experiences with anyone other than Ms. Clearwater. Compared to others, her trauma was far less. Her family hadn’t lost a soul, and she only served detention with the Carrows a handful of times. Sadie didn’t want to be labeled as unstable with so little reason, or to be chastised by her peers for not being able to handle things on her own… she desperately wanted to be normal. Eden must have been feeling the same way.

Sadie felt hurt and fearful. More than anything, however, she was resolved to figure out what had happened to her friend on Halloween. Out of habit more than rational thought she burnt the note with a quick flick of her wand. She plucked the necklace out of the book’s hidden pocket. Sadie held it in front of her by it’s chain, the golden half-heart glinting in the low light.

My, my, The Voice returned. What do we have here? Proof of your broken heart?

“Go away,” Sadie pleaded, desperate for a moment’s peace. “You aren’t real. You’re just in my head.”

Am I?

A breeze manifested from somewhere behind her and blew Sadie’s dark hair over her shoulders. She trembled. Remembering Eden’s note, she asked a peculiar question into the air, “Did you do something to her?” Sadie knew her wavering voice betrayed her fear, yet if there was any credibility to Eden’s claims she had to start somewhere.

The Voice didn’t answer.

Sadie waited for several long seconds. In this circumstance, she felt no relief at not receiving a reply. Either she had finally gone mad--she had been warned that insomnia wasn’t healthy--or Sadie had just angered something that was not part of the physical plane. The latter gave her pause. She was not used to fearing ghosts or poltergeists here at Hogwarts; briefly, she wondered what it would take for a ghost to truly turn dark. The Bloody Baron, with his horrid backstory of murder-suicide, was an imposing man but he was never cruel. What is really happening here? The air around her chilled further, causing gooseflesh to rise along her arms. In an attempt to reassure herself Sadie thought, It’s getting colder because it’s late. It’ll be curfew soon. I need to get out of here, I need to get back to my dorm…

She carefully pocketed the necklace, replaced the book in its proper place on the shelf, and slipped her wand in her jumper’s sleeve. Using the shelves as support Sadie rose on shaky legs. She hated that, her shaky limbs. She had survived a war, hadn’t she? Shouldn’t she be braver? Sadie was so tired of being afraid of things she couldn’t see, hearing things that weren’t there… when was she supposed to benefit from Ms. Clearwater’s counseling?

Feeling solid on her feet, she turned around. Three rows away someone dressed all in black stood in the aisle. The hairs on Sadie’s arm stood up and she felt a jolt of terror race through her. There was something off about the figure. She initially thought they wore a full-length hooded robe. But this person--thing--was not a person at all. Rather, on closer inspection, it was a dark fuzzy humanoid shadow without being attached to a physical body to cast it. The last logical part of her brain tried to remind her that she was experiencing a hallucination. Hadn’t Ms. Clearwater mentioned that this could happen? Hadn’t Sadie overheard someone reveal…

The shadow suddenly flickered and disappeared.

Sadie flinched and took a retreating step. Her back thumped against the bookcase. She felt trapped. Sadie was in the furthest corner of the library; her only means to escape was to run to her left before running through the stacks to reach the Library’s Common Area on the other side.

With a fizzing sound--similar to how Eden’s old Muggle telly buzzed on--the shadow re-appeared closer, two rows away rather than three. Sadie could see it more clearly now and realized it wasn’t completely solid; she could see some of the shelves through it. Its transparency, however, did nothing to make her feel safer. Fear swirled around Sadie in the heavy air like a tattered ribbon.

She may not be a Gryffindor with an endless reservoir of bravery, but Sadie was a war veteran. Certainly, that must count for something. With her last slice of courage she quickly flicked her wand from her sleeve.

“Lumos!” Sadie cried as she snapped her wand at the entity in the aisle. A burst of white light exploded from her wand and flared through the stacks. When the light had dimmed, Sadie was relieved to see that the aisle was empty.

With her free hand she swiped her hair away from her forehead. See? It’s all just in my--

Oh, you foolish girl.

The shadow reappeared, unphased and appearing just as before, with an echoing crackle. It was now one row away, six feet of horrifying empty space between them. A deep, ominous chuckle rose up around Sadie and she went rigid. A tremor rippled through her and all logical thought fled.

Sadie’s body went on autopilot as it turned and sprinted down the row away from the entity; if she could just get herself to the Library’s Common Area, things would be fine. Sadie rarely experienced visions and voices amongst others. She turned sharply to the right and burst into the stacks at speed. After a few rows, something jerked in her periphery and her feet skid. Sadie swerved to the left again, and raced deeper into the stacks.

Her skin tingled, and her mouth tasted metallic. Blood? Had she bitten her tongue? It was possible. The necklace around Sadie’s neck vibrated abruptly and burned her skin. She yelped due to the pain and her feet slipped disastrously. Sadie skidded hard on her knees and palms, her skin rubbed raw by the carpet. Desperately, she tried to crawl along the floor but her limbs were refusing to work, everything felt inordinately heavy.

Sadie flipped to her back. In the space above the stacks the humanoid shape floated; she could see the peek of the twilight-lit skylight through it. Suddenly, the natural shadows cast from the shelves seemed to ooze from their proper places and slither to her location.

Panicked and alone, she gripped her wand with two hands and pointed it to the ceiling. With the darkness encroaching her, Sadie began, “Lu--”

The floating mass above abruptly dropped on top of her. Sadie’s startled scream was cut off by shadowy hands wrapping around her throat. Her wand flinched out of her grasp as she spasmed under the weightless entity with the intent to fight it off. However, her knees were only hitting air. And when Sadie pawed at the dark, semi-transparent arms her hands slid through them as if they weren’t really there.

A plea--a prayer--bubbled up to the surface of Sadie’s mind as she scratched at her neck, It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

The hands tightened around her throat and an eerie laugh echoed around the stacks.

Does this not feel real enough?

Just as her vision was truly going black, another form broke through the shadow, dispersing it as if it were made of harmless dust. In its place was a fearful Madam Granger. The Librarian dropped to her knees, and grabbed at Sadie’s hands… the very hands that were squeezing her own neck.

“Miss Knight, let go,” Granger commanded as she tugged on Sadie’s wrists. “Sadie!”

Blinking rapidly, Sadie felt her hands loosen. Tears fell down her temples and she clenched her eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing. Sadie opened her eyes and swiveled her gaze to Madam Granger. Except, it wasn’t the Librarian kneeling beside her anymore. It was that awful, terrible, shadow.

It leaned down low, breathing out air that smelled like sulfur, and said, Mark my words: You will never be safe here, Sadie Anne Knight.

Sadie screamed and scooted backwards against the bookshelf, curling into the fetal position. She was dimly aware of Madam Granger trying to speak to her; although, it was hard to hear through her shrieks.

There may have been a calming blue light cast in the aisle that floated away with the instruction “Retrieve Professor Snape,” but Sadie couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. What was real and what was imagined? What was a hallucination brought on by trauma and stress? And what happened to Eden?

Would Sadie ever know? Did she want to?

She began to hyperventilate. Dark boots and buttoned trouser legs came into her line of vision.

Was someone talking to her? Sadie was unable to focus enough to know for certain. It was awfully hard to hear anything with all the screaming.

Sadie’s throat hurt. Her muscles ached from the tight tension of her protective position.

Her cries were filling the aisle--the entire library, even--making the space feel far too small.

Then, suddenly, everything went black.

Chapter Text

August 31, 1999

Three Months Earlier

Hermione Granger, newly hired Librarian for the esteemed collection that made up the Hogwarts’ Library, was dutifully tidying her new office adjacent to the Library’s Common Area. She hadn’t planned to alter the existing organizational landscape too much—the last of the pre-War paperwork had been archived, and she implemented a color-coding system for the files—since Madam Pince had only requested a year’s convalescence. While this would be Hermione’s home for the next ten months, she knew she would have to relinquish it back to its rightful owner when the time came. Hermione didn’t want Pince to feel like she had overstepped in her absence. For as uptight as the librarian could be, Hermione really did respect the woman.

She set her swan quills in a tall vessel on the dark walnut desk, and closed one of the drawers of the filing cabinet with a swing of her hip. Hermione felt at peace as she breathed in the crisp smell of the freshly cut parchment stacked neatly next to her full ink pot.

Gathering her completed index cards from the corner of her desk--each one representing a row of the Restricted Section--she quickly resorted them in order of priority: red, orange, yellow, and green. Some of the more questionable books needed to be reviewed by a certified Curse-Breaker to assess if they had survived the War truly unscathed. It was the reason why Hermione had been hired. Pince had done her best, but accurately evaluating if the darker literature had absorbed sinister magic during the Final Battle was not her skill set; therefore, when Minerva had to cover the Librarian’s sabbatical she knew exactly whom to owl. Not only was Hermione a Hogwarts alumna, who scored an impressive seven O’s on a rigorous accelerated NEWT program, she was also fresh off her six-month Gringotts Curse-Breaking Apprenticeship. A swish of Hermione’s wand and her color-coded notes attached themselves to her bulletin board on the side wall.

Ah. Hermione looked around the neat and orderly space with satisfaction. I could be happy here. The office was small; only enough room for a desk and a row of cabinets on the side, the opposite wall of the bulletin board. Behind her desk hung a soothing painting of a yellow wheat field, the stalks waving in the breeze. As Hermione’s gaze passed over it, a blue butterfly fluttered out from one side of the frame. Turning, she peered through the window overlooking the Library on the front wall. Her eyes fell on the large intake desk holding vigil at the entrance.

Humming, Hermione closed the office’s door behind her, and turned to face her next organizing project for the day. And what secrets do you hide in your drawers, you old workhorse? she thought as she approached the curved desk. Hermione had never noticed it before but the entire thing had been carved out of one massive rosewood tree trunk. Her fingers ran along the smooth indentations across the surface, the heavy reverence of a centuries-old piece of furniture exuding into the space it commanded.

Taking the time to appreciate it, Hermione found the craftsmanship to be quite impressive. Her father had fiddled with woodworking as a hobby. He had carved her an entire menagerie of animals when she was a child. George Granger had been many things: a lover of Shakespeare, respected dentist, and endearing supporter of Watford F.C. But he absolutely loved being a father most of all, and he often indulged Hermione’s ridiculous flights of fancy when it came to who should next move into the metal barn. Not many other children could boast of plastic horse herds that incorporated such things like a komodo dragon or anteater. Hermione could, and she did. I miss him. Her fingers skimmed into the depressions where the Librarians before her had grasped the desk’s edge, and she willed the tears away.

Focusing on the greatest distraction at her disposal--work--Hermione decided to give the desk a thorough sweep. She tipped the basket below the book slot towards her. Empty, as expected. The bottom drawer seemed to be mostly junk; neatly organized in little bins were clips and ribbons for scrolls, stubby, communal self-inking quills, and some extra sheets of wrinkly parchment. Another drawer held exactly twenty-one knuts. Several drawers were completely empty. Madam Pince must have cleaned this entire thing out before she left. The center drawer conveniently was already home to a single quill and an empty inkpot. Hermione slid open the uppermost drawer on the right.

Nestled safely inside was a missing book manifest. Every row was crossed off except for one: The Phenomena of Lucid Dreams, checked out on 01/06/99 by Ronan Marsh, Slytherin. Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed as she read over the information. How odd that it was checked out in June and never returned before the summer hols… She flipped through the papers confirming that Marsh’s book was the only one still unaccounted for. Unsettled by her confusion, Hermione realized she didn’t know what the policy was for overdue books. She had never delivered a book late. Ronald had had plenty, but he never lost privileges to the library, or at least, none that she could remember.

The students probably accrued fines, Hermione deduced as she bit her bottom lip. That didn’t sit well with her. Surely, many students, like her, had become orphans from the War, and were now spinning unpredictably towards an uncertain future without any monetary support beyond an academic scholarship. She was fortunate, Hermione realized with an unsatisfying hollow feeling, that her role in the War had been vital enough to ensure an Order of Merlin stipend. She’d have to speak to the Headmistress about how to address overdue books in the future; Hermione adamantly refused to accept money from already depleted pockets. Everyone should be able to use the library without fearing the loss of their last sickle.

For now, though, Hermione would keep her query under-the-table. She’d send a note to Marsh to ask after the missing book; to do so she just needed to know which year he was in so she could send the missive to the proper dorm.

Alas, that meant that she would have to speak to Professor Snape. A heavy stone of dread dropped deep into Hermione’s stomach, anchoring her to the floor. The man had been unapproachable during her months as a student the year before. Why he had chosen to return to the school--rather than flee Great Britain entirely--was a mystery. Snape was obviously unhappy here even after reclaiming his Head of House privileges alongside the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Was it the extra responsibilities of being Deputy Head as well? Or was it simply that this place held too much bad blood? Then why hadn’t Snape simply left? The students--never mind the staff!--were curious, of course, but everyone knew better than to ask.

A wicked thought floated to the front of her mind, I’m no longer a student, though, am I? Oh, Hermione was sensible enough to not delve too deep into Snape’s personal motivations--his acidic tongue could certainly still cleave her in two if he thought she was out of bounds--but she didn’t have any reason to feel timid around the man anymore, did she? They were finally on equal footing as staff members.

Hermione folded the paper into the pocket of her robe as she hauled the anchor from the bilge of negativity that had pooled in the pit of her stomach. After giving the space around her a final once-over, she locked the double doors behind her. Turning away from the safe harbor of the Library, she set off towards far more stormy waters.

---

After finding the DADA classroom empty, Hermione made her way down the stairs to Snape’s office in the dungeons. The man could have easily taken the office space adjacent to his first floor classroom rather than retreating back into the dank underbelly of the school and Hermione couldn’t fathom as to the reason why he hadn’t. Certainly after his heroic subterfuge of the War Snape would’ve had his pick of room assignments. It was yet another question mark in the long list of them in regards to the enigma that was Severus Snape.

Hermione shivered as she descended the stairs off of the Entrance Hall. The air was damp and smelt like moss. Her steps echoed in the passage, the wall sconces lighting her way as she traveled deeper underground. Almost immediately she missed the warmth and lightness of the library. Hermione wondered what affect a singular window could have on the dungeon dwellers; frankly, a little heliotherapy might do Snape--personality and skin-wise--a lot of good.

Hermione rounded the last corner to Snape’s office, and a sudden flash in the corridor stopped her cold. Her heartbeat increased instantly and she loosened her wand in her sleeve. She swayed on her feet, and the shimmer from the shadows occurred again. Hermione narrowed her eyes and peered into the darkness stretching out before her.

There was something there.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the corridor, and the ambiguous shape became clearer. It was a person looming near the wall. Who is that? And what are they doing sneaking around in the dungeons? Hermione felt the hairs rise on her nape.

The stale air swirled with ill intentions, no one simply wandered around the dungeons on a lark. Brazenly, Hermione stepped forward. She did not have time to decipher her motivations, however--whether she had planned to greet or question the individual--before their shape came into sharper focus.

Their lines grew clearer as she neared and it was obvious that the person--A man?--was holding a weapon. Hermione felt her face flush in alarm.

“Who’s there?” she hissed into the air.

She took another step closer and she thought she heard something creak. A loose stone on the floor? The sound of something scraping against the wall? Hermione could not be sure, the light was too dim to make out the person’s details. I need more light… She felt her fingers prickle in anticipation.

Determined to hold her ground, she knew there was only one recourse left open to her. Hermione quickly flicked her hand towards the interloper and a burst of nonverbal Bluebell Flames exploded across the corridor. Reflexively, she prepared to throw up a defensive shield. However, the flames finally illuminated the passageway and Hermione recognized just who had been occupying the space with her.

The air left Hermione’s lungs in a whoosh and she bent over at the waist, quivering as the adrenaline waned.

It was an isolated suit of armor holding a lance, the lone sentry across from Snape’s office. Its chrome plating had simply reflected the light from the flickering sconces behind her, explaining the curious illuminations. She straightened after feeling her heartbeat slow, and she crossed the last few feet to Snape’s office.

The feeling of stress--fear--she had experienced during her encounter morphed into another equally frustrating emotion: foolishness. Hermione felt imbecilic for allowing herself to be deceived by an inanimate object. I should have remembered that there was a panoply here. How often have I walked past this very spot? Circe’s sake, I was still attending as a student nine months ago. There’s no excuse for forgetting. Annoyed, Hermione rapped loudly on Snape’s door with her knuckles.

Almost immediately his deep baritone floated out into the hallway, “Enter.”

She rolled her shoulders as she attempted to release the tension from her muscles. Wiping her sweaty hands across her jeans, Hermione readied herself to face the most intimidating Professor of her youth. Squaring her jaw, she stepped into the viper’s nest.

---

Hermione fully expected Snape to be contemptuous, but not right from the start. She hadn’t even latched his door completely closed behind her before one of his black eyebrows rose as part of his trademark sneer. Clearly, Hermione had interrupted some type of paperwork; there was a stark white quill still held in his grasp hovering above his half-filled parchment. Snape’s scowl deepened when his eyes flicked down to her Muggle jeans.

Dropping the quill to his desk, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers, hiding half his face behind his hands. His low drawl rippled around the room, “Miss Granger, our newest...” he paused for effect and finished with a sardonic slant, “Librarian.” Snape pointedly did not offer Hermione one of the two seats in front of his desk.

She bristled. Perhaps if she hadn’t had that folly of mistaken identity in the corridor Hermione wouldn’t already feel so irritated. It was difficult to keep her voice professional when she began, “Professor Snape, I--”

Snape immediately cut her off, and Hermione felt white-hot indignation flush through her. “Miss Granger,” he said again, emphasizing the ‘Miss’ and making her feel like an incompetent firstie. “Unless this is of the utmost importance, I am not--”

Hermione would have preferred to be the bigger person, she really would have. However, she was not a child anymore and Snape seemed to have conveniently forgotten that fact. Wasn’t the pain from her fingernails digging into her palms proof that she had tried to not lash out even earlier? It wasn’t as if he didn’t just earn a dressing down. Indeed, the dark-clad man in front of her was being a complete arse. Her jaw tight, Hermione interrupted him, “No.”

Her heart thudded uncomfortably against her rib cage as Snape remained silent for several seconds. When he finally did speak his eyes were hardened glass, and his voice was as equally dangerous, “Excuse me?”

The threat laced underneath the words fluttered down the length of Hermione’s spine and she stood straighter. Just as potent, though, was her bordering-on-arrogance self-confidence; having lived through the War, she was well aware of her own worth. Snape was under the mistaken impression that he could walk over her, and Hermione was going to remind him of how very wrong he was. “I am not a child, Professor Snape. I am an adult--”

“You are an adolescent.”

“I am turning twenty in three weeks!” Hermione sincerely hoped she didn’t sound as shrill as she thought she did in her head.

“Exactly, a child.”

Hermione could feel her control over her rage slipping. How dare he--a child!--I fought in the fucking War! “Now, Professor, I know that you would not belittle my contributions to the war effort. And with my use of the Time-Turner in--”

Snape leaned back in his leather wingback chair and scoffed. He crossed his arms, his pale hands tucked into folded elbows.

Sensing a losing battle regarding her perceived age Hermione changed tactics. It was certainly poor form to hex a co-worker and besides, there were other ways to remind Snape of the regard she deserved. “It is immaterial what my age is. I am a staff member of this school and I will be treated with some respect. If you could do it for Lockhart and then later Umbridge or even Remus--”

Evenly, he interrupted her, “Publicly.”

Hermione blinked, losing her momentum. “What?”

He propped an elbow on his chair’s arm and gestured towards her. “If you are, indeed, an adult, then you will understand why I only portrayed a sense of collegial respect publicly… behind closed doors, however? Being a colleague of mine doesn’t automatically accord respect. Take Gilderoy, for example. How do you think I spoke to that over pompous arse who rivaled even Lucius in his delusions of self-grandeur? Certainly not with any warmth or esteem. Lockhart and Lucius are essentially the same narcissicaly driven person, just opposite sides of the same galleon.”

Hermione felt her face flush at the memory brought back by Snape’s ranting of her school-girl crush on Gilderoy Lockhart. She had initially thought of Lockhart as rather dashing, adventurous, and brave. After an entire year of egregious missteps--not to mention attacking Harry in the Chamber of Secrets--Lockhart had ensured that Hermione wouldn’t allow herself to think of a teacher in that way again. One colossal lapse of judgement was certainly enough. To hear that Lockhart and Lucius Malfoy were cut from the same cloth was highly disconcerting.

Snape continued, “As far as Dolores Umbridge goes, if I remember correctly, she had carved a warning--through proxy--in a student’s hand, and was an autocratic crony of a corrupt Ministry. Bastard as I may be, that sort of conduct has never warmed the cold cockles of my heart. She also made my life hell; her constant overstepping and pressure to fulfill her whims that bordered on poisoning minors made day-to-day living rather difficult.” Snape’s eyes latched onto hers and a savage smile sliced his face. “However, you bore the burden of that responsibility and dispatched her rather efficiently in the end, in any case, didn’t you?”

Hermione made a noise of protest. The ends justified the means like so many other incidents of the last decade. We were at war! And Snape should know that better than anyone. As she was gearing up to tell him so, Snape held up a stiff hand to halt her explanations.

“And then there was your sainted Lupin,” Snape’s smile had distorted into a grimace, “someone who had stood behind his friends, showing quite an indifference, if not outright support, while they assaulted me as a child, time and time again? Tell me, Miss Granger, how should I have treated him? He, who as a supposedly cognizant adult, had to be constantly reminded to take his medication; without which, he could inflict the same disease on a child in his care?” Snape grew silent, letting the weight of his words settle over her. “I am not acclamatory to those that have not earned such accolades, Granger. I never intended to give you a false impression of myself.”

Their eyes locked as Snape finished his speech. Damn him, he has several valid points, doesn’t he? Hermione’s cheek twitched as she mentally conceded the argument. This is fine, she reminded herself, I don’t need to be his friend to do my job. I only need his cooperation. Hermione slid the library’s manifest out of her pocket. “I came to you because I am missing a book from the library.”

“Then perhaps you should do what you were hired for and find it.”

“I was not hired for—” Hermione clenched her jaw in irritation. Wanker. “Madam Pince listed one of your students as the last one to check out the book. I was hoping—”

One of Snape’s eyebrows rose again.

“I would like…” Feeling wrong footed, Hermione bit her bottom lip. It was annoying how easily she allowed Snape to get under her skin. “I need you to tell me which year the student is in so I know which dormitory to send my note to tomorrow after the Sorting Feast. I do not want it lost to the chaos of the start-of-term Common Room.” Hermione stepped closer to his desk and held out the paper to him, encouraging him to take it. Challenging him to be congenial. In private.

Snape’s eyes flicked between her face and her hand before he sighed and leaned forward in his chair. He plucked it from her grasp with three long fingers. “I assure you, Granger, the Slytherins maintain impeccable common areas. You would do your best to not confuse us with the Hufflepuffs. They are located in the opposite wing, if you have already forgotten. Now,” he flipped the paper open, “which student is accused of—”

“Ronan Marsh.” Hermione rolled her eyes and missed Snape’s jaw clenching. “And not accused, for Merlin’s—”

“I’ll handle it, Granger,” Snape’s hard tone left very little room for an argument.

Exasperated, she persisted, “What? No,” Hermione shook her head and placed her hands on her hips, “I don’t want you to handle it. I just need to know what year this student is in so I can—”

“I already said,” Snape replied sharply, suddenly standing to his full height and splaying his hands across his desk, “that I would handle it, Miss Granger. Let it lie.”

“I don’t want you to punish them.”

“While I am not a kind man, neither am I a sadist. Despite what you may believe.”

Hermione jutted out her chin when she replied savagely without thinking, “Are you so sure about that, Snape?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed and his answering murmur was a smoldering fire, threatening to set her ablaze, “Get out.”

The last time Hermione had been that satisfied to slam a door was when she was thirteen.

---

Much later that night, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall entered the darkened Staff Room with a clutch of parchment inches from her face. Her hair had come out of her tight bun, and her shawl drooped low across her back, exposing one of her tartan dressing gown’s shoulders. There weren’t any students in the Castle to blame her harried appearance on; Minerva had simply overworked herself again, shouldering the burden of administration on her own as much as she could. Eyebrows pinched and expression tight, she didn’t realize that the room wasn’t unoccupied. A dark figure sat silently nearby, watching Minerva intently with glittering eyes.

Indeed, the Headmistress was far too distracted by the papers she was quickly shuffling around in her hands to take proper notice of her surroundings. Minerva neared the fireplace, presumably to use its light to better see, her slippers scuffing across the Chobi Ziegler rug with careless unconcern. Slowly, she turned towards her preferred chair, a very comfortable dark-green upholstered imported French fauteuil. Finally--and perhaps gratefully, would she have sat on him in her preoccupied state?-- Minerva’s eyes flicked up and quickly took stock of the individual that was already sitting in her chair.

Minerva startled with a yelp, the papers jerking out of her grasp and fluttering around her. “Crivvens, Severus,” she scolded, her Scottish accent seeping through. “What are you doing sitting in the dark like this? You gave me such a fright.”

“I was merely sitting in my customary chair,” he replied, swirling his amber filled glass. “It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention.” Severus hid his smirk as he took a sip of the firewhiskey; it was a particularly perverse pleasure to scare his colleague like this.

Minerva shot him a look that had given him many a pause when Severus was still her student. Alas, it did very little to dim his amused expression now. With a huff, she sat across from her beloved fauteuil on an inadequate plum-colored low-backed barrel chair. There was a broken spring in the back that had stubbornly refused to be repaired, despite Flitwick’s best attempts over the years. After adjusting in her seat, Minerva swished her wand and the papers obediently stacked themselves on the small table beside her. Her eyes slowly slid away from Severus’ face to peer into the fire for several long silent minutes. Absentmindedly, she rolled the corner of the top paper between her fingers.

Minerva was a self-assured woman by nature; she’d not be a very accomplished Gryffindor otherwise. Last year, she had settled into the role of Headmistress easily with the dignity of a typical succession, and her fierce wherewithal made the Ministry flinch away from unduly interfering with Castle business. She still commanded a room, and a pointed glare could clear a corridor of wayward students in three seconds flat. However, in startling contrast to her public mien, Minerva still walked on eggshells whenever in Severus’ presence. The reality of their altered relationship was difficult for him to endure.

He had enjoyed their once easy friendship immensely, and now there was a gap in his life where comfortable traditions previously flourished. The small routines that had developed over almost two decades of working together--communal essay grading, weekly chess matches, friendly bets on Quidditch--had not yet returned to their relationship. It hurt him more than he wanted to admit; simply put, Severus missed her. The pair of them had been such good friends in the time that was Before. Before the second rise of Voldemort. Before the War. Before he killed the Headmaster. Before he became Headmaster himself.

Are things always going to be this awkward? It’s been a year already.

He set his tumbler down on his own side table, a spindly ornate metal piece from the Vindictus Viridian era. “Is it the duty rosters or the class schedule?” Severus finally asked, filling the growing silence.

Minerva blinked rapidly, chasing away her own thoughts. A part of him hoped that she had been thinking about their past as well. If so, perhaps there was promise that they could finally cleanse the festering wound that lay between them this year. “The classes,” she murmured.

“You are permitted to delegate to your Deputy Head, Minerva,” he replied quietly, matching her low volume.

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to bother you with this. Besides, you’ve already--” she cut herself off prematurely, her gaze dropping to the floor.

Severus had to repress a sigh. The rest of the phrase--done so much for us--was left unsaid. This time. Minerva had ferociously latched on to her guilt of not being able to see through his deception of two years ago with a tenacity only matched by a jaguar stalking a plump capybara for dinner. It didn’t seem to assuage her remorse any when reminded that if she had known about his duplicity it had meant he had failed his mission most spectacularly. In an attempt to make amends, Minerva had fallen into the habit of not giving Severus more administrative work than absolutely necessary. This, of course, meant that she was often over-taxed and exhausted by her own martyrdom. Gryffindors... Gods, but how he hated the whole sordid mess.

Severus held out his open palm to her. “Let me help you, Minerva.” Please.

She sighed, her shoulders deflating onto her delicate frame. When did she suddenly get so old? For that matter, he thought, recalling the nerve pain in his back, when did I? Her eyes unexpectedly glassy, Minerva flicked her hand towards him and the papers followed suit.

“What seems to be the sticky wicket this time?” Relieved that she had accepted his help, Severus thumbed through the papers quickly, already trying to decipher the issue at hand.

“Ms. Clearwater’s group therapy sessions,” Minerva answered. “It’s basically an extra class without an extra hour in the day.” She smiled ruefully. “If only we could assign everyone a time turner, it would all fit right as rain.”

Apprehensive and stiff, she watched him reorganize the papers around for a few moments as he decided on a place to start. Oh, Minerva, it’s not as complicated as you made it out to be. Settling on the obvious, he chose Monday first. Severus extracted his small self-inking quill from his frock coat’s pocket. From outside his field of vision he sensed Minerva finally relax deeper into her seat, pulling her knitted shawl over her shoulders.

The sounds of his scribbling joined the popping of the fire to his left. It was relaxing. Nostalgic. A sense memory of years ago, before things had become infinitely more complicated and uncomfortable. His low-pitched voice added itself to the room’s melody when he said, “Speaking of time turners, I had a run in with your star pupil today.”

Minerva’s eyebrows scrunched together. Perplexed, she asked, “Lochlan Burns?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “No, Miss Granger.”

She tutted and waved her hand dismissively. “She’s not a student anymore, Severus, she’s our Librarian.”

“Oh yes,” he flipped to Tuesday and crossed off two large portions at the beginning and end of the day, “she made that abundantly clear to me.”

“Why am I getting the impression that you were less than congenial?” Minerva asked after a knowing pause. Severus did not look up from the papers that lay across his lap. If he did and her expression wasn’t amusement, like it used to be when she called out his acerbic character, it would break the comforting illusion of the past that had settled over him. This way, he could easily ignore the schism between them. I’ve missed you, Min. Have you missed me in kind?

“Me?” Severus asked, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a wry smile. “You wound me, truly. After all, she’s the one who slammed my door hard enough that I was precariously close to losing the antique specimen jar acquired by the Pippin estate. You know which I’m speaking of, you used to claim the toe followed you around the room.”

He could picture her reaction in his mind--or, at least, how Minerva would have reacted several years ago; she would have shifted in her chair, propped an elbow on the chair’s manchette, and shot him a huffy laugh. Now, however? The air in the room was beginning to feel much more subdued, the tranquility fading. “And am I to suppose that you didn’t do anything to antagonize her?”

Severus skipped to Thursday’s schedule and crossed off the same sections he had done on Tuesday’s. “Antagonize her? That doesn’t sound like me.” It wasn’t as if she didn’t deserve it, entering my office and demanding I treat her as an equal as if it was par of the course.

“You know, Severus,” her voice dropped to a murmur, as if she was afraid of someone overhearing. “Hermione’s had a rough time of things lately. You could make the effort to be more welcoming.”

Growing defensive, he couldn’t stop the sneer that slid across his face. Minerva’s blatant favoritism was starting to rear its ugly head. The wistful illusion of their past had now broken completely, and Severus, once again, felt alone. “We’ve all had a rough time, Minerva.”

After a beat, and he knew without looking that her expression had become pinched, she said, “You haven’t read the papers, have you?”

“And why would I?” With more force than necessary, Severus began outlining a grid on the back of Friday’s sheet. The quill stabbed through the paper on the second line. Fuck. He was most definitely not interested in hearing about Miss Granger’s troubles, not when she had survived the War relatively intact. There are others--the Creeveys, Browns, Potter’s godson, the dozens of Death Eater children--that are worse off; the travails of the Brightest Witch of Her Age doesn’t even skim the top sixty percent of suffering. “Have they stopped printing the gossip on the front page?” he asked flippantly.

“No.” Based on the weighted pause, Minerva’s face had to be reminiscent of that expired Lemon Drop she attempted to consume at a tedious staff meeting six years ago. “Ronald Weasley is engaged to be married.”

Severus sighed, his gaze still focused on his notes. Of bloody course. His baritone rumbled in the space between them, as deep and dark as their fractured relationship, “I told you it was going to happen when you hired her, didn’t I?” He scribbled a time table within the rows. “There’s a reason as to why our teaching positions don’t attract many talented young women. They often prioritize their families over their careers. And as we have yet to take a page from Muggle society and establish reputable public Wizarding childcare, what choice do they have, really?” While Severus wasn’t looking forward to starting the hiring process after the start of the term, a very wicked part of him was thankful that Granger would only be a temporary thorn in his side. “So, when is she leaving?”

Minerva allowed the silence to stretch unfathomably long, forcing Severus to look up from the paperwork to better gauge her answer to his query. He was certain that she would look disappointed in regards to his dismissive tirade. However, instead--surprisingly--she looked resigned. Tired. Of either the administrative bumf or himself, Severus wasn’t sure. I really did ruin everything between us, didn’t I? The rubbish lot “means to an end” did for me… for us.

She tore him away from his thoughts when she answered in a low tone, “He’s engaged to one of the Patil sisters, Severus.”

That revelation was a surprise. Hadn’t it been assumed that Miss Granger and her Weasley paramore were destined for the altar just six months ago? Wasn’t there even gossip amongst the staff that there would be a double wedding alongside Potter and Miss Weasley? This new intelligence flattened some of his irritation about the young woman, but only just enough to be minimally reassuring to Minerva. “Well, bully for him. They weren’t well-matched, and you know it.”

She twisted the ends of her shawl around her fingers. “Even so, the heart breaks when first loves are ended.” Minerva brought the point home with a sharp reminder, “As you well know.”

Severus shifted in his chair, not appreciating the reminder of the foibles of his youth. After all, it had been his fault that his oldest childhood friend had been murdered and her only child orphaned. With a hint of bite, he replied, “Unfortunately.”

Guilt, more than anything else, was Severus’ main motivator in his life. Even his desperate desire for respect or power felt leagues behind in comparison. Every major decision he had ever made in his life was sullied by suffocating guilt: lying about the abuse at home, joining the Death Eaters, deflecting to Dumbledore, agreeing to assassinate the old man and steal his title… staying on at the Castle as Deputy Head. Yes, Albus had his grubby fingers in every pasty in the kitchen, but it was Severus who had served them on a platter to the unsuspecting patrons; and he had hurt Minerva greatly with his subterfuge. Even though he couldn’t--nor would--change anything about how the events of two years ago played out, it was yet another thing to add to his list of regrets.

Severus wanted to make amends with Minerva, one of his only true friends, before time and circumstance pulled them apart even more. He had never received closure with Lily Evans. Severus didn’t want to let this opportunity to atone slip away. But why was it so fucking bloody hard? Maybe Minerva wasn’t as interested in bridging the gap… maybe it was too late… maybe his decision to stay was nothing more than a fool’s errand.

Thankfully, Minerva interrupted his dangerously spiraling thoughts. “What have you done, then?” she asked as she tipped her chin towards the papers in his lap.

Severus rose from his chair and crossed the space between them. “I’ve adjusted the schedule to accommodate Ms. Clearwater’s group therapies on Saturdays.”

Disapproving, Minerva took the papers from his loose grasp. “But the students need--”

“To properly heal,” he interrupted gently. “It is our responsibility that they receive the appropriate care. Last year we tried squeezing the therapies in between academic blocks or extending the school day, and it did more harm than good. The students were overwhelmed with juggling their schedules.” Lowering his voice he finished, “Furthermore, it will allow students to process events without having to go to a class directly afterwards. Minerva, you know I’m in the right here.”

She lifted her hazel gaze from his alterations. Determined, and giving him a glimmer of her unyielding nature, she said, “I insist she still hold her individual therapies two days a week.” She’s holding her ground a bit, that is an improvement from the usual truckle...

“Of course,” Severus conceded easily, “I’ve made annotations on how to adjust the duty hours to match her later sessions.”

After several long moments, she nodded and broke their eye contact. Taking his cue from her, Severus vanished his glass on the side table, returned his quill to his pocket with practiced fingers, and made to leave. Just as he was to cross into the corridor he heard her murmur, “Thank you, Severus.”

He allowed himself a smile. The conversation, while stilted and awkward, did--at times--feel like their discussions of old. Severus allowed himself a hopeful thought as he strode to his quarters, the dull perpetual ache thankfully confined only to his lower back. Maybe this year really can be different. Maybe it can be… normal.

---

Hermione’s cotton dress swished against her bare legs as she stepped over a fallen log. She was in a sunlit forest, the beams filtering through the lush green trees. She smiled as she took in the picturesque scene around her. Inhaling deeply, she smelled sap… pine… fresh air. Hermione felt her chest expand in relief. When was the last time she felt this light? When had she forgotten to take pleasure in the simple things?

She continued to walk through the trees, using them to aid her balance as the dried leaves crunched under her sandaled feet. Hermione allowed herself to ramble, following the well-worn trail that cut through the woods. Fungi grew nearby, the red caps of the fly agaric mushrooms standing out amongst the dull undergrowth. A small flock of crows flew overhead, their caws cutting into the silence. Hermione squinted as she looked up through the canopy to the blue sky; were there five crows, or six?

After several minutes of meandering, she reached out to steady herself against a tree, the bark feeling rough under her fingertips. Looking around, she suddenly realized that she had ventured further into the trees than she had anticipated. The path Hermione had been following was nowhere to be seen. The forest had shifted somehow… it seemed dimmer here, darker. The peace she had been feeling quickly dissolved. The sensation was replaced with an unexpected one: determination. There was a quest here, she could feel it. Responding to the tug of an invisible string attached to her belly, Hermione walked further into the creeping darkness.

Twisted, gnarled vines had dropped from the canopy, crossing her path. Gingerly, she lifted the hem of her dress as she lunged over the brambles, cutting her legs in the process. Hissing with pain, Hermione scampered over the large boulders in front of her. Next, her legs snagged on the thorn bushes, and she slipped in the mud. Her dress was soon becoming filthy and her toes were cold as they pounded over the damp musty earth.

Still, the magical tug she felt was insistent. What was this mission that compelled her to move forward? Hermione couldn’t say, but she knew she had a place to be, and she best get there quickly.

With a start, Hermione noticed that there hadn’t been a sign of life since sighting the crows. When was that? Minutes ago? Hours? The air was heavy with the aroma of soil… and something else earthy… decay? She felt a whisper of inexplicable fear race down her spine forcing her into action. Suddenly, Hermione was moving rapidly through the trees. Within minutes, her legs felt mysteriously heavily and ached due to the strain; she really wanted to sit down but she was impelled to go further. There was something she had to do. Fighting the urge to grow idle, her jog became a sprint. Hermione’s feet thundered over the cold ground. Panting, she felt her chest tighten with tension. She needed to keep going. Up ahead, in her way, was a tight tree line.

Bursting from the trees, blinking into the sunlight, Hermione found herself on the outskirts of a clearing. Shuddering, she bent at the waist to gather her breath. Looking down, she discovered that her dress’ hem was caked in mud and her legs had not fared much better. She wiggled her toes. They still worked under the grime but why Hermione had worn open-toed sandals for a walkabout in the forest to begin with was anyone’s guess.

Snapping back to standing, her hair twisting around her head like a hydra, Hermione’s gaze latched on to the object that stood in the middle of the clearing. It was a tent… one that she was intimately familiar with. As her breathing slowed back to normal she realized that the space was eerily quiet and still. It felt odd here. Unnatural.

Hermione felt uncomfortable, as if she was an interloper or had stumbled on to something she wasn’t supposed to see. If this was her true mission, it was an unwelcome one. The hairs on her arms rose, prickling her skin into gooseflesh.

All unwilling, her feet began to move forward, being pulled by the painful tug on her navel. She wanted to turn around; Hermione wanted to go back to the beginning of her journey. Where she felt happy. Safe. In control.

As Hermione neared the tent, she confirmed that it was indeed the one that she had lived in during the hunt for the Horcruxes two years ago. It smelled heavy of mildew, and the large stains scattered across its canvas did nothing for its allure. Repulsed, she delicately moved the entrance flap aside and crossed the threshold.

She scanned the space. Nothing was out of place. The kettle was on the table, her bed was made… Hermione came to a sudden halt when her eyes landed on Harry’s cot, obscured by a curtain of fabric. Strangely, she saw his trainers peeking out from the edge of the bed. On silent feet, with growing terror, she crossed the room. Hermione’s hand gripped the edge of the flap. Very slowly, as if she was moving in a vat of sticky treacle, she peeled away the covering.

It wasn’t Harry in the cot. Or at least, nothing that resembled Harry… or maybe it once was Harry? Hermione’s brain was having a difficult time coming to a logical determination about what was before her. Yes, there was a figure lying prone on Harry’s cot. However, this individual's body was completely black, burnt to the texture of charcoal. Flakey and delicate. Decayed.

A sound suddenly erupted in the tent. Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from the cot to investigate the origin. The sound was so loud it filled her ears, and Hermione’s throat burned. After a brief moment, she recognized the sound. She was screaming. As her howl reached its crescendo, the blackened body collapsed into a pile of ash. Ominously, a dust plume rose above the body.

Hermione abruptly woke up in her dark bedroom, dislodging Crookshanks from his preferred place on her chest. The remnants of the dream clinging to her skin like powder, she sat up heart pounding and throat raw.

Chapter Text

September 1, 1999

The Following Morning

Hermione was unable to fall back to sleep.

The nightmare’s perturbing residue clung to her prickled skin. Hermione sighed as she stared unseeing at the coffered ceiling in her dark room. What did any of that even mean? A ramble through the woods, a compulsion to seek out an abandoned campsite, and finding a burnt body on Harry’s cot? The details that seemed important were fading away out of her grasp, as dreams were frustratingly wont to do. From experience, Hermione knew that any further contemplating would just be her mind spinning in endless circles; not every dream was supposed to be dissected. Might as well get up, then...

She threw back the blankets on top of an increasingly disgruntled cat, and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. Hermione brushed her sweaty hair away from her face, a finger snagging on a curl. Oh, for the love of… she thought as she worked to disentangle herself. I really should use that pillowcase Ginny bought me. Out of all the things Mum could have passed down to me, it was her unruly hair. She huffed, in lamentation more than frustration. No, that’s not fair. Her freed fingers absentmindedly plucked at the threads on the crocheted afghan she pilfered from her childhood home. Daddy used to say that I had her smile too.

Hermione was dangerously close to bordering on maudlin territory at a quarter past five in the morning. Crookshanks, ever perceptive to his mistress’ moods, chirped from under the bedding.

Flipping the corner of the blanket off him, she mumbled an apology, “Sorry, Crooks.” She scratched between his ears. “I should take a shower. Get an early start to the day. What do you think?”

Crookshanks merely blinked in response.

Hermione plucked her dressing gown off of one of the low posts at her foot-board as she walked to her ensuite. While her set of rooms wasn’t as large as the senior staff, they were still delightfully bigger than the actual tent that was in her dream. The sitting room featured a tall fireplace, an opulent ivory-accented green cabriole sofa, and a built-in black walnut desk flanked by bookcases on the back wall. The sofa was a touch too extravagant for Hermione’s taste, but she was coming around; the sides curved inward, creating the perfect pocket to snuggle with a good book. Her bedroom came pre-decorated with deep purple accents and dark wood finishes, which she was happy to keep.

Hermione’s bath, in contrast, was white-tiled and bright. The early colors of dawn were visible through the skylight above the deep tub, splashing a comforting, warm hue on the small space. Hermione rolled her neck in front of the mirror. She was tense. And she couldn’t blame it entirely on the nightmare. The students would be arriving today.

She was now in a position of actual authority, no matter how small her responsibilities were as the Librarian. Hermione could assign detentions and award house points; however like Pince before her, she wouldn’t be consulted for sweeping policy changes outside of the Library’s scope, or be tasked with overseeing an entire House of students. Nonetheless, it was still a power shift, one from student to staff. It left a gray, murky area that some enterprising students may try to exploit, leaning on their past relationship as equal peers.

No sense in fretting about it right now, Hermione reassured herself before she became too carried away with her presupposings. I’ll cross that bridge if it comes to it. Surely the Headmistress will have some sound advice on the subject.

Hermione pulled off her nightshirt and turned to the tub, spinning the appropriate porcelain cross handles to reroute the water to the shower head. Stepping under the water, the steam curling upwards, she felt her shoulders relax. The morning all-hands staff meeting wouldn’t be for another three hours, so Hermione made the decision to indulge herself and do a full treatment. None of that five minute sud-and-rinse nonsense today. She massaged her scalp as she conditioned before moving on to exfoliating her skin, the smell of lilacs wafting into the air.

Hermione was thoroughly lathered up and humming happily when the door creaked open.

“Hello, kitty-kitty,” she called out.

There wasn’t an answering meow, not that she had really expected one.

Hermione stood under the water as she rinsed off, running her hands over her hair, the bubbles swirling down the drain at her feet. The sweet aroma of her lilac body wash dissipated with an unusual undertone of tree sap, a hint of nostalgic carefree childhood summers spent in the countryside. She turned her attention towards the curtain--half-anticipating Crooks’ squashed face peeking in at a bottom corner--and felt her blood go cold under the warm water.

Oh, fuuuuck...

The water running down her face obscured her vision but there was no mistaking the dark shape of a person standing on the other side of the curtain. Hermione’s hands instinctively moved to cover herself. She was incredibly vulnerable, naked and cornered. Her heart pounded uncomfortably under the hand on her breast. Sudden fear silenced the intelligent part of her brain that was trying to reassure her that no one else had access to her rooms. What could she do? Her wand was still on her night table, and did she dare waste precious seconds in summoning it?

There was simply no hiding in the bath, no element of surprise in her favor. Hermione would have to aggressively defend herself first, and hope that she stunned the intruder enough to give her time to retrieve her wand. Decision made, Hermione’s magic flared into the space, her trusty Bluebell Flames igniting upon her palm.

Ignoring the trembling in her hand and the constriction in her chest she snatched the curtain aside.

There wasn’t anyone there. Or rather there was, but it wasn’t who she had thought.

Crookshanks was sitting on the bamboo bath mat, staring up at her with wide orange eyes, his gaze on the flames flickering on her hand.

The adrenaline drained from Hermione’s body, slipping down the pipe like the water splashing off her back, leaving behind a discomforting fuzzy feeling. She shook her hand free of the spell, the fire vanishing. She blinked rapidly as she scanned the room for evidence of the interloper. There was someone here… wasn’t there? Nothing seemed out of place; the door was only cracked open enough to allow a cat to slip through, no drawers had been rifled through, even her dark towel still hung on the hook next to the sink. Hmm, a dark towel. Logic returning, Hermione slid the curtain opened and closed several times. The shape of the dark towel through the curtain didn’t quite look the same, but perhaps she had seen what she had wanted to see? Some type of anthropomorphistic response to an unexpected dark form?

Feeling foolish, she asked her cat, “Did you see anyone?”

Crookshanks didn’t answer. Instead, he sauntered out the cracked door back to her bedroom.

- - -

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, fortifying himself for what would certainly prove to be a laborious, unnecessary staff meeting. It could have easily been condensed into an owl; there wasn’t anything new to report to the staff other than Hermione Granger’s hiring. The Castle’s repairs were being undertaken by the staff, so their progress was common knowledge. Due to the war concessions, the Ministry would be thin on galleons for several years, making any monetary requests for supplemental materials impossible. It was the same as last year, and would be the same the next.

Severus moved to grasp his mug of black coffee, the maneuver sending an unexpected jolt of pain down his leg. Fucking hell, he thought as his grip on the handle tightened, his jaw taut. The residual nerve pain from countless Crucios and then Nagini’s venom was always at its worst in the morning and frequently unforgiving. He tried again, moving a bit slower this time, and was rewarded with being able to drink his dark roast without another spasm. He rarely kept notes, wasn’t hungry before noon and therefore didn’t take any food from the back table, nor was he prone to fidgeting, but Severus would have loved to have a distraction from his angry back this morning. At least the stiff mission chair, while not comfortable by any means, was fulfilling its purpose and offering a sturdy support. As long as he didn’t move too quickly to the left, apparently.

It sometimes felt like Severus was occupying a body that wasn’t truly his. He had assumed that the constant daily stress, and the accompanying chronic pain, his body had been under for the last decade would have lifted after the Final Battle. That hope had been one of the only things to carry him through his year of Headmaster. However, once given relief, his body had only seemed to respond worse; as if his body had reversed its stress response, flooding him with cortisol during periods of peace rather than trauma. The nerve pain had been intensifying as a result, making his slow progress with the nerve tonic all the more frustrating. Severus had an entire summer without obligation and he had still been unable to finalize the formula. A Potions Master as accomplished as himself shouldn’t be taking this long, he wanted it to be in mass circulation by now. He had considered recruiting Philip Montgomery, the Hogwarts Potions Master, as an assistant to speed things along but he was unable to overlook the way the man cut his roots too thick.

Now that’s not fair, he scolded himself. The truth is is that I want to do this myself without outside influence. To prove to everyone the sincerity of my allegiances. Another self-inflicted penance. Would it be enough, though? Would anything he did ever be enough? Was Severus chasing a hope, a ghost, where the end result would always be the same no matter the effort extended? What if he was always universally hated and pitied? Or what if this contribution to society could turn public sentiment to see him as he truly was: a flawed human, and merely a man who did the best he could under the circumstances. Severus needed more time to work. He needed to make a breakthrough and soon.

Would there be a chance to… a quick run through of his schedule for the day showed that there was no time to spare for tinkering in his lab. Another day passing without any momentum. Dammit.

Feminine laughter rose from the pastry side of the food table and Severus knew without looking who it would be. Granger. His eyes cut across the room to observe the lively conversation taking place between her, Poppy, and Pomona. He felt a sneer slice across his face which he covered with his coffee cup before someone noticed it. He was already feeling frustrated with his pain and lack of autonomy for the day, and seeing Granger in the flesh again only aggravated him further. Truly, something about the girl--woman?--grated against his nerves.

Granger had been exasperating as a student, eager to prove her worth to her superiors while carrying an air of intelligent arrogance. Give her a problem to solve and she’d do it, and then point out the two grammatical errors in the question itself. It was obvious that Granger was usually the most well-read in the room, and Merlin, did she know it. Based on their interaction yesterday it appeared that she had the erroneous impression that her book-smarts put her on equal footing with those who had far more life experience. It was absolutely maddening.

Severus glanced again at the trio of nattering women. Granger was the center of attention, and by the looks of it, relished it. Damn, try convincing her she’s not on equal terms now. Pomona and Poppy are the goddamn welcoming committee. Granger flung her head back with another laugh, her curly hair glinting in the morning light streaming in the window behind her. Something insidious coiled in Severus’ chest, as venomous as that big bloody snake: jealousy. It had taken years for him to feel like he was truly part of the staff when he was hired eighteen years ago, and he had been older than she was now. It was petty, Granger had no knowledge of his tumultuous beginnings, yet the emotion could not be ignored. She had waltzed back into Hogwarts expecting to be given coequality, was readily given it, and already had them eating out of her hand. Meanwhile, despite his actual tenure, Severus felt like he was starting over again. Everything is always coming up fucking aces for Granger.

“How exciting is this?” Montgomery asked as he sat next to Severus, looking in Granger’s direction. “To have a war hero on staff! It lends us some prestige, don’t you think?”

Severus rolled his eyes, his mood darkening further. This day just keeps getting better.

Realizing his faux pax Montgomery blubbered, “Oh, not that you aren’t a hero, sir. I just meant that—”

To Montgomery’s benefit, as Severus had begun to hypothesize if hexing a co-worker would result in paid or unpaid leave, Minerva tapped the lectern to begin the meeting. Upon Montgomery’s hiring last year, Severus had believed he had found another pragmatic voice of reason in the dark-haired Ravenclaw. However, much to Severus’ chagrin, Montgomery had seemed to relax fully into his role after the Christmas hols, and had become as cheerful as an optimistic Hufflepuff; his seriousness long gone. Leaving Severus, once again, to be the sole resident killjoy.

From across the table, Sybill’s tinkling bracelets attracted his attention, which inevitably slid to the woman at her side: Penelope Clearwater. A per diem second-year employee, she split her time between Hogwarts and St. Mungo’s Behavioral Health Center. She certainly had her work cut out for her. Each student’s trauma and response to it were unique, making it hard to judge if Clearwater’s methods were effective. It was simply too early to make that determination; trauma, especially post-traumatic stress from war time, would take years to properly heal from. Even if the healing was slow, not offering the counseling was never an option. The Hogwarts’ staff was universally determined that this generation would come out better than the previous when it came to fighting the demons left over from Voldemort’s ambitions.

“Now with old business out of the way,” Minerva said to Severus’ shock, as he didn’t realize how far his attention had drifted, “we do have one new face here at the table this year. Irma is on sabbatical and Circe granted me an excellent replacement. She is already familiar with our collection and is a certified Curse-Breaker, so we can finally set the Restricted Section to rights. She truly doesn’t need any more of an introduction.” Severus drank more of his rapidly cooling coffee to stop himself from audibly scoffing. “Hermione, Madam Granger, do you have any words before I move on to new business?”

Granger stood with a large smile that reached her eyes and gave a shy wave to the room. “Hello all, thank you for the warm welcome. As the Headmistress mentioned, I have a lot of work to do in the Restricted Section. Please don’t check out a book from there without verifying its status with me first. I want to make sure it’s safe to leave the Library so we don’t run into more problems down the line. I’m looking forward to working with you all.” She gestured to Minerva, relinquishing the floor, as she sat back down in her seat next to Clearwater.

“Please, Hermione, Minerva is fine. I would even go as far as to say that you may address anyone on the staff with their given name, if you chose. You are one of us now.”

The announcement was met by nods from around the room and Granger’s grin grew. Then her glittering amber eyes locked onto Severus’, and a silent conversation took place as Minerva obliviously moved on. Severus had no such plans to acquiesce to such an informality, and he wouldn’t be pressured to do so even in a room full of peers. Granger already had an inkling as to this. To her credit, her smile only faltered fractionally under his steady gaze as her suspicions were confirmed. The point had been made: You can pretend you’re a grown-up all you like, but you aren’t one of us.

- - -

Come on, come on… Hermione was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic in the full staff room. If one more person patted her on the back or called her over to cross the sea of bodies she might burst out of her itching skin. She was certain that her jaw would fall off if she had to crack one more smile. It didn’t help that Hermione had consumed far too much caffeine in the last hour, both as a distraction and an excuse to detach herself from whoever had cornered her, causing her heart to feel as if it could flutter right out of her throat. She hadn’t been around a crowd of people for ages, and the sensation of being part of a mob—even one of trusted compatriots—was very unsettling.

Hermione had wanted to slip out fifteen minutes ago, but she was stubbornly determined to ask the Headmistress her opinion on how to navigate the transition from peer to staff. Unfortunately, Penelope was monopolizing Minerva’s time, and by the looks of the blonde’s enthusiastic gesturing it could be several more minutes. Hermione began brainstorming for a way to satisfy her mission and still make a timely escape. Maybe it’s not so important that I specifically ask Minerva, anyone may have sound advice. Hermione scanned the room looking for an unoccupied co-worker. Flitwick was holding court with Sinistra and Hooch. Sprout and Pomfrey were conspiring in the corner, and by the looks of it they had their eyes on Philip Montgomery. To her disappointment, the only staff member not currently engaged was Snape, standing stiffly behind his chair, observing the nearby conversation between Professors Babbling and Vector. Yeah, that’s not happening, Hermione thought with an eye roll. Looks like I’m waiting for Minerva then.

With a groan Hagrid lurched off the wall he had been leaning against and the room suddenly reduced in size. Hermione’s shoulders inched up her neck. Get a grip on yourself! Unfortunately, her inner admonishment did not give her immediate control of her body, and her thoughts began to spiral in turn. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe I shouldn’t have come back. Hermione hadn’t truly missed living at Hogwarts; there was no comfort in the tight dorms, sitting shoulder to shoulder for meals, or slipping through crowds to attend class. The only allure was the siren call of the Library, beckoning her back to its safety of tall ceilings and wide aisles, and the intoxicating scents of pressed leather and book glue.

It was truly the Library that had sealed the deal in her accepting the contract, not the building itself nor the people within. Not that she really had anywhere to go after apprenticing with Bill. Hermione had had enough of traveling so the traditional jet-setting life of a Curse-Breaker wasn’t particularly appealing. The Ministry? Unlikely as she had no desire to mimic Harry’s career ambitions. Retreating to The Burrow and the Weasley brood was an obvious non-starter as she and Ron weren’t currently on speaking terms. She had no contacts in Muggle London either, not with her parents in Melbourne. At least, they used to be in Melbourne. Hermione supposed they could have moved on by now, if they had wanted to. Would she be able to figure out where they went if they had? And if she did, replanting their memories and the attached emotions would be a risky undertaking with no guarantee of success. If she were able to do the impossible, what would she even say to explain herself? Sorry, Mum. Daddy. I made a life-altering choice for you without your consent or input. We still on for Sunday dinner?

“Hello, Hermione, how are you settling in?”

Startled out of her rumination Hermione flinched and quickly covered it with another jaw-straining smile. Philip Montgomery, handsome and older than her by only a few years—making him one of only two co-workers to share a similar age—had replaced Slughorn. It had been slightly embarrassing to have him as a professor last year as he had routinely been the focus of the late night dormitory gossip during her early years. It wasn’t necessarily a surprise. Dashing, intelligent, and tall, it was inevitable that he’d attract a lot of attention. At the memory of her younger, immature self, Hermione felt her cheeks heat. Please don’t bungle this. Even though she was currently struggling with anxiety, she also desperately wanted to be accepted and to make friendships this year. Hermione didn’t have a great track record of making friends, there were multiple times during their school years that she had felt ostracized by Harry and Ron. Given the ages of the rest of the staff, Hermione hoped it would be easier to make friends with people who she matched an age with rather than those decades older than herself. Penelope and Philip were the two obvious choices, not leaving many other options. I guess the next closest in age would be… Hermione grew mortified. Oh dear God, Professor Snape.

“Uh, it’s a bit overwhelming actually,” Hermione said absentmindedly, her gaze moving across the room. Unexpectedly, she made eye contact with Snape, whose expression darkened as if he had heard her thoughts—shit, maybe he did—and she quickly returned her attention to Philip. “I’m sure things will settle down soon, though.”

Philip’s gray eyes softened and he propped an elbow on the back of an empty chair. “What in particular has you feeling anxious?”

At that moment, Sprout and Pomfrey squeezed by her on the right, bumping into her as they passed. It was all suddenly too much; the room and the occupants were smothering her. The gorgeous morning light coming through the windows was too bright, the soft scrapes of shifting chairs and murmured conversations were too loud, the walls were leaning down over her, crushing her.

“Sorry, dear!” the Matron said, patting her arm with affection. Hermione had to forcibly stop herself from recoiling at the contact.

The stimuli in the room increased into a thundering bellow, her skin tingling as it flushed, and her chest constricting. I need to get out of here!

Hermione hoped that she had said something polite to Philip before she fled the Staff Room. She honestly couldn’t remember. One second she was standing before him, his eyes holding the promise of camaraderie; the next she was in the corridor around the corner, her forehead pressed against one of the cool stone walls.

It’s okay, I’m okay. She began to focus on her breathing in an effort to calm herself down. In and out. In and out. I can see the wall, my shoes, the grooves in the stone, the sun from the window, the sleeves of my robe. In and out. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs completely and holding the breath for a beat before exhaling slowly. In and out. The grounding was helping, her chest started to loosen up. I can touch the cool stone, the soft fabric of my sleeves, my clean hair, the dust bunny on the window sill. Hermione’s heartbeat was returning to normal. In and out. In and out. I can smell my lilac body wash and—

The unmistakable sound of footsteps from the corridor she had just fled interrupted her coping mechanism. Please don’t come around the corner. Please, oh please…

“Miss Granger.” Of bloody fucking course.

“Professor Snape,” she answered without raising her head away from the wall. Hermione was already on tenterhooks from her anxiety attack; if Snape pushed her she would be unable to muster the energy to hold herself back.

“I didn’t realize you had already been assigned renovation duties.”

“What?” Hermione said with some bite, raising her head from the wall to look at him. Snape was directly beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. His proximity was infuriating. Either he was completely clueless about body language or he was actually trying to get a rise out of her.

“Certainly you could put your time to better use,” Snape answered, his tone patronizing. “This is an interior wall, meaning it hadn’t sustained any damage during the War and therefore doesn’t need to be reinforced.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose. What a complete arse. “Yes, thank you, Professor.” Now please bugger off.

“Montgomery was asking after you,” his mouth dropped into a sneer, “you seem to have made quite the impression.”

She mimicked his stance, matching his attitude with cheek when she spat, “I sort of left in the middle of a conversation, he was probably only concerned.”

Snape must have been surprised at her impertinence as he shifted slightly, clenching his jaw. She’d have missed the subtle maneuver entirely if they were standing further apart. “Concerned?” he murmured through his teeth.

“Yes, concerned.” Hermione had finally reached her limit for socialization and as it was this man who wanted to have the last go at her, she didn’t see why she’d have to be polite. After all, remembering his words from yesterday, they didn’t have to be cordial to each other when in private, and they weren’t technically in public since it was just the two of them in the deserted hall. Hermione spoke slowly, as if she was explaining the concept to a small child, “It’s an emotion that one feels for someone else who is in obvious distress. Usually.”

Snape merely replied with an eye twitch, and Hermione felt immature glee at her victory.

“Good day, Professor,” she said, riding the high of getting the better of him. “As you are aware, I have many books to find.”

Hermione stalked around him, their robes snapping against each other in her wake. When she reached the end of the corridor she glanced back as she hadn’t heard him exit in turn. Snape was still where she had left him, a pale hand propped up against the wall. A savage smile crossed her face. Who is reinforcing the wall now, you bastard?

- - -

It was past curfew and Hermione was circling the fourth floor on her first patrol. House Heads were off rotation for the week, their primary duties related to making sure their students settled in comfortably. Thus, the support staff had extra shifts to fill in the gaps. To her surprise, the circuits were relaxing; the halls were dark and silent, creating an opportunity to allow her mind to wander freely. The day had been a blur of last minute readiness prior to the Sorting Feast, which had proceeded normally without incident. As expected there were several students she recognized from when she was a student, and many more she didn’t. Frankly, Hermione had been shocked to see the tables so filled. The last two years had shown an understandable decline in admissions, but this year’s numbers appeared to be trending in a positive direction.

Her heart squeezed in tenderness at the memory of the first years being ushered into the Great Hall by Professor Snape. They were so very small. Their robes far too big. Their awed faces so round. Hermione could not reconcile that she and the boys had been that age when they descended into the belly of the Castle on their crusade to protect the Philosopher’s Stone. They had felt so important and invincible, when in actuality they could have been killed by their foolhardiness.

What the hell were we thinking? Hermione shook her head, her curls tickling her neck. How were we not stopped by a competent adult? She crossed the concourse to the next hall. And what about that Basilisk? Seriously, no one did anything about that?

Rounding the corner, Hermione jerked to a stop. In the middle of the moonlit corridor was a dark erect form. She immediately flashed back to what had happened to her during her morning shower. Were her eyes playing tricks on her again? Was she seeing something that wasn’t there and could be explained away logically? Suddenly it jerked towards her, stumbling out of the wide expanse of light. Its footfalls echoed off the walls in the surrounding darkness. For a moment she was frozen stiff, fear taking a hold of her and making her skin buzz. This sounded unimagined. This terror she felt was real. This could not be a phantom or an illusion.

With a quick swish of her wand Hermione cast a silent Lumos. Out of the shadows ahead a pale face whipped up, hair and fabric flying away to reveal large wide eyes despite the bright glare. Hermione let out a breath of relief. It wasn’t her mind running away from her again. It was simply a disorientated student out of bed.

“Miss…” Hermione began, realizing she didn’t know this student’s name.

“Knight. Sadie Knight,” the girl murmured.

Hermione mentally ticked through the student roster she was given after the Sorting Feast. Slytherin. Sixth—or seventh?—year, I think. She was confused as to why Ronan Marsh’s name was missing from the list entirely; an unfortunate fact that she was ignoring for the time being, as it would mean yet another strained conversation with Snape regarding the unreturned book.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I had a nightmare.”

Hermione angled her wand down, the soft light pooling at their feet. “Come along then,” she said, gesturing to the stairwell down the corridor. “I’ll walk you back to Slytherin.”

Miss Knight released a shaky breath as she came closer. “You… you aren’t going to deduct points?”

The answer was easy. “For a nightmare? No.” The younger girl’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

They wandered down the idle staircases side-by-side. The light from the windows slid over the stone steps and in between the stair balusters, the slabs and cuts of stone splitting the shadows into disjointed shapes. Hermione swore she saw menacing fluttering out of the corner of her eye several times, only to turn and find it had been a shifting portrait. The journey was silent other than the occasional gust of wind lashing against the Castle’s exterior. Hermione wrapped her robe tighter around her torso as they neared the dungeons, the comfortable temperature dropping to a chill. They traveled down the last set of steps and past the suit of armor across from Snape’s office. Hermione’s pace slowed as they reached the area that Harry had once indicated was the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.

Just as she was about to ask Miss Knight if they were close, a portion of the wall on their left slid open revealing a well lit descending staircase. As Hermione turned, the tall dark-clad form of Slytherin’s Head of House, in his excessively buttoned frock coat and trousers, finished his climb up the steps.

If Snape was surprised to come upon the two of them loitering in the corridor he showed no indication. Hermione caught his gaze briefly, and was astonished that his held no anger, before he turned to acknowledge his student. “Miss Knight,” he pitched his voice low, “I don’t need to remind you that it is past curfew… on the first night of the term.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Miss Knight’s breath fogged in the air, “I had a nightmare.”

“Come to me next time,” he said as he swung his arm, indicating that she was to descend into the safety of the Common Room. “It is not Madam Granger’s responsibility to escort you back when you wander off by yourself.” Hermione’s spine straightened in surprise at the use of her proper title.

“Yes, sir.” Miss Knight scurried past them, her steps echoing in the passageway as she hurried down the stairs.

Snape’s attention had followed the girl’s progress down the staircase, his body turning away from Hermione to better observe Miss Knight’s movement. This position caused him to be backlit by the flickering sconces illuminating the steps, his silhouette’s sharp edges emphasized in his form-fitting frock coat. Satisfied Miss Knight had arrived to her destination securely, Snape waved his hand and the wall in front of him slid back into place. The soft light emitting from Hermione’s wand was the only thing that stopped the corridor from falling into complete darkness.

“Thank you for escorting her,” he said softly, not turning to face her. “I had just done roll call before retiring for the night, and the spell came back indicating that one student was missing.”

Hermione was shocked silent for a moment; Snape sounded sincere in his gratitude. It was so unlike all of her previous conversations with the man, that had she not seen him ascend from the Common Room herself she would have thought he was an impostor. At length she finally answered, her voice matching his low volume, “It was no trouble. I was on duty anyway.”

Snape turned around slowly, spinning on the heels of his boots, the buttons on his trouser legs glinting in the wandlight. He regarded her silently, his dark eyes flicking up to hers. After a beat he asked, “How many points did you take, Granger?”

She felt taken aback that he thought so low of her, that she’d punish a suffering student. “I didn’t deduct any. She had a nightmare. She wasn’t causing trouble.”

“That is… generous of you.”

“I have no plans to be biased in regard to discipline.” Hermione tilted her head and gave a soft one shoulder shrug. “Or lack of it, in cases like this.”

“No one ever plans to be biased, Granger. But nonetheless…” he trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Hermione could follow what he had meant though; Snape had had a history of others showing antagonism towards his House, and he had fully expected she’d fall in line with her contemporaries. That wasn’t how she was going to run her library, and she was suddenly determined to prove it to him. Slytherin students would feel just as welcome and safe under her tutelage as the other Houses would.

Snape turned away from her, possibly believing the conversation had come to its natural end, and began to wave an intricate pattern over the wall. Hermione recognized several runes—Algiz, Uruz, and Wunjo—however, she had never seen this particular formula before. The movements were delicate, yet precise, overlapping and twisting on to the adjacent layers.

Always too curious for her own good she asked, “What are you doing?”

His shoulders tightened, and Hermione thought that he may not answer her. Snape truly didn’t have to explain himself to her, based on what she did know about his role in the War he was probably the most trustworthy individual in the entire Castle. Whatever he was doing wasn’t going to cause harm, and especially not when using those particular runes.

Snape tightly swirled his wand, spiraling the thin thread of his work as if it was candy floss. His voice seemed deeper than usual here, in the dark underground, when he answered, “I am strengthening the wards on the House.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Miss Knight had said she had a nightmare. This should help her sleep, and anyone else suffering tonight.”

“Oh,” she said lamely. While it sounded fascinating to her Curse-Breaking mind—she had dismantled plenty of wards in the preceding months—this certainly wasn’t the time to ask for more details. Hermione felt a twinge of loss at that; Snape was being the most genial she had ever encountered thus far, yet the odds were not in her favor that his private cooperation would carry past this singular moment in time. The implication that wards could do more than physically harm or protect the inhabitants within, that they could sooth psyches, was a line of research she’d love to pursue. Unfortunately, she’d most likely be doing it solo, causing her to take twice as long to satisfy her thirst for knowledge. The pull of the unknown, of learning something new, was terribly strong. Maybe he’d agree to…

“You should finish your patrol, Granger, rather than stare at me.” His tone had a blunt edge, not as sharp as it usually was, yet left no room for a rebuttal.

“Yes, I suppose.” Hermione hoped she didn’t sound disappointed at the dismissal. One five minute conversation with an agreeable Snape and she was already entertaining ideas of doing research together. It was foolish. He would be back to his ornery self tomorrow. This window of opportunity was never open to begin with, meaning that there shouldn’t be anything to feel dejected about. It was a shame that she did. “Goodnight, then.”

She retreated back towards the main stairwell, leaving Snape in the dark other than his faint glowing spell work splayed across the stone wall. As she neared the end of the passageway she felt prickles on her neck as if someone was staring at her. Hermione rolled her shoulders trying to shake the unsettling feeling. It’s probably just Snape making sure that I actually leave. As she climbed to the ground floor the feeling abated confirming her theory.

Relievingly, Hermione found no other students out of bed that night.

Chapter Text

September 11, 1999

One Week Later

Severus’ steps echoed in the abandoned shack, his footprints leaving clear imprints in the thick layer of filth on the floorboards. The air smelled heavily of smoke and dissipated magic. The fighting outside illuminated the room of upended furniture in fluctuating pulses of light through the haphazardly boarded windows. Severus entered the adjoining room, his fingers brushing against the old claw marks engraved on the door frame. A powerful spell hit the side of the house, the magic fizzing out with a crackle; the vibration strong enough to shake the dust from the rafters and force the solitary pendant light to swing into motion. The creaking of the chain was almost loud enough to cover the squeak of the floor behind him.

Severus spun around, his robes rippling out from around his body. The room behind him was dark, the furniture’s shadows elongating into sinister shapes. The noise from outside was becoming louder, signaling that the fighting was growing closer. A spell was cast, a purple flash before the shack dropped into shadow again. Sweat ran down Severus’ neck, and his lungs filled with anxiety with every breath. Another flare of bright light. Then darkness. Severus’ fingers itched to release his wand from his sleeve. No. He fought against the urge; it would display a sign of weakness, of his fear. Cannot let them know.

Something thumped from the direction of the back of the house, and Severus jerked towards the noise. As he did so he miscalculated his step, distracted as he was, and rolled his ankle on a loose floorboard. Fuck! Severus hit the floor with a deafening smack, his palms stung from where they had tried to break his fall. His groan was cut off by a reverberating snarl from the far side of the room. Severus’s face snapped up at the sound, his dark hair sticking to his forehead and obscuring his vision.

Through his hair he observed a shadow rise from the corner, its claws scratching against the boards as it unfolded to its full height. When it breathed spittle flew out, splattering droplets across the dirty floor. The blood was roaring in Severus’ ears as the room was once more flooded with a sickly green light giving him a clear view of the furred beast. It was taller than himself with shoulders twice as wide, and had jagged fangs dripping with saliva. And yet, the uncanny resemblance to its humanity was still recognizable in the features of its face. A werewolf...

Severus tried desperately to propel his muscles into action but he was paralyzed with fear. Move, move move! His body absolutely refused to follow orders. He locked eyes with the werewolf and they stared at each other for what felt like several minutes, when in actuality it couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds. Another burst of light filled the room, a neon blue, and the creature blinked. In slow motion, the werewolf advanced on him, and Severus scrambled to his feet. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to come to a full stand before being tackled by the beast.

Severus was pushed flat on to his back, the werewolf straddling his lower half, making it impossible to move his legs. The creature appeared to swell, doubling its size as its hair stood on end. Severus swiped his hands into the air, desperate to grab the werewolf’s face. The beast twisted out of the way of his flailing arms, and with speed and precision sunk its teeth into his neck. Severus immediately spasmed, the collar of his robes growing warm and wet. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as the beast gnawed on his flesh, his hands clutching at the werewolf’s matted fur. When the beast rose its head Severus’ blood dripped down its jaw, the ruby red liquid speckling the front of his frock coat. The pain radiated down the length of his body, like an electric current.

Severus tried to gasp, but nothing happened. His neck was torn open, making it impossible for him to breathe. Severus was going to suffocate on his own blood. He tried again to inhale, his chest attempting to rise while the beast puffed hot sour air in Severus’ face. His vision began to fade, and he panicked. No, no, no! Just breathe! Just… breathe…

His eyes flew wide open and the shack faded away, the stonework of his dungeon bedroom’s ceiling coming into hazy focus. Severus’ breathing was harsh, and his heart was pounding against his rib cage. The right side of his body felt like it was burning from the inside out. Severus’ leg was shaking violently. He ground his teeth as he held his jaw tight, determined to not cry out in pain.

Sweat bloomed on his forehead and his fingers twisted in the duvet. At the pain’s epicenter, the bundle of nerves located near the small and deeply hidden piriformis muscle at the top of his arse, it felt like a hot poker was being pushed deep into his body. It was beginning to be too much; his heart hammered in double-time, his muscles ached from being held taut against his will. Severus began to deeply occlude, lest he pass out from the pain. The mental strength required to ignore the pain and make his mind blank was a Herculean effort.

Focusing inward, he imagined that he was standing in the middle of a Cokeworth street between two endless parallel rows of terrace houses. Severus stared unmoving, fixating on the convergence point, the spot in the distance where the buildings and street appeared to come together. His mind’s eye glazed over, the edges of the imagery fading; the buildings and road dissolving, leaving an empty space of just Severus and the distant vanishing point.

In this blank zone, as wide as the infinite universe and just as quiet, he could ignore his physical trauma. Here Severus could not feel his muscles contracting in pain, nor could he hear his teeth grind together. This was a safe space, independent of outside stimuli, as long as his defenses held true. His mental fortitude was immediately tested when a red surge of light, like distant lightning in a fog, burst to his right; it was the pain trying to get through. Severus concentrated on the faraway dot again, and the red faded away, leaving behind nothing but the usual white haze.

Severus steadied his breathing. In and out. In and out. Inhaling to his full lung capacity, holding it for two beats, and then releasing it in a steady exhale. Over and over. In and out. In and out. Gradually he dropped more of the divider between the physical plane and its internal impact. As he did so there were no more intruding flashes of light, indicating that his body was no longer in turmoil; meaning that Severus felt confident enough that he could completely reverse the process. He let his concentration fall fully away, the buildings and road expanding from where they had receded, stretching to full size.

Just as he fully came back to himself, prior to leaving this dissociative place, Severus inhaled the familiar smells of Cokeworth: ash and smog. His eyes fluttered open and he began to take stock of his situation. He was in his bed, the reflection of the Black Lake rippling across his ceiling from the underground window. The blanket was tangled around his limbs. Unlike his dream the damp spot in Severus’ bed was not on his neck, but rather his pelvis. His lip curled. Disgusting. The strong odor of urine filled the air. He twitched his sore legs as he contemplated his next move.

He settled on the obvious: One thing at a time.

With considerable effort, Severus peeled the wet fabric off his hips. Gingerly, he maneuvered his legs out from under the duvet completely. Now sit up. Severus attempted to rise. While his muscles were no longer spasming, they didn’t want to cooperate. They felt like they were made of lead, inflexible and heavy. Severus groaned, frustrated at his predicament. Simply removing himself from the bed was going to be a colossal undertaking. He gripped the edge of the mattress with his left hand and heaved himself on to his side. Inch by inch he maneuvered his legs to the edge of the bed. Severus paused, took a fortifying breath, and then swung his legs off the mattress. The pain in his lower back flared to life.

Jesus Christ. Severus clenched his jaw. Come on, come on. Before he could talk himself out of it he rolled on and over his hip, effectively shifting his weight to his stomach and elbows. He hissed. His bent legs were splayed beneath him, his toes the only part of his feet touching the floor. How was it possible to feel so stiff and yet so tender at the same time? Gods, this was the worst attack Severus has had in recent memory. He should have known it was coming, he had that episode the first day of term, when he was close to collapsing in the hall while talking to Granger. That would have been absolutely mortifying; although darkly karmic as he did purposefully antagonize her.

Now stand up. His body refused. Fuck. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. Stand. Up.

Severus forced his feet to lower fully to the floor. He inhaled shakily, held it, and then released the breath. On the exhale, he pushed off the bed, compelling his feet to support his body. Severus swayed as he gained equilibrium, the room threatening to spin out from under him. His spine was rigid, his shoulders taut. Severus felt like a stretched elastic band on the verge of snapping. His fingernails dug into his palms. This wasn’t over. He still had to get to the loo. Unless… he concentrated on his magic, willing it to retrieve his muscle tonic. Nothing happened.

Goddammit. He was too distracted, too hurt to help himself.

Walk, he commanded.

Severus’ slow gait to the loo was similar to a stiff swinging pendulum, rotating his hips more than bending his knees to propel himself forward. Once in front of the sink he gripped the edge of the basin, leaning heavily on his hand. With the other he rummaged in the cabinet and plucked out the muscle tonic. It was not a cure, as it wasn’t targeting the cause of his pain, but it would allow him to get through the day. Severus popped the cork and downed the vial. The liquid was cool as it traveled down his raw throat, which he hadn’t noticed until now. Did I yell in my sleep? Mercifully, the potion was fast-acting. The comforting warmth spread from his midsection like a girdle, circling around his back and finally giving relief to his muscles.

Cautiously, Severus shifted his weight once more to his feet. His shoulders drooped in relief when he discovered he could stand without trembling. The pain in his back had receded to a dull ache. Fuck it all. Severus rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles. Feeling his strength return he vanished away his wet pyjama bottoms.

Severus caught his own gaze in the mirror. Lanky hair, dark-circled eyes, sallow skin. A miserable old sod if he had ever seen one. He was so very tired. Severus was in his own pit of fiendfyre. He had to pull himself out of it. He had to work on that damn nerve tonic.

Staff was granted free leave of two meals over the weekends; Severus could sit for breakfast and then work throughout the rest of the day in his lab. It would mean he’d have to attend every meal tomorrow but it would be worth it if he made any headway today.

Decision made he summoned a cup of black coffee before beginning his morning ablutions.

- - -

Severus rubbed his forehead in frustration as he scratched out an entire arithmantic equation. He couldn’t even blame his incompetency on the distracting buzz in the Great Hall; the frenzied unrest amongst the student body, in regard to Clearwater’s first group counseling session later today, had already faded away to a dull roar. He tapped his quill against the preceding line. Something was off. The equation was close, certainly closer than it was this time last year, yet the final piece of the puzzle refused to materialize. The numbers simply were not adding up to what he needed to ensure that he wouldn’t continue to waste precious expensive potion ingredients in his experiments.

The side staff door squeaked open and Severus’ eyes cut up from the parchment. He felt his lip curl automatically. Granger and Clearwater had just flounced through the entryway arms hooked together. As expected, Granger had seemed to settle in easily this first week of the term, already having what appeared to be a comfortable camaraderie with several other staff members. It shouldn't bother him, it shouldn’t matter. And yet… Severus was still inordinately jealous at how she effortlessly fell into friendships.

A sudden movement from the Slytherin table attracted his attention away from the pair; a first year waved at Granger as the librarian crossed the dais. Granger smiled and returned one of her own. Astoundingly, she had—so far—been true to her word about not being biased against the students under his care. The usual gossip in the Common Room regarding the staff was favorable towards her; and when Severus had heard that she had assigned her first detention to a Gryffindor he felt compelled to confirm the validity with Minerva. Time would tell if this was simply all a farce or if she was genuine. Admittedly, the fact that Granger hadn’t deducted points from Miss Knight a week ago had caught him by complete surprise. However, Severus was unwilling to trust her so openly without further evidence, a perpetual side effect of his decades long role as a double spy.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Granger hesitate briefly on Clearwater’s arm. After a quick assessment of the surrounding area he discovered why she had. The only two free adjacent seats were directly to his left. It appeared that even if Granger was nondiscriminatory towards his students she didn’t want anything to do with him. Typical.

Severus could feel the tension coming off her in waves as she sat stiffly beside him. Her distaste with him was plainly obvious.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” she muttered softly as she flicked her serviette across her lap.

“Granger.”

There, he acknowledged her presence but he wasn’t going to purposefully further the conversation for the sake of appearances. Besides, what would they talk about? His research? Over his limp, dead body. Quidditch? There was no Slytherin victory to boast about this early in the year. He also had no desire to start Granger on a tangent about her probable plain, by-the-book evaluating procedure in regard to the Restricted Section. It would be, no doubt, just like her assignments as a student: pragmatic and efficient, but lacking any sense of creativity. So where did that leave him, truly? Steering the small talk towards the innate British love of queues and discussing the weather? I’d rather host every Hogsmeade weekend; torturous yes, but not as bad as—

Severus blinked, breaking himself free of his ruminations; realizing at the same time that Granger was rudely peering at his parchment with a furrowed brow, her honey-brown eyes running over his equations. Bloody chit of a girl! He scowled, snatching the paper and folding it safely away into his pocket. At least she had the fucking decency to look ashamed, her cheeks flaming red.

“I’m sorry,” Granger said, not quite meeting his angry gaze. “I couldn’t help it.”

Severus rolled his eyes and shifted slightly, angling his shoulder between them, creating a physical barrier with his body. His mood dropped several degrees. First, he was forced to sit next to someone who clearly would rather be anywhere else. And now, second, Granger had taken it upon herself to snoop and it wouldn’t be very long at all before she felt compelled to—

“It looked like you were trying to reach a rather high number…”

He spoke through gritted teeth, his annoyance growing, “I didn’t ask for your help, Granger.”

Eyes hard, Severus turned to look at her properly, and she winced. “I know. Sorry.” Granger nibbled on her bottom lip, the flesh becoming pink and swollen. “Have you tried adding heat to whatever it is? Like something with capsaicin? Or Ashwinder eggs?”

Severus’ eyes snapped to the ornate iron clock above the main entryway. Twenty minutes had elapsed since the beginning of the meal. He really should stay longer to appease Minerva, however, he needed to escape from this fresh hell before he did something foolish. Like get into a public argument with one of the Headmistress’ favorite cubs.

“Of course I did, Granger.” He sharpened his voice, a blade to cut quickly to the wick, when he continued, “I am not a novice in my field.” Unlike you.

He knew Granger had picked up on the subtext as her eyes went cold. “I was only trying to help.”

“And I have already said,” Severus stood to his full height, towering over her, “that I didn’t ask for it.”

“Fine,” she spat. “Go against all good advice then. After all, what would I know? It’s not like I had to become highly proficient in Arithmancy as a Curse-Breaker or anything. Might as well try something with menthol then, for all the good it will do you!”

Severus scoffed and their steely gazes met, both equally impassive. It would be immensely satisfying to debunk her logic right here and now. To remind her that even if she had passable Arithmantic skills they weren’t at the same level as his decades of experience. One of her eyebrows ticked up and just then Severus had a wicked thought. If he really wanted to get under Granger’s skin there was one thing an insufferable know-it-all would take high offense to. Oh, nothing would aggravate her further than simply not engaging and walking away. Granger’s attempt at persuasion would rattle around in that curly framed head of hers for hours.

It would be marvelous.

A savage smile crossed his face, and Granger inhaled sharply; she was obviously ready to debate her point. Then he suddenly stalked behind her chair towards the exit, her face falling into a mien of confusion. Feeling her eyes bore into his back, Severus couldn’t stop the dark chuckle that bubbled up from deep in his chest.

- - -

Hermione pressed her hands between her knees to stop from fidgeting. The spare classroom—the group counseling space ad interim—on the third floor was slowly filling with the seventh years, their voices a low murmur. Hermione didn’t want her presence to be even more of a distraction; she’d never have been comfortable baring herself in counseling if there were a teacher present. She grimaced as Penelope’s haughty voice echoed in her head from earlier outside the Great Hall, Oh, don’t worry, you aren’t a real teacher, Hermione. Please come, I want you to see what I do.

It had irked her, being reduced to something akin to a second-class staff member. True, she didn’t have the duties as a full fledged Professor but what she was doing for the school was just as equally important. However, once Penelope wrapped her arm around hers, her offense died on her lips. Insecurity rounded its head; Hermione wanted Penelope to like her. She didn’t want to spend the entirety of the year alone, miserable. It wasn’t particularly hard to stay silent either, as other than her short-lived and rather disastrous conversation with Snape, Penelope hadn’t allowed a lull in their conversation over breakfast.

Hermione huffed, blowing her hair out of her face. Professor Snape had been a right arse at breakfast. She had only been trying to help! And she could have proved it too, if he hadn’t walked away. Maybe he was afraid of actually being wrong. She rolled her shoulders, releasing the simmering frustration. Yes, that is what I’m going to tell myself. Hermione wasn’t going to give Snape any more power over her today, she wouldn’t think about him even once more.

Just then Sadie Knight, and a Hufflepuff—Lawson, Eden— crossed her line of vision to sit together on the other side of the room. Despite her previous resolve, the image of Snape backlit in the corridor as he watched Miss Knight descend the Common Room staircase, the curved line of his tailored coat in sharp contrast to the straight lines of the surrounding stone, flashed in her mind. She rolled her eyes. Well done, Hermione. You’ve really let him get under your skin. Again.

Penelope had been flipping through the papers in her accordion file as the students entered, preparing for her session. When she rose her head to assess the room her expression hardened. It wasn’t much; it wouldn’t have been very noticeable to many people, Penelope’s usual neutral expression tended to be discontented. However, Hermione had attended several years of school with Penelope and she had seen that look before. Typically, it was when someone broke a rule—no matter how small—or when Percy had earned her wrath due to some romantic faux pas.

“Oh, no thank you,” Penelope’s voice rang out over the students’ hushed voices. “Sit with your House, please.” She flicked her hand, gesturing for Miss Knight to move herself to the opposite corner.

Miss Lawson’s pale face crumpled. Miss Knight leaned in, whispering something to the other girl, before squeezing her hand and following Penelope’s orders.

Penelope caught Hermione’s gaze and titled her head, an eyebrow raised, as if to say ‘Slytherins, yeah?’. Not wanting to be contradictory to Penelope’s authority she responded with a wan smile, although she didn’t agree with it. Would it have really hurt? To allow them to sit together? They obviously care for each other.

“Hello, everyone,” Penelope greeted as she sat on the desk’s top and crossed her legs. “It’s good to see you back. I hope you’ve all settled in by now. How are we all doing in regards to that?”

Hermione scanned the room to see that the students had lowered their gazes to the floor; no one wanted to be the first to speak. The action was reminiscent of every class lecture she had attended, both nostalgia and bewilderment pulled at her in equal measure. Time acted strangely, even without the use of a time turner; the period of her life as a student simultaneously felt like it had occurred only yesterday and several years ago. The feelings attached to life then—stresses of academia, followed by exhausting hunger in the Forest of Dean— were still there, but everything felt dull and less vivid.

It was a Hufflepuff—Jones or Anderson—who finally broke the ice. “The nightmares have returned.”

Several nearby classmates nodded in agreement.

“What was it about Mr. Anderson? A cave-in, like last year?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t had any at home.” He swept his hair out of his face. “But I had one the very first night back. And several since.”

There were more vigorous nods from his housemates and the Slytherins.

“Hmm,” Penelope smacked her lips, a hint of what sounded like patronization seeping through. “It is not entirely unexpected when returning to a traumatic environment, unfortunately.”

“But every night?” Mr. Anderson wrung his hands together as he leaned on his knees. “One time I woke up and…” his voice dropped. “I thought it was real. It felt real.” A nearby classmate squeezed his shoulder in support.

“It’s not real. It’s all in your head.”

“I know that but—”

“Our mindfulness exercises will help with this. Remember, we’re trying to avoid a chemical cosh for things that are treatable by other means. So, I need you to focus and really try your best with them or otherwise you’ve wasted our time.” Penelope moved her attention to the group of Ravenclaws. “You’ve been quiet, Miss Harper. Have you had any problems re-acclimating?”

It took a long moment for Miss Harper to respond, as if she hadn’t expected Penelope to change focus so suddenly. “None yet. I don’t like being alone but I haven’t had any nightmares like—”

“Perfect.” Penelope clapped her hands together and the sudden noise made Hermione and several other students flinch. “I think it prudent we begin our meditation practice. Even if you aren’t suffering like some of your classmates, it may prove helpful for exams or daily stresses.”

“Is it true, Miss?” Hermione craned her head to look towards the back corner of Gryffindors. This year’s Head Girl, Alba Roberts, had been the one to speak up. “Is it true about Ronan?”

With the question an oppressive hush fell over the already quiet room. All eyes had flicked to Penelope, and for a beat she looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of Hermione’s father’s Vauxhall Astra. Hermione leaned closer. She had never mustered the courage to ask after the whereabouts of Ronan Marsh; she didn’t want to bother Minerva with it, and hell if she was going to ask Snape. Now, her curiosity ever thankful, it appeared that she was finally going to get an answer to the cause of his absence.

Penelope’s face grew taut, her expression pinched. “And what,” she said slowly, “did you hear, exactly?”

“That he saw something—”

“A hallucination,” Penelope corrected.

“A hallucination the last day of school. That it scared him.”

Penelope had Hermione’s complete attention, and she held her breath as Penelope gathered her thoughts.

“Remember what I told you all last year? That hallucinations are… simply byproducts of overactive imaginations and tired bodies. They are not real. They cannot hurt you. Ronan…” Penelope expelled a puff of air that dislodged her bangs. “He couldn’t take the pressure of his classes and therefore he withdrew. That’s the answer. Nothing spooked him into leaving, that’s ridiculous. You are witches and wizards and are above such juvenile Muggle-like fears.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the almost derogatory way Penelope had said ‘Muggle’. Anyone could suffer from hallucinations, they weren’t just something that Muggles were afflicted with. Is that what I experienced last week? A hallucination? Or was it really just the towel on the wall… Was it Hermione’s return back to the castle, a place that held as many bad memories as good, that made the trauma-center of her brain go into overdrive, like Mr. Anderson’s dreams?

A Slytherin spoke up, “But I have—”

“For Merlin’s Sake!” Penelope slapped the desk with her palm. “It’s all post traumatic stress, as we discussed last year. Nothing has changed! Several other teachers and students have had it worse, and you don’t see anyone else falling apart. You will get through this. I will not entertain any further discussion on the subject. I won’t coddle you, that’s not my job.”

Hermione was stunned into stillness, the blood rushing loudly through her ears. None of this sounded right; admittedly, she had never been to a counselor before so this could be the standard treatment. Yet, as she scanned the room after Penelope’s speech she observed that several students—particularly those who resided in the dungeons—had flushed faces. Were they angry? Ashamed? Were those feelings they should be feeling in treatment? Hermione thought not, but Penelope was the expert… wasn’t she?

She steepled her fingers in front of her face to hide the emotions she knew must have been plain to see, her elbows on her knees. Hermione’s gut twisted tightly as Penelope began leading a breathing exercise. No, no… something isn’t right. Right? Her intuition was screaming at her, but the logical part of her brain was attempting to overrule. Penelope was educated, she had completed her training, this wasn’t even her first session; although, Hermione did not have anything to compare it to as she had started her Curse-Breaking apprenticeship the same month as Penelope’s hiring.

Hermione had only been on the staff for a handful of weeks, she had no seniority to lean on when bringing forth a complaint. It really wasn’t her place to make suggestions or tip the ship. What if Hermione brought up her concerns and was told she was just a Librarian? The dismissal would crush her, and if word got back to Penelope and she was scorned for the remainder of the year... her chance to gain a friend on the staff would be cut practically in half. It was too risky.

She would stay silent, for now.

- - -

Hermione finally returned to the sanctuary of her library after dinner. She hadn’t planned on working tonight; she had been so emotionally overtaxed by Penelope’s back-to-back sessions that she had to have a lie down between lunch and dinner and was looking forward to an early bedtime. However, over pork roast and potatoes, Philip mentioned that he’d like to check out a book regarding liver bile that was strangely sorted in the Blood Magic row of the Restricted Section.

It was ridiculously difficult to deny those soft gray eyes; it always had been for the older girls if Hermione’s memory served correctly. Besides, it wasn’t like she had anything more pressing.

Blessedly, Professor Snape hadn’t made another appearance in the Great Hall; if he had Hermione was certain that she wouldn’t have had the energy to engage with him, and he’d think that he’d won their argument. Which was preposterous. She was right. Snape just didn’t know it yet.

Hermione leaned against the closed door, the cool wood a balm on her back, and inhaled deeply. This space was home. The high ceilings, the sunken alcoves, the smells of parchment and book glue, and the intuitive layout of the stacks. All of it was safe and familiar.

She glanced around the dim space. Even though it was devoid of students at this hour some evidence of their time here remained. With a flick of her wand, the tables cleared of spare parchment, and discarded quills. The books in the carts re-shelved themselves with a flutter. Upon her approach to the main desk, the glossy finish on the rosewood reflecting the sconce light, Hermione ran her finger down the tidy columns of checked out books in the ledger. Based on the titles it looked like fifth-year Charms was beginning the year with fire spells.

Entering her office the painting hanging behind her desk caught her gaze, and she smiled. Hermione loved the rhythmic rustling of the wheat stalks; soon it would be winter, frigid and miserable, and the sunny scene would go lengths in cheering her. She turned her attention to the index card covered cork board. She eyed the bright red card labeled Blood Magic. It would be far easier to begin with a green card, something akin to a warm-up. However, if she was able to open this row for Philip he would be so thankful. Maybe he’d invite her to his rooms for tea. This could be the first step towards their genuine friendship.

Yes, friendship, Hermione thought, her face flushing. Just friendship. Her hand hovered over the cork board. Nevermind how delicate Philip’s wrists looked as he scooped potatoes on his plate, or how his black hair glinted with subtle blue undertones when the light hit it just right… An internal voice that sounded suspiciously like Lavender Brown supplied, Or how he fills out his trousers!

Right, then! Hermione plucked the red card off the board, her face heating once more. Time to get a move on! Merlin, she really needed to get a grip on herself, former schoolgirl crush or not. Otherwise she may make an embarrassing blunder with the only man of her age in the Castle.

You mean the only one that still has a functional cock!

“Shut up, Lavender,” Hermione muttered to herself as she slipped her Curse-Breaking satchel off the hook near the door and hurried to the Restricted Section.

A few hours later, Hermione had cleared several shelves in the row; the books that had already been treated were ensconced in a pulsing gray web-like ward to protect them from being influenced by their tainted neighbors. Crossing the aisle to the last cluster of tomes that required her expertise, she plucked the container of Powder of Algaroth off an empty book cart. Sprinkling a generous amount on her palm, she blew it into the air. The dust cloud hung in the air for a moment before settling over the books.

As the powder settled, Hermione retrieved an unused heavy chunk of milky-white Selenite from her bag. She slipped a book off the shelf and rubbed the mineral over it. Selenite was effectively a magical sponge, and the Powder of Algaroth similar to sawdust sprinkled over a spill; one trapped the latent dark magic and the other cleaned the object, absorbing the magic-laced powder into the crystal where it would be neutralized.

Finishing this initial step, she carefully placed the book on the cart. With a flick of her wand the pages fanned and a pale orange arithmantic formula materialized in the air. The numbers and runes fell over themselves, ticking and rolling into place. The goal here was to not expunge the book of magic entirely, that was impossible; magic infiltrated every aspect of the Wizarding World. However, Curse-Breakers were trained to alter magic, to rearrange and convert it to reach the desired result. Which, in this case, was to make the books of the library safe for use. There wouldn’t be another Tom Riddle’s Diary on her watch.

Hmm, Hermione thought as the formula ticked into place, the numbers indicative that the book still had some stubborn dark magic clinging to it. Needs a few more adjustments. Hermione cast a Glacius, her breath immediately fogging in the air. The book shuddered and the formula’s numbers resorted themselves. A modified Anapneo quickly followed. As Hermione worked, casting spells to balance the magical makeup of the book, the formula continued to adjust.

Several minutes later, after a rapid volley of spell work, the floating formula glowed green. Hermione immediately cast a variant of Protego, a thin spidery thread escaped from the end of her wand to wrap the book in a protective shield. She wiped the sweat from her brow as she returned the book back to its usual place.

Only a dozen or so to go…

By the time Hermione had finished clearing the rest of the row, it was another hour or two later and the library had fallen into complete darkness save the sconces. She had cast several floating Lumos orbs a few books ago, and they bobbed merrily above her de facto workstation as she packed up her supplies. Prior to leaving the area Hermione made wide arcing gestures with her wand, writing the runes Algiz—protection, courage— and Perthro—fate, the unknowable universe—over the stacks.

She plodded, feet heavy and eyes blurry with exhaustion, towards the Library’s Common Area. Her Lumos orbs led the way, leading her home as if she was a lost duckling. Hermione shouldn’t have stayed up so late; the morning was going to be absolutely unforgiving. My effort will make Philip happy, though.

The Lumos orb that had been leading the way sputtered out.

Hermione, brain fuzzy from overextending herself, did not fully register what was happening. She didn’t stop in the middle of the stacks until the second orb dimmed away to nothing. What was occurring? It wasn’t as if magic fizzled out when the caster’s energy waned; otherwise, generational magic wouldn’t exist making the Curse-Breaking profession immediately defunct. Even if Hermione had fallen asleep, or passed out, her Lumos orbs would continue to glow until she or someone else stopped the spell. And she was alone… wasn’t she?

She rubbed her face, the last ball of light floating lazily near her head. Dragging her fingers down her cheek, something twitched in her periphery.

Hermione’s gaze swept slowly to the adjacent row, and she felt her hair stand on end. It was hard to see—the library seemed abnormally dark, even considering the ridiculous hour—but there was something there. The sphere of light glided closer to the crossway, and the outline of a dark humanoid form emerged from the surrounding shadows.

Hermione breathed in harshly, the unusual smell of sap and holly filling her lungs, as she turned to face the figure. It was simply too dark, she couldn’t make out exactly what or who she was looking at. She should be the only one in the library at this time, it was hours past curfew. The air buzzed with electric energy, and she felt her skin prickle. Suddenly, the shadow jerked as if a marionette.

“Fuck,” Hermione said as she stumbled back, her bag swinging off her arm. As she did so, something reflective flashed across the figure’s head.

She winced.

Then she bumped into something yielding and soft, the exact opposite of a hard-planed bookcase. She staggered, unsteady on her feet and skin hot, and felt something snatch at her robes.

Hermione shrieked, her scream echoing in the dark.

Chapter Text

September 11, 1999

3 Hours Earlier

Severus paused in preparing the next ingredient—white willow bark—to adjust the flame under the iron cauldron bubbling at his side. The sconces on the walls flared brighter to compensate, their shadows flickering across the stone walls.

Three, two, one… the arithmantic formula floating in his periphery flashed. Acknowledging the built-in Tempus, he scattered the wood betony cuttings across the top of the boiling liquid. Anticipating the chemical reaction, Severus leaned away from the hot purple flume of steam that erupted from the cauldron; so many of these steps had become second nature after thirty-seven trials. The formula adjusted accordingly, the digits rolling, two clicking into place.

Severus’ gaze flicked to the nearby notebook, a Dictate Quill hovering at attention over a blank line.

“Wood Betony. Progressing satisfactorily. Two stable digits. Numeral three and rune Thurisaz.”

The quill’s scratching joined Severus’ grating of the bark, a staccato in the lab. The bubbling of the cauldron kept a steady beat. Even the shimmering sconces added their own pianissimo. It was the art of potion making’s musical score, and Severus was the conductor. To an untrained eye brewing was perfectly mundane; however, to someone observant it was a subtle display of power. And absolutely intoxicating. It’s what attracted Severus to potions in the first place: having complete control over volatile ingredients, and making them sing in tune with each other. A skill based in intelligence and intuition rather than brawn and physical strength.

Five stirs, counterclockwise, amber rod, he mentally recited by memory as he slipped on the padded glove; a safety precaution as the heat of the potion would transfer to the rod in mere seconds. The formula flickered on the fourth stir and Severus raised an eyebrow. Interesting.

“Next trial, four stirs. Potion may be reacting with the amber rod. Experiment with different storage methods.”

As the liquid rotation slowed Severus weighed the bark shavings. Twenty-eight grams was too little last time, but fifty-six may be too much… he’d have to be very careful. With the vessel holding the shavings securely nestled in his palm Severus began to sprinkle them over the liquid. The formula’s numbers rolled as the liquid absorbed the shavings.

“White Willow Bark. Ten grams. Color unchanged. Fifteen grams. Twenty. Thirty. The violet color has turned lilac. Thirty-three.” Severus paused to eye the formula, one numerical slot was beginning to slow. “Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thir—”

A sudden muscle tremor tore through him, dislodging the vessel in his hand, all the contents spilling into the cauldron.

The arithmantic equation spun wildly, the color blinking rapidly from blue to orange then red. Severus had just enough time to bring his arm up to block the splatter of the hot potion as it immediately erupted on to the workbench. The spells woven into the wool material of his frock coat burst into a protective barrier, deflecting the scalding liquid away from his body.

The blood rushed through Severus’ ears, deafening the sound of the disturbing sizzle of the tonic dissolving the worktop. The smoke rising from the wood surface smelled strangely of grease. The workbench buckled, the liquid’s density solidifying as it rapidly cooled. He didn’t register that he had swept his wand over the mess, vanishing the potion and putting everything back to rights, until several minutes later. The adrenaline by then had drained away, and left him in chills.

Blinking unseeing at the now empty cauldron and the table, a large scorch mark where the liquid had eaten through it, Severus released a breath. All that wasted time… Rage was replacing shock. All those wasted ingredients. I could work through the night, but what’s the bloody fucking point? His body had betrayed him. Again. Two steps forward, three steps back. Over and over and over.

Severus’ skin was buzzing and hot, and his fingers itched. Shut. It. Down. He grimaced as he attempted to push the festering violent emotions behind his Occlumentic shields. However, they were bubbling too fast, threatening to overcome him, to overflow just as the potion had done. Just like the potion. Just like the potion.

With a roar he cleared the work surface, the cauldron’s clang echoing as it hit the floor.

“FUCK!”

Spinning around he grabbed his stool, the wood feeling cool in his hands, before turning and beating it against the wall. One strike. Two. The wood splintered in his hands, the legs detaching from the rest. Three. Four. He was breathing heavy and his vision was red. His jaw ached from clenching it. Five. Six. The stool was completely destroyed, the pieces scattered at his feet. Severus bellowed, slapping the stone wall with his hands, the sharp sting radiating up his arms.

Pop.

Severus whirled around to face the sudden intrusion, his boots squeaking against the stone. Before him was one of the owlery’s House-elfs holding a wrapped package. The elf’s ears lowered and their large eyes took up their entire face; they cowered due to his rage that must have been painted plainly on his face. Shame immediately washed over Severus. He had lost complete control over himself and now there was a witness to his weakness.

“What. Is. It?” Severus snarled, teeth bared.

The elf yelped and popped away, the left-behind package comically pausing in mid-air before falling to the floor with a thump. Severus wouldn’t be at all surprised if the elf had gone to Minerva to report on the condition of her Defense Professor. Fuck. That’s going to be a lecture.

He summoned the parcel silently, and it sailed through the air to his waiting palm. His eyebrow rose as he read the return address. The Marsh’s… ah, yes, Severus thought as he remembered his letter he sent last week inquiring about Ronan’s health and the whereabouts of the missing library book.

Severus cracked the seal of the kraft paper with his forefinger and slipped out the book, The Phenomena of Lucid Dreams. With it a letter fluttered out, his dark eyes catching a line in the first paragraph: We apologize for the delayed reply; we have been overcome with grief and going through Ronan’s belongings has been a very painful experience.

A cold flush immediately ran through Severus’ body and his legs gave way. His back slid down the wall, the stool pieces clattering as they were pushed out of the way with his body. There was a numb buzzing in his chest and his vision was blurry. Severus’ fingers itched just out of reach of the paper written in Ronan’s mother’s elegant script, smudged and splattered with what he presumed were her tears. No, no, no, no, no…

No, no, no, no.

No, no.

No.

- - -

Severus entered the darkened library, the doors’ usual squeaky hinge silent. How irritating. Damn, how much did Granger already change? Truly on some logical level, Severus knew that the door hinges had no bearing on his sour mood, instead they were simply another bullet point in an ever growing list. However, it was so much easier to allow himself to feel anger over insubstantial matters rather than sadness. Easier to lash out. Easier to focus on the cruelty of it all. Much easier than being vulnerable.

Severus went through the motions of returning the book to the library on autopilot; he barely noticed that he had slipped the volume on top of the front desk, his thoughts miles away. Ronan had been an exceptionally talented student. He had been slated to be this year’s Head Boy, and had a promising future as a brilliant astronomer… Another life cut short. And for what?

A flood of emotions surged through him. Guilt. Had I not done enough? I should have visited. Helplessness. No, there really was nothing more I could have done as Head of House. Anger. Why must life continue to be so goddamn unfair? Anguish. Another family’s legacy snuffed out. Apprehension. How am I ever going to explain this to the Slytherins?

Severus’ fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the desk, unconsciously following the wood’s grain. If he wasn’t careful he’d let his emotions get the better of him. Again. Severus allowed his eyes to unfocus, bringing up the memory of Spinner’s End, retreating to the blank space in his mind. Better to shunt these emotions off now, prior to finishing his trek up to the Headmistress’ Quarters; one of them would need a stiff upper lip to get through the conversation and he couldn’t rely on Minerva.

Feeling sufficiently hollow he thought, Better get on with it then. There was no point in delaying the inevitable any longer. As he turned back towards the door, his gaze passing over a new map of the stacks—undoubtedly another Granger initiative—something out of place in the middle of the Restricted Section caught his eye. It was faint. Yet if his sight wasn’t deceiving him it appeared that someone and their bobbing orb of light was out of bed. Breaking the rules.

For a split moment—in a true testament of his state of mind—Severus did not wish to engage. He could easily feign ignorance, after all he had more pressing matters to attend to. However, seductive, like a lover’s caress, the lessons of past inattention whispered to him. The odd way Quirrell had acted upon his return from the continent, Karkaroff’s paranoia, how Moaning Myrtle had diverted Severus from her bathroom for two months in 1992… Ignoring whatever, or whoever, was in the stacks now could have long-reaching consequences. It was too risky.

Rubbing his tired eyes, he marched onto the breach and into the stacks, his robe flicking about his ankles.

As he turned the corner of the Dark Creatures row, someone with feral untamed hair backed into him and screamed. Severus’ hands automatically reached out to steady them even as he winced as his ears rang. Blinking away the shock he realized that there was only one person in the whole damnable castle that could own that head of hair.

“Bloody fucking hell, Granger,” he grit through his teeth.

Granger spun to face him, her eyes wild, her fingers digging into his frock coat. “Oh, thank God, it’s you!”

Severus stilled, stunned into momentary silence. Her unexpected, yet obvious, relief appeared genuine. Baffling. Out of all the possible reactions to his presence—anger, resentment, embarrassment, toleration—Severus never expected relief, never expected to be treated as someone safe. Does she… trust me? Their eyes met and she blushed—or was that the dim lighting playing tricks with his eyes?—and they both blinked, returning to the situation at hand, before speaking at the same time:

“Did you see anyone?”

“Unhand me, Granger.”

After registering what he had said Granger quickly removed her hands from his person as if she had been burned. “Sorry.” She twirled back towards the stacks she had exited from, her hair thwacking against his chest. Granger’s lone Lumos orb twisted in the air next to them. “Did you see anyone else here?” she repeated.

It was a curious question as it was obvious that they were alone.

He spoke slowly, feeling disconcerted, “No, it’s just the two of us.”

“No, no, no, no,” she stuttered. “I saw…. something…”

Granger sounded unsure of herself, a definite unnatural state of being. It bothered him more than he’d care to admit. Granger hadn’t been timid a day in her life. She had always rushed into things without any sign of nerves; punching young Draco in the face, breaking into that bloody bank, accepting her Curse-Breaking apprenticeship… she had been rightly sorted into Gryffindor.

“I assure you,” Severus pitched his voice low as to not spook her further, “I would have seen someone leave. I have just arrived myself.” Granger turned back to look at him with wide eyes filled with fear. He suddenly felt an impulse to make her feel anything else. Based on past experience he knew that antagonizing her was the fastest way to do so. “You look like shite, Granger.” It had the desired effect, the spark returned to her eyes as she funneled her emotions into a low simmering aggravation. “Perhaps all you’ve seen,” Severus continued, “is a trick of the mind due to exhaustion. A hallucin—”

“It wasn’t a hallucination!” One of his eyebrows ticked up. Granger was quicker to anger than he anticipated. She roughly brushed the hair off her face. “And even if it was, it doesn't mean I’m weak or inferior.” Where did she get that rubbish idea from?

“That’s not—”

“Why are you even here, Snape?” Granger’s tone was like a paper cut, sharp but without any real force behind it. Her shoulders drooped, evidence of her exhaustion returning. What has she been doing all night?

Severus wanted to ask it. The answer would, at the very least, prove to be a good distraction from what he was on his way to do. However, it was obvious that she was not in any state to hold a coherent long conversation. Further, there would be no more joy found in goading her, nor did he find himself actually capable of being a lucid conversational partner himself. Bearing that in mind he responded, “I returned The Phenomena of Lucid Dreams. It’s at the front desk.”

“Oh.” Granger somehow deflated even further. Her gaze skittered around him to finally rest at his shoulder. “Is… Ronan all right? Some students were asking after him in the counseling session I observed today.”

Severus sighed. He could evade the answer. But she would find out soon enough. And wasn’t the news better coming from him? Now?

“No, Granger,” he felt his bottom lip quiver despite his best efforts to stay stoic, “he died by suicide last month.”

- - -

“Do you remember when Ronan was a first year and crashed his broom through the roof of one of the Herbology sheds?”

Severus felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “I think it was the first time I had heard of Hooch assigning a detention.”

Standing at the window in the Headmaster’s Tower, overlooking the Quidditch Pitch and the forest beyond, Severus was witness to twilight arriving at Hogwarts. The Pitch was aglow in a warm light, the shadows of the sentinel goal posts stretching across the empty stands. The sun was moments from rising over the horizon, and it felt like the world was holding its breath. There was an idleness. A silence. A reverence. This was the time of day, seconds before dawn, where the concept of hope had been conceived.

Except there is no hope today. The sun finally crested over the tree line. There is only misery.

Minerva’s reflection shifted in her chair behind him as she pulled the tattered edges of her shawl tighter around herself, bringing Severus’ focus squarely back to reality. She had taken the contents of the letter better than expected. Yes, her emotions—shock, anguish, pity—had played out plainly on her face however she had held herself together. She had, unsurprisingly, become more jaded in the last decade. They all had; Death had hunted for them all. Severus felt the scarred skin on his neck tighten. Some had brushed closer to the inevitable than others.

“He was a bright boy.”

“Yes.”

“I am truly sorry, Severus.”

He didn’t reply. What was there to say? It wasn’t acceptable and he’d never say it was. Thanking her for her condolences was polite, but it would be empty gratitude. There shouldn’t be condolences to give in the first place.

The tick of the clock in the corner was the only sound in the room other than a subtle shift of a portrait, everyone in attendance understanding the crushing weight of losing a student. It would be only—fifteen? Twelve?—minutes until the rest of the House Heads arrived; maybe only ten, Minerva’s tabby Patronus could be just as irritatingly persistent as a real cat who could see the bottom of their food bowl.

Severus’ eyes flicked to Albus’ empty portrait. Severus hadn’t been seeing much of him lately, and he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t a coincidence. Admittedly, Albus had been a brilliant tactician, and without him Voldemort would have surely won, but his blueprint ended abruptly without any guidance for the world he had left behind. Albus had the frustrating tendency to not see the forest for the trees; once his plan to slay Voldemort had come into fruition, it didn’t matter the state that the other chess pieces were in.

The health of Severus’ soul after casting the Avada Kedevra? The psychological toil of the students and his colleagues due to his deceptive actions during his year as Headmaster? The effects of forcing three children to carry the world on their shoulders when they felt themselves utterly isolated and alone? They were all simply unfortunate side effects. Sacrifices.

Albus hadn’t appreciated that term, though. Gryffindors did not like to hear that they had done something poorly.

Winning the War was easy, Albus; taking care of what is left behind is the difficult part.

“Severus,” Minerva’s soft voice floated across the room, breaking him free of his thoughts. “This is not the most appropriate time to ask this but Finley arrived to my quarters a few hours ago…”

He sighed heavily. The House-elf. His destroyed lab.

Minerva tapped the letter on her desk. “Were you in such a state because you had just received this?”

“No.” Severus tore his gaze away from the empty frame to face her. “Finley had been the one to deliver it to me.”

Her eyes softened. “What… happened, then?”

He quickly weighed the pros and cons of divulging his failings to her. There was a time, not terribly too long ago, when he wouldn’t have hesitated to be vulnerable in her presence. Severus felt a sting of guilt that he was seriously considering to not take her into his confidence this time. “I was unsuccessful. Again.”

“Severus,” Minerva’s tone was gentle, kind, as if she was speaking to an overextended first year. “You are working with a complicated potion. From scratch. Without assistance.”

“I invented countless spells and potions—”

“In your youth, sure! This may come as a surprise to you but you aren’t twenty years old anymore.”

He scoffed. “I’m not old either, Minerva.”

“Severus,” she said more forcefully, “you are still in recovery from your injuries, you cannot—”

“It is immaterial,” he dismissed with a lazy wave of his hand. “I should be able to do it.”

“You are struggling needlessly. You should get someone to help you! And you wouldn’t have to go far to find it. Phillip would love to have the opportunity to work with you as a peer. Or even Hermione, she was very bright in potions if I recall correctly.”

At the mention of her name, Severus remembered the odd conversation he had had with Granger in the library. It was still niggling him even hours later. “Granger told me something odd earlier,” he began, and Minerva’s eyebrow rose, “she seemed to have a peculiar idea about hallucin—”

A clatter rose from the griffin stairwell then, indicating that the other House Heads were arriving en masse. This conversation would have to wait for later.

Severus tucked his hands into his elbows and faced the window again. The sun’s rays hit the stained glass lunette window of an Evening Primrose above his head, and the flower began to close in response, to lay dormant for another day. How he desperately wished he could follow its example.

- - -

September 12, 1999

That Evening

Severus eyed the mermaid on the wall wearily. The Prefect’s Bathroom, with its heated pool, was really the only appropriate place that could be used for his hydrotherapy, but couldn’t something be done about the constantly leering guest? The way the Siren’s eyes roved over his form made him uncomfortable. It didn’t help matters that her overtures had been becoming more aggressive as of late.

At a session over the summer she had taken an inordinate amount of time to braid her hair, her back arched, exposing her breasts. It could have been innocent, the mermaid was technically an object, animated as she was. However, he had seen that smirk on women before. It was inconsequential that she was a portrait, there was an undeniable and disturbing essence of the real thing—an alluring Siren hellbent on luring him to the shore— all the same.

Poppy, in her sensible swimming costume, was already in the pool adjusting the temperature with her wand. “Ready when you are, Severus.”

He turned his back on the mermaid and dropped the towel that was covering his trunks. Gingerly, he lowered himself into the shallows of the warm pool. The heated water had an immediate effect on Severus’ taut muscles, loosening them. He felt his face relax and he had to stifle a moan of relief.

It didn’t pass Poppy’s astute aesculapian gaze. As she maneuvered him into the positioning for the first stretch she asked, “How are you doing, Severus?”

“I’m bloody knackered.”

She hummed in response, bending his legs under the water.

Floating in the water, the exercises routine by now, Severus’ thoughts returned to this morning. Shortly after the House Heads had been apprised of the situation he met with his Slytherins in the dungeons as they gathered to attend breakfast. After he had shared the devastating news he had given them his consent to stay inside the comfort of the Common Room for the entirety of the day, if they so desired.

Instead, they had arrived to the Great Hall united. Their heads held high. When his students entered the hall, in a true act as to how far the school had come from the bitter interhouse rivalries of years past, every student stood in commiseration. He was overcome with pride and relief to see how his students were supported in their time of need. There was no hostility, just a shared grief amongst children who couldn’t seem to get out from under Death’s heavy shadow.

However, guilt soon turned its face to Severus once again. I failed to protect them. Ronan is another victim of my house’s legacy.

Is Slytherin house really cursed?

“Yes, I imagine so,” Poppy said softly, eerily cutting off his ruminations. “This shall help you sleep tonight, though. Let’s move into the next stretch now.”

Severus floated flat on his back as Poppy began to maneuver his body into the correct position. When she had suggested hydrotherapy a year ago, he had scoffed and thought it utter nonsense. It had taken weeks to finally get him into the pool, and he had only acquiesced to get the Matron off his back.

The results, though, were undeniable. The weightlessness Severus experienced in the water removed the pressure off of his nerves. He would feel the therapeutic effects for at least the next twelve hours. A guaranteed good night’s sleep. If he didn’t have a nightmare that is. Poppy ran her hands down his body, twisting his muscles. He grimaced.

“Too painful?”

“No.”

She gave him a knowing look. After a moment, her hands curling under his thigh, she paused. “Severus, you did everything you could have done.” Damn. I don’t want another conversation about this, I am so tired. Unfortunately for him, Poppy knew that he couldn’t escape from her and she continued, “I hope you know that.”

Severus’ annoyance seeped out when he replied, “You can’t be certain of that.” He hissed when she bent his leg backward from the hip, arching his back.

“Oh, yes I do. I’ve known you for close to thirty years. You probably wrote to the family at least once a fortnight over the summer to check on Ronan after his breakdown.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Sometimes…” Poppy moved around his legs to his other hip. “Sometimes you can do everything you can, you can do everything right, you can do more than you’ve ever done, and horrible things still happen.”

The words felt inordinately heavy as they fell over him, and if it wasn’t for his buoyancy, Severus knew he’d sink to the bottom of the pool like a stone.

Poppy worked in silence for several more minutes, twisting and extending his legs, relaxing the muscles that impacted the sciatic nerve. “Do you remember,” she chuckled, “do you remember when Ronan’s cauldron oozed over and he was sent to me when he was… a third or fourth year?”

It had been another mistake. One Severus had not caught in time. He grit his teeth. “Yes.”

“The scarring on his arm. It resembled the Cassiopeia constellation. It was the catalyst for his love of astronomy, wasn’t it? He was very good at that. Finding the good in things.” The water sloshed over his chin as Poppy moved again. “He would have been an excellent Head Boy.”

“Yes.” She moved again and the water splashed over his forehead. “I was proud of him.”

“Yes,” she said, repeating his words.

“Why, Poppy?” He blamed the wetness on his face on her increasingly clumsy movements around the pool.

“I don’t have an answer for that one, I’m afraid. However, if you need a friendly ear, at any time, you know my office is always open to you.”

He sighed. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

“I keep those Ginger Newts you’re so fond of in stock.”

“Bribery won’t work on me.” It was a lie and they both knew it. “Thank you,” he muttered low.

She smiled kindly. “Don’t mention it. Now let’s work on this nerve bundle here…”

- - -

An hour later, Severus was returning to the dungeons. His relief palpable. He felt lighter than he had in weeks.

This should be my normal, he thought bitterly as he descended the main staircase. This agony, the torture of knowing that this state of comfort was fleeting, reignited his motivation to revisit his experiments. But not tonight. I really need to sleep. As the distance between himself and his suite of rooms decreased, Severus’ eyes grew heavier and heavier. The cold air seeped under his skin, lulling him further towards sleep.

Severus extinguished the sconces leading down the last corridor. His eyes had grown too sensitive to the light. This had the unfortunate effect of distorting the shadows in the dungeons, and they appeared to elongate and twist on their own. Disoriented with exhaustion he was vaguely aware that it was simply a trick of his tired eyes. Granger undoubtedly suffered from the same thing last night in the library when she was so insistent that she had seen someone in the stacks. Severus turned the last corner to his quarters, passing by the suit of armor outside his office. His steps echoed off the stone walls.

Suddenly, a small black mass rushed out from the darkness ahead of him. He flinched involuntarily. Without pause the shadow scurried over his foot and sped down the corridor the way he had came. Severus released a long breath. Fuck, a mouse. He roughly rubbed his eyes. It was obvious he was past the years that he was able to withstand staying up for twenty-four or more hours and needing nothing more than a cat nap. He desperately needed to rest.

Removing his hand from his face, his eyes flicked up to peer down the corridor towards his quarters’ door. To Severus’ shock there was someone standing there, in the dark, outside his rooms. It was difficult to see without the proper light, but the form was unmistakable. His ears buzzed. Is it a student? Or a professor?

Severus blinked.

The space where he was certain he had seen someone was empty. There was never anyone there. There was not a way they’d be able to disappear without him knowing. They didn’t pass him in the second it took for him to blink, nor would whoever it was have access to the secret passage at the end of the corridor. He was the only one who knew the password.

Cautiously, he approached his quarters. Indeed, there was no sign of anybody ever being there waiting for his return.

If I am not careful, he thought as he unwarded his door and slipped inside, exhaustion will get the better of me.

He had no memory of making it to the sofa in his rooms, the bed too far for his fatigued legs, where he slept straight through to the following morning. When he woke, his robes twisted around his body, he discovered he had never placed his wards back on his door.

Chapter Text

September 19, 1999

One Week Later

A crushing pressure compressed Hermione’s chest. It hurt. What happened? Am I injured? Am I suffering from a heart attack? Hermione’s frightened mind immediately recalled Haider Anderson’s recurring nightmares of cave-ins. Did the ceiling collapse while I was asleep?! Her brain was telling her to wake up fully, to figure it out, but her body was not responding. Her stubborn limbs were still heavy with sleep and Hermione struggled to even open her eyes, her body felt so disconnected. Wake up, wake up, wake up!

The pressure increased steadily and she began to panic. Oh God, oh God, oh God… An inhuman yowl rose up from around her—Bloody fuck!—and Hermione finally jolted awake, her eyes wide and unfocused as she rapidly took stock of her surroundings.

The lump on her chest chirped good morning as he dug his claws into the duvet to stop himself from being jostled off his perch.

“Ow,” she whined, wiggling under her cat. “Crooooooooks.”

Hermione’s body was uncomfortably fuzzy, and her heart beat erratically as logic and awareness returned to her senses. Crookshanks was too heavy. The bed was too warm. It was too bright. Too, too, too…

She abruptly sat up and pushed a very displeased Crookshanks off her chest. She threw back the covers, swung her legs over the side of her bed, and inhaled deeply. I’m safe. I’m safe. I see the window. The rug. My cat. A long exhale. The duvet. My nightgown… Crookshanks sneezed in her direction—interrupting her concentration—and then, bottle-brush tail held high, he sauntered through the door into her sitting room.

Hermione followed his path, her eyes glazing over as she stared at the cracked door.

The door transformed from plain wood into one that had a glossy poster of Kylie Minogue hung on the back of it.

She smelled the traditional coffee and walnut cake.

Cutlery clicked in the kitchen.

Her mother called her name.

She was home.

Hermione blinked as the vision of her childhood room dissolved, tears pooling along her lashes.

It had only been a memory. A fantasy. An illusion.

I’m twenty years old today. And alone.

With the weight of all she had lost hitting her once more, Hermione fell back into bed with a gut-wrenching sob.

---

Severus was trapped. The staff room smelled sickeningly-sweet like a sugar paste factory. Septima bumped into him—no corner apparently safe—and the disgusting vanilla sponge on the delicate botanically-patterned Hans Sloane in his hand nearly offered itself up as a sacrifice. He sneered down at the offending cake. It was Hermione Granger’s birthday. And Severus had unintentionally joined the festivities; truly, this was one of Dante’s lesser known circles of hell.

Hindsight being what it usually is, it had been foolish to settle himself by the empty hearth to do his markings rather than the safety of his office. Bloody hell, you just had to have a change of scenery, did you? He was alone for all of fifteen minutes before Filius and Pomona had rushed in with armfuls of decorations and a ghastly red and gold-colored confectionery. There was a brief moment, when both of their backs were turned, that Severus could have slipped out. He should have set the banner—Happy Birthday, Hermione!—on fire as a distraction. Or tipped over the cake, especially once he confirmed it was vanilla-flavored.

Unfortunately, as he edged around the room to the door, more people had entered and he found himself utterly stuck. Severus might have gotten away with feigning knowledge about the party before but now with all these witnesses… he would have to stay and congratulate Granger on the impressive feat of being born.

Even an imbecile like Gilderoy could decipher what was happening here: the castle’s adult occupants needed a distraction from Ronan’s death. The timing of Granger’s birthday was particularly convenient as a diversion; yet, insufferable to those that were not so easily swayed by such balderdash. People like Severus, for instance. Indeed, things only became more irritating when the witch-of-the-hour arrived on Minerva’s arm. Granger had practically burst into tears upon her entry.

Gryffindors.

How was it possible that none of them could even feign a gram of decorum? What good did it do to display your emotions so obviously? Severus was certain he’d never understand that approach to life; it was an immense disadvantage.

His gaze swiveled to the other side of the room where Granger was apparently entranced by the twinkling actual-fairy lights bobbing near the ceiling. She hadn’t even touched her slice of cake.

It must taste as bad as it looks if Granger isn’t even—

Just then Montgomery slid up behind her and squeezed her shoulder in friendly familiarity. Granger flinched. Severus’ eyebrow rose. Unusual. Why would she have that reaction? Especially to someone she appeared cordial with? She had jerked so hard the plate had almost fallen to the floor.

Montgomery leaned in closer, steadying her hand with his. Granger slouched inward, her back curling away from him. What the hell? Shockingly, Severus suddenly felt… protective. Has he done something to her to make her act this way? And that was when Severus saw it. Just as he had seen it last week in the library.

Fear.

Granger’s eyes flew desperately around the room, catching his for only a second.

Panic.

Unbidden, his legs began to move in her direction, slipping his plate on a flat surface along the way. Severus was unsure as to exactly what he was going to do, but he couldn’t stand aside while it was obvious she was in distress. Did no one else see what was happening? At the same time, Granger turned away from the young Potions Master, dodging his questions about her well-being. Her feet raced across the Chobi Ziegler rug to the exit, retreating completely from the party.

Severus smoothly altered direction, sliding along the hearth’s wall.

What was that? She was having a good time just moments before, wasn’t she? Hadn’t Granger been so touched upon arriving she had… cried.

Severus’ mind circled back to moments earlier. Granger had clearly flinched when Montgomery had touched her, the plate wobbling dangerously in her hand. Something was off about the entire thing. Was Montgomery to blame or was he utterly misreading the situation? The pieces were there, he just had to put them together. After her arrival and burst of emotion, Granger had situated herself in a corner, the opposite of his. Near the door, back against a wall. She had cried when she saw everyone waiting for her. Other memories of her behavior surfaced; Severus went back weeks earlier to the last time they were all together in this very room. Granger had run out most unexpectedly then as well. Minutes after Granger’s dramatic exit he had found her… in the corridor, head pressed up against the wall… the puzzle pieces suddenly clicked together. She just had an anxiety attack.

Doused with this cold epiphany, a stone of guilt quickly followed, pining Severus in place to the floor. The sarcastic words he had said to her in the deserted corridor echoed in his head: This is an interior wall, meaning it hadn’t sustained any damage during the War and therefore doesn’t need to be reinforced. Granger had fled in distress and he had mocked her for it. The very fact that she didn’t hex him that day, either in sound mind or not, was a true testament to her ability to control herself. A trait he had been sorely lacking.

Granted, Severus had lashed out at her because he had been in pain that morning, not to mention being annoyed with her because others in the Castle had accepted her so readily. For those reasons, Granger had become an easy target for his ire. The juxtaposition of the evening that they had collided in the library, when she had been relieved to see him, versus his earlier mocking words in the hall were stark and foul.

Even when she had been in deep terror, Granger had trusted his intent.

Even after the bickering and arguing from before.

Unable to discern his motivation he left the staff room, ignoring the look Minerva gave him on his way out. He had to find Granger. What he was going to say to her, Severus didn’t know. He simply couldn’t allow himself to repeat the same mistake twice. To his knowledge, Granger had survived the War unblemished, except for an inflated ego and arrogant self-confidence to match. Jarringly, she wasn’t as immune to the aftereffects of the War as he had inferred.

As he cast a location spell, a perk of being a Deputy Head, he wondered what other secrets she hid.

---

Bloody fucking hell… Hermione scrubbed her face harshly before folding into herself, pressing herself as far back into the alcoved window nook in the Astronomy Tower as possible. What a shit day. She rested the back of her head against the cool stone. The balmy breeze—it had been an oddly warm autumn—through the open oriel window blew the loose hair off her hot splotchy face. Hermione knew without looking that if she peered downward she’d have a perfect view of the Whomping Willow. Beyond that, the Forbidden Forest. Eventually, Hampstead. Finally, ten thousand miles away, Australia, and the two people that she held the most dear.

Ten.

Thousand.

Miles.

Hermione inhaled shakily, her chest heaving and tight. Oh God. Tears pooled along her lashes again and her entire jaw ached from the effort to keep from sobbing. Why was she doing this to herself? This torture? Why did she allow her mind to wander down this path over and over again? The grief was never ending. It’s my penance, isn't it? I deserve it.

She had read it somewhere before, hadn’t she? The greatest punishment there is is to be unable to forget.

Through her wheezing Hermione heard a whisper of noise: slow, methodical steps coming from the staircase below. A student wouldn’t have been so careful. She fleetingly hoped it would be Minerva; Hermione believed that the older woman would be sympathetic and gentle in her support. Truly, though, she didn’t want to see anyone. She wanted to be left alone, and anyone could have inferred that from the manner of her departure from the party. Only one person in the whole damnable castle would encroach upon her space like this.

Hermione turned her head away from the stairs, but didn’t bother to wipe away the tear streaks from her cheeks. Let him see. If he was so insistent on antagonizing her he should witness everything in its full glory. Her humanity. Her agony. Then, catching the movement out of the corner of her eye—as if her astute suspicions could materialize him in the flesh—Severus Fucking Snape finished his ascent up the stairwell.

Irritatingly, Snape didn’t say anything for at least a minute. No, instead, the man just stood there on the small landing staring at her. What the hell did he expect to come across? A cheery scene of her gleefully tearing into gifts sent by friends—although there have been none delivered—or enjoying a piece of cake—it was vanilla for Christ’s sake—or reading a card sent by her mum or—

Miserable frustration bubbled up within Hermione once more, churning tumultuously with the grief already present. His presence was bloody too much. She uttered through clenched teeth, “It is impolite to just stand and stare at someone.”

Snape shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another, and for a moment, she wondered if he was regretting hunting her down. She felt a bitter sting of victory. Alas, it was irritatingly short-lived.

He inhaled and began, “Granger, I—”

Her temper erupted. Fuck this, I don’t have to take any of it. Hermione ceded control, allowing her wicked tongue to sprint away as she spat, “I really don’t want to hear it.” She was so done with him. Done with everything. Couldn’t this day just end? “Whatever it is. Whatever horrid insult you have to say to me. I don’t—”

“Granger—”

“It’s my birthday!” her voice was a shrill whine. To make matters worse, her face was wet again, and probably red and ugly to boot, and Hermione couldn’t bring herself to care. Out of all the days of the year and he can’t even have the decency to bugger off— “Can’t you just leave me alone? Please?”

Overwhelmed, Hermione squeezed her knees to her chest and lowered her head, her unmanageable hair hiding her from Snape’s continued scrutiny. She shuddered, trying to regain control over her breathing. Despite her best efforts it seemed impossible. However, she did have an undesired witness and he was obviously at fault. It was far easier to blame Snape; leagues easier to blame him than accept that she was unable to cope with her emotions and life anymore.

The seconds ticked away uncomfortably. Was he ever going to leave? Would Snape ever allow her to have some peace?

“Happy Birthday, Granger.”

The words fell over her like a gentle hush; it had been muttered so low she could have been forgiven for thinking it was an auditory hallucination. It was obviously done to mollify her, apparently even Snape had his limits for provoking cornered lions. Still, she was strangely, oddly thankful for it. Hermione’s shoulders sagged. How pathetic, she thought, to be relieved to hear this rather than his usual scorn.

“Thank you.” She turned her head to look out the window from under her hair; the cloudless sky was a beautiful deceitful blue, as if it was full of possibilities and promises. A dark shadow flickered in the window’s reflection. Snape was finally taking his leave. “I’m twenty today.” Hermione wasn’t sure why she said it. Didn’t I just want him to go? I really must be lonely. “There were times I had thought I wouldn’t see past eighteen.”

After a moment, as if he was considering his words carefully, he said, “You survived despite it all. I’m sure your parents are very proud of your accomplishments.”

Snape’s words zipped down Hermione’s spine like electricity and she inhaled sharply. He couldn’t have known how those words numbed her very soul. No one really knew. Harry and Ron knew the gist of it, but… they didn’t know. Not all of the details, nor how her actions haunted her. They were not aware of how little she had slept the weeks after or how Hermione had become frighteningly dependent on Dreamless Sleep throughout their sixth year. They didn’t know how this had eaten away at her and her psyche for the last four years.

Four.

Long.

Terrible.

Years.

Detached, her voice sounding small and far away, she replied, “Actually…” Am I really going to confess this? To someone who wouldn’t have any qualms about using it against me later? She was just so bloody tired of running from this secret and vaguely aware that she had hit the emotional wall. “They don’t know about me… they don’t know me at all.” In for a sickle, in for a galleon. “Not anymore.”

“What are you on about?”

“When I was sixteen,” Hermione’s breath hitched and she clenched her jaw, “I knew they were in danger.” Her vision became blurry with tears, and she lifted her head from her knees. “So, I obliviated their memories of me. Of us. And I sent them out of the country.”

Snape inhaled sharply, his voice low and cutting, “Why did you do that? Out of all the daft—”

“What choice did I have?!” she sobbed, the world going blurry.

“Surely Albus gave you the safe house’s coordinates.”

She turned to face him properly and his eyes widened slightly. Merlin, she must look a fright. “What?”

He took a step closer to her, gaze intent. “The safe house in Rochdale. Wardle.”

“No.” Hermione felt like she had just been plunged into an icy river. “No, he didn’t..” Is he really implying I had another choice…

“Bloody hell.” Snape carded his fingers through his hair, stepping back.

“So I didn’t have to do that?” Questions assaulted her, and Hermione felt like she was going to be ill. “I didn’t need to send them away, after all?! Why wasn’t I told?” Why did Dumbledore allow me to make this sacrifice? Was my family not good enough to keep together? To keep safe? The grief she knew so well, that old friend she regularly had tea with, slowly shifted into anger.

“I—I don’t have answers to your questions, Granger.” He took two steps to the right before doubling back, an attempt to pace in the small space in front of the window seat. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she had ever seen him so visibly flustered. “By your sixth year, I was under the impression that they were in Wardle and then you… recovered them. I thought you’d had done it already.”

Hermione swallowed, trying to stop from vomiting, and wrestle some type of control over herself as the weight of her reality crushed her. “What have I done?” She felt empty, her insides scooped out, and there was nothing left but an orphaned husk. God, she had thought she was already hurting as badly as she could; that was nothing compared to the pain now. “Was it for nothing?”

Snape hesitated before answering. “Granger, they were under surveillance. They couldn’t have stayed in Hampstead. It truly wasn’t safe.”

She gently thunked her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The space was starting to spin and if she wasn’t careful she would be sick all over Snape’s shoes. Growing resentful, she muttered, “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It wasn’t meant to. I don’t believe there is anything I can say that will bring you comfort.” Hermione chuckled bitterly. There was a long moment of silence and she fleetingly wondered if he had retreated down the staircase. Glancing up, she confirmed his continued presence. Quietly, Snape asked, “You obliviated entire years from your parents’ minds?”

“Yes. Was that—”

“Impressive.”

“Foolish.”

“Imperative.”

“But they’re—”

“Alive.”

Resigned, Hermione exhaled slowly. She had known this for the last four years and it had never brought her any real comfort. Yes, I suppose they are, but—

“They’re alive,” Snape repeated, as if he had heard her mental argument brewing. “It will have to be enough, Granger. Otherwise, you’d never mend, and be incessantly haunted by their shadows.” He turned to the stairs and finished softly, “It’s the more difficult path, yes. The alternative, though, ends far worse.”

She watched as he descended the staircase, his steps echoing throughout the tower. It will have to be enough… She doubted her strength to achieve any sort of acceptance. It had been hard before when she was simply depressed. Now, however, that emotion was wrapped up with a bow of acidic rage. It would be a punishing task to come to terms with her decision to send her parents away, set against how unnecessary it may have actually been if Hermione had had all the information.

Coming to terms with that, the weight of her decision set against how unnecessary it may have been had she known…

It will have to be enough, Hermione repeated to herself, attempting to shake herself out of this spiral. Merlin, she was trying, she really was. She swore she was.

It will have to be enough.

It will be.

It will.

It won’t.

It won’t ever be.

It won’t ever be enough.

---

The sun was gloriously warm on Hermione’s skin. Thankfully, she wasn’t compelled to enter the moldy tent to her right. The chorus of birds roosting in the clearing’s trees, though, was almost deafening. How many birds could there possibly be to make such a sound? Was the entire English avian population here? Still, the cacophony of noise was far preferred than entering the tent and seeing… whatever it was she saw on Harry’s cot the last time she was here. A shudder of remembrance ran down the length of her spine.

Hermione’s hearing suddenly became hyperfocused, honing in on the crunching undergrowth to her left. The birds’ noise had inexplicably faded to a dull roar. She turned, her hair fanning over her sun-kissed freckled shoulders, to peer into the darkness surrounding the clearing. Hermione held her breath, waiting. Slowly, as if emerging from mist, a stag over a meter tall stepped out of the tree line. Gooseflesh instantly erupted over her arms, and the forest grew ominously still and silent.

It was strange, this stag. The legs were a bit too slender, the knobby knees at an odd angle. Filed to a point, the antlers looked unnaturally sharp. Along its shoulders the fur was scraggly like a matted fur shawl. Was it sick? Did it contract some sort of disease in the forest? Or was it something… A chill rushed through her. Or is it something pretending to be a stag?

Their gazes met—animal and human—and Hermione felt seen in an unsettling way. Why do I feel like I know it? The stag itself was eerily familiar. Not in the way where you come across a well-liked friend in the shop after losing touch for a few years. No, it was as if she had run into her childhood bully in a deserted alley after dark. There was nothing pleasant about this encounter; she felt incredibly unsafe. Odder still, now that they were intensely staring at each other, Hermione became aware of another peculiar detail she had overlooked before.

Are its eyes really that col—

A reverberating shriek rose up from behind her and she spun around, her unease growing into full-fledged panic. On the apex of the tent’s roof sat a very large crow. Grimly, the dozens—hundreds?—of dark birds in the trees took flight, their songs of warning shredding through the stillness. The crow on the tent opened its beak again, and Hermione was suddenly overcome with fear. Whatever it was going to say, whoever it was going to call, she knew she didn’t want to know.

Nothing good would come from it.

As she stared fixedly at the crow, waiting for the inevitable, time slowed down. The world shifted and spun on its axis.

Then Hermione woke with a start on her green cabriole sofa, spooking Crookshanks who was anchored behind her knees.

That’s right… she thought, blinking rapidly. Shortly after ending her conversation with Snape, her mood souring further and further, she had marched down to her quarters to stew properly. There was no question that Dumbledore needed to be confronted for his deceit. However, she wasn’t going to risk her one chance to do so by not having her thoughts together; if Hermione didn’t get it right, he’d grow wise to her and actively avoid her for the rest of the year.

Hermione returned to her well-worn habit when stressed past her breaking point: curl up like a burrito with her cat, and take a nap to settle her temper and thoughts. Hermione usually didn’t have such strange dreams during her rage-naps, though. Something about… a raven? Or a crow? A weird looking deer? That stupid tent was there, she was sure of that. Hermione hated that tent, then and now.

“Alright,” she muttered as she rose from the sofa, unwrapping herself from the blanket the best she could without disturbing Crooks. “Time to make a list.”

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore wouldn’t know what hit him.

Turning to her desk at the back of the room she paused with a start, an unexpected envelope was sitting on top of a small box. While she slept the elves had made a delivery. Who sent me this? Irrational fleeting hope that it was from her Mum tried to roost in her head; maybe her parents had organically regained their memories just in time to celebrate her twentieth birthday. No… stop it. Hermione pushed down those wretched thoughts, consciously steering herself away from the self-inflicted torture she seemed hellbent to continue. Fuck, this is hard, though.

As she grew closer she recognized the writing on the envelope. Ginny. Hermione hesitated briefly, teasing a corner between two fingers, before she broke the seal. She did consider Ginny a friend, but she hadn’t heard from her since her breakup with Ronald. Given that, Hermione had thought that Ginny had picked his side. Perhaps I really should stop expecting the worst of others…

The letter was, blessedly, quintessential Ginny: fast paced and full of joy. Life at the Burrow had continued onward—Arthur had expanded his workshop and Molly was fighting the good fight against the gnomes for yet another year—and Ginny had left any updates on the upcoming nuptials of Ron and Padma out. Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or bothered by it; breakups were funny things, weren’t they? One could have very annoying conflicting feelings about an ex. While Hermione didn’t necessarily wish to see him run down by an Ukrainian Ironbelly, a little warranted singeing truly never hurt anyone. Especially if that someone had been a bit of a prick. Hermione allowed herself to imagine Ron’s burnt backside before moving on; it was her birthday after all. Ginny had also finally settled on a date for her wedding—Early April, Hermione! Save the date!—and picked out pastels for her colors.

Hermione’s favorite part of the letter was the anecdote regarding Fleur: We came across Fleur in the kitchen one morning. She had a stack of those American “pancakes”. Guess what she had poured over the top, Hermione? You’d never guess it. Ever. It wasn’t syrup. It wasn’t even jam. It was some type of revolting gelatinous cheese. Happy news: Fleur is due a few weeks after my wedding. Hermione couldn’t help but smile; she was incredibly happy for Bill. He had frequently lamented during her apprenticeship that he was sent away for work too often. The circumstances really hadn’t been conducive to start a much-wanted family. By the end of her training Bill had started to lobby for a desk job in London, and Hermione had a feeling he had finally transferred out of field work for good.

The short postscript explained that Harry had picked out the accompanying gift; he had rescued it from Arthur’s box of doomed gadgets and customized it for her. She wasn’t sure what to expect when she lifted the lid of the box. Was it a gag gift? Another copy of Persuasion? A dozen chocolate frogs? Or maybe something for Crookshanks?

To her complete shock it was none of those things. Inside, wrapped in yellow tissue paper, was a metal book embosser. The center of the seal was a swimming otter’s silhouette, its back curled into an elegant ‘C’. Encircling it was the text “Property of Hermione Granger.” Hermione ran her hand down the cool metal, her troubles with Dumbledore momentarily forgotten in the euphoria of such a wonderful surprise. Damn, she thought, feeling her cheeks go wet, I’m crying again. Indeed, it was truly one of the most thoughtful, personalized gifts she had ever received. Harry’s all grown up now, isn’t he?

She couldn’t bloody wait to stamp her entire collection.

Someone knocked on her door and Hermione startled, dropping the embosser on her desk with a clunk. Crookshanks jolted awake immediately, his orange eyes wide and alert.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, both to the inanimate embosser and to her cat, as she quickly crossed the room to her entryway.

Hermione took a quick second to wipe the tears away and then opened the door.

“Oh.” Fuck, I look like utter shite. “Hello.” Her cheeks went warm.

“Hi, Hermione,” Philip said, tipping his head in a greeting, his fringe sliding over his eyes. He brushed it aside with his free hand, the other holding a plate of an unappetizing vanilla sponge cake. “You ran out so suddenly at your party… I wanted to make sure you had a chance to actually eat some of your cake.”

For a long moment she stared at the offered plate, her stomach greatly disappointed. It wasn’t a coffee and walnut cake, not by a league. She blinked, realizing how rude she must appear standing here silently on the threshold, and belatedly took the dish. “Uh, thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”

Philip rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes downcast. “I… I haven’t done anything to make you uncomfortable, have I?”

“Oh.” Fuck. “Oh, no. I am just…” Make something up Hermione, or something that is a half-lie! You can’t tell him that you’ve gone around the bend. The last thing you want is his pity. “I suppose… I suppose I am still getting used to working with so many other people.” Yes, this is good, well done. “Bill and I were pretty isolated during my apprenticeship.”

A curious look passed over Philip’s face. “Do you… keep in touch?”

The implications of her previous statement settled in the space between them and she rushed to clarify, “A bit, yes. He’s expecting his first child in the Spring. With his wife. Of two years.”

He visibly relaxed and smiled. Hermione’s gaze was immediately drawn to his singular left dimple. Philip looked around her to peer into her quarters. Just as she was about to invite him in—it’s the polite thing to do, after all—he said, “I don’t think your cat likes me very much.”

Bemused, she turned to see Crooks glaring at Philip in a way she hadn’t seen since Peter Pettigrew masqueraded as a rodent. He really did look quite angry. However, it wasn’t Crook’s fault that his adorable squashed face could sometimes be mistaken for ire. Surely that’s all it was. “Oh, he’s just very particular. Once he gets to know you, he’ll love you.”

Philip’s ears went an incredibly endearing shade of pink.

Before either of them could continue the conversation Crookshanks growled, puffing up to twice his size. Philip took a sizable step back into the hall. Oh my God, Crooks, what the hell?! Hermione thought as she ushered them out into the corridor, closing the door behind her.

“So sorry,” she huffed a strand of hair off her face, “I have no idea what’s gotten into him. He’s usually a bit more polite.” She swore she could hear her cat vehemently disagree on the other side of the door.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Philip stuffed his hands in his pockets and he suddenly became very interested in the flagstone at their feet. “Listen, I was wondering… were you planning on going to the Mabon festival in Hogsmeade Thursday night?”

“The Autumn Equinox?” Hermione scrunched her nose. “I don’t remember there ever being a festival for that.”

“Ah, well. There’s a minor-repelling charm to keep students from noticing.”

“Oh.” Is he asking me to go… with him? “I suppose… I suppose I could go.”

Hermione held her breath for a beat, her heart pounding unsteadily. Philip was ridiculously fanciable and she was… well, a swot of the first order, not to mention a complete mess as of late. Was he actually interested in her? It really did seem incredibly improbable.

Philip finally raised his gaze from the floor smiling. “I could walk down with you. After dinner? If you’d like?”

Oh my God. He really is asking me out! Play it cool, play it cool. “Yes, I think that’d be nice.”

Philip’s smile grew wider.

Something scratched against the door behind her, followed by a long, drawn-out howl.

For fuck’s sake, what has gotten into Crooks?! “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I should get back in there before he damages something. But I’ll see you Thursday?” She cracked the door to slide through, pushing her stubborn cat back with her foot. “And, uh, later too, of course. You know,” she started to ramble, the fact that she had an actual date finally set in and her nerves suddenly exploded, “at the usual type of thing. Like at breakfast. And things.” Christ, just stop. “Right, I’m going—” Hermione waved awkwardly, making her escape.

Crookshanks suddenly lunged at her ankle, his claws and teeth digging through her trouser leg.

“What is the matter with you?!” she shrieked, shaking her foot out of his grasp. The piece of cake she was still holding slipped off the plate and fell to the floor, frosting splattering across the stone.

Crooks, tail puffed and ears flattened against his head, sprinted into the bedroom.

“Damn,” Hermione muttered as she vanished away the cake. She wasn’t actually going to eat the disgusting thing but Philip had meant well. He was thinking of me…

Dazed, she sat on the edge of her sofa. She felt fuzzy. Hermione could almost forget what she was preparing to do before Philip had visited. However, once acknowledged, her earlier mood threatened to reappear. No, she took a deep breath in, Snape was right. It will have to be enough. I need to find joy in what my life is, not what I wish it was. She hadn’t felt this light in a long time. The moment deserved far more than a slice of bland vanilla sponge.

Before she lost her nerve she summoned the House-elf assigned to the quarters of secondary staff. “Cassie.”

The elf appeared next to her sofa with a soft pop. “Yes, Miss?”

“I…” It’s okay to ask for what you want, Hermione. “I’d like a slice of walnut and coffee cake, please.”

As Cassie vanished to fulfill her request Hermione’s mind drifted to her mother. Just maybe somewhere in southern Australia her parents were having a slice of the very same dessert, one they always made on her birthday. Perhaps there was enough of a built up association with this day and that particular cake that the missing memories that connected the two together were irrelevant. It was a nice thought: her family was still inexplicably connected through time, circumstance, and love.

And it was enough. For now.

Chapter Text

September 23, 1999

Four Days Later

She was late. Hermione sped through the illuminated staircase of candy-floss colored twilight to the ground floor, her robe lashing behind her. She had simply lost track of the time. Every time she made a bullet point in her list—aptly named DUMBledore—she had to then funnel the building fury into physical exertion. She had embossed an entire shelf worth of books in this manner.

Yes, very good, Hermione, she thought as she descended past the last landing, first time you have a date since Ron and you’ve already messed it up.

When she made it to the foot of the staircase she observed Philip’s slim dark-clad silhouette in front of a nearby window, outlined smartly in the warm hues of dusk. He looked good.

Hermione was struck with even more jolts of insecurity as she crossed the room. Not only was she late, she had dressed very casually for this excursion; she had sought comfort and practicality over aesthetics, and now her decision was thrown in doubt. I should have worn a dress. I could have used a warming charm! Am I a witch or not? What if he thinks I’m joining as just a friend? Wait, what if that is what he meant when he invited me?!

However, her self-criticism was cut short when Philip turned towards her with a soft smile. Hermione returned one in kind, her frustrations melting away as their gazes met.

Philip’s ears went a bit pink. “You look nice.”

Butterflies immediately erupted in her stomach at the sincere compliment. There had to be at least half a dozen lepidoptera squeezed in there. When was the last time I was given a compliment like this? “Thank you.”

If Hermione had thought that her tummy had reached capacity she was wrong. The anxious fluttering must have multiplied ten-fold by the time they were half-way to the village. Even from the distance of the Hogwarts drive she could smell the cedar wood kindling.

“I wanted to thank you, by the way,” Philip said as they meandered down the path together, their hands almost touching.

“For what?”

“For clearing the Blood Magic aisle for me a fortnight ago. My research would have been woefully incomplete without it. I’m sure you had other areas of greater importance than my work and a book on liver bile.”

“It’s not a worry,” she waved a hand dismissively, “I was happy to do it for you.”

Philip gave her a measuring side glance. “Are you settling in better now or are you still adjusting?”

“A bit of both. Some things have been easier than others.” Hermione’s thoughts floated up to the Headmaster’s Tower and the man within. How many things could have been easier if she had been properly informed? “There have been some unexpected challenges; not all the memories here are good.”

He nodded, mouth compressing for a moment. “No, they certainly aren’t are they? Last year was an adjustment for me as well. It was hard to be here knowing how many people never got the chance…” Philip trailed off, tension filling his lean frame.

It was then that Hermione realized she didn’t know much of anything about his family. He had two sisters, she recalled, and a little brother who had been attacked by Fenrir Greyback in the War. He had not survived. She didn’t know more than that–how much more suffering did the Montgomerys endure by the end of the War? With hindsight, it felt as if no family, muggle or pureblood, had made it out unscathed. It was an unwanted and often unacknowledged bond that crossed the breadth of several generations and social classes, a collective grief.

Attempting to steer the conversation into happier territory—it would be nice to forget about the War’s aftereffects for just one night— Hermione asked, “What did you find useful in settling in?”

“Hm?” Philip hummed, sounding as if he was coming out of deep thought. His gaze cut to the ground at their feet. “Rest, mostly. I distracted myself with research. Nothing special amongst other academics, I don’t think.”

They walked in silence to the village. Philip appeared to be lost in his own head, not at all responsive to Hermione’s efforts at continuing the conversation. She sighed. The tendrils of the past, of the ghosts that haunted survivors, were more wide-reaching than anyone would suspect.

Hermione was relieved to finally arrive at the square, the focal point a large bonfire at least three meters tall and half as wide. At the very least this festival would give her a topic of conversation that didn’t involve the Castle or the War.

Scrolls were tucked between the logs and kindling, a record of people’s misdeeds and confessions carefully scribbled on the parchment. Once lit, the fire would consume them, ridding the writer of negative energy. It’d give them a fresh start, some spiritual warmth to hold on to throughout the unrelenting winter. As they approached, her scroll—hidden in her pocket—suddenly felt heavy and it scratched loudly against the fabric of her robe.

The townspeople mingled in front of the merchant stalls while bards skipped around the cobblestone playing lutes and pan flutes. Glittering jewelry and light catchers chimed in the breeze. The animals in the woodcarvings twitched as Hermione and Philip passed their booth. A dark cat crossed their path, on the hunt. A crow—

Philip tugged roughly on her elbow.

Hermione spun, shocked by the action. The alarm must have shown on her face because Philip immediately looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just… look.”

She followed the line of his outstretched hand and beyond, observing a full wooden barrel of large red apples under an overhang.

Philip led her over, his grip on her arm far more gentle than before. “You’ve never been to Mabon, right?” At Hermione’s nod he continued, “It is said that apples are a conduit, of sorts, between the past and the present. That,” he plucked a sharp small knife out of a jar hanging off the edge of the barrel, “by cutting the apple width-wise, and exposing the five-pointed star within, you will gain advice or affirmation from your ancestors.” He offered the handle of the blade to her. “It is a way for you to make a connection with your magical lineage.”

Dubious, Hermione muttered while taking the knife, “How does an apple do all that, then?”

Philip shrugged before removing two apples from the top of the pile. “It’s your personal interpretation. It’s different for everyone.”

She gingerly took his proffered apple. “Honestly, I’m not sure how far that lineage goes back. Being Muggleborn and the like.”

“Magic is… not immutable, is it? You didn’t come from nothing, there was something there before.”

Didn’t come from nothing… Something there before… the words tumbled around in Hermione’s head as she sliced her apple across the middle.

Peering at the layout of the seed pods—the hidden pentagram—she masked her initial feeling of disappointment. It looked rather unremarkable. The seeds were nestled safely within the white unblemished flesh of the apple. Truly, she really didn’t know what she was supposed to decipher from this. All’s well and good, then? No earth-shattering advice from the great beyond?

Obviously, Hermione’s apathy for divinity stretched even to foodstuffs. Wasn’t there a Great-Uncle on her mother’s side that had a gambling problem back around The Second World War? Lost his money in some back alley of London? Roulette? Guessing numbers on a spinning wheel, hoping you predicted your good fortune. Complete and utter rubbish, if you asked her.

Although, she thought, as she absentmindedly took a bite of one half of the fruit, my perfectly normal apple could be confirmation to not believe in such silly things. Maybe it really was her Great-Uncle coming through the ether to praise her for not relying on fate. Hermione smirked at the humor of such a thing, some of the juice dribbling down her chin.

A noise from her companion quickly brought back her focus from afar. Philip was frozen in front of her, the edge of his knife nicked into his apple, his eyes trained squarely on her mouth.

Embarrassed, Hermione quickly wiped her chin dry with the sleeve of her robe. Oh Merlin, I must have looked like Ron just then. The motion broke Philip of his trance and he finished slicing the fruit cleanly in half. Tilting the halves towards his chest, his eyes darted to the apple pieces cradled in his hands. He suddenly went incredibly still, and the color drained from his face.

“Philip? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. I mean no. Uh,” Philip mumbled looking between his hands and her face in quick succession. “I have to go.”

“What?”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he blurted before spinning away from her and hurrying up the high street the way they had came.

---

As he passed Gladrags in the direction of the square Severus was rudely jostled by another man—Was that Montgomery?—who rushed by him in a hurry. Automatically, his hand pressed up against his robe’s pocket, confirming that his scroll was still there. Severus’ list of sins. Scowling, he turned his head to see where the other man had gone, but his speed had been so great he was already lost in the developing crowd.

Forgiveness, he reminded himself, moving onward. Mabon was about atonement, after all. It would not do well to have his ashes immediately canceled out by being a right prick. Even if this was only a superstitious ritual. Frankly though, after years of deception, Severus felt he needed all the help he could get. He wisely chose to not dwell on how many people, himself guilty as well, did the actions to receive a fresh slate only to return to their miserable selves the following day.

Approaching the square, passing Trevil’s wood carving stand, Severus found himself locking eyes with Madam Granger. She looked… hurt? Perplexed? After a handful of seconds she broke first, her gaze traveling behind him. As if she was looking—hoping—for someone to arrive. Or return. His suspicions about literally running into Philip Montgomery became more solid. Severus had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Granger.”

“Snape.” Her reply was far quieter than he expected. The memory of Montgomery touching her at her birthday party flooded back to him. The curve of her back as she slouched inward. The panic in her eyes before she had fled. Panic that morphed into trust in a collision of memories and emotions.

Before he could stop himself he asked, “Are you all right?”

“No.” If he did— “I mean yes. I guess, uh, I guess I don’t know what I keep doing wrong.” She deftly slipped the knife she had been holding into the apple barrel’s jar and vanished what had remained of her fruit.

“This may come as a surprise to you, but people often cause their own problems. Not everything is your fault.”

She gave him a knowing look, the autumn breeze teasing her hair. “Do you really believe that?”

Sardonic with an upticked eyebrow, he replied, “No.”

Severus shifted direction then and began walking to the wood pile, intending to tuck his scroll between the logs. Kicking a piece of a rotten apple out of the way, the fruit rolling over the cobblestones in front of him, Granger hastened to catch up.

“Supervising?”

“N-No.”

Through a large gap in the tinder, Severus caught sight of Alberforth and Pomona placing their papers into the other side of the pile. The men nodded at each other, whereas Pomona pushed Alberforth out of the way to eagerly wave at Granger. This time Severus could not stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his head. Bloody hell, I’m here too.

“I just,” Granger rolled her parchment in between her finger and thumb, “I have never been to Mabon before.”

“Well, don’t look at me to teach you.”

“I’m sorry, what was your job title again?”

He paused, his long fingers slipping his list out of his pocket. Merlin, but was Granger sharp. “Wouldn’t you rather be educated by someone else?” Severus’ pointedly darted his eyes across the square. “Pomona, for instance?”

Granger’s nose scrunched, obviously disliking the suggestion. “I’m… not really feeling up to socializing.”

“Ah,” Severus said, a touch of irritation seeping through into his tone. “So, naturally, you gravitate to me.”

“No! That’s not what I meant,” she said as she crudely shoved her parchment into a gap. “I just figured that you’d give me the basics without all of the superfluous details. I don’t want to know if a cousin tried jumping the fire and burned his bum. Or how your family has an antique Mabon fruit bowl that is only used today. Or if it rained so hard one year that the fire never caught and then everyone came down with the Pox. Or—”

Severus rose a hand to halt her tirade from continuing. “I see.” He couldn’t blame her, he wouldn’t want to hear all that shite either.

Granger placed her hands on her waist. “Will you tell me the significance of this ritual or not?”

He carefully rolled his scroll tighter before wedging it in towards the top of the pile. Whilst doing so, he briefly wondered what Granger was attempting to seek forgiveness from. Her parents were an obvious answer, but were there more? How many other things did he not know about her? How many other things had she blamed herself for needlessly?

Retreating from the woodpile he motioned to Ollie Haren, a shop assistant in the village, who was standing aside with a lit torch.

“Another few minutes and it’ll begin.”

“Does it work?” she murmured. “Are your sins really forgiven?”

“Rituals,” he began, “are powerful things. But it is not the act itself which is powerful; it’s the belief in the ritual. You scribble your transgressions and burn them for Mabon. Supposedly this is a way to repent. To procure a fresh slate.”

“Do you believe it?” Granger asked, repeating her earlier question.

“Do I believe that by burning a piece of paper my soul becomes closer to saving?” Haren bent down and lit the fire. The logs caught immediately. Severus’ answer was the same as before, “No.”

She scoffed and opened her mouth to protest.

“Yet, that doesn’t stop me from trying.”

Granger’s mouth shifted into a small smile. The flickering flames were reflected in her eyes, and the shadows danced across her face. They stood there together in silence watching the fire consume scroll after scroll, leaving nothing but ashes behind.

---

On the way back up to the Castle, Professor Snape indulged the rest of her questions regarding the Autumnal Equinox. He was… surprisingly companionable. Sarcastic, sure, but never outright rude. Their conversation had been effortless, really, and natural. Snape was actually rather decent to talk to when not acting like Crookshanks locked in his carrier. By the end of their conversation Hermione had likened Mabon as a cross between Muggle New Year—creating intentions for the next year—and Judaism’s Yom Kippur—seeking forgiveness for past offenses.

Their climb up the hill was slow, for which she was grateful for as her stride was not as long as Snape’s. To her surprise, however, they kept this pace even when the ground leveled out. Snape was not hurrying away from her. Hermione, shockingly, also did not feel a need to flee. She… almost… liked talking to him. Just what was in that apple?! Have I been… drugged? Discreetly, Hermione pinched her arm. It hurt. That was a good sign.

Entering the Castle side-by-side, Snape stumbled on the top step into the Entrance Hall. Hermione instantly reached out to grab his arm, to help steady him on his feet. She’d have done it for anyone. Well, most people. There were a few exceptions. Seeing Rita Skeeter crash face first into the floor would be a joy to witness. Just as quickly though, Snape snatched his arm away. He hid it well but there was a flash of… insecurity on his face. Something told her that this was more than a mere misstep.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Granger,” Snape said as he pulled his shoulders back, his posture becoming abnormally stiff.

Hermione’s brain worked in overdrive. She had bunked with stubborn men before, his deflection wasn’t anything new. She replayed the evening, the fire, the walk back up to the castle, the way he was currently crossing the Entrance Hall towards the dungeon…

“It’s your leg,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Snape paused for a long moment before turning around, the stiffness all the more evident. “No,” he said, his hand clenching into a fist at his side, “it’s nerve damage. From the War. My leg is the most affected.”

Nerve damage. The sciatica nerve runs directly up the back of the leg into the lower trunk of the body, doesn’t it? That type of pain was hard to treat with Muggle medicine; meaning that if the Muggles hadn’t yet figured out a way to do it, the Wizarding population couldn’t have either. Hermione’s brain tumbled over with the revelation.

“There isn’t anything to help, is there.” It was a statement, not a question.

In the hall after that first staff meeting… had he suffered then too? Is that why he had stood so rigidly after she had left?

“No. Not yet.”

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. Hermione couldn’t have hid the burst of enthusiasm that sprung forth from her even if she had tried. “You’re working on something!” She gasped. “The equation you were working on when I tried to—”

Snape looked amused. Or at least that’s what she gathered by the raised eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Do you need—” Wait, what did I just ask?!

“No.”

Why the bloody not?! Incredulous, she replied, “You didn’t even let me finish the question! I am very skilled! I won’t blow up a cauldron or cut the quaker buttons too thickly.”

“That is a relief, considering quaker buttons are highly poison—”

“Yes, exactly!”

“I am not doubting your skill level, Granger,” Snape said, a slight wobble in his stance. “I did teach you for most of your adolescence, I am well aware as to what you are capable of. However, this is something I need to do on my own.”

“Tosh. Now, you’re just being stubborn on—” at his murderous look Hermione stopped short. Breathe. “Take into consideration,” she began again slowly, thinking about what she was saying before she actually said it, “that there is a certified Curse-Breaker on the staff who has had experience working with uncooperative formulas. If you require such assistance I can approach this individual for you.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “I will… keep that in mind, Granger.” That’s not a no!

Hermione had to stop herself from squealing with delight. To work on something that stretched her knowledge and skills that would then benefit so many others… it was a magnificent opportunity. Nevermind that Snape hadn’t actually given her leave to work with him, that was immaterial. There was time to convince him. Or if he was as intelligent as he claimed, he would realize sooner than later that she would be a valuable member of the process.

She watched him cross the Entrance Hall, his gait slow and tense. Snape paused at the top of the stairs before turning to look over his shoulder at her and she jolted. Right, give him some privacy. She turned then herself and started up the stairs. Hermione couldn’t help herself though, she had to look back.

Snape was gone.

Just as she was about to resume her climb, however, a shadow slid off the wall and glided the way Professor Snape had gone. Jesus fuck…

Frozen, a hand on the banister, Hermione tried to make sense of what she just saw. Rational thought was warring with the irrational fear that Snape was in danger. Feeling slightly lightheaded as the adrenaline coursed through her, Hermione scurried back down the steps. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? At the bottom, eyes on the entrance to the dungeon, a sconce flickered, throwing the present shadows out of alignment briefly. Maybe that was it, she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. I just saw a play of light. Snape is fine. You are fine. It is late. Time for bed.

Something touched Hermione’s shoulder and she startled, feeling as if she jumped clear out of her skin. Turning quickly she found it to just be the Headmistress. She blew out a puff of air.

“Ah, Hermione,” Minerva said, apologetic, “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Hermione felt tingly, and shook her hand in an attempt to release the sensation. “It’s, um, it’s fine.” She looked at the dungeon’s entrance again. “Did, did you see anything odd just now?”

Minerva’s eyebrow ticked up. “Did you have any fermented apples whilst in the village?”

Hermione immediately went red. “What? No! I did not—”

“Relax, lass, it was a joke. And no, I didn’t see anything odd. Was I supposed to?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.”

Minerva patted her arm as she passed. “I think some rest will do you well. After all, Mabon is a good night to recharge after your sins are dealt with.”

“Are you going down to the village?” Hermione asked.

“Aye, after the fire dies down some of the lads like to jump over the coals. I have an annual bet with Alberforth regarding whose backside gets burnt.” Minerva winked before walking away.

Hermione watched her go. After all your sins are dealt with… there was something she needed to do. One thing left to assure a clean slate for the upcoming year. With Minerva out of the Castle, Hermione would have an opportunity that wouldn’t be available at any other time.

It was time to confront Headmaster Dumbledore’s portrait.

---

“You know what you’ve done,” Hermione hissed in the silence of the Headmaster’s Office. She stepped forward, closing the space between herself and Dumbledore’s portrait. “And my real question—more than why you allowed it to happen—is why you’d thought I’d never find out?”

The portrait’s eyes went cold and his easy smile flipped into a frown. Any joy in the room suddenly disappeared, siphoned out like the air in Hermione’s lungs as she waited for his reply. It was obvious that Dumbledore wasn’t anticipating her, nor her motives.

“This sounds like a serious accusation, my dear.”

“It’s not an accusation.” Hermione was fighting to keep her voice steady; the blood was already rushing through her ears at the speed of light. She only had one chance at this, and if she failed and he fled his frame… I’ll never get closure. “Rather a fact. You withheld vital information from me and I want to know your reasoning behind it.”

“You do realize,” he said, as if explaining a concept to a small child, “that I’m simply a figment of the Headmaster. I was created by mixing memories into the paint; such as conversations that highlighted key characteristics or witnessed actions of importance.” He brushed some loose hair off his shoulder. “There’s even a strand of his hair, a fragment of his body, as part of the varnish. I am not, however, the actual man. I can speak like him, and answer questions to the best of my magical ability. Keep in mind, though, that if I wasn’t told of it or can not infer the answer through existing information, it is impossible to be completely accurate. Within these limitations, I am quite confined,” Dumbledore paused to eye the border of his frame, clearly wondering if he could make a run for it, “as it were.”

“You will have the answers I want. I didn’t know the man particularly well, but I do know that there must be something left behind—in you—that would give me insight into his motives.”

He turned his palms up, imploring her to continue. “And what do you feel I need to expiate for?”

“I destroyed my family because I was unaware that alternate scenarios existed. Scenarios that you could have provided.” Can portraits feel shame? “Before I go on, care to guess what I did to my parents?”

He tilted his head. “Now, surely you don’t mean you murd—”

“No,” Hermione cut him off, “it’s worse.”

“Worse than death.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Forgetting. Living without knowing. I obliviated my entire existence from their minds.”

He blinked, taken aback by her deed. “You memory-charmed two cognizant adults and they didn’t die or suffer catastrophic brain damage?” Incredulity flashed across his face. “Do you realize how rare an ability that is? You could have been far more useful to the cause had I known.”

Her ire spiked and her face grew hot. The fucking nerve! “I was not some pawn that you could just throw around at your leisure! I am a real person! I had a real family!” Dumbledore’s eyes flashed down to her left hand. Hermione was dimly aware of a glowing blue light at the bottom of her vision as she continued, “They mattered to me! What advantage could be had by me orphaning myself?”

“You’re a smart witch,” he said cautiously, gaze fixed on the Bluebell Flames flickering in front of his canvas. “I’m certain you know the answer, my dear.”

It only took her a few seconds to file through the data to come to the natural—albeit startling—conclusion. The fire in her hand abruptly snuffed out, and Hermione felt dizzy as her magic dispersed into the ether.

“Harry.”

“The operation’s success hinged on Harry and his ability to survive. He was the most important part.”

“Not to me.” Hermione felt like a traitor admitting that. I’m supposed to be his friend…

“Surely you are intelligent enough to realize I’m right. When I received word that your family’s home was empty… but also that Severus had no news about their deaths… It was in my best interests to let things continue on, whatever the circumstances truly were. With them out of the picture you could focus—”

Her voice was hushed but she felt her rage rebuilding. “On keeping Harry alive.”

“Yes.”

“And did you, not once,” Hermione’s jaw clenched, “think at what a cost that was to me?”

“All that mattered was—”

“NOT TO ME!”

Bluebell flames erupted from her hands again; through the flickering shadows she saw Dumbledore recoil.

The fire licked at the canvas, the bottom of the frame charring to black. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to care. I want to see him burn.

“They could have been sent to the safehouse in Wardle,” she said, her voice sounding far away. “They could have been protected. I could have still worked with Harry, with my mind and heart secure with the knowledge that my family was out of harm’s way. And then I could have retrieved them.” She locked gazes with Dumbledore. “We could be together right now.”

Despite the inferno curling the edges of the canvas Dumbledore’s voice was soft, gentle. “It does no good to speak in hypotheticals, child.” He sighed, shoulders drooping. “I can’t fix any of it.”

The reminder of his limited ability to mend anything was logical. It still hurt anyway. He can’t fix it. He can’t fix it. He can’t fix it. Hermione’s hands twitched, the intensity of the flames dimming slightly.

Her vision blurred with unshed tears. “Why did you think I’d never find out?”

“To my knowledge Wardle was one of our most hidden safehouses. A scant few knew of its existence. I’m assuming the opportunity for you to find out was simply not meant to exist.”

“I wasn’t meant to find out a lot of things.”

She was becoming numb. Why was she even doing this? If she burned his portrait to nothing but ashes that wouldn’t absolve any of his sins; only living people could redeem themselves. Ironic that this was all happening on Mabon.

“No. You were too young to be burdened with—”

Bitter, Hermione spat, “Oh, but not young enough to fiddle in my parents’ minds.” She flicked her wrists, the flames extinguishing into a puff of smoke.

“Some things…” Dumbledore hesitated, his gaze darting to the bottom third of his ruined portrait. “It was the bigger picture. Everyone had to make hard choices.”

“Everyone.” It wasn’t a question.

“No one was immune from it, no.”

“What, what did you ask of Harry, then?” It wasn’t her place to ask but Hermione couldn’t help it. I need to know.

“Similarly to Severus he had one of the hardest parts to follow through with.”

Her blood ran cold with the heavy revelation.

“You wanted him to die.”

“Want is not the term I’d have used. I had planned out that—”

“God,” Hermione ran her fingers through her hair, snagging on the curls as she went, “we just meant nothing to you, didn’t we? We were only meant to get between points A and B; the fact that we were real people was meaningless. You used everyone for your own justifications, whatever twisted game plan it was. Everyone was a puppet. Harry, me, Ron, Kingsley, Remus, Professor Snape—”

“You think you know but you don’t,” Dumbledore’s tone sharpened slightly. “You don’t realize what was at stake—”

“I am not a child who doesn’t understand the bigger picture! You just didn’t care to share all the facts with everyone. How was it beneficial to keep bits and pieces of your blueprint a mystery to the very people who were responsible for its success?” She was barely stopping for breath. “If we knew all the possibilities we could have planned better, maybe one of us could have come up with something more effective, maybe more of us would be alive right now if—”

He cut her off, his natural talent for oration on prominent display. “You have the benefit of hindsight. You see the things I could have done differently, the other paths available to me. When you’re living it though, Hermione, you cannot see those things. You do not have time to deal with hypotheticals or what ifs. You need to make split second decisions, weigh the risks, hope you’re making the right choice. People depended on me to see it through and if there were a few… causalities along the way everyone knew what they were getting into. They realized how much bigger it was than them. Why do you have such a problem with that notion?”

Incredulous, Hermione replied, “Because I would have never sent people on a suicide mission while keeping information from them! Everyone deserves to have some say in their future. Especially if it meant choosing between life and death.”

For a moment Dumblebdore didn’t say anything.

“You remind me of myself when I was young. Tenacious, passionate—”

Hermione felt utterly offended. “Don’t. Don’t fucking start with me. We are not the same.”

“Hermione,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her to the window. “You do not need to agree with someone on everything to still appreciate the similarities you both share.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t use the word ‘appreciate’ to—”

“Then think of it this way. It is Mabon, correct? Our lists of misdeeds to burn in the fire would look very different. However, they all turn to ash one way or the other. In the end the details don’t matter.”

“It’s not only the end that is important.” God, he can’t really believe that shit, can he? “It is all of the before. That is what matters. Neither history or its historians will forget nor forgive you that easily.”

“What a pity,” he said quietly. “That you do not believe in redemption.”

“Deliverance is better reserved for the living. Why should I forgive a corpse? It won’t undue their choices. It won’t bring back my family.”

Dumbledore tilted his head. “Be careful.”

Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched. What could I possibly have to be careful about?

“Grief can eat your soul alive if you let it.”

Chapter Text

September 26, 1999

Three Days Later

Three days. It had been seventy two hours since Hermione last saw Philip, fleeing from her in Hogsmeade as if she had set his boots on fire. Thus, she had over four thousand minutes to replay the entire scenario over and over in her head; rewinding and fast forwarding to the most emotionally-damaging parts. It was as if her brain was insistent on snagging on to her mistakes, her what-ifs, and refusing to relinquish them. She recognized it as a terribly unhealthy habit, and those were typically hard to break. Compound Philip’s retreat with the conversation she had with Dumbledore later that same night and it was all a rather miserable introspective few days.

Admittedly, she hadn’t been all that concerned about Philip going into the following morning, expecting an explanation, or perhaps an apology, at breakfast. However, Philip had never arrived to the meal. Nor was he there that evening. Or any of yesterday. In addition, there had been no gossip in the library accounting for his absence, meaning that he was still teaching classes as usual. Which led Hermione to an awful conclusion: Philip was actively avoiding her.

Was there something about her that was so off-putting? No, the gentler part of her mind attempted to comfort her. But what if… the increasingly unhelpful part of her brain became more loud, what if there is? Hermione had been too much for Ron; he was attracted to her ambition, admired her drive, and yet he desired a simpler life. One filled with family and familiarity. Two things totally lost to her, ideals she could never get back. In addition, her somewhat-nomadic career path, which could take her around the world, did not fit into Ronald’s preconceived cozy future.

What if, instead of being too much, this time she had been too little for Philip? From the outside, Hermione realized she just looked like a stereotypical librarian. Bookish and withdrawn. With a hidden tormented past. No wonder he ran away, she thought, trudging down the staircase. I have so very little to offer, don’t I? She was simply inadequate as she was for both men. Would she ever find the just-right fit, or was she doomed to be a forsaken Goldilocks, continually searching for something that didn’t seem to exist?

She stopped short at the ground floor’s landing just as Philip ascended from the dungeons. There was no movement for several seconds, both of them tense like startled deer caught in the open. There was nowhere to hide. For either of them.

Hermione broke first. “Hello,” she muttered across the hall.

For a moment it looked like Philip may rush back downstairs, his feet fidgety, the nervous indecision of his next move easy to observe.

Even though Hermione had spoken first, he mustered the courage to make the first move, stepping properly into the room. “Uh, hi.”

“Things okay?” she asked.

“Um,” he arrived at her side scratching the back of his head. “Not really.”

“Oh,” Hermione said lamely. “What—”

“Work,” Philip said quickly, his words blurring together. “Research, actually. The liver bile. I’m writing a grant proposal. Requires a lot of thinking.” He took a breath. “That’s why I left Mabon early. I had an idea and I needed to write it down. I’m sorry that I left you there alone.”

“Oh,” Hermione repeated. “I thought…”

She looked at him as she trailed off, searching his face for any ingenuity. It seemed so implausible and yet… was it really the truth? Had Hermione just invested three days of emotional energy into her last interaction with Philip, to have his abrupt departure not be about her at all? The icy-cold realization that she did not have the same standing in his life as he did in hers rushed through her body, freezing her to the floor. God, I have really put more stock into this than I should have… I am an idiot…

“You thought what?”

“Um,” Hermione faltered. Philip could never know that she had interpreted their time together as something more serious. This was already immensely embarrassing and that would just be the flake in a 99. Lie. Lie. Lie. Play it off! “I thought,” she attempted to smile but based on Philip’s expression she came up short, “I thought if you needed help you’d know to come to me. I’m positive I have some manuals on the subject. Maybe they’d help organize your thoughts. So you don’t have to reinvent the wheel.”

“Oh!” Philip’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, that would be nice.”

“You can come by anytime the library is open.”

“Thank you,” he said, jutting out his elbow. “May I walk you to breakfast?”

Hermione hesitated only briefly before taking his arm.

Unfortunately, Philip’s admission about his overwhelming work did little to erase Hermione’s feelings of inadequacy. There was a war within herself. Ingrained thoughts of inadequacy jousted with foolish ones, ones that couldn’t believe she had ever thought that Philip might like a woman like her. The whole lot were tying themselves up in knots, twisting and gnarling in her mind. Suffocating all logical sense; her self-loathing taking a deeper dive into the pool of her subconscious. Hermione’s impression of their time together was obviously vastly different than what Philip had intended. It had been a simple misunderstanding.

Something that other people could laugh about.

Something that other people would easily move on from.

Alas, Hermione wasn't like other people.

---

Tucked away in a corner of Pomona Sprout’s garden was a beautiful, natural hollow. This time of the year, when the leaves were changing for autumn, the light would filter through the canopy in just the right way to light the yellows and oranges in an unbelievably luminescent glow. It was, without a doubt, the most perfect place to host a tea.

Hermione absentmindedly picked at her Lady Arundel’s manchet; it simply had too much iced lemon frosting, whoever had done the decorating had a very heavy hand. Upon her arrival she was relieved to find that Philip was absent. After all, how was she supposed to mend her wounded pride if he kept showing up with his stupid, attractive face?

She huffed.

Hermione had never been very good at the entire rejection thing.

Not that Philip had rejected her out right… however, that didn’t really help her feel any better.

Completely oblivious to her thoughts, Pomona leaned over the walkway between their tables and said conspiratorially, “I saw you on the arm of a certain Potions Master today, Hermione. He is handsome, isn’t he?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Hermione felt herself go red, her cheeks hot. Oh, fuck me.

Pomona sniggered, catching Poppy’s attention. The matron asked, “What did you just do to the girl, ‘Ona? You didn’t spike her tea, did you?!”

Pomona rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Once a medical professional, always a medical professional.” Hermione’s face couldn’t possibly get any more warmer yet she felt it trying its damnedest. “Mo Mhúirnín,” the woman chided, waving her hand at Poppy as if warding the nurse off. “I was just telling Hermione how her new beau is so very hand—”

Rolanda Hooch, the third person at Pomona and Poppy’s table, immediately perked up. “New beau?!”

“No,” Hermione croaked, hoping for a hidden Basilisk tunnel below the garden to collapse and swallow her whole. “No. Just friends.”

“Friendly friends,” Pomona stage whispered.

Hermione tried to hide behind her overly-iced scone. “I help him with his work!” She quickly took a bite to shut herself up. I haven’t been teased like this since I was fifteen! And it’s happening by people more than twice my age!

Rolanda’s eyes narrowed slightly, obviously dubious of her explanation. “What type of—”

“Liver bile!” Hermione spit out with some crumbs.

Everyone stared at each other for a moment until Rolanda broke the silence. “That’s not a very sexy innuendo.”

“That’s because it’s not!” Hermione said. “It’s not anything!” She gulped her tea, half-scalding her tongue. I cannot let any of them ever know that I thought we went on a date together! They would show no mercy!

“Okay girls,” Poppy said, coming to Hermione’s rescue. “That’s enough teasing. Hermione’s relationships are no business of ours.” Hermione gave her a grateful nod.

Pomona sighed, admitting defeat, before focusing her attention on her own table once again.

Septima Vector, having watched the interaction in silence, rolled her eyes and plucked a scone from the Raffaellesco-patterned serving dish at their table. “Nevermind them, Hermione, they are no better than a bunch of school girls. Philip is a very nice man and I’m sure he values your friendship.” Hermione smiled weakly; it was utterly bizarre to have her former professors discussing her romantic—platonic?—relationships. “By the way, how did you find your Curse-Breaking apprenticeship, Hermione? I admit I wanted to go into that field but teaching felt safer.”

Perhaps there was truth in that statement from a Muggle perspective. However, Hermione’s time at Hogwarts had hardly ever been safe. It somehow became more and more dangerous every year. Incredulously, exploring tombs and disabling cursed booby-traps was easier and less lethal.

Hermione replied, “The training has definitely made clearing the restricted section easier. I’m not sure how Ms. Pince planned to tackle it without that experience.”

“She’d have managed somehow,” Septima answered, “but I suspect it would’ve taken ages.”

Hermione nibbled on her manchet, happier and more comfortable in discussing work than her personal life. “Honestly, I’d have been surprised if she decided to go at it alone. Some of the books are very impaired. Defective, in a way.”

“Aren’t we all?” murmured Sybill Trelawney—who had at some point sat at the free chair at the table—causing Hermione to jump. How the hell is she so quiet with all of those bracelets?!

“Oh my days!” exclaimed Septima, clutching her hand to her chest in shock. “And a very good afternoon to you too, Sybill!”

“Defective. Damaged,” Professor Trelawney murmured, selecting a manchet from the plate in the center of the table.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Bathsheda Babbling said from the third table. “Has anyone been in the Headmistress’ office lately? She’s covered Albus’ portrait. I couldn’t make out what had happened but the wall surrounding it was black.”

Gods, Hermione thought, staring blankly ahead. Will this torture never end? She couldn’t admit to her act of arson, not here, not now. Hadn’t she already embarrassed herself enough for one day?

“She’s covered it?” Septima asked. “That is odd.”

“Not really,” Rolanda offered, shrugging her shoulders. “Portraits can be covered for all sorts of reasons.”

“Well,” Professor Babbling answered, “it’s not as if he’s suddenly developed a pimple, though, is it? It would have to be seriously damaged, wouldn’t it?”

Hermione stayed silent, allowing the conversation to volley overhead without her input.

“Please,” Rolanda said, “if there was something… defective with his portrait, I’m sure Severus would have noticed when he was Headmaster. He has a talent for observing what others miss, he would have surely been aware of anything unconventional.”

Babbling’s voice dropped low, “What if it is a new affliction? You don’t have any suspicions it could be something to do with—”

“Oh, bother!” Pomona interrupted suddenly, talking over the discussion that had been occurring. “I just remembered that Severus needed more St. John’s wort. I will have to harvest it once we’re done here; it’s the last ones of the season, they won’t be good past today.”

“I can clean up, Annwyl, so you aren’t more delayed,” Poppy said, patting Pomona’s hand as the Herbologist mouthed a word of thanks.

Hermione perked up; this was her chance to solidify the change of subject. Professor Snape was probably not the best topic to switch to but as he was currently the only one available, he’d do. “Is that for his tonic?”

“He’s told you about that?” Poppy asked, eyebrows rising.

“Um, sort of.” Hermione desperately tried to not blush once again in the presence of her coworkers. This was supposed to be a better thing to talk about, Hermione! Get yourself together!

“Interesting,” Poppy answered. “I wasn’t aware that he was talking about it.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about it before now,” Rolanda said, taking a sip of tea. Septima shook her head in agreement.

Professor Babbling was next, “Nor I.”

Looking perplexed, Poppy repeated, “Interesting.”

“Well,” Hermione said, feeling the enormous weight of all eyes on her, “I may have… sort of… figured it out on my own. Technically.”

Poppy’s eyebrows rose again.

Septima smirked. “I see you and Severus have keen perceptiveness in common.”

Babbling spoke again, “Maybe you could investigate the portrait, Hermione! As a Curse-Breaker you—”

“Not this again!” Rolanda interjected.

“It is suspicious!” Professor Babbling insisted.

“Very unsavory,” Professor Trelawney agreed, picking at another biscuit.

“See!” Babbling gestured to Hermione’s table. “Sybill agrees with me!”

“Apologies,” Treawlney said, looking up from the manchets, her eyes comically wide in her glasses. “Were we talking about something?” She flicked some frosting off the scone. “Who frosted these? Too much frosting isn’t good for one’s aura, you know.”

Finally, to Hermione’s relief, it was Poppy’s turn to blush.

---

The warmth of the water saturated Severus’ muscles, loosening them; allowing them to stretch further than he could ever manage on dry land. The weightlessness brought such a blessed relief. He often forgot what this sensation felt like—living without pain. Firmly, he pushed that thought away, tucking it securely into a box. If Severus allowed himself to ruminate on it further he would become bitter. This wouldn’t be forever. It couldn’t be. The therapy was a temporary measure, yet the tonic would be the permanent solution. Severus would finally be able to live without the constant ache. I just need to make headway…

“Just a bit further…” Poppy murmured on his left as she stretched his leg under him.

Severus’ back arched and he suppressed a groan. Fuck.

“A bit tender here, I see. Sometimes the stiffness is referred.” Poppy had told this to him before but he decided to not interrupt. After all, he wouldn’t complain if she did all the talking. “One side,” she explained as she moved to his other side, “sometimes feels tight but it’s actually the other side where the problem spot is. Almost like,” Poppy began to move Severus’ right leg, “that the other side has to overcompensate; it can’t recover fully, though, since it’s not the source of the problem.”

Merlin, fuck, Severus thought as Poppy bent his leg back. He clenched a fist under the water.

She hummed. “Almost there, dear.”

The seconds ticked by so slowly he swore it had to be several minutes later when she finally relinquished her hold on him. Poppy patted his thigh, indicating that they had finished for the day.

“Are you certain you don’t want to explore reflexology or even just a really good deep tissue massage for that tricky area there?”

“I am absolutely certain,” he said as he stood in the water.

“I have been told I give very good massages.”

“No.”

“Would you like a reference?” Poppy was teasing now and he knew it.

“No, I think I could do without.”

“The walk down to the village for Mabon may have made you a bit more stiff.”

“I’m not old, Poppy,” Severus said.

“Nobody said you were,” Poppy answered, walking up the steps. “Merely a medical observation.” She offered Severus a towel as he, more slowly than Severus would have liked considering the current conversation, exited the pool. “I am glad you felt well enough to go.”

Severus rubbed the towel over his hair and face before moving on to his upper body. “Couldn’t risk not seeing the lads attempt to catch their arses on fire.”

Poppy laughed, drying her legs. “I am infinitely grateful that students are restricted from attending. Bum injuries are not my favorite type to treat.”

He did not allow himself to think about which specific arse injuries Poppy had to treat during her tenure as Hogwarts’ Matron.

There was a real fear that Poppy would give detailed examples, however, she merely said with a tilt of her head, “Pomona mentioned that Hermione had attended. I hope she had a good first experience. I imagine some of it is rather confusing to a newcomer.”

“Actually,” Severus sighed, “I was forced into servitude to explain the rituals to Miss Granger.”

“Ah,” Poppy answered, slipping on a robe to ward off the chill as she traveled through the castle. “I imagine you weren’t left with much choice on the matter.”

“None,” Severus replied, slipping his own dark robe for the walk back to his quarters.

“My, my. How outrageous.”

“Indeed.”

The conversation dropped into comfortable silence as they exited the bathroom.

“Thank you, Poppy,” he murmured, touching the nurse’s arm in affection.

Poppy patted his hand. “Don’t mention it, Severus, I hope it helps get you some sleep.”

---

Something was burning in the dark.

Severus snapped alert suddenly, inhaling the hot smoke. Lungs constricting, scorching, he tried to breathe but the fire surrounding him was so strong. It roared, the flames dancing around him, rising even further in height; flashes of orange and yellow rapidly intertwining with each other. The space’s temperature rose.

So hot.

Yet the flames were so hypnotic as they flickered alongside him.

The rope on Severus’ wrists cut deeply, his skin blistering under the pressure. The fire intensified, and he could smell burning hair. His hair. Singeing. The ends curling before they fell away as ash. Humid and sticky, the flames slicked across his skin and Severus could feel his flesh bubble. And yet, he found himself completely incapable of yelling out; the smoke rendering him helpless, squeezing his throat and irritating his eyes.

There was a burning here in the dark room.

It was Severus who was burning.

The ash above him spiraled, a plume of rolling black. Morphing and twisting until the face of the Dark Mark emerged, just as it had done at the World Cup all those years ago. Staring down at him until it opened its mouth releasing the snake hidden within.

The reptile’s flexible body moved rapidly, slithering through the air to his position. Severus couldn’t do anything to save himself. It was just like before… in the shack… with that other huge snake. Everything happening too fast and yet simultaneously in slow motion. The snake opened its mouth, fangs glinting in the firelight, and Severus felt like it was sucking out his soul, pulling him inside-out.

There was only pain.

Pain from the outside due to the heat. Pain from the inside due to the snake stealing his very essence. Everything was hot. Hot and wet with blood… muscles stiff and taut as he tried to fight against the restraints and the snake. Skin charring, flaking away, as the fire rose higher and more intense. Severus was being consumed. The only way out, the only mercy would be—

Severus woke with a huge intake of breath, his lungs unable to get in enough air. His right leg had seized, the muscles in his calf and thigh rock hard.

Fucking hell…

His leg was on fire, skin so tight, as the flames followed the sciatica nerve all the way down. So hot. Severus tensed his jaw as he fisted the sheets; the cracking of his teeth under pressure the only sound in the room other than his staggered and pained breathing. He couldn’t even focus enough to occlude, it was all just pain. White hot sizzling pain.

It burned.

It burned.

He burned…

It was all too much. His weakness, his failure to help himself, pushed him over the edge. He fumbled for his wand in the dark, vision white with pain, active muscle memory propelling him forward. His already inflexible leg spasmed, the tendons stretching to their limit. Severus couldn’t…. He couldn’t deal with this…

Teeth chattering as his body convulsed, he pointed his wand at his lower body and muttered, “E— lec—trica,” Severus inhaled sharply before finishing the incantation, “In—pul—sa…”

Bright sparks erupted from his wand, another kind of warmth engulfing him, shocking him into oblivion.

Chapter Text

October 10, 1999

A Fortnight Later

Fuck.

Severus checked the equation again.

Three stable fucking digits. Numeral three, runes Thurisaz and Uruz.

“Fuck.”

There had to be a mistake; it was two in the morning, after all.

The Dictate Quill bobbed happily by his side.

“Don’t write that down,” he muttered.

He vanished the contents of the cauldron, spinning the arithmantic formula back to its default white. Severus began again. He scraped soapstone shavings into the bottom of the cauldron, added a few grams of sugar, and then filled the cauldron halfway with purified water. The contents boiled for exactly twenty three minutes and ten seconds. The wood betony cuttings followed and then the hot purple flume of steam. The formula in front of him adjusted, the two familiar digits rolling into place.

Severus then repeated the steps he had done earlier. He greased the amber rod in mint oil before slipping it into the cauldron with a hiss. Counterclockwise. One. Two. A third digit began to slow. Three. The digit was almost… Four. The rune Uruz clicked into place.

Bloody Fuck.

He stared at the formula, months of no progress and now… now he had three stable components. He had replicated the results twice.

Might as well try something with menthol then, for all the good it will do you.

It was a lark. A fool’s errand. Done when nothing else was forthcoming. Just to prove her wrong.

A bark of laughter echoed in the lab, spooking the nearby quill. Granger had been right. She didn’t know it, but she was. Incredulous. Alongside Severus’ disbelief there was also something else, a foreign feeling of hope, coming to the forefront of his mind. Completely brilliant.

As the liquid’s rotation slowed, Severus picked up the vessel with the unused bark shavings he had prepared earlier.

“Amber rod,” he said and the quill quickly began scratching in the journal, “greased with mint oil. Four counterclockwise stirs. Rune Uruz. Now, white willow bark. Starting with thirty grams. Color is expected to change to—” he sprinkled thirty grams of shavings on the top of the liquid— “lilac. Thirty-three.” Another numerical slot was beginning to slow. “Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six.” The slot was close to stabilizing. Just a bit… “Thirty-seven.” Severus eyed the formula, and just as he was about to add another gram the numeral seven clicked into place.

Severus stood unmoving for a moment. Almost unable to comprehend what had just occurred. He not only was able to stabilize three slots of the formula overnight, but was also able to finalize a fourth. Four. Four digits of the formula.

“Christ…” he muttered. The quill eagerly began to write. Severus waved his hand at it, as if it would understand his intention, as he stood mesmerized with the formula. “Four digits,” he finally murmured. “Four digits. Numerals three and seven. Runes Thurisaz and Uruz.”

It was mad. Absolutely mental. Granger’s advice hadn’t been just adequate. It was monumental. To Severus’ surprise, as he was crushing the wintergreen berries, it really felt like he was smiling.

---

Dawn had not yet reached Scotland. It was still and quiet; the kitchens being an exception… and the hurried, frantic movement in the Headmaster’s stairwell. Severus was sprinting up the stairs, riding the ecstasy of progress, ignoring the twinge in his hip. Four fucking bloody digits! Earlier, fully recognizing that Minerva would not appreciate a patronus at half-three, he had tried to nap on his sofa. Severus had found that he couldn’t. His brain was too hot. The cogs were too fast.

Severus knew there was no chance of rest shortly after when he had mistaken his hanging robe as a person loitering against his sitting room wall. His mind was creating distracting situations, ensuring that he would not sleep — so much has happened! So much more to do! More, more, more!

Keen, he opened Minerva’s office door and strode in, his boots clicking across the floor. Minerva rose from her seat behind her desk to greet him, her eyes bright despite the hour; after all, he had been awfully generous to give her fifteen minutes notice. Upon entering though, he faltered for a quick moment, his gaze catching on the burnt bottom of Dumbledore’s portrait on the far wall.

“Your news?” Minerva asked, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Yes,” he said, moving forward, attempting to make his interest in the portrait not as obvious. Were the rumors true? Had Minerva finally had enough of him? The rumors in the staff room had been running wild this month and Severus had found himself a little more than curious as to the truth. “I made a breakthrough—” Minerva clapped and slid open a desk drawer “—four digits are stabilized.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you always keep a bottle of Glenvilet there?”

Minerva paused in uncorking. “Don’t even think about it.” Severus held up his hands in mock surrender. “Besides, the drawer is rigged.” She swirled her hand around as if to make the words appear from the air. “Cursed, you see.”

“Ah,” he replied. “Shame we don’t have a curse-breaker on staff then.”

Minerva laughed as she poured them both glasses. “Well,” she offered him his tumbler. “You might not want to recruit her for such a task. She may very well burn the entire place down next time.”

Severus turned towards the former Headmaster’s empty portrait. “Ms. Granger did that?”

“Apparently they had some sort of a chat.”

“I see.”

Minerva sat, sipping the translucent amber liquid. “Albus is as mute about it as ever.”

He followed her lead and folded himself into the chair across from her desk. “Well, you put two Gryffindors together unsupervised and—”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the twitch of a small smile. “Before you start with me, I am not showing her any preferential treatment. She is paying for the restoration.” Minerva’s shoulders drooped. “I’ve also asked her to sit with Penelope for one session. I’m worried she holds a lot of anger still from the War. Which is understandable, all things considered.”

He tilted his head in agreement. Even though Severus hadn’t witnessed Granger’s anger to this degree—her frustration and annoyance, sure—it wasn’t a surprise to hear that she may have let her emotions get the better of her. After all, hadn’t he done the same thing a month ago in his lab when things had gone tits up? Besides, it was not unexpected if Granger thought herself to have some unfinished business with the former Headmaster.

Granger hadn’t chosen to be Muggleborn. She wasn’t to know at eleven what befriending Harry Potter would mean. Would she reverse any of it, Severus wondered. What would Granger’s life be like if she hadn’t joined the magical world? On the other side of the coin, however, begged the question: what would the magical world look like, today, without her? Severus exhaled, the weight of that alternate universe weighing heavily over him. Life continued to be dreadfully unfair to those that didn’t have a choice in the matter, didn’t it?

Minerva set her tumbler down with a thunk. “Let’s not dwell. Tell me about this breakthrough of yours.”

Severus looked at the portrait again, the charred bottom flaky and slowly disintegrating. “Can you keep a secret, Minerva?”

She sat up a little straighter in his periphery. Oh, the things that must be running through her head. Had he used dark magic? Or blood? Had there been a recent theft of outrageously expensive ingredients? “Of… course.”

He snorted and turned back to her. “Terrible liars, Gryffindors.” Before Minerva could protest he continued, “I may have had a little help with this one, Minerva.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.

---

Hermione didn’t mean to do it. Honestly, it just happens when one re-sorts books by hand. It is easy to be forgotten about when hidden behind shelving and shadow. When your presence is overtaken by the careful scratching of quills or hushed voices from the tables. It’s simply a byproduct of the environment. It sets a librarian up to be able to overhear things.

Hermione had been overhearing quite a lot recently.

And today, she realized something that she hadn’t heard yet. It shouldn’t bother her. It may not even be anything at all. Yet… it did bother her. It didn’t seem right. Her instincts were telling her so.

Hermione slipped Essential Dangers of Crystals back on the shelf. She was doing her best to not pay attention, but the nightmare Eden Lawson was describing to her Herbology study group was vivid and terrifying. That wasn’t necessarily the part that made her stop short, however. Nightmares were to be expected. Even horrifying ones of loved ones going missing.

No, it wasn’t the nightmares.

It was who was having the nightmares. Or rather, who wasn’t.

How strange, Hermione thought, that I’ve only heard of such intense nightmares from students in either Hufflepuff or Slytherin. The division didn’t seem to make much sense. Each House had lost friends or family in the War; each house had their own share of trauma and grief. Besides, it wasn’t as if Gryffindors or Ravenclaws were immune to such things. She was a Gryffindor. And yet she was still plagued by nightmares.

How could it be possible that two houses seemed to be suffering inordinately more than their peers? And what do I have in common with them?

Lost in her thoughts, as she was, Hermione was ignorant of being spied in the stacks. When she became aware of the presence at the end of the aisle—her eyes cutting over to the dark shape, a spark of fear coursing through her as she registered if it was friend or foe—she jumped clear out of her skin.

“Eavesdropping?”

“What? No,” she murmured, waving her hand, trying to clear away the tingling sensation, as she hurried to Professor Snape. “Actually, well. No. But…” she blew out a puff of air that moved aside her fringe. Not even thinking if it might be inappropriate to ask she blurted out, “Have you noticed, maybe, if your House’s students are having more nightmares this year compared to last?”

If Snape thought it an odd question he didn’t let on, matching her stride to the front desk. “Maybe a slight uptick. However, our first year class is much larger than it was last year. First years can take an especially long time to adjust living away from home.”

Okay, so that makes sense. It didn’t explain away the whole issue, though. It was not just first years whinging to friends what their brains had been up to the night before.

Hermione circled to the back of the rosewood desk. “I’ve just… maybe it’s a coincidence?”

“What is?”

Just then Penelope slid to the front of the desk, alongside Snape, unknowingly interrupting the conversation. She slipped a book across the desk to check out: The Vonaj Solution. After several seconds of silence, Hermione realized she had been blatantly staring at the title. Something about it was niggling in the back of her mind.

Trying to cover her bewildered interest in the book she shot out the first thing that came to mind, “Penelope,” her hands began the automatic task of logging the book in the ledger, “have you noticed if you’re treating one House more than the others?”

“Oh, Slytherin, by a long mile. It’s not a surprise though,” Penelope gave Snape a sympathetic look, “they’ve had a rough go of things. It’s really nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“And it,” Hermione pushed the book back across the desk, “doesn’t concern you at all?”

Penelope flushed, eyes slicing quickly between her two coworkers. “Why would it?” Snape casually leaned against the desk on an elbow, hands clasped together, but otherwise stayed silent.

“You’d think that more Raven—”

“Honestly, Hermione,” Penelope’s tone was shrill, exasperated. “I don’t tell you how to sort your books! Trust me! I know what I’m doing.” She clutched her book close to her chest, looking like a rabbit caught in the middle of a meadow.

“I didn’t mean—” Hermione glanced at Snape, trying to gauge if Penelope’s reaction was as unusual as it felt, however his blank expression gave away nothing as to his thoughts.

Penelope turned away, moving quickly to the front doors, fleeing from the desk and Hermione’s insistent questions. She called behind her, “And don’t forget! Your appointment tonight!”

“Right,” Hermione muttered, waving listlessly at Penelope’s back as she exited the library completely.

“Was that indicative of the majority of your interactions with Ms. Clearwater?” Snape asked, watching Penelope’s retreat.

Hermione shrugged, feeling deflated at the blatant rejection of her theory in front of Snape. “Sort of.”

“Interesting,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

She really didn’t want to discuss this further. Especially not with Snape. Someone who only a few weeks ago would have absolutely relished seeing her chastened by a peer. In an effort to move the conversation quickly on she said, “So, what brought you here in the first place? Certainly not to stand sentinel at the end of the Magical Artifact row and spook me?”

His mouth twisted. “No.”

Snape fell oddly quiet. After a moment she asked, “Well?”

He blinked, seeming to come out of a daze. “Minerva threatened to tell you something and I, obviously, cannot let her have the joy.”

Hermione felt the corners of her mouth tip upward at his thick sarcasm. “Of course.” Suddenly, however, she was overcome with dread. “Wait. What exactly did she want to tell me?” The most horrible thing came to the front of her mind: expulsion. Have I been sacked?!

“Do you recall, perhaps, several weeks ago when you were meddling where you shouldn’t have been?”

Oh God, I really am going to be let go!

Panic coursed through her; it had to be the portrait. The Headmistress was angry that she had destroyed property—however, technically she did have permission to be there—but she had already been penalized… Or was it more? Unbidden, she felt tears prick against her eyelashes. Have the Board of Governors caught wind of it and want me gone? Am I deemed to be too unstable to be around the—

Snape continued oblivious to her inner turmoil, “When you, unsolicitedly—” oh shit, oh shit, oh shit “—gave me advice about my arithmantic formula?”

Oh shit, oh shit—wait, what? Hermione blinked rapidly, her unshed tears quickly dispersing. “Your, your formula? What do you…” Her mind quickly filtered back trying to solve the— “At breakfast a few months ago.”

“Yes.”

Not quite believing what she was saying, she asked, “Is this your… obliquitous way of telling me that I helped?”

His silence was an answer in itself.

“Oh my God!” The students at the closest table swiveled in surprise to look at the front desk. “What did I say?!” Snape rolled his eyes in response. Perhaps he thought she was fishing, trying to pry a compliment out of him. In an effort to reassure him that she was not being daft on purpose she said, “You can’t expect me to remember everything I’ve ever said.”

“I highly doubt that—” It suddenly came to her.

“Capsaicin!” Hermione scrunched her nose. “Wait, you said you had tried that already.”

“I did.”

“So then what…” She tapped her finger against the surface of the desk.

Snape, irritatingly, did not offer any assistance in her mental recall.

What else did I say? He basically called me a novitiate and I then said— Hermione laughed. Of course!

“Menthol,” she breathed.

“Indeed,” Snape answered quietly. “I used menthol oil on the stirring rod. I was ultimately able to stabilize four digits.”

“Out of how many?” Hermione asked, matching his soft tone.

“Seven.”

“That’s more than half way there!”

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

“So…” She paused for a moment but Snape didn’t respond fast enough for her. “Does that mean I can officially help you now? Review your equations?”

Silence. She was itching to prove her worth but knew if she pressured him she’d get no where. Perhaps he’d be amendable to a negotiation.

“How about just once,” Hermione said. “Allow me to assist you just one time. And if it doesn’t prove beneficial I won’t bother you about it again.”

Snape looked at her evenly, seemingly accessing her offer. If he said no would she be able to let it go? Would she stop feeling this compulsion to help? To seek out something new and exciting? Another skill set, another professional experience, another folder of information to keep on mental file? This entire endeavor excited her and she—

“Just once,” he finally said, holding up one long finger. “You may review my notes one time. And then—”

“Never again,” she finished for him, nodding her head. At least, she thought to herself, that’s the plan for now. If nothing else, Hermione Granger did not give up easily. She was going to help to the best of her ability and if that meant more than one arbitration, so be it. As this was a minor detail that Snape didn’t need to be aware of, Hermione didn’t mention it.

“Very well. I will be in touch, Granger.” He turned and departed, weaving through the tables of students.

Hermione, giddy, hummed a merry tune to herself the rest of the afternoon.

---

Behind Hermione, the door to Penelope’s tiny office click closed; the change in air pressure sent a nearby floating candle spinning lazily towards the ceiling. The heavy drapery on the walls, blocking the draft from the adjoining group-therapy space, made the space feel even smaller. Claustrophobic.

“Evening, Hermione, would you like some water?” Penelope greeted from her high-backed chair, not looking up from her notes.

Across from Penelope was a large chaise for her clients. A small table with water glasses and tissues was uncomfortably pinched between the two imposing pieces of furniture. It appeared to be bending in an unnatural way as if Penelope had used magic to wedge it into place.

“Um, sure,” Hermione muttered as she sat on the edge of the chaise.

They hadn’t even started and her anxiety was already prickling away at her, making her fingers itch. She took a quick sip of water, hoping that she was hiding the trembling in her hand. She would have preferred to be anywhere else. Hermione didn’t want to talk about why she had set the portrait on fire. She didn’t want to explain herself to someone who hadn’t been there. Who didn’t know her family. Who wasn’t given such a hard choice to make. She felt the glass slipping from her sweaty fingers and she quickly put it back before she dropped it. Hermione was not sure what Penelope would infer from that and frankly, she didn’t want to find out.

The last time Hermione had seen Penelope in her professional element was during that group session when she chastised the dungeon dwellers for nightmares. Would Hermione receive the same treatment? She just wanted to be understood. Was that so hard? To tell someone what had happened, and receive some support in return?

God, this entire thing was terrible. Did everyone feel like this at therapy? What if she was already doing it wrong?

Penelope apparently operated with a frankness that bordered on obscene because she started with, “Now, you are here because you have been referred by the Headmistress due to your uncontrollable anger problem.”

Immediately, Hermione felt defensive. “I don’t—”

“Hermione,” Penelope chided as if to a young child, “you set a portrait on fire. Why did you do that?

“I was…”

“Angry?”

“For good reason!” Hermione felt like she was rapidly losing control of the situation, feeling as if the Quaffle had never truly been in her court to begin with.

Penelope tapped her quill against her parchment. “People do not typically set portraits on fire. Arson is technically a problem.”

“I… yes, I agree with that.”

Penelope looked far too pleased with herself and it annoyed Hermione. “What about the portrait made you angry?”

Hermione sighed deeply. “I had found out that Dumbledore had withheld information from me during the War.”

“Hermione, that doesn’t necessarily single you out. I don’t think he told many people anything, including Harry Potter. It wasn’t your place to expect any different.”

Hermione bit out, “It was when it was about my family—”

“I didn’t realize they were that impor—”

“THEY WERE TO ME!” Hermione’s voice had turned shrill and she heard the blood rushing in her ears. Penelope was digging into bloody sore wounds; was she purposefully trying to hurt her?

Penelope paused for a moment, wrote something down in her notes, and then continued her line of questioning, “I didn’t mean to imply they weren’t, Hermione. Just that I didn’t realize Dumbledore considered them important.”

Properly chastised, tears began to form on Hermione’s eyelids.

“This is very upsetting for you.”

Hermione felt the acidic bitterness rising in her throat, burning her from the inside out. What did Penelope expect exactly?

“Would you like to talk about your family? It may prove helpful in discovering where the root of your anger lies.”

“No,” Hermione said low. “I don’t think thats relevant.”

Penelope, however, continued on, “You don’t think your family history is relevant to your current emotional and mental state? Nothing about what they’ve done to you, or perhaps how you were raised, is at all conducive to figuring out the source of your anger?”

“I am not an angry person.” Right? Hermione was beginning to doubt herself. What if she hadn’t been righteous in her rage after all?

“Hermione, you’ve been hostile our entire session thus far. I would categorize your emotional state as being full of anger.”

“I — I am sorry,” Hermione said without meaning it, feeling defeated and alone. “I have been trying…”

“You are not alone,” Penelope said as if she could read Hermione’s thoughts, “war survivors often have some social disconnect.”

Hermione bit her tongue. She was not some social outcast. She had friends… didn’t she? While she wasn’t interested in becoming more friendly with Penelope after this, Philip seemed nice enough to be friends with. And she had Harry and Ginny. Then there was Pomona and Poppy. Minerva. Maybe—

“Okay,” Penelope said, interrupting Hermione’s train of thought. “I sense that talking about this is not helping you. And that is my job. Let’s try some meditation instead and see if it gets us anywhere.”

The silence was deafening and Hermione bought herself a few more moments by sipping some more water. She wanted to get out of here. She didn’t appreciate Penelope’s insinuations against her. Nor against her family. What they’ve done to you… as if I hadn’t been the one to traumatize them. Her parents were not saints but Hermione had genuinely adored her family. The idea that she had been mistreated was ire-inducing.

Penelope swept her hand out in front of her in an unspoken command: lie down. For a moment, Hermione had a flash of throwing her glass of water in Penelope’s face and storming out of here hellbent on never returning. It wouldn’t do her any good in persuading others she hadn’t an anger problem, but Merlin it would feel bloody fucking good.

Instead, after setting the glass back down on the table between them, Hermione stretched out, hands clasped over her stomach. If she tried hard enough she might be able to control herself and these terrible emotions Penelope was stirring up, as if she was dredging muck up out of an undisturbed pond. Maybe the meditation could be helpful — help her hide beneath the surface of the stormy waters, away from this woman and all her problems. Float slowly and settle on the bottom. Still. Quiet. Hermione’s breathing became more steady.

“You have really relaxed quite quickly, that’s good!” Despite herself, Hermione liked being praised. It felt good. “Close your eyes, Hermione, and focus on your breath. Let’s go back… to… let’s say your first year as a student.”

Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched together as memories clashed together. Her walk down the aisle to the Sorting Hat, the troll, the riddles in the dungeons on the way to the Philosopher’s Stone… heat and warmth mixed with cold and isolation.

“Now tell me,” Penelope’s tone was soft, softer than it had ever been, “Did you ever feel angry then?”

“Yes,” she answered almost automatically. “The boys were rude to me for the first few months. I didn’t fit in.”

“And who do you mean by ‘the boys’?”

“Harry. Ron.”

“Ah, yes,” Penelope hushed. “And when you think of Ron do you feel anger?”

“More sadness really.”

Penelope hummed. “And Harry? What of Harry?”

More memories came filtering back. Hermione was in the Forest of Dean and cold, starving, listening to the locket whisper untruths to her… sad and dejected… hopeless for being in the situation… a child in an adult’s war… anger that it had all come down to chance. Not only that Harry had fit the prophecy but also that she had even met him on the train. Had even been sorted into his house. Remembering her weakest moments, of knowing that if it wasn’t for Harry her family would still be together… but these were things he couldn’t control and she knew that anger was misplaced.

Her concentration must have been plain on her face because Penelope reminded her, “It’s important to keep your eyes closed. Are you feeling an emotional thread, Hermione? Follow it.”

No, no, she wasn’t angry with Harry. He was just a child as much as she was. He was just as afraid. Just like how Hermione felt in the lounge that warm afternoon when she walked up behind her family and oblivated them. She had done it so cleanly they hadn’t even realized what had happened. They would have been such an easy target… and knowing it could have been someone else—Hermione could feel wetness on her face—someone else that had walked up behind her parents and ended their lives… that their slumped forms on the sofa could have never roused awake… Fear. It was fear that had propelled her. Fear that ran through her veins when she had to make the hardest decision of her life.

“I don’t want—” she began to plead.

Penelope pushed, “Continue. Keep still. Follow the thread. You are so close to the source. I can feel it.”

Fear wrapped around her in her home’s lounge. Enveloping her, consuming her. Transporting her to another room. In another house. The carpet pressed against her cheek was familiar and it smelled like her blood.

“No!” Hermione whined, trying to flail out of whatever trance she had fallen in. Her eyelids felt inordinately heavy and completely uncooperative as if they were buried under dried clay.

Penelope’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “Relax, Hermione, relax. This is part of the process. Do not be afraid.”

“Haven’t I earned the right to be afraid?!”

Memories continued to assault her. Flashing by her, stinging as if her retinas were being burned. Bellatrix Lestrange. Her wild hair, the glint of her teeth in the light. The sharp stab against her arm, the sounds of her flesh tearing. Stretching before slicing apart. The sizzle and fizz of the magic in the air. Darkness looming over her, threatening to dissolve her if Bellatrix left anything of her behind. Crazed laughter blended with screaming. The air smelling musty and of something metallic. Hopeless. It was all so hopeless. She was going to die here on this rug, in the house of someone who didn’t care for her, alone. The only witness a madwoman, driven by something so dark and so evil Hermione still couldn’t wrap her mind around it now. She would die. Alone. And afraid. Her family would never know. Her family would never… and she… got rid of them… for what then? For nothing? She had failed… she had failed… she had…

“Let me go!” Hermione yelled, lurching up, fighting against unseen cobwebs. As she forced her eyes open she caught the last glimmers of a pale purple light dissipating around her body. To her side Penelope quickly leaned away, shoving something behind her. My God, what happened to me? “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t —”

“What. Did. You. Do.” Hermione was not aware that she had stood and pointed her wand directly at Penelope’s head until the third word.

Penelope’s eyes flicked between Hermione’s hand and face several times. “I was helping —”

“You forced —” Hermione’s hand had begun to tremble violently.

“Assisted —”

“How dare you—”

“Hermione, I have practiced with many patients, you are not the first. You need to trust —”

Hermione’s laughter was bitter, sour. “I cannot believe—” She laughed again, and she must have looked as mad as the woman who had invaded her mind, because Penelope pressed herself into her chair in an effort to gain more space. “I believe our session is over, Penelope. There won’t be another.”

Chapter Text

October 11, 1999

The Following Morning

The soft fiber of the authentic Persian rug cut into Hermione’s cheek, burning her skin regardless of the material. She inhaled sharply, her chest growing tight. Cackling laughter reverberated around her in the dark. Straddled, the pressure over her lower belly anchored her to the floor. Hermione’s limbs were useless, attached but unmoving.

“I like thiisssssss,” Bellatrix hissed. “Do you?”

Hermione whimpered. Then there was pain. White. Hot. Her arm stinging as the first letter was ever… so… slowly carved into her flesh.

“Oh,” Bellatrix moaned in pleasure as she adjusted her grip. Steam rose from Hermione’s wound. A cold draft rolled in, dispersing the sickly, foul smell of burning skin.

Clang.

The sound came from behind her—the hallway—metal being dragged across the floor. Was it meant for her? Was she to be bound? Were they going to string her up and slice her open? What type of torture were they going to inflict on her next?

How did humans get so good at hurting each other?

Clang.

She couldn’t die here alone. Bellatrix laughed again as she admired her handy-work. Where was her own wand? Hermione flexed her fingers and felt the familiar weight of it in her hand. So, then, why wasn’t she able to use it if she had it?

Clang.

She was a failure.

Clang.

A failure as a witch.

Clang.

As a daughter.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG.

Hermione startled awake, swaying on her feet. Lurching to the right, she stuck out her arm to stop herself from falling. The nearby wall was wet, mossy… It was too slippery and she lost purchase, collapsing to the floor, the stones rough on her knees. Her wand, in her other hand, clattered across the small room. Above her, several metal chains clanged against each other from the draft through the rusted ventilation grate.

Where am— the answer came almost immediately: Filch’s dungeon. The storage room of his menacing props he threatened students with. It was all show, it always had been, but it didn’t make them less startling to suddenly find in front of you. The blade of an ax glinted to her left. Hermione’s eyes passed over the skeleton—that must be fake, right?—in the cage in the corner.

How did I get here? Did I sleepwalk?

Hermione tried to remember… she had torn away from Penelope, sprinted to her room, and collapsed on her bed. She had cried herself to sleep, wearing the same clothes, whilst hugging Crookshanks tightly. He even allowed her to weep into his fur despite how undignified it all was; such a good cat.

Was this the result of what Penelope had done to her? What spell had been responsible for the purple haze? Had the water she drank even been safe?

Silently summoning her wand, Hermione ran a simple diagnostic. The spell twisted around her, fuzzy and hazy, until the magic popped out of existence like a bubble. She came back clean. There was no residue stuck to her, no invisible magical thread tugging at her. Relieved, her shoulders sagged as she released a sigh. She must have sleepwalked due to stress and exposed trauma. That’s all this was. Nothing—

As she turned to leave, however, Hermione caught a peculiar glimmer on the wall.

That shouldn’t be there.

She stepped closer, turning her head as she approached, to see if the sheen was a play of light. No, there was something… just a bit closer…. Hermione held out her hand. The magical residue… it didn’t pulse exactly. It buzzed, vibrating as her hand neared the wall. She spread her fingers wider, giving her as much surface area as possible, and placed her palm flat against the stone.

It felt… like tulle. A little staticky, but not uncomfortable. Just there. On the surface. Unassuming. Easy to overlook unless you were looking for it.

Even so, it shouldn’t be there. Unless… unless someone was hiding something… magic exists in the world, it’s latent. So latent it’s basically a natural phenomenon. It just is. However, something like this—something that shows up when you’re looking for something that should not be there—is different. This is intentional.

Hermione knew all these things—she had been trained to notice abnormalities, had been hired to deal with them. So there was something here… but was it only… Hermione dragged her hand along the wall, the magic under her fingertips holding taut, as she walked to the door.

The sheen was outside in the hall as well. Splotchy, and splattered across the stone. It was still there the next hall over. And the next. Hermione twisted herself around, going past unfamiliar corners and corridors, trying to parse where it had ended or began. It appeared it was all throughout the dungeon… and to her horror as she slowly ascended the stairs, it had crept up into the entrance hall… around the ground floor… and some of the first.

Hermione’s heart beat faster as the realization settled in front of her, unable to be ignored: it had leeched out of the dungeons into the Castle proper.

She supposed it was using the Castle’s own wards to slowly spread, attaching itself like a parasite. But for how long? How long had this been uncontrolled? She hadn’t come across the source in her hasty survey… so where did this come from? And why?

And what was she to do about it?

Hermione’s mind was spinning as she sprinted up the stairs to the Headmaster’s Tower. What to do? What to do? What to do? She didn’t know. However, she was absolutely certain of one fact.

Something was very wrong in Hogwarts Castle.

---

Hermione hadn’t even considered that Minerva wouldn’t be in her office until she was halfway up the spiral staircase; it wasn’t even eight in the morning yet. However, it was too late to turn back now. Hopefully, though, fortune would smile on her and Minerva would be there… and that I won’t be alone with a particularly burnt portrait.

She didn’t bother to knock, an oversight, as she wasn’t thinking clearly; her brain was too busy—too full of sirens warning of danger. However, Hermione had clearly interrupted… something. The Headmistress turned away from Dumbledore’s half-restored portrait, the occupant fleeing off to the side as she folded several papers out of sight.

“Hermione,” Minerva said, eyes going directly down to her dirty wet knees and back up to what Hermione assumed was her hair even more out of sorts than usual. “What is the matter?”

Her brain was still going, unable to articulate more than: “Minerva, something is wrong.”

“Yes, that does look obvious to me.” Minerva gestured to the chairs in front of her desk.

No, no, she doesn’t understand. Hermione grabbed the older woman’s sleeve as she tried to pass. “Minerva,” she said again, her voice rising in pitch slightly. “Something is wrong in the dungeons.”

“Hermione,” she patted Hermione’s hand as if she was a small child trying to explain that there were monsters under her bed, “I am afraid you may need to explain yourself a little better. Maybe tea? Have you even eaten breakfast?”

“I don’t—” Hermione shook her head. Focus focus focus “—There’s magic. Down there. In the dungeons.” Surely, she made more sense? Right? She had to have said everything she needed—

One of Minerva’s eyebrows rose. “This is… a magical… castle?” She wasn’t getting it.

“No,” Hermione ran her hand through her hair, getting it tangled half way in, “It’s something else. There’s something. I don’t know if—”

Minerva rubbed Hermione’s shoulder. “Hermione, perhaps—”

I must look insane! “I’m not crazy! There is something in the dungeons. It is moving. It has gotten into the ground floor. And—”

“You aren’t making—”

“It’s there! On the walls! It’s not supposed to be there!”

“Hermione,” Minerva’s tone went stern silencing any further protest from her Librarian. She was not being unkind just serious. “Is it possible, at all, that this magic you’ve discovered was perhaps there last year? From the War? We’re still repairing the castle, cleansing and strengthening its wards and boundaries. Is it possible that this is something we may not have gotten to yet? Or maybe it had always been there, and you never noticed before?”

“I…” Hermione felt herself deflating. She was suddenly so tired—the adrenaline of her earlier discovery waning. Minerva’s hand on her shoulder gripped tighter when she swayed slightly. “I suppose. I mean, I can’t prove—” But it’s there. It’s there. It’s there! Right?!

“You look like you haven’t slept and have spent ages crawling around the dungeons. Go to bed. Penelope had sent me an owl that your session had been completed… I was hoping it would have helped you rather than—”

“I—”

“Please. Go rest.”

No, she wasn’t ready to— “But—”

Minerva continued on, “We can have Alma Roberts or Vic Cooke oversee things in the library.”

She isn’t getting it! The Castle— “Minerva—”

“This is not a negotiation, Hermione.”

Was it all in her head? Was it all just normal and she had made it out to be something it wasn’t? Am I wrong? It was possible. Anything was possible… She was so sure of herself before and now…

Meekly, she answered, “Understood, Headmistress.”

---

On the way to the Hospital Wing, Severus crossed paths with Granger on the stairwell between the first and second floor.

“Good morning,” she muttered at the top of the stairs he was ascending. The soft light from the windows on the right cast her and all of her disarray in a warm glow.

He could have ignored her, or perhaps even just nodded in her general direction. He had done so before. However, she looked like absolute shite; her dishevelment caused him to hesitate to carry on without a word. Granger had obviously not slept last night, or if she had it had been piss-poor. Severus thought back to their last conversation in the library. She had had therapy last night. It must not have gone well.

Severus stopped a few steps below her. “It looks like it’s anything but ‘good’, Granger.” Has she been crawling around outside? he thought, looking at her damp trouser legs with a frown.

Her smile was strained. “Yes, I guess…” Her hollow gaze fell behind him and she inhaled. There was a moment’s pause. She was obviously going to say something. However, she had evidently changed her mind as she took a step down the staircase.

Through the years Severus had discovered that silence is an excellent conversational motivator. Being silent at the right times for the appropriate lengths and people open up, say things that perhaps they wouldn’t have said otherwise. Just to get rid of the deafening silence. It was a beautiful stereotypical Slytherin tactic; Severus loved to use it to his advantage.

However… there was something wrong here. Normally, he’d have continued onward, not bothered at all by Granger’s strangeness. Just last month he’d not have cared at all about her sunken eyes or pale expression. It was different now… somehow… In all his years Severus had never broken the silence. So why did he suddenly feel compelled to inquire, to dig deeper?

She took another step.

He’d have to do it soon, if he was going to at all, before he ran out of time.

She was closer now, and he swung his gaze up to her. Their eyes locked together.

Severus needn’t had fretted for she spoke first. “Do you find me mad?” Granger asked, quietly, her hand resting on the banister to her right.

Indeed, a very curious question. One that should be answered honestly.

“Despite your current appearance I do not find you delusional.”

The corner of her mouth upturned slightly. Minutely. If they were further apart he wouldn’t have noticed.

“It’s just… I thought…” Granger’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I know… there’s something happening in the dungeons.”

This sparked his immediate interest. “What, exactly?”

“I… I can’t be sure. You see, I… I ran a trace this morning when I found myself—I had a suspicion—it wasn’t what I was looking for but…” She rubbed her forehead. “The energy. It’s different in the dungeons. It’s like… a stain in the wards. It’s moved into the ground floor and at least some of the first.”

Peculiar. “I haven’t noticed anything strange.”

“The… blemish… blends in. You wouldn’t know to look for it unless you purposefully went looking.”

Severus mentally filed through several logical explanations. “Could it be leftover from the War?”

“Minerva believes so.”

“And you don’t?”

“I…” Granger’s entire emotional gamut ran across her face. She wasn’t sure how to answer. Does she really trust me? Severus would know if she lied. “I don’t,” she said with finality her posture straightening. The usual light behind her eyes was dim but it had returned.

It was probably nothing. Severus lived in the damn dungeons and hadn’t noticed a difference in anything lately. However… it could be something. “I can run a few assessments myself, if you’d appreciate a second opinion.”

She didn’t need to accept it. Hell, hadn’t he turned away her assistance before? She hadn’t asked nor—

“Yes, thank you,” she answered, her shoulders relaxing. She took another step down the staircase. “You’ll tell me what you find?”

“Of course, Granger.”

She continued her descent until she reached his step. She tucked a wild lock of hair behind an ear. “I’m going to floo Ginny. Maybe write a note to Bill. He might have an idea…”

“Perhaps, after you’ve got some rest,” Severus said, looking at her hair with something akin to curious horror. Is that a cobweb?

Granger chuckled low. “Right,” she said touching his arm as she finished past him. The contact, even through his clothes, tingled. “Good call. And,” she turned around on the landing, “thank you for not thinking me daft.”

“There’s still time, Granger.”

Her laughter was stronger this time as she walked down the corridor towards her quarters.

Severus’ arm continued to itch until he rubbed the sensation away.

---

Granger hadn’t been wrong.

There was something here.

Now that Severus knew what to look for, it seemed so bloody obvious. How long has it been here? How did he not notice something that was under his nose this entire time?

Stress, he answered for himself. His hyper focus on the tonic. Insomnia. The constant pain. His Deputy duties.

The sheen along the walls was all throughout the bottom level of Castle, just as she had said. Severus trusted that Granger was correct about its journey outward as well. Unfortunately, his investigation only created more questions.

Was it growing? Or contracting? Or stagnant? How could they be sure? How do you fix something when you aren’t even sure what it is?

His black boots clicked down the staircase to the Slytherin Common Room. It was here too. The glimmer shined, twinkling along the walls under the reflection of the lake through the wide window. Easy to overlook. Easy to dismiss.

Severus touched the wall with splayed hands. Strange. The vibration was almost a rhythm… almost. He ran a long finger down the wall, the magic didn’t yield. It did appear to be connected to the wards. As if it was another layer. A layer that wasn’t supposed to be there.

If it was here in the Common Room it was safe to assume that it had also spread into the dorms. Severus’ eyes flicked to the window again. Is it environmental? Had it come from underground? Or was it the opposite? Was it a contaminate? Have the Merpeople seen it? The house-elves? They’d have had to have seen something… they live in the dungeons with—Hufflepuff.

“Damn,” he muttered.

He would need to tell Pomona. But what would he say? Rattle off gibberish about how there’s magic in the dungeons? She’d think he had finally gone barmy. Severus needed more data. In the mean time, he could begin reinforcing protective wards over the badgers’ quarters like he’d been doing for his own. If he got caught in the act he’d explain himself then; to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

Severus centered himself in the middle of the Common Room to begin his protective enchantments. He had noticed that the students’ nightmares had lessened by a few degrees when he had began this nightly routine. Severus hoped what he was doing was enough… was the magic along the walls helping or hindering his mission? He twisted his wrist tightly and the familiar thin ribbon burst from his wand. Severus wrote several runes into the air, each one dispersing before the next in a soft glow. The last rune—Eihwaz—faded and Severus closed the circuit; tracing a large circle above him, sending a pulse of blue light around the room.

The Common Room’s ambiance fell back into darkness. As Severus turned away to go back up the steps he caught sight of someone’s silhouette in the tunnel to the boy’s dormitory. He had been found out. Was I too late tonight? Who had woken from a nightmare? The student swayed, backlit by the wall sconces that lined the corridor, as if they were disoriented or ill.

Severus approached with quiet and measured steps. He didn’t want to spook them, especially if they were only half-awake or possibly sleepwalking. As he came closer to the entrance of the tunnel, however, the figure turned towards the wall and shifted right through it, as if they had been a ghost.

He stopped short. Severus wasn’t lower on sleep or in more pain than usual and yet… was that a hallucination? Is that what it was? Or was it a play of the light? Severus walked to the point in the tunnel where the figure had been. The sconces flickered, throwing his shadow out of alignment briefly. Maybe that was it? A shadow? As if a student was standing at the other end of the tunnel, their shadow projected onto the wall, and when they had hurried back to bed it only appeared like it had disappeared into the wall.

Severus inspected the wall. The newly discovered magic was there, yes, but there wasn’t anything else peculiar.

Absolutely nothing else peculiar at all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

October 31, 1999

A Fortnight Later

Hermione ran back the way she had came.

Her wand still lit she turned down another corner, fleeing from whatever was following her. She spared a look behind her, her hair obscuring some of her vision, and it was still there. Stalking her.

Run! Run! Run!

She had been right, although she’d find no comfort in it presently.

There was, indeed, something very wrong in Hogwarts Castle.

---

Pumpkins bobbed above the tables in the Great Hall, their interior candles flickering whenever a bat swooped overhead. Hermione was captivated by the scene, as a student she was always left in awe whenever the castle was decorated for a holiday. From this vantage point at the Staff Table she could see everything from the ghosts rising through the tables to the seasonal centerpieces. In the corner opposite the Staff Entrance sat a large pumpkin, big enough to be used as an actual carriage, with candles twirling around it in a spiral.

Pomona nudged her. “Pass the tart, please, dear.”

As Hermione did her eyes couldn’t help but be caught by the empty chair at the end of the table. Professor Snape had yet to make an appearance tonight.

Pomona caught on to her observation rather quickly. “Oh, he won’t be joining us tonight.” She slid a slice of the dessert onto her plate. “Severus has his own traditions for tonight.”

What could she ever mean by— Oh. Halloween. Harry’s parents.

Harry had never shared the entirety of the memories that Snape had given him that night in May. Although, he had said that his mum and Snape were close. How close, exactly, had they been? Were they best friends? More than friends? How did James Potter play into that dynamic? And Lily… had Snape elevated her to sainthood in her death, just as it felt like others had done? Snape was a pragmatic and logical man but that did not mean he didn’t have feelings; this could be a very hard night for him, even after all this time.

Perhaps I should check in?

To her right, on the other side of Philip, Minerva seemed keen to change the subject. “Let’s not dwell on the past. And do not go and bother him tonight, Hermione!”

“I wasn’t—” A lie.

“Besides,” Minerva warned, “it’s Halloween. And things can look… different in the dungeons on nights like this. I don’t want you to have another scare.”

Philip quickly swallowed his food. “What?”

“I…” Hermione twirled the pasta with her fork. “I thought I saw something a few weeks ago.”

“Like what?” he asked.

Something magical, she wanted to say realizing how incredibly stupid it sounded. Instead, she deflected. “Have you seen anything odd whilst you’re teaching down there?”

Philip looked at her strangely, as if she had just sprouted another head but was too polite to point it out. “Nooo,” he said as he stabbed a cooked carrot. “I really can’t say that I have.”

Of course, just me then. And maybe Snape if he had also discovered the magic on the wall. Between her Librarian duties, including getting half the Soul Magic row cleansed, and Snape’s duties of professor and Deputy Head, there had been very little chance of getting a quick word in the last few weeks. Especially on a topic she’d rather talk about in private.

“I don’t think I’ve noticed anything odd either,” Pomona offered.

“I see,” Hermione said, feeling small.

If only she could prove… Bill’s reply to her letter agreed with her first assumption of it being linked to the wards. However, it was truly impossible to diagnosis exactly what was occurring from afar. Bill could offer assistance but he was uncomfortable traveling to Scotland away from his pregnant wife. It would be up to Hermione to get closer.

She would be responsible for getting the magic’s arithmantic formula; the building blocks of whatever it was that had infected the dungeons. And the sooner, the better. Tonight, even. The students will soon be sleeping this feast off and the corridors will be empty of curious eyes. Yes, it would have to be tonight.

For the rest of the meal she kept catching Philip looking at her and her imaginary second head.

---

Samhain.

A night when the veil dips its lowest, a chance for the living to connect with the dead.

Typically, this meant one’s own ancestors. Severus, however, had other plans.

His imposing classroom lectern stood at attention in the center of his living area, the remaining furniture pushed up against the walls. Only a soft glow from the wall sconces illuminated the space, and the water on the other side of the underground window was dark.

Upon the lectern, the ritual’s components had been properly placed. Buttercups, front and center. An unlit candle behind; the sconce light flickering across the metal candle holder’s long arched handle, sweeping above the candle itself, where the coil flattened into a concaved tray. Nestled within, an ice cube under stasis. To the side, a small wind chime hung from a tabletop hook.

Earth.

Fire.

Water.

Air.

Severus’ boots clicked against the stone floor as he slowly, reverently, circled the lectern. Everything had to be perfect. He slid the wind chime a half an inch to the right. Then immediately changed his mind and slid it back. He double checked his pockets. Yes, he did have everything.

Severus retraced his steps, pouring a generous line of salt behind him, until he had completely circled the altar. After stepping inside it, he closed off the ring.

He stood in front of the lectern, consciously relaxing his shoulders away from his neck. Even though Severus had done this before—16 times—he always felt anxious. Is it enough? Should I really be continuing every year? It could all be futile, pointless. Whose soul was he really trying to save?

Severus took a deep breath and centered himself, distributing his weight equally on both feet. Without any further hesitation he lifted the spell over the ice cube and lit the candle.

The timer had been set.

His baritone was rich and deep when he began, “Tonight, I call on the spirits of Samhain to lower the veil. Give me a window to honor the souls that have passed before me. I wish to stand beside them tonight, under the earth and air, with the water alongside, guided by the fire. I desire to remember and console.”

Severus withdrew a small knife from his pocket. “As is required: blood for blood.” He cut into his finger and squeezed it—fighting down a hiss—allowing the drops of blood to fall to the floor.

The candle flared slightly.

“Flesh for flesh.” From the fresh cut he nicked a small slice of skin clean away.

The wind chime tinged.

Severus reached into his pocket again, replacing the dirtied knife with a small pouch. He sprinkled bone ash over the blood at his feet. “And bone for bone.”

The edges of the buttercups began to curl.

Outside the circle, the room became out of focus, foggy and obscured. However, Severus didn’t look away from the candle.

“I desire to remember them,” he repeated. “Any nearby soul that wishes to be revered. The souls that were loved and cherished. Or rejected or unwanted.”

The chimes rang sharply.

“I am not afraid.”

There was movement in his periphery, dark shadows becoming visible.

“I wish to remember.”

Severus stood, unmoving, his gaze on the flickering flame, the shadows alongside him swaying in tandem.

“Are you a soul that occupied a vessel until old age, and left this earthly plane with all your business finished? Or did you succumb to demons too early, and are now kept company only by your ghosts? Had your physical body been claimed and properly sanctified? Or are you forever asleep under water or earth never to be found?”

He stopped then. The urge to look was always so strong.

“Or are you a familiar soul who joins me tonight? One who passed unexpectedly under the most selfless of circumstances?”

Without looking there was no certain way to discern who was in attendance, and he absolutely never looked. Either Lily had never attended, or she did, and both options seemed terribly unbearable. Severus could only hope that she was there.

“A soul that I remember?” he asked, almost a plead. “One that remembers me?”

The shadows along the perimeter of the room became very still, blocking out most of the light from the sconces.

Had she? Had Lily remembered the small boy she had run through the back alleys of Cokeworth with? Had she ever thought of those days fondly? He had tried, so desperately, to make amends with her, but she was too headstrong and stubborn to accept it. If only they had been given more time… this business of theirs will always feel unfinished.

“My soul is still alive. The same as it has ever been. Do you remember?”

The flame flared and the ice cracked above it as it warmed.

Severus wanted her to remember.

“I remember,” he said low into the dark.

He could recall Lily’s mischievousness, and her laughter. The way she had made him feel when she had called him her best friend. Severus felt like someone then; someone important, someone worth while, someone who—after years of being told otherwise—was worthy of being alive. He had been chasing that high ever since. He had never found it. Not with Lucius. Nor Minerva. Theirs had been a true friendship. Which was why it was so brutal when everything came crashing down.

The ice had melted significantly. Severus needed to finish.

“You are not forgotten, Lily Potter. Be assured that your memory lives on. It has carved out a home within me, existing in memories I cannot erase. Because of your sacrifice the world is a better place. Without you, there would have been no savior. Your son saved us all.”

That act of protecting Harry, in desperation and terror, solidified to Severus that had they, indeed, had more time they’d have been able to make amends. Years after teenage angst and hormones had subsided with matured minds… She was—as evidenced—the same person he knew from before. The same kind, curious, redhead from a few streets over.

“We ended life together on this soil poorly. However, I carry no ill-will. If this has stopped you from crossing over, there is no need for it any longer. Or if you attend here tonight as an unchaperoned soul know that your presence here is an honor. Your memory, enlightenment. Know that you are not lost.”

The ice was almost completely melted.

One last thing remained: to ferry the ones that dwelled. Otherwise, they’d be stuck here for an entire year. However, it was so hard to go, when one was afraid. Sensing the end, the shadows grew around him; frantic as they pushed against the salt barrier, everything growing darker.

“Your time here is over.” Severus scraped the drying blood on the stone with the toe of his boot, the bone dust erasing it. “It is time to take your remembered souls to the Summerlands, to finally find peace.”

Suddenly, a wail pierced through the air.

Severus went still for a moment. That had never happened before.

“It is time to go,” he said more forcefully. “You cannot stay, your rightful place is elsewhere.”

Another shriek.

The chime rang.

“You are remembered and—”

Screams.

Severus spun within the circle, disoriented. “I have called you here! And now I send you onward!”

The water finally spilled over the edges of the tray above the candle and snuffed it out.

He lost his footing in the sudden darkness, his hands scraping against the coarse salt as he fell to the floor.

---

2 Hours Earlier

Hermione was standing in front of a shimmering wall in a deserted dungeon corridor, save the knight at the end. She looked down the passage. It should all be the same… it was very rare to have different magical signatures working in tandem. The size of this, though, gave her pause. Could there really be only one person responsible for it? It was hard to know for sure based on observation alone. Unfortunately though, the less samples she collected, the better. Too many wounds in the magic’s fabric would create a serious risk of things going tits up.

Still, it was worth a try.

Careful, gingerly, she outlined a rune—Isa, seeking clarity—over the stone. There was no noticeable reaction. She did another. This time Dagaz, enlightenment. The shimmer flickered. That’s good. Hermione grew confident, she may be able to pull the information she needed without causing irreversible damage.

She crouched to dig around in her curse-breaking bag, the vials tinkling against her tools as she rummaged. Feeling a familiar cool flask she pulled out the vial of Aqua Regia. It was an acid, essentially, meaning that what she was about to do could be potentially dangerous to an untrained individual. However, needs must.

Flipping the cap off, she poured it over her open hand. Palm slick she outstretched her fingers—she hesitated briefly, there was still a risk that the magic could react badly or the liquid could begin to burn—before pressing her hand flat against the wall.

Hermione knew it was coming but that didn’t stop the instinctual alarm at the slight electrical shock that followed.

“Fuck,” she muttered, her fingers tingling.

She blew out a puff of air, releasing the tension. I only need a little… She wiped her hand around the wall in a tight circle, thinning the magic as if she was using turpentine on oil paint. Under her fingers Hermione felt the magic’s viscosity changing, weakening. This was why it was preferred amongst Curse-Breakers to handle Aqua Regia by hand. The human sense of touch was an amazing thing; people were capable of feeling a difference in texture down to the molecular level. An untreated area may look the same as a treated one, but it would feel differently. Satisfied that she had covered a sufficient enough area, Hermione did a quick drying spell on her hand before exchanging the recapped Aqua Regia in her bag for a jar of Salt of Petra.

Hermione’s treatment on the wall would dry within minutes, she had to work fast. How best to… This part of the process was always easier with a partner. She titled her head sideways, stretching her neck. It’s okay. Focus. Hermione clenched her wand with her teeth, freeing up both hands. She unscrewed the jar of salt and poured a liberal amount in her other hand. Now was the awkward bit… rescrewing the jar with one full hand may result in a dropped canister or lost salt. This step and the following one needed to be done in quick succession; Hermione didn’t want to risk taking too long and ruining her chance to gather information.

The proverbial clock was ticking.

There was simply nothing for it. It had to be done.

Hermione dropped the jar, lid and all, her nonverbal magic catching it before it hit the floor and shattered. The container bobbed near her ankles, spinning lazily. She kicked the air next to it, pushing it away from her feet and closer to the safety of her bag.

With a hand now free Hermione plucked her wand from between her teeth. She inhaled. Exhaled. Then threw the salt on the wound she had created on the wall. It sizzled and popped, the salt deliquescing the magic even further. Quickly, she brought the tip of her wand close to the wall, closer… closer still, not touching but just enough—there. She felt a resistance on the other end of her wand, a tug, a pressure.

The sweat dripped down her neck—why didn’t I put my hair up?—she just needed a little bit… Please, just a little. Carefully, she pulled her wand back, the magic continuing to be attracted to it like a magnet. The magic’s composition pulled away from the wall, as if it were a very thin flexible sheet of molten sugar. One wrong move and—

So close, so close, so close.

Hermione drew her wand back further. The thinned magic followed her action, a small thread being pulled away from the rest. It was fragile. Delicate. Like glass being pulled away from the heated core. Wispy, yet tangible.

Oh, damn. She needed to cut this string off. But how? The cleanest way would be with her shears but they were stored away in her bag. Probably buried down at the bottom. Did Hermione even have time to summon them? Fuck, she should have asked for help!

The thread began to droop, its terminal length reached.

Desperate, Hermione bunched her robe around her free hand. There was no time to think; she flinched as she snapped the thread free from the wall. The reaction was immediate. The magic sizzled, burning through the fabric wrapped around her fingers, the smell hot and acidic. Hermione shook her hand free. A quick inspection didn’t reveal any damage to her skin, although she would need to patch her robe.

The thread she had detached hung limply from her wand, a glimmering string of candy floss. The magic remaining along the wall collapsed, leaving a scar behind where she had extracted the sample. Gently, to avoid contact, Hermione twirled her wand in the air, swirling the thread into a spiral.

“Duratus.”

It froze in place detaching itself from her wand. Hermione inhaled deeply. The hard part was over. Hopefully. Now she could inspect the arithmantic formula that comprised whatever this actually was.

There was a moment of hesitation. What if there’s nothing there? It was probably a foolish question, it seemed obvious that she was dealing with something unimagined. However, the seed of doubt had been planted by Minerva all those weeks ago and damn was it hard to shake. Gathering her courage, Hermione waved her wand, and the formula—the basic building blocks of magic—blazed into fruition.

It was real. The magic existed. It hadn’t solely existed in her head. I’m not crazy.

The numbers and runes rolled. The digits were… a mess. A bit dull in spots, indicative that the magic was no longer new. It had been there, in the dungeons, for a little while. At least within the last five years. So, it could be from the War, Hermione thought, as she observed the formula dance in front of her. However, it was degrading at a rapid pace. Certain areas were splotchy, bits and pieces of each digit having already disintegrated, the numerals twisting and becoming misshapen. These were usually aliments of something much older… it shouldn’t look this bad this young.

It meant that whoever had created this did so in haste.

Perhaps, someone without a lot of time.

Perhaps, someone who didn’t know exactly what they were doing.

Hermione peered closer at the formula, fragments were floating around the digits, obscuring her vision. She waved her hand over it, on impulse, as if that would brush the detritus away. Of course, the formula and the adjoining grit remained unchanged.

She squinted.

The first digit looked like… Hermione felt a cold sense of dread wash over her, her suspicions as to the magic’s malevolence growing stronger. Hagalaz. Destruction. The second was clearly Thurisaz. Purging. The number 1. And Kenaz followed. To alter reality. The number 8 finished the formula.

Whatever this was… whoever created it… It was clearly meant to be something dangerous—if Hermione’s assessment was correct it could potentially mean that someone wished to alter reality, and to destroy anything in its path to do so.

Yet, what was it doing exactly? The formula only shows what the magic is capable of, not of its true nature. Nor does it make clear who had created it. Nor their intent—even if it did appear quite obvious to Hermione.

Was it residual from the War like Minerva had suggested? It was possible. The timeline fit. It could have been created by a rogue Death Eater to infiltrate the wards, and then left stagnant to mutate further unchecked. The supposed intention would match the digits floating in the corridor. It did seem like the most likely answer.

How, on Earth, was Hermione ever going to get rid of this? This monster had spread throughout the entire bottom of the Castle. The scope of it was insidious, unfathomable in size and dimension. She had never dealt with something that covered this much area before. Would she have to dismantle it room by room? Would it grow back behind her as she moved forward? How would she ever begin to contain this?

There were so many questions.

And not enough answers.

Hermione needed access to… the answer came to her suddenly: Professor Snape has a lab. He would probably have a lot of equipment she could borrow. It wasn’t that Philip, the Potions’ Master who more than likely had his own lab as well, wasn’t a possible ally. However, she was not comfortable folding more people into this problem until she had a solid solution — especially a person she was still a tad uncomfortable around.

I may be able to negotiate. A favor for a favor. Reviewing his equations and then, in turn, granting me access to what I’d need to do some tests.

She’d send a sample to Bill as well, to see if their conclusions match. Bill had far more experience than she, and she suspected he may have worked on at least one site that rivaled the size of the Castle’s dungeons. His expertise would be useful and welcome.

Hermione stretched her neck. Okay, she thought, I have a game plan moving forward. She bent over, recapping the Salt of Petra, and shuffled around her bag. She found her shears—at the bottom of the bag as suspected—and a handful of glass vials. This would be another tricky bit, Hermione only had so many hands. Straightening to her full height again, the chunks of black Shungite tinged against the vials’ bottoms.

Carefully, Hermione positioned a vial at the bottom of the magical thread’s spiral. Shungite acted as a magnet, attracting the magic to the bottom of the glass. Once the thread was pulled the length of the vial, Hermione snipped the thread and quickly flipped the vial’s stopper. She was able to collect five vials in this fashion, the magic and formula growing dimmer and dimmer as she removed her samples. Hermione would keep four. The other would be sent to Bill.

Without the light from the magic she had collected, the corridor had fallen into darkness. It was deserted save for herself. Hermione crouched down, wrapping the vials in protective leather, before placing them carefully into her bag. She shivered. God, it had become cold so quickly.

Leaving the area, her bag strung across her chest, she rubbed her goosefleshed arms to try to spark some warmth. Finding it a futile exercise she engaged a dim Lumos, allowing the light to lead the way. Hermione entertained the idea of a hot shower when she returned to her quarters. Maybe even some hot chocolate.

Hermione rounded a corner and startled slightly, while her stride didn’t break there was a fleeting sensation of alarm that caused the hair on her arms to stand on end. She wasn’t as alone as she had thought. Further down the corridor someone was walking in her direction. Their silhouette dim. She rose her wand, to better illuminate the passage and discern the other’s identity.

However, when she did… nobody was there.

Hermione stopped short. Bewildered, she lowered her wand again, the light pooling at her feet. The person was still there… at the other end of the corridor. She could make out their form from the surrounding shadows.

She rose her wand. The passage was empty.

Hermione dipped her wand again. Was it… were her eyes deceiving her? The figure looked closer now, no longer at the end of the corridor.

She angled the light up again. Empty.

Down.

Someone was there.

Was it her own shadow, somehow?

Up.

Empty.

Down.

The humanoid shape was even closer than before, perhaps fifteen meters away. It was so terribly hard to gauge distance in the dark.

Surely, surely now if there was someone else in the corridor with her they would be illuminated by—

Up.

Empty.

Down.

Whoever—whatever—it was was now—

I’ve been watching you.

Hermione’s ears buzzed, the blood rushing through them. What in the bloody— Who the fuck—

Do you really think you can get rid of me that easily?

She swayed on her feet, feeling light headed. What was this? Was the magic sentient? Am I hallucinating? Was it a prank? This can’t be real. Foolishly—or boldly—Hermione stepped closer to the figure that seemed to live within the shadows—impenetrable to light. She had been shocked into silence and her tongue felt inordinately heavy, as if made of lead. The cooling dampness surrounding Hermione seemed to grow thicker, more humid, like she was approaching a heated indoor pool.

You won’t be successful.

Hermione grit her teeth. Certainly, this could not be real. It had to be the magic in the dungeons, somehow. She was warring against herself, the trained Curse-Breaker acknowledging that this wasn’t factual, that whatever was occurring was a falsehood. Yet, it felt real. How could you convince yourself that you’re safe when all of your instincts are shouting at you otherwise?

She squared her stance. She had faced down Voldemort when she was a child, had trained in various tombs that engaged illusions to protect their holdings. This should be nothing to—

Abruptly, the shadows along the periphery of the corridor, just out of reach from the light of her wand, began seeping closer. Long tentacles, twisting and growing. Slithering, like the vines of a Devil’s Snare.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

Are you so sure? The Voice asked. What if you’re wrong?

Something wrapped around her ankle and despite her training—despite her fortitude and bravado—Hermione scampered back, her footing no longer solid. She felt that. That felt real. Somehow the corridor grew even darker, the shadows stretched further, the distance between herself and the interloper became closer, and… she panicked.

Hermione ran back the way she had came.

Her wand still lit she turned down another corner, fleeing from whatever was following her. She spared a look behind her, her hair obscuring some of her vision, and it was still there. Stalking her.

Run! Run! Run!

Hermione turned another corner, intent on losing it, to shake it off her trail. The shadows from behind her stretched further and further in front of her; if it got far enough ahead, would it close up around her?

Fuck! Did this always dead end here? Hermione’s feet skidded against the flagstone as she swiftly pivoted.

Where even was she? Had she sprinted further into the dungeons or was she close to the exit? Why did she ever do this alone?!

Hermione dashed down another corridor. Had that been a student in the alcove back there? God, I hope not. What if the thing redirected its attention to them? What if Hermione had inadvertently brought them straight into its path?

Distracted and dithering Hermione tripped over herself. The stone scratched her knees and elbows raw through her clothes. She attempted to get up but her feet became tangled in her robe, the fabric ripping beneath her shoes. Her hands slapped against the floor as she attempted to crawl further down the passage. The vials in her bag tinkled loudly in the corridor and Hermione hoped that the wetness she felt was just from the damp floor or sweat or anything but the samples.

Hermione spun around on the ground—to check if that was really a student, if someone else was in danger—to face the approaching entity. It’s there, it’s there, it’s—scooting backwards her back hit the wall. She was cornered. Alone. Trapped.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—the darkness was advancing, the corridor was smothering her, and she—I am not going to die here!

The shadow, the figure, the thing, was so close now, so close and—

“Expecto Patronum!”

The familiar otter burst out of the end of Hermione’s wand, growing to four times its usual size, taking up far more space than it had ever done, and rushed down the corridor.

Hermione clenched her eyes closed.

The sight was utterly blinding.