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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Prologue 

Severus Snape was truly alone. 

That is the conclusion Hermione comes to as she slams closed the last of the case files on her desk. 

No family. No friends.

Orphaned at sixteen. No other known extended family members. No close friendships, unless you count the Malfoys. Only estranged coworkers. A few stifled business relations with a couple of professional colleagues in the potion world, or some obtuse apothecary. 

No children. No lovers. 

He was just…alone. 

Truly. Utterly. 

Hermione didn’t know what to think. So, she stares at the moving picture of Severus Snape that is paperclipped to the front of the stack of papers that condensed his entire life to a few pages. The black and white photo sneers at her for a moment, before raising a brow at her as if to say, You’re still here? in a blatant taunt. 

She fights the urge to glare back at him. 

“...Granger?” And a knock on the door. 

Hermione startles as she snaps her gaze to the direction of the voice, while covering the picture with a random book that happens to be on her desk. 

“Ah…right on time. Come in, Malfoy.” 

She gestures to the seat across from her desk. He hesitates for a second, his silver eyes passing over her messy stacks of books and papers that fills the small office. 

There isn’t much decor—she believes in utility, efficiency, productiveness—and it shows.

Despite being in this office for well over five years, there are only two personal items. A half dead fern she was gifted to by Neville sits miserably on the edge of shelf—tittering on the edge like it's considering tipping over itself just to end its suffering. And an entirely silly pencil holder of a lion with its jaws wide open that has its mouth stuffed with her muggle pens that Luna had found for her. 

It isn‘t impressive. 

(But then again, she isn’t trying to impress Draco Malfoy.)

He didn’t sneer exactly, but purses his lips in a small show of discomfort or maybe distaste, before sitting himself in the chair gingerly as if it would somehow swallow him whole. After apparently deeming it safe, he leans back and crosses his ankle on his knee and gestures her to speak like it was his own personal fucking throne. 

What a pompous—

Hermione clears her throat. 

“How’s Adelaide? Scorpius?”

Hermione wouldn’t say they were exactly friends. But over the years they’ve mingled with the same people, studied with some of the same interests, and formed a brittle truce. 

He’s a posh prick. She’s a bossy know-it-all. Not much has changed, really. 

But he apologized for his past behavior one day. And she’s too tired now to hold on to hate. Somehow, they have moved past blood purity, petty names, and broken noses—and put their past behind them. 

A feat, in part, thanks to his wife.

Adelaide Malfoy, née Vidal, is muggle-born aristocracy with a philanthropic will to change the world. She is single-handedly rewriting France’s Wizarding legislature to expel bias and rebooting Beauxbaton’s curriculum with a polite, unyielding hand—and a seductive smile that has whipped both Malfoy and all of France to submit at her feet.

She also happens to be Hermione's secret superhero. 

(How Malfoy snagged her is a true mystery.)  

“She’s well. Busy.” Malfoy nods, politely, “You should come see her and Scorp one day, if you're free.” 

Hermione offers a kind smile in agreement. One day. Maybe after all of this—

“Before we begin Malfoy, I’m afraid I’m going to need a Vow.” 

“Draco is fine, please.” He snorts, “And you must think of me as an idiot, if you think I’d agree to that.” 

“Malfoy,” She blatantly ignores his request, “I must insist.” 

Silver eyes narrow at her, “Without any information whatsoever?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He is clearly hesitant. She could only imagine the inner-Slytherin screaming at him to not make deals with unknown factors. 

“Look, Malfoy—” Hermione almost rolls her eyes. Almost. “This is the Department of Mysteries. It’s sort of standard procedure here. I can’t tell you much until I get a Vow of Secrecy. But I can tell you…” 

She lets her voice sing pleasantly in lure, as she rolls her wand between her fingers. She knows every dip and swirl of the vines on her wand and finds comfort in them.

“…that it has to do with someone directly associated with you. And you’ll definitely want to hear what I have to say.” 

Malfoy narrows his eyes further at her, and Hermione almost smirks. 

“...Or, you can walk out that door, right now, and forget I ever called you here.” 

She shrugs lightly, just to play it up a bit. And when his face goes blank as stone, she knows he is Occluding hard, as he thinks this through. 

Oh, this is fun. It isn’t every day she gets to hold something over Draco Malfoy. 

“A Vow, please.” The words lull off her tongue almost as a song. “...and we can start right away.” 

His jaw ticks for a moment as it tightens in a grimace. He then rubs the platinum stubble along his chin for a second and uncrosses his legs as he leans all his weight forward while resting his elbows on his knees. His silver eyes pierces hers in a harsh stare, and a truly devilish smirk flits across his lips.

It is obviously an attempt to intimidate. 

But she is Hermione-fucking-Granger, and very little intimidates her these days.

“Alright, Granger. I’ll play along.” He removes his wand from his ugly lime green robes that clashes horribly with his pale complexion, and points at his own wrist. 

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, vow…” He raises a brow towards her.

“On my life and my magic.”

“...on my life and my magic…that I will uphold the secrets of Hermione Granger, unless notified otherwise.”

“Or our task is complete.”  

He studies her a little longer, maybe a bit shocked by her putting a clear end date on an oath, before repeating, “...Or until our task is complete.” 

She nods her approval and taps her wand to his wrist. A gold thread of magic weaves itself around his wrist in a thin bracelet before disappearing all together. 

“Right.” Hermione clears her throat. 

Draco snorts and rolls his eyes at her, “Out with it, Granger.” 

“Okay—I don’t really know how to say this.”

“Here’s an idea: use that endless amount of verbiage in that big brain of yours—”

“It really might come as bit of a shock—”

“For fucks sake, please—” he covers his eyes with his hand in frustration. 

She takes a deep breath and blurts out,

“I want you to help me save Severus Snape.” 

Malfoy freezes as soon as the name tumbles from her lips, and he snaps his eyes open to meet hers. Silence smothers the room for a moment, before she audibly hears him swallow. 

“...you want to…save Severus Snape?” 

“Yes,” she breathes out. 

“As in…?”

“As in, I want to make him—not dead.” 

Multiple emotions flicker across his face as if he had forgotten to Occlude all together. Disbelief first, then anger for some reason. He shakes his head violently for a second, before narrowing his eyes on her. 

And says in a hollow, toneless voice, “How? ” 

Hermione tries to slow the pounding of her heart a little. She has to sell this or it will never work.

“Well…for the last five years, my job as an Unspeakable has been to study Time.” Like that clears it all up. “More specifically, it has been my job to take all of the broken Time-turners—that my friends and I so thoroughly helped ruin—and do something with it.” 

She takes a deep breath.

“So, I did. I collected all the sand from the Time-turners. And with a whole lot of complex spellwork, runes so old Nicolas Flamel would struggle with, and a heavy hand of arithmancy—” her voice softens to a whisper, like if the words weren’t said loud enough then couldn’t possibly be wrong. “...I think I found a way to use it.” 

Malfoy is so still she isn’t sure if he is even blinking. 

“It’s going to take a lot of trial and error, but I think—” Gods, please let this be true. “I can sort of…'pluck' him from his timeline.” 

He blinks at her.

“Explain.” He demands, but then must have realized his rudeness so he adds, “—please.”

Hermione fights the urge to chew on her lip. 

“Using the Time-sand and a sample of DNA—” Oh, well. Muggle terms. Fuck.  “DNA is—”

“I know what DNA is, Granger.” 

Oh, well that’s pleasantly new. 

“Using a sample of someone’s specific DNA, I can hone the Time-sand to find that individual and essentially extract them from their own timeline. I only have a limited amount though. So, we will have to be systematic in our approach, but in theory—”

He snorts again. And she narrows her eyes at him.

“In theory, I would start young…pull him at set intervals at a time, for a certain amount of time, to create a constant. And then as we get closer and closer to the exact time of his ‘death’ we extract him, and the overall timeline would remain unchanged—”

“How would you know that?”

She blinks at him. “Know what?”

“The exact time of his death.”

“Oh—I was…well, I was there.” 

He swallows hard and gives a terse nod. 

“That’s why it can only be him, Malfoy. The timing…it has to be impeccable. I can’t just go back grabbing people willy nilly. It would destroy the integrity of the timeline. One wrong move, and Voldemort could win.” 

She thinks of Fred. And Remus. Tonks. Lavender. Colin. Moody. And all the others she would happily attempt this for, but would never work. 

“But him…I know that exact place and time. If we do this right…”

“Nothing changes.”

She nods. “And…I should note: they say the body was never found at the Shack despite us leaving him there…They also say that his portrait at Hogwarts never appeared, even after years...” 

His eyes widen as he catches on. She always knew Malfoy was smart, this would have taken Harry and Ron ages to fit together. 

“You think you’ve already succeeded.”

She wants to laugh at that. It is a theory of hers. But really, how she gets to that result is still the true mystery, isn’t it? 

“I’m not sure.” She states honestly. “Maybe what they say is true. Maybe…some vengeful Death Eater transfigured his corpse just to spite him, and his body is just simply missing. But…”

“But maybe not.”

Hermione is definitely chewing on her lip now, “Right.” 

Malfoy takes to staring at her floor in intense thought as if he is going through every possibility and every outcome. She waits patiently, for a moment before continuing. 

“That’s why I need you, Malfoy.” She says quietly. “Even if—and seriously, please understand this is an enormous ‘if’—I do extract him correctly. He will have half his neck ripped out, Nagini’s venom coursing through him, and be seconds away from bleeding out.”  

She could almost see the puddle of blood that was running down Snape’s chest as he slumped against the wall of the Shrieking Shack. 

“And you are his best chance. Despite what people say about you—you are a brilliant Healer, Draco Malfoy. St. Mungos is fucking stupid to keep you on suspended duties. Your skill with charms, and potions are truly inspirational.” 

Gods, it felt wrong complimenting him so much, but it was true. She’s read everything he’s published. “And above all, you are personally invested in his recovery. And with the nature of the…conflict people seem to have with Snape. He needs an ally.” 

Distrust is apparent on his face, as he stares her down. 

“What I don’t understand, Granger—is why? Why do you want to save him? ”

Ah, that’s the question isn’t it. She fights the visceral impulse to tell him that she doesn’t need to explain herself to him.  

To him, maybe she is just intellectually curious? Maybe she is just doing the right thing like so many other Gryffindors claim. Or maybe she simply wants to play God. 

But Hermione has thought about this. She’s laid in her bed late at night in the dark, and let waves of thoughts, and questions, and feelings pile up into her secret reasons. She has rationalized, justified, and queried every one of them. 

And they belong to her—

But she will give him just one. 

She lets out a long, slow breath as if the words could just turn into vapor and float away, instead of having to mean something solid, something real. 

“This war—” the words roll off her tongue with so much vitriol she feels like blood, and venom, and ink were dripping from her lips and oozing down her chin. 

“—has taken so much from me. It has stolen, and robbed, and cheated, and stripped so much. I can’t—” No. That’s not right. “—I won't let it take one more fucking thing from me.” 

She meets his gaze and hopes he can feel all of it: the wrath, the despair, the weariness.

“And now…I have the chance to steal something back from it…right from its greedy, undeserving hands. Wouldn’t you take that chance?” 

Quiet echoes in the room.  

Then—

His eyes light up, and his head tips back—and he laughs. 

A wild, bold sound that Hermione has never heard before beside his cruel chuckle occasionally. Then he smiles, a razor-sharp grin that looks like he would tear out a throat with his bare teeth.

And Hermione thinks she’s found a friend. 

“Granger.” Malfoy says it like it’s his new favorite word. “I’ve been called all kinds of names, and done all kinds of terrible things. But this is the first time…I’ve ever been asked to do a heist. And I’m happy to do so.” 

He chuckles darkly, and Hermione grins. 

Screw fate. She never believed in it anyway. 

“Let's be the best of thieves, Draco.” 

They were going to steal Severus Snape right from Fate’s grasp. 

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: In Trade of Wings

Hermione Granger has always loved fairy tales. 

Not the popular cartoons with pretty dresses and fluffy animals, but grim darker tales of old. Ones that warned children of evil things lurking in forests. Or the darkness in people’s hearts. 

As a child, she studied several culture’s different folklore and stories passed from generation to generation—it quickly became an obsession of hers.  And when she turned eleven, she received her own Hogwarts letter…

She was suddenly—in her own fairy tale. 

And all those stories—suddenly—they became very real. 

So real, in fact, that she often gave herself very-good-advice like she was Alice in Wonderland, and told herself her own tales as if they were stories of caution:

One should never go to the
washroom alone in case of a troll attack—

Mirrors happened to be very
useful for checking corners.

If Crookshanks want to eat a rat,
then let him—

Never trust a professor that
demonstrates a killing curse…

Pink Toads croak the loudest
when seeing a Centaur—

Cheating from an unknown textbook
may lead to attempted murder.

Camping is not fun,
no matter what Harry says,
even if magical—

Dragons should only be ridden
on as a last resort.

And possibly her very best advice to herself:

Not dying, is infinitely harder than it seems. 

(Especially during a war.) 

And as Hermione stands in the Time room in the Department of Mysteries, she wonders if she should be adding this to her list of cautionary tales. 

Her collected Time-sand floats along the room like a trail of stars—each individual grain is suspended and cast out among the room like drifting galaxies and swirling nebulae. They levitate carefully spaced among themselves, as the soft golden glow lights up the dark space—

It’s beautiful. Magical even. 

It's like holding the universe in her hand. 

(Maybe she is if one were to debate time and space and string theory—)

But it's also dangerous. 

Like a brightly colored lure of an unnatural flower. Like Hansel and Gretel’s sweets.  

The sand itself is incredibly unstable. 

No one knows where it came from. Or how it works. It cannot be made or found. It is the last of its kind.

So, so precious…and so very lethal.

Hermione cannot let them touch, and her magic strains to keep them hovering without any contact, and very complicated runes etched into every wall of this room helps her. The volatile dust must float—untouched, and undisturbed—or Time could come crashing down. 

She has counted every granule—once, twice, thrice—and done every arithmancy equation over two-fold. Around 700-800 grains of sand per Time-turner, give or take depending on size.  A total of 22 Time-turners. 16,525 grains of Time-sand. 

The numbers are, in her opinion, all accounted for. 

She just has to do the very Gryffindor thing, and just hope it all works out. 

So, she lifts her wand and carefully siphons off the exact amount of sand she needs. Hermione feels like she’s physically sweating at this point and her hand is definitely shaking, but she’s either going to out live today, or die and become one of those cautionary tales. 

Somewhere in some dingy book, or some parent admonishing their child, they’ll say—

One should never play with the Sands of Time. 

(Unless you're Hermione Granger, of course.)

She stifles an excited laugh as the perfect amount of sand floats into her conjured jar. It spirals within it like captured pixie dust, and Hermione suddenly feels stupidly pleased with herself as she stares at the jar in her hand.

(Take that, laws of nature. Ha! ) 

Quickly securing the jar, Hermione taps her wand on the rune next to the wall. The suspended sand goes into stasis. With a silent Nox, the room grows even darker and she makes her way out to her office. 

“Granger, not to rush…but can we get a move on—” Draco starts. 

Hermione’s mouth opens and shuts as she narrows her eyes on the blond.

“I don’t think you really appreciate what I just did in there—”

“Yes, yes I’m sure it was suitably impressive, but really I only have so much time, and I was under the impression I was only here to save my Godfather, not—”  

“Draco.” She scoffs. “This is my first attempt. Ever. If things go wrong—I could either be hurt or accidentally off myself, or him. I don’t know what’s going to happen exactly, but it’s better safe than sorry.” 

He has the audacity to glare at her as if she’s being unreasonable. 

“Look here, this—” she points to the room with the Time-sand. “—is the Time-sand chamber. It’s practically a very fancy and very complicated safe of my own design.”

He doesn’t look impressed.

“And over there—” she shows him the only other door in the room, besides the exit to the main hall. “—is what was the original Time-Room. It’s warded with all kinds of things my predecessors had found useful. It’s basically a small bunker. Anything can happen in there, and in theory, it hopefully won’t affect the rest of the world.” 

Hermione takes a deep breath. “Say we do manage pulling Severus and he’s hurt, then your job is to patch him up and we send him back—”

“And if he’s dead? Just a pile of primordial ooze or something—?” 

“Then.” She tries to keep her voice shaking. “The room hopefully contains the ‘event’ and I would use this—” she holds up her pseudo time-turner. 

Draco does a double take for a second, then stares wondrously at her little pendant.

“I thought they were all destroyed...” He says slowly.

“They were.” She sniffs lightly. “This shoddy piece of work is something I made myself—but it’s a one-shot thing, Draco. When the real Time-turners were destroyed, whatever enchantment or spell that was on the sand disappeared. Now, when the sand is used—it literally fades away—it can only be used once.” 

 It was crude in its design—a last failsafe.

She stares at her little glass necklace with just enough sand, just enough magic—

Enough sweat, and tears, and desperate far flung hopes—

“I could only get it to go back a half hour or so. And even that is seriously questionable. If he dies, then we reset the timeline and abort the mission.” Hermione bites her lip and almost tastes blood, “but that’s not going to happen. I’m confident this will work.” 

Maybe 90% sure. Analytically speaking, it seems pretty confident?

But—

Draco Malfoy does not look convinced. 

(Bugger.)

He’s staring at her little jar of star dust as if it’s not the most beautiful thing in the world, but a jar of troll boogies. 

“There are a lot of unknowns…” he begins with narrow silver eyes.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“If something goes wrong it could be cataclysmic.”

“Yes.” Unfortunately, she knows this. She’s surprised she hasn’t suffered a panic attack just talking about it. 

He doesn’t say anything more; like he’s morally debating just how far this extends. A world without Severus Snape is a world where Voldemort might win, after all. A truly scary thought. 

“Listen, Malfoy—Draco ? God, I’m still not used to that yet—Afterall we might break the universe together…I understand we haven’t always been friends.” He snorts and rolls his eyes at her. “Honestly. I just need you to be there for this first trial. Just stand there, be silent. Be still. And make sure neither of us are bleeding, dead, or worse—‘ooze’.” 

He raises a platinum brow at her.

She goes on—

“Your job today is just to hide. And watch. Is that agreeable?” 

Silver eyes creased in a smirk.

“Merlin, you’re bossy.”

Hermione shrugs with very little shame, “Someone ought to be.” 

He dares to laugh at her as a response. 

“Alright, Granger. Off we go—I’ll do my best to keep you both intact.”

“Wonderful.” Hermione sighs out in relief. “Here. Just tuck under this.”

She grabs the cloak from off her desk and throws at the pale git. He catches it but stares at it as if she had just thrown a cloak made of woven gold. 

“No—no no…it can’t be.”

“It is.” She stifles laugh.

“The cloak? The Cloak of Invisibility? How did you manage this off Potter?”

“I asked, silly.” 

“Don’t be daft—he just gave it to you? A Deathly Hallow? For fun?” 

Hermione crosses her arms and fights off a smirk. 

“No. He gave his best friend a Deathly Hallow for work.” 

He is holding it up and inserting his hand behind the cloak and watching it turn invisible before pulling it out and repeating the motion. The awe in his face is palpable.

“Does he know? About Severus?”

Hermione nods, “He does. It helps to have a Head Auror that can botch some paperwork if we succeed in bringing back the dead. Kings—Minister Kingsley also knows. But that’s it. Only us four.” 

Draco is ignoring her to play with the cloak, but she hears a muttered Of course, he does. 

“Well?” Hermione clears her throat to cover her amusement. “Shall we?” 

She watches Draco drape the cloak around his shoulders until he is just a floating head. He grins down at his missing body with a rather boyish smile that she has rarely seen on him these days. 

With a shake of her head, Hermione flicks her wand at the simple black painted door of the Time-room.  It’s entirely blank. No indication of the secrets it’s held within itself. 

Something audibly clicks and the door opens on its own. 

In perfect contrast to her Time-sand Chamber, this one is disturbingly white. Just a large domed room with such brightly painted walls of stark white that it gives an empty foreboding feeling. 

There is no sense of depth to the walls and no exact source of light, but it’s bright and eerily quiet as if all sound and light travel differently in here. 

Hermione secretly hates this room. And she’s pretty sure it hates her. Everything was erased in this room after the Battle, and its barren space is blank and ominous. She swears she can almost hear the haunting ticks of the hundreds of clocks that used to rest here despite them all being long gone. 

Draco steps into the corner of the room right near the door as it shuts itself closed. 

Taking a deep breath, Hermione lets the jar of Time-sand float from her hand as it suspends itself in the center of the room. 

On the ground underneath the jar, is a matrix of arithmancy and runes laid out in a circular grid. In the middle is some dried blood she had extracted from the Shack and hair from Snape’s chambers at Hogwarts. She ransacked Spinner’s End and Hogwarts for any sign of him, before checking and double checking to make sure they were authentic. 

(After all, she didn’t need another Millicent Bulstrode’s cat incident.)

“Okay,” she breathes out. “For the first ‘jump’, I’m aiming for early childhood. Preferably 1970, to be exact.” 

“Why start so young?” asks Draco. 

Good God. She does not need someone making her second guess herself right now. 

“To be honest…” Hermione sighs out a deep breath. Be confident. “I have no idea how this is going to work. I need to establish some sort of control first. If I aim for later—and I accidentally over extend, say past his death—”

“Right, got it. Staying away from time of death at the moment.” 

She nods nervously. 

“We start young. I make multiple ‘jumps’ trying to narrow down my consistency. And then hopefully…I gain enough control over the jumps, that I can extract him at the exact moment—”

Draco lets out a low whistle, “Sweet Salazar, this is going to be hard.”

(Ha. If he only knew.)

“Really ? I didn’t notice,” she mutters to herself. Draco is suddenly looking paler. Best to get a move on. 

“Alright. Ten minutes—that’s our interval.” She conjures a huge digital clock in the opposing wall with a time set for ten minutes. The intimidating red blinking numbers make her hand tremble and bile rise in her throat, but she pushes on.

“We grab him; count down exactly ten minutes—and then the sand should automatically pull him back to the moment he left. No missing time on his end.” 

“‘In theory’, of course,” Draco says in heavy mockery.

She can’t even be mad at him because, really, she is working with nothing here. 

She takes out her wand, and lifts—

“Granger.” 

She turns to look over her shoulder at Draco.

“...just know, if this all goes sideways—”

Hermione snorts, but he ignores her. 

“I appreciate you trying to save my Godfather. Even if…he may not.” 

Hermione stares at him for a second, her eyes watering a little bit as a flood of emotion pulses through her. 

She knows. 

She knows he might not even want to be saved. 

But—

Severus Snape deserves to be saved. 

And Hermione Granger does what she’s best at—

She will try. 

So, she nods and pretends Draco didn’t just rip out a little piece of heart and put it out on display. He readies his Hawthorn wand and lifts the cloak to cover his body, and she watches him disappear.

She lifts her own wand—

And the incantation spills from her mouth almost like a song, something she stole from the Half-Blood Prince himself. 

“ ...tempora mutantur, tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis—”

She starts slashing the invisible runes with her wand, and the sand glows even brighter. She feels the telltale swirl of the wind picking up, and she is reminded of all those hours with her own Time-turner in Third Year. 

“ ...tempora mutantur, tempus omnia vulnera sanat—”

She pictures out a span of a timeline—from 1960 to 1998—and pinpoints her imagined mark of 1970 on it with focus.

Her little jar of sand, and dust, diamonds and magic—

It starts to distort and swirl into a vortex at the heart of the room. 

The golden light drifts together, and space and time—

It all merges. 

And what’s left in its place is a boy. 

The first time Hermione Granger meets the young Severus Snape…

…he is crying.  

Huge, fat tears are running down his hooked nose and dripping at the tip. He is wearing an old button-down shirt with a peter pan collar that is far too large, and tucked into a pair of torn trousers with a patched knee. Something black like soot is smudge on his hands and face.

He looks younger than ten. 

She hears a barely audible, “Sweet fucking Salazar…” from somewhere behind her, but chooses to ignore that for now. 

The boy’s long hair is wet and stringy with sweat and tears. Dirty too. He flings his head to the side to try to whip the hair out of his eyes as he looks up like a startled animal. His sniffling comes to an abrupt stop suddenly, and his black eyes go wide and alert. 

The Brightest Witch of Her Age is pleasantly pleased—virtually ecstatic—to find that the boy is one piece and not, in fact, primordial ooze. And that rush of immense accomplishment and need to jump around, and shout Ha! at The-Doubtful-Dragon behind her is suddenly doused. 

Extinguished like a dying fire. 

Because there is a little boy staring at her…and simply waiting for her to do something. 

And she didn’t think she’d get this far (don’t tell Draco that), and now she simply has no idea what to do. 

She glances at the countdown clock behind the boy that is reading 09:38 in big red letters. And she scrambles—

Scared little boy. Portal to strange room. Weird bushy haired lady. 

(She should comfort him, right? Be motherly?)

“Hello, Handsome.” Hermione blurts in a soft, soothing voice. Fuck. Severus Snape is going to kill her one day for that.  “Who are you?” 

His hunched over back from crying straightens itself out, and he casts a very wary, and very suspicious glance over her. His eyes narrow at her, and Hermione nearly laughs at the mini professor that is attempting an intimidating glare.

She’s not stupid. She has eyes, and she knows exactly who this is—

But science requires confirmation of the obvious, and for the record—

“S-severus,” he tries to say with a quiet, haughty voice, but stumbles over a sniffle and it loses all its effect. “Who ar’ you?”

His voice is young, and childish. And about three octaves higher than she remembers and overlaid with a Northern accent she never noticed—but it is somehow still him.   

“You can call me…” she blanks a bit, “Athena.” 

His face scrunches up in disbelief even as he’s wiping his face excessively to hide the tears. 

“The Goddess of wisdom and handicraft?”

She smiles at his cleverness and adds, “And war.” 

He rolls his eyes at her, “No one thinks of war when they think of ‘er.”

“Well, maybe they should,” Hermione replies just as haughtily. She fought in a war; she deserves the title. 

He sniffs, whether from tears and a runny nose or just plain attitude, she can’t tell. 

“That can’t be yer real name,” young Severus states flatly. 

“No.” she agrees. “Not quite the right Greek. But it’s the name I’m giving you to you.” 

He sort of humphs at that and crosses his arms. 

“Can I ask how old you are, Severus?” 

The distrust is tangible at this point. “I’m seven.” 

Well, shite. A little off from 1970, unfortunately. 

“...and I seemed to have forgotten—what’s the exact date?” She dares to ask. 

His eyes narrow to the point that he might as well be squinting at her. 

“October 18, 1967.” 

“Right…well, let me explain a bit—” Hermione reaches out to place her hand on his shoulder. 

And Severus flinches. Downright jumps, like a skittish kitten. 

“Get away—! ”

When he shifts his neck, she can see the unmistakable purple and greenish shades of a bruise beneath his shirt. He’s molted in them now that she looks at his neck and wrists…

…and something in her heart just breaks. 

She read somewhere once that lionesses sometimes adopt baby antelopes, and she wonders if this is what they felt like. 

Maybe it is her Gryffindor tendencies. A hardwired protectiveness that makes her want to darn armor and fight, or some kind of chemical concoction in her ovaries. 

But Hermione Granger is suddenly sure that this hurt boy is hers. 

Something fierce and carnivorous and burning—

She is going to save Severus Snape even if she has to burn the whole world down now. 

Voldemort, Dumbledore—

Nagini, Death, Fate—

He is hers now. And they couldn’t have him. 

She stares at the bruises with a kind of vacant detachment. She knows these wouldn’t be the last of his wounds—he had years and years of it to come—but she grabs the image of it. Piles it up in a corner of her mind where she’ll remember every cut, bruise, and broken bone—all the pain. 

And she’ll take it out one day—and seethe. 

But not today. 

Today, his big black eyes are staring up at her with an unspoken kind of horror. Like he’s on the verge of tears again, but this time due to embarrassment. Even though she knows he has nothing to be embarrassed about. 

So, she reins in her anger. And instead offers him—

“Oh, Severus,” she whispers. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she gathers him up in her arms, and hugs him tight. “Severus.” 

He’s stiff at first, and noticeably uncomfortable. It’s all going to be okay, wants to clumsily tumble out of her mouth but she won’t let it. 

And she wonders if she messed up. Maybe she shouldn’t have touched him at all? She should back off and let him breathe a bit—

When his arms wrap around her middle and he clings. 

His fingers dig into her shirt and straight into her spine with desperate fingers in the shape of claws. He buries his head at her sternum as he wraps his unproportionately long lanky arms in a tangle of a briar around her.

Hermione hears a small whimper and a sniffle, and she suddenly holds him for dear life—because this little boy doesn’t deserve this. And he is touch starved and broken and she—

She clings to him tighter—

And she is broken a little bit by this too. 

Young Severus Snape cries almost near silent for the rest of those ten minutes as Hermione watches the clock behind him countdown. Both the longest, and the most damning ten minutes of her life.

She wishes that he is louder; that he would wail and gasp and cry his lungs out like every other child his age should. But instead, he is conditioned to cry as softly as possible. So, she rubs his back and tangles one hand in his hair to brush the ends of it gently. 

And when her digital clock flashes the last 00:03, she feels the familiar wind again and she unclasps his fingers that are embedded in her soul, and steps back from him.

His face is wide open with round eyes and wet streaks, and he reaches for her like he isn’t ready to let go just yet—

Space distorts in a swirl behind his back, and Hermione watches as he seems to be sucked into it—atom and atom—he is pulled into the force of it like ink being sucked into a drain. His left hip draws in first, followed by the rest of him. And the last thing she sees his dark eyes being drawn to look behind her as his long black hair is finally pulled through. 

Then, the room is silent. 

And Severus is gone. 

She hears the rustle of fabric next to her, and Draco appears from under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. His usually perfect platinum hair is sticking up in odd directions from removing the cloak, and his healer robes are disheveled from creeping about. 

He is simply staring. Gawking, really—at the spot where the boy disappeared from with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. 

But she is clenching her fists. 

“Granger—Hermione.” She hears but it sounds muted and far away. She feels his gaze slowly drift to her. “...I’m not sure why I doubted you. But—fuck—you’re actually going to do it.”

She hears him let out a shaky breath. Or maybe it is her own?

“You’re going to save Severus Snape,” Draco affirms softly. 

And as she stares at the spot of the vanishing boy, she thinks—

Angry. Hurt. Determined—

I most certainly am. 

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: We Chose Hands

Hermione glances up from copies of the Prophet, the Quibbler, and the Advocate that are scattered around her desk to the little hovering paper memo that floats in front of her. Waiting ever so patiently. 

She slides the newspapers to the side as she silently Accio’s the memo with a wave of her hand. As she unfolds each crease of the paper airplane, she comes to instantly recognize the neat yet scratchy handwriting. 

She knows it through years of deciphering notes and essays, and the warmth it brings her is pure comfort. 

To the Barmiest-Witch-of-Her-Age:  
I think lunch is definitely in order today. Shall we say, 12:30?
I’ll bring shawarma from that little muggle cart you love. 

–The-Boy-who-is-sick-of-Canteen-Food

Hermione can’t help but smile. 

Vanishing the note, she grabs Harry’s cloak that's hanging on the back of her chair and heads out. 

The Department of Mysteries is blessedly empty around lunch time, and she meets neither sound nor soul, as she makes her way down the long black tiled hall of the ninth floor. As she waits for the lift, she shoves the ancient cloak into her beaded bag that hangs on her shoulder and tries to wrestle her mane of hair into a tight braid at the base of her neck. 

Unspeakables have very little management or hierarchy. And no required uniform or standard issued robe is needed in her department, but as Hermione straightens her loose maroon-colored robes over her casual muggle attire of jeans and dove grey jumper, she suddenly wishes that she did have a proper uniform. 

Everyone is so dressed up at the Ministry. 

And there was a time, when Hermione first started this job—young and new at eighteen years of age—that she dressed for what she thought of as ‘The Part’. But pencil skirts, blouses, and kitten heels seemed silly when she was often covered in chalk or ink. And experimental potions never cared if your nice new dress robes cost half your paycheck—they burned holes. 

She quickly realized there was a reason why Robert from the Death Room, who often worked with cadavers of multiple creatures, wears dungarees. Or Lissa from Magical Agriculture lives in rubber wellies that come up to her knees like a fisherman.  

But as the lift opens, and she piles in with several people making their way to their own lunch plans, and she squishes in among the pressed suits and posh dress robes—she suddenly feels a bit like a Uni student doing an internship. 

She’s horribly out of place. 

(But then again, when has she not been?)

The lift lurches sideways and everyone does their best to politely keep their distance in tiny bubbles of personal space that is deeply coveted. The lady in front of her is wearing far too much perfume, and the gentleman beside her almost elbowed her in the ribs as he checks his wrist watch. But Hermione closes her eyes and hums Don’t Stop Me Now under her breath until she is released from this dreadful prison. 

(Because Queen makes everything bearable.) 

The doors open and like a march of ants they scatter in line through the main atrium to go on with their busy lives. Hermione stays in the lift, now thankfully empty, and presses the button for level two to make her way to Harry’s office at the DMLE. 

Several Aurors are scattered among the floor and memos are hovering at empty desks, waiting for their recipient to return from lunch. She quickly strides her way down to the corner office tucked into the farthest edge of the floor. 

Hermione raps her knuckles against the door and lets herself in without waiting for a reply. 

“So tell me, have we accidentally altered time?” 

Harry Potter asks without looking up from whatever paperwork he's scribbling on. “Is Kingsley still Minister? Minerva, still Headmistress?” 

Like her, even Harry as Head Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has very little in his office. His large cushy office that he had inherited upon promotion is tremendously bare. No decoration, no awards—nothing personal.  

Except for two photos—one of a teenage Ron and herself with Harry on a couch during Christmas at the Burrow; and another more recent photo, of himself and a very pregnant Ginny with James on his lap. 

And—

Mountains and mountains of never-ending paperwork. A disgusting amount that Harry promptly never mentions, as if he personally does his best not to see it. It does not exist as far as this stubborn man is concerned. 

Hermione quietly closes the door behind her and casts a few privacy spells. When she turns back, Harry has set down his quill and is grinning up at her despite the dark circles under his eyes.

“Well?” he asks with a quirk of his brow underneath his shaggy hair. 

“I think that’s something I should be asking you, honestly.” She snorts while crossing her arms. He glances her over. 

“No.” Harry says in disbelief. “I was just joking—did you really—? It worked ?” 

“Harry James Potter. Why would you ever doubt me?” 

The prat laughs loudly and covers his growing grin with a hand in bafflement.

“I really shouldn’t, shouldn’t I? I trust you—I do. Don’t roll your eyes at me, Hermione Granger. But you say things sometimes like—” His voice shifts to higher register. “‘Let’s make Polyjuice potion in the girl’s toilet!' or ‘Let’s break Sirius out of prison!' Or how about, ‘Let’s rob Gringotts—”

“Right, right I get the idea—”

“And it just takes a minute for my brain to realize that you're absolutely serious and not, in fact, bonkers.” 

He is teasing her, but his voice sounds so fond that she can’t possibly be mad. He is smiling up at her with such a boyish grin that she can almost hear the sound of the Hogwarts Express clacking consistently in the background. She smells the scent of sweets and pumpkin pasties, and she is eleven on a train again, meeting a boy who changed her world. 

And Hermione is smiling back. 

“Yes, well—” She reaches for her bag and digs around in it up to her elbow for the cloak to give back to Harry. “Draco was a right ball of nerves. But yes, somehow—we managed to make the first successful jump.” 

He mouths Draco? at her, and she shrugs. Heist partners deserve first names.

“No issues?” Her friend asks.

“No, not really.” Hermione sits as she lays the cloak along his desk in front of them. The smell of food is wafting from a few paper bags on the other side of the desk. 

“It all worked like I thought it would. But I sent Draco home, telling him to subtly pay attention to any changes that might have happened—talk to people, ask questions—you know, that sort of thing. And then I went down to the Archives—grabbed about two decades worth of newspapers and todays, of course. And compared everything I knew.” 

She leans back in her chair, somewhat exhausted just thinking about it. 

“And?” 

“And…from what I can tell—there were no changes to the Timeline.” 

Harry rubs the stubble along his jaw, as his green eyes scrutinize her under his glasses while in thought. “...Do you think it's a closed loop? That it all happened before, and only Snape knew?” 

Hermione bites her lip, while shaking her head. “I don’t know.” 

If Snape had recognized her in the past, if he knew her—

He certainly never showed it. 

“I guess we’ll never know unless this is successful,” Harry lets out a sigh and runs a hand through his already messy hair. 

He’s watching her though, the way he always had when they were kids, debating if it's worth saying something that may make her mad. 

“...so, you saw him, then? Snape, I mean.” 

Of course, he’d be curious. She knew he would be. And for once, in the five years of being an Unspeakable, she’s able to be honest with him without having to say ‘Sorry, you know I can’t talk about it’.

“Yes.” She says softly. “He was young though, so it wasn’t quite the Professor yet. But yes. I met him.” 

Harry waits for her patiently. He knows she’s organizing her thoughts. 

“...He was just a boy, Harry.” She squeezes her eyes shut and the image of a dark-haired boy standing in a blinding white room is burned behind her lids. “A sad, broken little boy. Seven years old.” 

Hermione hears her voice waver a little. 

“I know you’ve seen some of his memories…did you know? The notes on him didn’t mention—I wasn’t expecting—I didn’t know about this. I knew his father…” She swallows hard, but the sight of the bruises she saw aren’t going away. “But he was crying...he had marks—bruises—” 

“No, I didn’t know but...I guessed,” her friend murmurs quietly. He’s gazing off at the ground with a vacant stare. 

“I didn’t know what to do—” She gasps, and it sounds like a sob. “—what to say.” 

“I knew his father was a drunk. And I knew his mother was a victim from his memories. But there was nothing personal to him.”

Harry clears his throat. 

“I didn’t—Uncle Vernon was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a drunk. I was smacked on the bottom a few times when I was little, maybe even had a shoe thrown at me, but his abuse was neglect and cruel words, mostly. Not physical…not beatings.”

Hermione's stomach turns at his soft voice. 

“But I remember one time when I was really small, the Dursley’s forgot about me at the shops. Packed up and went straight home without even noticing I wasn’t in the car—” he says with a tick in his jaw. “I didn’t think much of it. I started walking back to the house—it was maybe a thirty or fourty minute walk—not too bad. But somewhere in the middle, I tripped and fell. Scuffed my knee into a right bloody mess.”

He rubs his eyes aggressively, and his voice is thick. 

“And a very nice lady—I don’t remember her much—but she picked me up and asked me if I was okay.” He sucked in a breath. “And I crumbled. All of the sudden I cried and cried, even though I wasn’t crying before. It was just that a stranger cared enough to ask—” he voice broke.

Green eyes cut to hers.

“Hermione. It doesn’t matter what you said.” Harry gives a small, sad lopsided smile. “If you were you—if you were kind and soft; and the Hermione Granger I know you were—then, you said the right thing. I’m sure you did. And I’m sure he appreciated it.” 

Fuck. Her eyes are watering, but she isn’t going to cry in Harry Potter’s office. She is determined not to. 

“I’m looking at a little boy in a terrible situation, and I leave him in it—how is that any better than what Albus Dumbledore did to you?” 

The prat snorts, “You are not Dumbledore.” 

Hermione scoffs, a little bit offended. 

“I mean, you aren’t playing a game. You’re not manipulating pieces on a board for what you think is best—” 

“But I—”  

“No, Hermione.” Harry presses. “When you first brought this to me. I asked you, why not just change everything? Why not go back yourself, or warn Snape about everything? And you said—” 

“—‘Time is a tapestry. I can’t unravel it, but maybe I can pluck a string out of it, without it noticing’.”  She repeats.

He grins.

“I know you, Hermione. If you could have, you would’ve. But you can’t. You can’t move the pieces…but maybe you can spirit one away.” 

She watches him—a grown man, who is like her brother—crumple up a piece of parchment into a tight ball, and he throws it at her. It hits her square in the head and bounces off. He laughs affectionately.

“You know…not so long ago—when I was supposed to be a Hero, mind you—you told me: Don’t put the burden of the world on your shoulders.” She frowns at his antics, but her lips feel suspiciously loose. “And for the record—I think you chose a good piece. He’s worth saving, too.” 

She can’t help it.

Hermione grins like a fool.

God, Godric, and all that is Good—

She loves Harry Potter. 

Hermione waits three days before attempting another jump—

Part of it is because the matrix should ‘recharge’ and stabilize with magic again before another attempt. While the Time-sand might be the ‘battery’, the matrix is the ‘device’; and she doesn’t want to push it. 

The other part of it is that she’s a bit of a coward; and wherever her Gryffindor courage has gone off to, it is not here. 

So, instead she checks and double checks her equations while inputting the first starting point in time as a control. And then, she does as she told Harry—she combs through as much recent history as she can get her hands on.

If something did change—

Hopefully, it’s something mundane like Chudley Cannons are now a nice shade of plum, suddenly not orange anymore. Or that Fawkes is now a Thunderbird, instead of a Phoenix. 

And she just doesn’t catch it (nor care). 

After procrastinating for three days, and debating if the Order of the Thunderbird would have been a more fearsome title that Moody would have loved—

Hermione finally steps into the Time room ready to see Severus Snape once more. 

She has already siphoned off the same exact amount of Time-sand as before and levitates it in the middle of the blank white room. Her stomach is rolling unpleasantly. Her nerves and pulse are elevated to an uncomfortable level. 

That can't—won't—stop her. 

Her hand is openly shaking as she lifts her wand this time, but Draco isn’t here. And she is alone—so why not let her fear be visible for once? 

She starts the incantation. Her voice warbles a bit in the beginning, but—

“...tempora mutantur, tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis—”

Hermione imagines the timeline of 1960 to 1998, but now there is a dot right where 1967 is, that anchors her. She focuses on a little bit down the line to 1970 as her target—

The wind picks up again, and the Time-sand glows. 

She sees the swirl of black from in the middle of the room, and then—

A young boy is standing in its place; and her conjured digital clock starts counting down from 10:00.

In for a penny, in for a pound— 

“Hello again, Handsome.” 

A small-ish Severus Snape snaps his gaze to her. He is still young, but definitely older than she last saw him. His eyes are round and open and so terribly young. His face is still childish but starting to grow a little more defined. He is still a gangly thing of long limbs and a long nose.

“You.” He says. It's not the nasty sneer she would expect from him, but more of a quiet, exasperated sigh from shock.  “I thought you were a dream.” 

Hermione laughs, “No, not quite.” 

There is sweat on his forehead and upper lip. His hair is stringy, and wind swept. He smells of the way all children do when they are outside—like sweat and grass and summer days in the sun. 

Despite what must have been a hot day, he is wearing a worn-out coat so dark brown it looks black, and a pair of old trousers that look too small on him again. And Hermione wonders if he covers up, so visible signs of abuse can stay hidden underneath. 

“...I just ‘ad a brew and butty, and was on my way t’park.” He recalls in a toneless voice of thought, while looking around the white room. “Where am I?” 

“You’re in the Ministry of Magic,” she smiles a little at his wide, curious eyes.

“You're a witch.” he says in a wondrous whisper. “I’ve never met a witch before.”

Hermione scoffs. And he amends, “—well, not a practicin’ witch. My Ma doesn’t…she doesn’t use magic much.” 

“And the young Miss Evans?” 

She knows his notes, they would’ve met by now. In fact, she bets he was going to her right this very moment. 

Severus rolls his eyes, but his spine straightens at the mention of his friend’s name, “Lily doesn’t know much magic yet.” 

“Ah. I see,” Hermione slips her wand from her pocket and casts a cooling charm on him. He startles a little bit at first, but then holds out his arms and studies his skin as if he could see the magic working on it. 

“Well, Severus. It’s lovely to meet you again. I’m afraid I don’t have long, and I have a lot of explaining to do.” She tries to smile a little to ease his nerves. “Let’s start with the exact date again, if you can?” 

“July 23, 1971.” He says a bit reluctantly. 

Eleven years old. He will be at Hogwarts this coming September. She’s a little bit past her target date, but not too far. 

“Thank you.” She says and he relaxes a bit. “As you can see, I am an Unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries. —Oh. I—do you know what that is?”

He stares at her blankly. 

“Right.” She goes on, “The DoM is part of the Ministry of Magic, or the Magical government. It specializes in research, inquiry of the unknown, and problem solving—” 

Severus snorts and crosses his arms as he stares at her. “I gathered as much from the word ‘mysteries’.”

Hermione nods, “Except it is all secret. We are under Vow to never share our work. To never speak about it. So I’m afraid, I can’t give you my real name, so—” 

“‘Athena’, will ‘ave to do?” 

Hermione grins, “I’m afraid so.”

She clears her throat. 

“See, my job is to…study a trend. I have a special spell that lets me—” she stumbles a bit. “—reach for certain individuals.”

He lifts his chin in a haughty little glare, “And what…does that mean, exactly?” 

“Certain special individuals. Those that are destined for great things.” 

Fuck. She is definitely going to give him a superiority complex. And his older self’s ego does not need that by any means—

Not to mention, she feels a bit like a fraud; and wonders if Professor Trelawney feels this every day?

But his eyes take on a certain greedy sort of gleam, and she knows she hit the mark. She definitely has his interest.   

“The spell brings them here.” She points at the clock behind him that is now just reaching 08:32.

“But the spell is limited, and it only lasts for a little while before it puts you back where you came from.” 

Severus is staring at the big digital numbers. 

“I can’t explain why, exactly—but I’m going to ‘visit’ you every few years or so. You don’t have to do anything. We can just talk or whatever…if you want to? You are safe here. And if you ever need anything, feel free to ask. But I would like it…” Hermione waves her hand in an extended manner. “...I’d like it if we can be…friends…?” Oh, Christ. “—or something.” 

She finishes flatly. And a bit embarrassingly. 

He’s staring at her like she just suggested that Monkwort and Sopophorous Beans were interchangeable in a potion. Even at this age—he apparently doesn’t expect this level of stupidity of her. 

Hermione coughs awkwardly. 

“Um…I realize this is a bit of an awkward situation. But I can’t really explain it to you yet, and I would really appreciate it if you kept it to yourself—because you know,” Oh god, she’s going to say it. “...it’s Unspeakable business and must remain secret. At least for now.” 

God. She’s never pulled the ‘if I tell you, then I’d have to kill you card’ like she was James Bond or something. But eleven years old Severus Snape is oddly understanding of this somehow, and he shakes his head like she said something completely reasonable. 

“I understand—Miss Athena? Or ‘s it, Madam Athena?”

Well. That made her feel old. She was only twenty-four—maybe twenty-five?—for fucks sake. 

“Just Athena would be fine.”   

He raises a brow at her. “Ma said titles are impor’ant in the wizarding world.” 

“Oh, she’s not wrong.” Hermione almost snorts. “Wizards can be quite formal, can’t they?” 

She thought of her Potion Master’s almost Victorian mannerisms and speech. “But like you, I’m from the muggle world. A muggleborn, like your friend Miss Evans. I don’t mind.” 

Black eyes access her. “Lily knew nowt of magic until I told her.”

“Yes, I quite know the feeling. It’s hard when you have no one to explain things in this world. She’s very lucky to have you.” 

He preens a little bit and grins proudly, and Hermione is shocked. She has never seen a smile on his face before. She has seen him frown, and smirk, scowl, and sneer—but never a smile. 

And for the first time, she sees a candid view of his teeth. He has upper canines that are rotated out that make them look pointed like miniature fangs; and mess of a crowded incisors on his lower jaw. They are not pearly white, but not terribly yellow either. Just normal, uniquely his own—teeth.

And she’s strangely entranced by them. 

“Aye, I taught her all that I know,” he states proudly. 

Hermione snaps out of it a little. “Does your mother teach you things?” 

Severus' expression drops. He shifts on his feet and wrings his hands.

“She’s taught me enough,” he says defensively. 

She nods, knowing his mother must not openly speak of it in front of his father.

“Of course.” she concedes. “I wish I had that when I was your age. My letter was the first time I ever heard of Magic or Hogwarts, and I was so desperate, I read everything I could about it—”

His eyes light up. “Books—? On Hogwarts ?” 

Hermione blinks.

“Of course! Haven’t you read Hogwarts: A History ? It's my absolute favorite.” 

He shakes his head and his black hair feathers out around him. 

No, that won’t do. Hermione is scandalized.

Hermione flicks her wand and the door behind her slams open. Severus startles. She casts a quick Accio and her copy of the book flies into her hand. It’s a 1967 edition that was published right after Dumbledore was made Headmaster. 

She has several editions and knows this one won’t give anything away. It’s old though. And worn with lots of her own little notes written on post-its that are stuffed in between the pages.

(She isn’t a heathen; she didn’t write in books.)

It was the first book she had from the wizarding world. Her first piece of a secret life. She sat on a train with it, quoted it to anyone who would listen, memorized every word—

She hands it to him, stretches it out in offering—

And she thinks of another book—the one Harry had of the Half-Blood Prince. And wonders if her little book could be as momentous as his own. 

“Here.” Hermione smiles softly. “You're eleven now. You’ve got your own letter.”

“No,” he pushes the book away in rejection.

“It’s not valuable or anything.” She placates. 

“I’ll get it dirty.” 

She glances at his soot smudged hands, as he self-consciously tries to wipe them on his trousers. Black is embedded in the nail beds, and under the nails.  

“Oh…I can clean that if you want,” She motions for him to hold out his hands. He hesitates, but does so eventually. She casts a quick Tergeo.

“I draw sometimes.” He adds reluctantly, in a defensive tone. “I’m not filthy. But the only drawing things I ‘ave are charcoal pieces from the chimney.” 

She blinks again. She never knew that. The older Professor never seemed to be interested in art? But then again…if she remembers correctly, there were small diagrams and sketches of potions herbs in the margins of his old textbook. 

“Do you like drawing?” She can’t help but ask. 

Severus shrugs. 

“It’s somethin’ to do. Birds or plants ‘re easy.” His eyes avert, “But Da says it's too girlie, so I try to be quiet ‘bout it.”  

White hot frustration rises from her gut.

Hermione hums carefully, “You’ll have to show me sometime—I’d love to see your artwork.” 

He gives a terse nod.

“Here. Now, it's all yours.”  

“I don’t wan’ handouts. I mustn't—”

“It’s not that.” She pleads. “It's not.”

He grits his teeth but is staring at the book as if it is pure gold. 

“It’s a gift. For your acceptance to one of the most prestigious, and—” her voice chokes “—one of the very best schools of Magic. From one little clever swot to another.” 

He hesitates. His pale hand outstretches as she smiles—

“Hogwarts is—” she lets out a breathless laugh. “It’s magic. It’s alive, and wondrous, and stunning. It’s…brilliant, Severus.”

He takes the book with its old brown leather binding and gold lettering. And she can see the warmth of candlelight. Hear the click-clack of students rushing to class. She smells parchment and ink, fires in hearths and dusty tapestries, pine and herbs, cinnamon and sweets—

“It’s home.” Hermione says. “And I hope…one day…it feels like your home, too.” 

He’s staring at her again. His haunting black eyes that are so round, and young—and he looks at her like she has just opened up a new world to him. 

He hugs it to his chest, and she knows her precious book will have a good home. 

“I don’t like bein’ in someone’s debt.” He grumbles but looks oddly pleased. “I’ll owe you a book.” 

Shaking her head, Hermione scoffs softly as appeases him, “If you must.” 

A curl blows into her eyes as the wind starts to pick up, and she glances up at the clock. 

“It seems we’re out of time.” 

She doesn’t mean to, but her hand lifts on her own and she ruffles his hair. He’s properly put out by it—he scowls and swats at her hand. Hermione laughs and gives him a silly little curtsy. 

“Til next time, Young Master Snape.” 

Hermione gives him a little grin. 

(He does not return it.)

And Severus disappears. 

(Her book along with him.) 

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Is it a Sin to let Dreams Overlap?

He’s crying again. 

Hermione waits her three days to recharge the matrix—and spends most of those three days—thinking about that small boy with his black rings under his eyes and a quiet Northern accent. And every time she glances at a clock, she wonders in the back of her head how much time is passing for him.

Is he at Hogwarts? Is he a proper Slytherin now—with guile and ambition, and a sneer to match? Does Slughorn seduce him with potions? McGonagall with silly wand waving? 

Is Severus Snape studying in the library, just like she did? Watching jack o’ lanterns float in the sky at Halloween? Feeling the snow land on his lashes during Christmas break? Hearing the rustle of leaves and the song of jobberknolls during spring by the Black Lake? 

Seconds, minutes, hours go by for her—and each day passes a new year for him. 

Time has no boundaries, she knows. They just happen to be touching at these minuscule spots—

She and Severus will meet here and there. Whenever Time lets them. 

She’s grateful, really.

But he’s crying again—

As soon as the spiral of time and matter spit him out, she finds him in a crumpled heap on her floor. Severus is hunched over in a ball, sucked into his body like he is trying to make himself as small as possible. 

Whimpering and gasping in tears. He is a sphere of black in her stark white room—with only the white little triangle of skin that is formed from his hair parting at the back of his neck, as the one thing breaking up the darkness. 

His pale boney hands are wrapped all the way around himself, splayed across his back almost touching his shoulder blades, like sparse skeletal wings sprouting from his spine.

“Hello, Hand—Severus?” Hermione almost drops her wand as she rushes towards him, falling on her knees. “Severus! What—?” 

His head snaps up. There is blood gushing in a rivet down his mouth and chin. Dripping into his Slytherin school robes and forming a puddle in his lap. Tears, snot, and blood all mixed together in a gruesome stream. 

His already hooked nose is jarringly pushed out of place and is sitting alarmingly askew. She can almost hear the crunch of bone that must have come from it. His eyes have a vivid purple underneath them, and his upper lip is swollen and busted. 

Severus looks up at her with a wild, panicked gleam in his eyes that is brutal and bloodthirsty. He bares his teeth, and she sees those pointed fangs of his again, but they are dyed bright red this time. 

“Merlin, Morgana what—” She tries to stop him from tipping his head back and is almost worried he’ll bite like a rabid dog. She conjures a flannel. Shoving it into his face, Hermione tries to ignore the gore running over her hands.

“Good Lord—Severus don’t tip your head back. You’ll choke!—there you go, that’s it. Here, try and stop the bleeding. Get it all out—” 

Hermione is not squeamish. She’s seen blood. In fact, she’s seen his same blood pouring out of him come twenty odd years later in the Shrieking Shack. 

But this feels a little too close to home. A little bit too much of a reminder of what she’s going to be facing again. 

And her stomach twists violently as he coughs up a clot of blood and spits it out. She stares at her red tinted hands— 

Hermione gulps for air. Then, gags. And her chest, stomach, and soul heaves like she’s trying to push those memories out. 

Black spots are creeping up on the edges of her vision, and she thinks she’s going to faint right here next to this poor bleeding boy—

When she’s hears—

“Fuck.” He snarls, and glares at the ceiling. “I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill them. Fuckfuckfuck—Fuck!” 

With each curse, the ‘u’ sound becomes shorter and shorter until he starts to sound like a proper Northerner again. Foo-ck, it sounds like. And Hermione can’t stop the hysterical giggle that bubbles up out of her. 

His angry black eyes cut to her—right in the middle of her delirium. 

“Athena.” He spits out in a nasally whine that is muffled by the flannel he’s holding to his face. “I was wondering when you were due. It seems you have impeccable timing.” 

His accent is gone now—replaced with the more formal tone she knows from her childhood. She wonders if Lucius or some other Slytherin taught him how to mask his working-class accent. 

But it still isn’t the deep velvety voice of her Professor. Not yet at least. But it manages to sharpen her attention and anchors her back to the ground. 

He unravels the tight ball of his body and spreads out his legs in front of him, while leaning back on one hand as the other is still staunching his nose. He’s big. Much taller than before. She’s quite sure that he'd be her height or taller now if they were standing. 

Hermione’s hands are shaking a little still, but she reaches unsteadily for her wand with an overwhelming need to clean them off immediately. The gore vanishes. Her lungs breathe a little bit easier. Lowering her hands down to her lap, she sits back on her haunches and kneels before him. 

“What happened? ” Her voice sounds somehow hoarse and shrill at the same time.

“Potter.” He spits out without looking at her. His gaze is dark and violent; and she has seen it many times directed at Harry, but this is far more concentrated. It's venomous. “Black. Lupin. Pettigrew. Take your pick. They all got their fun in.” 

Ah. She knew about the bullying. The Marauders. 

Her lip furls down in a frown. She knew, of course. But the violence of the scene before her is still shocking. 

“Have you told Slughorn? Mcgonagall—?” 

Severus laughs. A cruel frenzied cackle that is matched with a crimson-stained grin. 

“So, the Gryffindors can get a stern talking to? A proverbial slap on the wrist? ” He asks snidely. “No, Athena—they are rich. Their families are influential. They are future Wizgamont seats. Head Aurors. And Quidditch stars. They are…virtual saints in Slughorn and McGonagall’s eyes.” 

“What about Miss Evans? She could—”

His eyes shift away, “Lily is ignoring me at the moment.” 

She sucks in a breath, “Surely, there is someone—”

He swats her hand away when she tries to place it on his shoulder with a sneer. 

“If you find this virtuous champion of justice, bring them to me and I’ll beg. I’ll submit memories. Take veritaserum—but until then, I can take care of myself.” 

Hermione’s frown deepens. She lets out a slow, steady sigh. 

“Fine.” She is frustrated and shaken. “At least let me fix you up.” 

He glares at her for a second, but removes the flannel from his nose. It’s still bleeding, but not pouring anymore. 

“What’s the date?” she asks as a distraction. 

She starts to cast a Vulnera Sanentur, but realizes she can’t use his future spell right in front of him. Instead, she casts a quick Episkey that straightens but does not fix the overall misfortune of his nose. 

“Ow, you witch—! ” His voice is a muffled whine, “...December 3, 1973.”

She’s a bit early this time. He’s only thirteen—almost fourteen. A Third year. She was hoping for at least a three year gap since she last saw him.

Hermione flings the door open with her wand, and Accio’s a jar of bruise paste from her desk drawer that she keeps on hand for emergencies. She Tergeo’s the rest of the blood and grime from his face and lap. 

“You know, children can be cruel. And nasty. And mean.” She says as she twists open the jar. “I have, unfortunately, been on the receiving end of such affections.”

He snorts in disbelief, but she ignores him as she dips her fingers in the paste and goes to spread it under his eyes and around his nose. 

“I was never normal—too clever, too weird; too much hair, uses too many words. Just—too much.” Hermione smooths the cream over the ridge of his nose. “And I thought, when I finally got my letter, that I would finally have a place I would belong.” She laughs darkly, “I love Hogwarts. But—muggle or magical—children are all the same.” 

Severus closes his eyes and hums a little, and she is suddenly reminded of Crookshanks purring in her lap. She smiles a little and sits back away from him, cleaning her hand again with a quick swish of her wand. Twirling it in her hands, she observes the way the vines carved into it swirl to the tip and she thinks—

“But my father once said, ‘Don’t be a rose, darling. Don’t be beautiful but vapid. Cut and placed in a vase, just to die in a few days’.”

Her tone is soft, and she can almost hear the low lull of her father’s voice underneath her own. Her heart lurches a little. She misses him so much. 

But Severus is watching her now with his dark inquisitive eyes.  

She lifts her wand, conjuring a string of silver light that winds up from the tip and curls out. It sprouts and grows—reaches out before stemming, then bursting at the top.  

“‘No,’ he said, ‘Instead, be a dandelion. Be trampled on, stomped on, plucked and picked—and push up from the cracks, and reach towards the light. And when they try to blow you away—” 

She blows—and the spores of her conjured dandelion drift off into the room. They float among the space like stars, and Hermione smiles. 

“‘—fly on the wind and start anew.’”

Hermione lets out a small laugh, and she watches Severus observe the dandelion fuzz. 

“Your bullies deserve punishment. It isn’t right that they can be violent and cruel, and not be held accountable.” She states honestly. “But…don’t let them pull you down, Severus. Even if they try—don’t let them stop you. Just…keep going.” 

He lets out a deep breath, and she watches a piece of his long black hair flutters from the exhale. 

“They deserve more than punishment…” he starts sourly. “They deserve—” 

“I know.”  

He growls at her. Lord, thirteen is an angry age.

“If you’re looking for advice, I wish I had the right answer…but all I can tell you is my own experiences.” Hermione hums in thought. 

“All that I know—is that most children grow up. They change.” Hermione tries. “The pureblood Slytherin boy that was, honestly, quite a little shite; he was absolutely vile—even he grew up and apologized. I thought for the longest time I would never forgive him. But…” She stumbles. “...He changed. I changed. Sometimes you have to tell them to fuck off. Then, see if civility is possible.” 

“They would never apologize—” 

“Maybe they won’t. Maybe they will. I don’t know. But if they don’t—then, you change.” 

She takes the bloody flannel from his hand, and vanishes it. 

“I would say ‘be the better man’, but that might be asking too much in this case.” 

He glares at her.

“Oh—yes. I’ve heard this one before!” He sneers. “You want me to be good. To be righteous and Holier-than-Art-Thou martyr—” 

Hermione can’t help but guffaw at such a statement.

“No no no—I think we are past that. So, instead I’ll say if they are determined to destroy you then—survive. Just to spite them.” 

Hermione thinks of all the opposition she has faced. The oppression from the wizarding culture. The purists—the ones that called her names. That held her down as she screamed herself hoarse. And laughed as they tried to break her.

She glances at the boy. He is going to outlive all his old bullies anyway. At least, she is determined that he would. 

“Be unflappable. Unwavering. Steady and stern.” She blinks in thought, “I once knew a very brave man that cared very little what people thought of him.” She admits softly. “He was mean and broken, and—people were mean right back. The things they said to him behind his back were often not nice, by any means.”

“But I was always kind of impressed that despite it all, he was still brilliant and powerful—and while everyone hated him, he still found a way to excel. It kind of felt like a big Fuck You to all those that wanted him to fail.” She hums. “He sort of reminded me of a centipede.” 

“A…centipede?” 

“Mmmm did you know Japanese Giant Centipedes are notoriously hard to kill? Not only is their bite mildly venomous and painful, but they are quite mobile—slippery with all those legs. And one of the hardest exoskeletons found in insects.” 

Severus snorts, “Wouldn’t a roach be a better fit?”

“No.” Hermione laughs, “No, he is far too elegant for that. To me, he was quite extraordinary…I think even if they tried to behead him, trap him, drown him—he would somehow still make it. He was that kind of man.” 

He is still gritting his teeth in frustration, but he seems to be in deep thought now. She hopes she gave him some comfort; but also, something to think about. The timer flashes behind him, and she knows that will have to do for now.

She smiles at him—and he instinctively frowns back almost immediately. Then, Hermione ruffles his hair and his lip curls into a sneer that in her childhood days would’ve drawn the depths of her fear.

Instead, Hermione laughs. 

“Be a centipede, Severus.”

Matter swirls, and Time condenses in on itself.

And then, he is gone.

Hermione rips the hairband out of her hair and flings it on her desk. She plops down, and squeezes her eyes shut tight for a moment. With her long hair hanging behind her freely, Hermione hums the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody under her breath—wondering if she really has just put a gun to a man’s head. 

Leaning as far back as her sad, abused office chair is letting her without flat out falling arse over tit—she rubs her temples while staring at the ceiling. Her fingers tap against her head in rhythm like they would on piano keys, and by the time gets to the first Mama, OooOoo~ in her head—

She knows she might as well as have sent him on a drowned path.

She feels the weight of it as if she is treading through murk and sludge. Her legs drag and her muscles protest—

Fine silt made from mud and sand and microscopic gold fill her lungs as she sinks. She thinks it’s inevitable that she will drag him down along with her—

And she knows…

With the War and what’s to come—

…it will only get worse from here. 

The next day, she opens her office door to find Draco perched on his throne again while sitting in the chair across from her desk. 

“Don’t believe in wards, Granger?” 

Hermione snorts, “There are so many wards on this room, Malfoy, it's obscene.” 

“How odd." He says with little remorse and a raised eyebrow. “I walked right in.”

“Really? I can’t account for your manners. And I would argue that you don’t know how to walk, only strut like a puffed-up peacock—” He stares at her blandly, “but—yes. You, Harry, and Kingsley have full access. I thought it best, just in case.” 

“How very generous of you.” He drawls with his eye tracing over her desk and bookshelf. 

She’s almost sure he snooped around her files at this point. 

“Yes, well—If I’m dying for some reason and send a Patronus—I'd rather you’re not inconvenienced on the way over.” 

He doesn’t reply, but shrugs and tips his head as if to say too true. 

Merlin. She doesn’t hate him anymore, not really. But sometimes he makes it so hard—

“Well? Why has his Lordship come to squander away with the peasants today?” 

He smirks a little at her impudence, and she grins back. 

“Familial obligation, I’m afraid.” Draco says with an even more exaggerated drawl followed by a haughty sniff, and Hermione almost bursts out laughing. “How is my dear old Godfather doing as of late…?” 

Oh god, the uncanny resemblance of Lucius is equally disturbing and hilarious. Surely, Draco and his mates have been practicing parodies of their parents for years in the Slytherin common room. And it shows.

Hermione steps around him, to settle at her desk while dropping her outer robes and bag on the little stool in the corner. She sits down—catching Draco’s amused little gleam—and snorts again. 

“I knew you’d be nosy. Should I be preparing updates for you?” She asks lightly, but she can feel the weight of her eyelids as she blinks, and a worn fatigue settles in her bones the same way she settles into her chair. 

“Absolutely not. I don’t want to know too much. He wouldn’t—he won’t—be happy…if he knows I snooped around in his life. He likes his secrets, and I can’t blame him based on what I can guess they are.” 

Hermione hums in agreement.

“I think he might murder me one day,” she says absently, not quite focusing on him or anything really. “When this is all over…when he is alive and free…He’ll never let me walk around with the things I’ve seen.” 

Draco doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t need to.

“...is he…is he alright?” He asks quietly after a while. 

What a loaded question. 

“No. Of course not. I’ve seen him twice since that first time—his teenage years have just begun and he is targeted, isolated, and hurt.” She says bitterly, “But at the same time—Yes. He is fine. It's all as it should be, and we know he lived through it once and comes out…mostly okay.” 

She sighs, leaning back to stare at her ceiling again. She swears if her eyes could leave a mark, there would be a hole above her head by now. A self-made skylight from here in the Level 9 basement all the way to the surface. 

“I am trying, Draco. I am. But I don’t know my part in it—I don’t know if the things I say are leading him astray, or if they are as they’ve always been? I’m trying to help him—but I don't want to manipulate him, or guide him blindly. I want him to do this on his own. I just wish I could do more.” 

Hermione licks her lips and continues, “I know I’m no one to him—barely an acquaintance, definitely not a friend—and I’m sure he will hate me for this one day. But…I want to do this—I want to help.” 

The young Malfoy stares at her for a second, his silver eyes seem to take in every detail of her—from the top of her mane of hair, down her face, and trail off below her shoulder. 

“Don’t try to save him, Granger.” He begins softly. “I know it must truly upset your Gryffindor instinct, but don’t.”

His gaze idly drifts away from hers as something shifts within him, and Hermione suddenly thinks he looks small and fragile. Like a young boy.

“…sometimes just having someone there is enough.” He clears his throat, but it still sounds constricted. 

Hermione flips her hair over her shoulder and runs her fingers through it to distract herself. 

“Did you have that? Someone who was there?”

He freezes—uncomfortably stiff from head to toe—and his normally blank face blanches as he debates opening his mouth.

Draco sighs, “…Myrtle.”

She flounders for a second in shock. “Myrtle?”

“Moaning Myrtle.” He gives a small self-deprecating shrug and a smirk. “During my Sixth year, the pressure—I wasn’t coping well. And she…well, at first she was bloody annoying. But then, it started to help—” Draco laughs. “—she whinged more than I did, and that was somehow comforting.” 

Hermione chose to nod, as if she understood. Moaning Myrtle? Merlin. 

He clears his throat, “I think you might be coming at this wrong, Granger. If this is a loop—this already happened—then you aren’t ‘no one to him’.” 

The man covers his mouth like he’s hiding a laugh, and Hermione stares at him in confusion. 

“I may not know time travel—but I know desperate teenage boys.” He grins, and she suddenly wants to sink into her chair, “And if Myrtle was real. If she was alive. Actual flesh and blood—” he huffs out a laugh “—I would’ve done anything for her.” 

Hermione blinks, a little bit disoriented. 

“It doesn’t matter if she was a Muggleborn, or a Ravenclaw, or poor as dirt.  And had as little grace and beauty, as my mother does in her little finger—” 

Hermione sucks in a breath, realizing—

“She was there for me when I needed her—” 

Oh, no. She should have seen this. 

“He’s probably looking for you right now—hunting every book, every paper, to see if he can spot the woman named ‘Athena’, with bushy hair and big brown eyes. He’s searching for you—I know he is.” 

She gave Severus Snape a puzzle—

“You think you’re no one to him, Granger?” 

Of course, he would be intrigued.

“I bet you’re everything to him.”

…

Fuck.

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Summer looks Lovingly on the Fall that Arrives

“Here, Ginny—you need them more than I do.” 

Hermione hands over the two pillows she was previously leaning on while sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. 

The Potter’s sitting room has currently been transformed into a comfortable home-theater at the moment—complete with Harry's smuggled television she charmed to work. And dozens of throw pillows and blankets that have spilled over the sofas and onto the floor. 

Hermione thought she would never see the day, but somehow Grimmauld has been reshaped into something not dreary and dark and damp. But something else—something—that as she looks at those pillows, she can see.  

Some of them have knitted initials or motifs embroidered on them that could only be to work of one Mrs. Weasley. Some have remnants of glitter glue and chocolate smudges that could only be the work of James, the toddler. A fuzzy blush-colored one that could only be Ginny. A worn leather cushion that surely is Harry.

Either way it all feels warm, and alive—and feels like home. 

“Oh, Nimue—Hermione!—this is why you’re my favorite,” Ginny Potter sheepishly smiles back at her.

She watches the redhead organize the mass of pillows around her as she leans back to test her nest, shakes her head, and goes to reorganize them for the fifth time. 

Ginny’s heavily pregnant stomach is propped up under a pillow at her lower back and supported by two more on each side. She is massive—and Hermione knows Ginny hates the last few uncomfortable weeks of her pregnancy more than anything. 

“Make sure you remind Harry that I’m a favorite. If it's a girl at least,” she sings in jest. 

“Oh love, I adore you. But we both know the deal: Harry names the children and I get—”

Hermione holds up her fingers to count on them as she continues for her friend, “‘One, free reign on decorating Grimmauld Place. Two, only in charge of dinners, never lunch, as you hate sandwich making. Three, fair play to kick out Ron whenever you feel like it. And four—’”

“The best one! Let’s not forget four—” 

“‘—foot rubs, massages, and—’” Hermione chokes. 

“—oral gratification when reasonable.” Ginny finishes with a smug grin. 

“I honestly wish I didn’t know that one.” 

“Ha! Marriage is all about negotiation, Hermione. Just wait until you have your own ‘Mr. Granger’ to contend with.” 

She digs into the bowl of popcorn resting on her lap and throws a few at Ginny. They then dissolve into laughter like a couple of twelve year olds. 

“No, no!” Ginny giggles. “Don’t make me laugh—my bladder—I might leak!” 

Hermione can only laugh harder, “Poor pregnant you. Where is Harry anyway? He promised me dinosaurs today, and I'm owed them.” 

“Ah...well you see James wanted the Mint Aero bar. And my dear husband ended up buying a regular. It went into a full-blown-melt-down after that—” Ginny makes an explosion sound. “So, they popped off to the shop to pick up a new one before the movie.”

“The popcorn is going to go all stale…” Hermione whines. 

“I know. Can’t have that, can we? Give some of it here—” She stuffs a handful in her mouth, and continues to speak with it full, “James is so excited for this, too.”

“Should a three-year-old be watching Jurassic Park?”

“He’ll be fine.” Ginny snorts, “We’ll just cover his eyes if a dinosaur gets hungry. Besides, he’s going through a bit of a phase right now. You know kids—they get obsessed with things.”

“Oh, it was Ancient Romans for me—” She says with a mouth full of popcorn. 

“The Romans? Merlin, that’s boring.”  

“Excuse me!”

“Charlie keeps trying to convince him that dragons are better than dinosaurs, but it’ll never work—” 

Hermione scoffs.

“But you know boys, they just get head strong and obsessive with things and there’s no talking it out of them. Mum said it was all Dragons and Griffins and Nunudu’s for years with the boys—” 

That makes Hermione perk up a little. 

“Ginny. I have bit of an odd question—”

Ginny blinks back at her, then a huge salacious smile slowly spreads across her face.

“Oh, lovely. I’ve waited for this day. Yes, how a man handles a broom is very telling—”

“My god, please shut up—” 

The redhead laughs. 

“Listen, I’m serious! Molly has mountains of experience of teenage boys…how did she—you know—deal with them? I have a feeling I’m going to have a real troublemaker in my hands soon.”

Her friend stares at her in blatant confusion. “Are you kidnapping a teenager?” 

“No–! ” 

“Adopting one?” 

“What? No–! Why would you—” 

Ginny’s eyes go wide. “Are you dating one?” 

“For fucks sake, Ginny—no!” 

“Just checking.” 

She leans back in thought, as if she hadn’t just said something blasphemous. 

“Well it was all about a firm hand, I suppose. No desserts, no quidditch. A good dressing down. As you know—there was loads of shouting in my household. Mum was always fussing at the boys. Honestly, it's a miracle my ear drums still function.” 

“Not exactly what I need…?” 

Ginny tips her head, “A row wasn’t the line though. Mum shouting was just a warning—it was the silence that was really scary.” 

Hermione’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?” 

“...I’ll never forget—one time, I rode through the house on my broom even though I should have known better. Fred and George were egging me on, and I bet a month of dessert that I could fly—top to bottom—through the entire house without Mum noticing.” 

She rubs her swollen stomach in thought, “But of course, I ran right into a little side table by the stairs that had an old vase on it. I didn’t think it was a big deal at first—surely, it was old Aunt Muriel’s or something?” 

“But Mum came out and saw it snapped on the floor—and she just went still. There was no yelling, no screaming, no finger wagging, or head shaking—” 

The redhead shrugs uncomfortably. “It wasn’t until after that I found out that the vase was a gift from her brothers. My deceased uncles on the Prewett side. One of the only gifts they ever gave to her, and it had a bunch of enchantments on it for growth and stasis of flowers—and enchanted items can’t be fixed with a quick Repario—”

Ginny’s eyes go a little bleary as she plays with a tassel at the end of one of the pillows. 

“She just sort of stared at the floor with this terrible face—” She looks at Hermione with a sad little smile. “...It's not anger that's the deterrent. It's the disappointment. It's the thought of making my Mum sad.” 

Hermione's brows furrow even further.

She never really thought about it that way—of course, she never wanted to disappoint her parents as a child. She understood what Ginny was saying, but at the same time…

She loved her parents, sure…but there was always a…distance between them and her that she never really could explain.  

Disappointing them seemed like a forgone conclusion sometimes. No matter how hard she tried—no matter how hard they tried. 

She couldn’t always give them what they wanted. They couldn’t tell their friends and colleagues about her schooling, or brag about her accomplishments. She was never going to attend their alma mater, or inherit the family dental practice—

And they didn’t always understand whole parts of her life. She had to explain to them why the E on her Defense O.W.L. was so upsetting to her. Or why her boggart of Professor McGonagall left her with nightmares of her magic being taken away—

She loved them. And she knew she was loved in return. 

But…  

But they were always worlds away no matter what. 

First, as a single child with constantly working parents. Then, Hermione was off to school all year without them. Not to mention, a War—

And now they are gone. 

Her and Ginny…they were just different.  

“She forgave me, of course.” Her friend mumbles quietly. “But that’s the key. The boys would never risk that. Not really. When there is someone who you know is warm and loving and caring—and it suddenly it’s just absent—” 

Ginny says slowly. “...It leaves a void.”

Hermione is wearing her battle gear today.

By that—  

She means a pair of black-washed jeans that she has always secretly loved what it did to her arse. A soft burgundy cable-knit jumper that she could live in forever. And a pair of lacy silver knickers that she is absolutely sure no one would be seeing at any point today, but gives her the confidence of Gilderoy Lockhart on Valentine’s Day. She even braided her hair and attempted to pin back every wry curl that escaped. 

She is in all her favorites today. 

Hermione honestly doesn’t know what she is going into. All she knows is that she is aiming for a sixteen year old Snape today, and that thought is daunting. 

Harry and Ron had been a mess at sixteen. Hormones and anger, and—

Hermione shivers despite her warm jumper.

What are the chances that Severus was an entirely reasonable teenage boy? 

(None. Absolutely fucking none.) 

She resigns to the fact that this is going to be utter shite, and lifts her wand. 

Her matrixes have all been adjusted, and her spell spills from her lips like muscle memory at this point—

She sees the swirl of matter, a little blackhole spiraling in her stark white room, as it spits him out atom by atom—

Into a young man. 

Wearing green, not black. 

The first thing Hermione notices is color. Because that cannot be right, Severus Snape does not do color. 

(Except he is—he does!—He must.) 

She’s looking at a Slytherin green Quidditch kit. Severus Snape is wearing…a Quidditch kit. 

The same kit she has seen on Harry for years, but in red. Admired it on Ron. Ogled a little on Viktor Krum. Maybe even Malfoy, not that she would ever admit that. 

(What is she looking at?) 

He’s in leathers and bracers—there are those tied breeches that the girls in her dormitory dreamed about untying with their teeth. 

There are gloves, and strong forearms, and skin, and muscles—

(This can’t be right.) 

And by the time she drags her baffled eyes up to his face, she almost faints. 

His long curtain of hair…is tied back.  

(What in God’s name is happening?) 

He has ears. A jawline. An Adam's apple that she has never seen before. 

It’s like staring at a Victorian woman’s ankles. She is scandalized. She is intrigued. She is staring with her mouth open.

Hermione is momentarily worried someone swapped the DNA sample, and she brought back some random man until she hears—

“No ‘Hello, Handsome’ this time?”

In a bitter sneer of voice that has known almost all of life. It is still young, still boyish in a way—but deeper than last time. 

He stalks towards her while drawing his wand from the bracer on his arm. Then, points it at her with loose fingers and a lazy threat. He is taller than her now. Shockingly so. Tall enough to intimidate. To tower over. To loom. 

(Has he always been this tall? Circe, he makes her feel so fucking small—) 

He leers at her—up and down—with a curled lip, as he circles her like prey. A low snort comes from just under his breath, but it's enough to ruffle the long strip of hair still in his face. 

“Hmmm…I thought we were quite familiar with each other by now. Perhaps I should say ‘Hello, Gorgeous’ every time we meet?” 

He says it with such vitriol and mockery, that it is clear it is not a true compliment. 

Despite that—something shivers up her spine.  

“Severus.” 

“Athena.” He purrs sardonically. “Or whoever you are.” 

“Interesting. I was aiming for a sixteen year old, but you…seem older?” 

He raises a brow at her. “Then, you’ve missed. I’ve just turned eighteen. It’s my Seventh Year.” 

Oh, fish fingers. She’s late. “The exact date, please?” 

He’s still circling her slowly; she can feel the slow drag of his wand against her arm as he passes by her. 

“January 20th, 1978.” He says flatly with a scoff, and she feels his wand dig into her ribs. “Now that you’ve gotten your information—maybe you could share with the rest of us mere mortals?” 

He whispers the threat slowly in her ear, leaning over her. But she refuses to cower for him. Eighteen year old Snape isn’t the man to be feared. At least, not yet hopefully.  

But Hermione’s eyes snag on his left arm. It’s hidden by quidditch gear, but she wonders if there is already the Mark branded on his skin. 

Who is she dealing with: a young Death Eater? Or just a petulant man-child? 

“Athena—goddess of wisdom.” His Ebony wand pushes harder into her skin. 

“—and War.” She interjects. 

He scoffs again, and Hermione takes the chance to elbow him in the ribs. Not at full strength, but enough to push. It knocks him back a few steps as he clutches his gut, and she tries to gain distance. As she slides back away from him, his gaze flares ferociously. 

“Who are you?” He snarls, and Hermione grins while drawing her own wand to point it at him in a clear warning. 

“You don’t exist—I’ve looked at every Hogwarts yearbook. Made Lucius bring me every Ministry employee record. I’ve combed through papers and catalogs—”

Fuck, Draco is right. He is looking for her. 

“No one even looks like you. No one has your hair or your eyes—” He growls, frustrated. Practically foaming at the mouth with an irritable scorn. “Is it a charm? Advanced transfiguration? Polyjuice? Did you steal some muggle’s appearance?”

Hermione snorts. “Please, Severus. This is my own image. I wouldn’t lie about tha—” 

Wrong thing to say, apparently. 

“Lies!” He hisses, and he fires a vicious hex at her that is burnt orange and spiteful. “Who? Who—are—you!?” 

She sidesteps the hex, but Severus is nearly blind with wrath. 

“Legilimens!”

Bugger. 

A rippling headache splits from her temple as the force of him crashes in. He’s clumsy, and untrained right now—and she’s so fucking grateful. 

Because she can manage this.

Hermione is not a talented Occlumens. Her version Occlumency is a natural born accident—she doesn’t have the patience nor the restraint to build carefully constructed walls or make clever puzzle boxes. Not when has one-hundred other things she needs to think about within that critical split second.

No, she has learned to throw everything in her cluttered mind forward. And bombards.

A quicker, messier approach.

As Severus starts lumbering through her mind searching for her name, or any personal details—

She thinks of everything. All of it. Every ridiculous fact she knows. Every extraneous thing she’s ever read. Every insipid thought or comment she’s ever made. 

From why crushing garlic releases more aromatics, to why hot water freezes faster than cool in a controlled environment—Make sure you brush your teeth before bed, Her— No. No. More. She needs more. 

To why Veela hormone extraction should be illegal, to how many average Bertie Bott’s beans come in one package—I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory—Ugh. Fuck. Lightning is five times hotter than the surface of the sun. Depending on the position of the stars, Baruffio's Brain Elixir can—

He wants to see her mind? Have at it. 

She’ll drown him. 

Severus, realizing only a few moments in that he’s never going to sift through everything she throws at him, tries to back out. But she continues flooding him—wave after wave—until he’s not backing out. He’s stumbling back with a headache of his own and a cross-eyed daze. 

“Gentlemen should ask first, you know.” She bites back a smug grin. 

He shakes his head, one hand raising to his temple to try and abate the pressure, and when looks up his snarl is back two-fold. Pointed canine and everything—

“You think you’re so clever—”

He starts hurling jinxes and hexes with a practiced ease. She blocks most of them, but when they start growing savage—and his casting is becoming more uncontrolled, more volatile—she starts fighting back in earnest. 

Hermione keeps an eye on the clock.

It isn’t until she thinks she sees a Sectumsempra thrown towards left ankle that she thinks that this is the early Death Eater for sure. 

She knows exactly who this is—

He is the boy who was seduced by knowledge. Power. And maybe even thought he found a place that would accept him. He has no money, no prospects without it. He craves the Dark Arts. Scours for approval of his housemates. Gluttonous for their boons yet hides behind his contemporary's blood-purity views if only to cast off suspicion.

He is ambitious. Wondrous. Desperate. Misguided. 

And a fool. 

And she knows he is at the height of path. The moment before the fall—

He is a true Death Eater here. And he believes in it all. 

But she is tired. So so so fucking tired. 

There is wariness that seeps into her that she hasn’t felt for years. Not like this. Her eyelids are heavy with its burden, and she can feel her shoulders tense as they try not buckle under the weight of it.

This isn’t her War anymore. It's not her fight. It’s not her job, to tell him he’s a fucking idiot for joining the cause. She can’t change any of that anyway. 

She will comfort him when she can, let him cry when he needs it—

But she can’t save him from this.

When a nasty eviscerating curse slips through his lips, she finally had enough. Hermione casts a Silencio that stuns him long enough for her to use Alarte Ascendare that blows him back, and tosses his entire body up into the air with a beautiful arch. Then, she casts a silent Locomotor that catches him in a jolt right before he lands, and leaves him in a still levitation several inches above the ground.

Finally, she casts three of her larger Bluebell flames and lets him hover above them. They glow aggressively underneath his floating form, and she can see the panic in his eyes as he tries to escape. 

They won’t burn him—not that he knows that—but she still wants him to feel the heat.

“There.” Hermione says primly. “Let’s have a bit of a chat.” 

She conjures a chair and sits while crossing her legs. That slow lethargic anger settles in her gut, and she knows it's leaking from every pore.

“Now, I know you’re a bit…miffed. And confused. But if we can just talk like reasonable adults—”

He still throws a glare at her despite being held hostage and visibly sweating above flames. 

“I am not your enemy, Severus Snape. I told you this.” She declares firmly. “We are in the Department of Mysteries. In fact, you can walk out that door right now and try to make your way out, but since we have—oh, less than three minutes left?—you won’t even make it past the lifts.” 

“I am an Unspeakable. Just not for your Ministry.” He blinks and she knows he’s hiding his confusion. “At least, not for the Ministry of 1978.” 

She takes a breath. Silently removes the Silencio. 

Here comes the pound to her penny—

“...but the Ministry of 2005.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares as if she is mocking him and waiting for her to laugh.

“You're…a time-traveler…?” He says finally. So unbelievably slow and dripping with disbelief.

“No. You’re the time-traveler. Keep up.” Her voice sounds hollow even as she sighs. “I told you this—I bring you here…” she motions around the room. “…to 2005, ten minutes at a time.” 

He laughs now—and it is cruel and dark. 

“You’re mad—”

“I’m gathering data.” 

He pins her with a look.

“My job—is to save you, Severus.” She tries to smile at him reassuringly, but she knows what she’s implying. She hopes he hears it too: something is going to go wrong for you. “There is a war coming. And your contribution to it makes you…redeemable for a rescue plan.” 

“This is nonsense—” 

“Yes. I’m sure it sounds that way. But I don’t really need you to believe me. Whether you do or not, one day—You’ll know who I am, and maybe that will be enough to convince you. But until then—” 

Hermione disperses her spells with a Finite, and Severus falls flat on his back with a winded Ooof. She flicks her wand and his left-hand splays out wide to his side. 

As she walks calmly over to him, his eyes glare up at her cautious yet threatening. Curious, even. She ignores it entirely. 

Instead, she steps on his wrist. 

Not enough to crush, but just to pin it in place. He struggles at first, but she flicks her wand to lock his arm in a bind and uses a silent undressing spell that unties his bracer until his left forearm is bare. 

Severus sucks in a breath and looks as if he could seethe flames at this point.

“Oh, my.” She says numbly while staring at the jet-black Dark Mark that she has seen in her nightmares for the last few years. 

“If I were you—I’d do some sorting on your priorities, Young Severus.” 

He strains under her foot as she clicks her tongue at him.

(God, she’s so tired. So done.)

“How it saddens me to see it—I knew it was coming, of course. But only last week I saw you, and you were unbranded.” 

Hermione cocks her head, feeling a little maudlin; a little cruel. Numb. So so so numb. Oh, so sick of it all.

“Did it hurt?” She can’t help but ask. 

He jerks violently like she had kicked a nest of hornets. He bares his teeth, and she knows he will spit out words of hate, so she cuts him off—

“No no—don’t answer that. I know it did. All that hate and loathing and darkness burns the skin, doesn’t it?” 

She dares to smile at him.

(It is cutting and ugly.) 

“I may not have the Dark Lord’s Mark, but I have my own brand.” 

She lifts the sleeve of her favorite burgundy sweater and wants to laugh that she thought it would bring her any comfort today. 

M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D is all there for him to see. 

Severus blanches and his face drains of what little color it had. 

“See, I paid for mine with my own blood…” 

He is staring at her arm with horror, and there is a monster pulling strings somewhere deep inside her that is pleased.

 “...I wonder what you paid—no, will pay—for yours?” She asks airily. 

(One day, he will hate her for this.) 

“...whatever the price...” 

Lily. His freedom. His entire life.

(But she is bitter, and tired of Death Eaters.)

“I truly hope… it was all worth it.” 

(Whoops.) 

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: I Imagine What kind of Face it Makes

“There is such a thing as napkins, Ronald.” 

The redhead stops wiping his hands on his shirt, and gives her a bashful grin. 

“Sorry, Mione.” 

Hermione huffs, while handing him a stack of tissues over their bounty of take-away Indian food.

Harry—the poor man—looks on at them with amusement as he pushes a stack of paperwork off to the side so he can commandeer a little more room to eat. He sops up his rather bland Butter chicken with naan while still reshuffling his paper stacks. He never could handle spice. 

Ron, on the other hand, is attempting to wipe some of his aggressively seasoned Dal Korma from between his fingers, as he curses colorfully under his breath at the yellow stains left behind.

Hermione pops open the lid of her own dish. Her eyes water a little as she takes in the heat of Palak Saag, the green curry is warm and spicy as her mouth waters in anticipation. Her lips will burn; her nose will run—and she will suffer tomorrow most likely for the level of spice, but it's so worth it. 

“So…how’s ‘work’?” Harry asks, with a fork full of chicken. 

Despite Harry knowing Ron doesn’t have the clearance to speak of her Unspeakable project, she’s not surprised he still asked. 

They are all huddled around Harry’s desk for lunch. Ron was kind enough to pop over to muggle London before coming here from the joke shop—a rarity, but a welcome one. She’s so thankful for his wider sense of taste since dating Padma.

Sandwiches and pub food of the wizarding world can only go so far in Hermione’s opinion. The first time she brought Ron and George a taco, it was like Christmas morning for the boys. Not to mention pizza. 

“Well…I have to admit I wasn’t at my best at the last meeting.” 

Hermione blatantly tries not to meet The Boy Who Lived’s eyes at this point, and is instead, stubbornly focused on tearing her garlic naan. 

“Oh? Go on then.” Ron says around a mouth of samosas. Despite knowing nothing of their topic, he’s used to their hush-hush secrecy at this point, and still amusingly joins in. 

“There may have been…a bit of violence. Blows were made. Words were definitely said.” 

The boys exchange a glance, and smile. 

“Well…we always knew that about you, Hermione.” Harry grins. 

“The back of my head has met many of your books throughout the years,” chuckles Ron. “Not to mention the Ferret’s nose.” 

“Or Marietta Edgecombe's face—”

“Don’t forget, Snape’s robes—” 

“Shut it, you two.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” They both say in unison, and Hermione groans. She covers her face with her hands and attempts to hide her weariness. 

“You know—I tried. I certainly didn't start it, but he was insistent. And it sort of just…got out of hand a bit,” she wails into her palms. 

“Did you punch the bloke?” Ron adds in, not even bothering to ask who. 

“Please tell me you broke his nose, like Malfoy’s?” Harry asks with a wistful tone. 

“No no no…it was just a duel. A few hexes and jinxes. But I did bind him, force his hand a little bit.” 

Green eyes cut to her curiously. Her eyes meet his with a firm stare, before glancing at his left forearm pointedly. 

“You saw the—?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry crosses his arms in thought, and leans back a bit in his desk chair. Ron mercifully keeps quiet, despite his loud chewing. 

“How young?”

Hermione clears her throat. “His last year.” 

“Ah.” Harry says flatly. “Make sense, I suppose.” 

“He was…furious, would be an understatement, really. He was wild, unrestrained…and arrogant. He leered at me.” 

Harry laughs, “Eighteen is an odd time. Angry, frustrated, and randy—”

“Harry James Potter! ” 

“What? I’m just being honest.” 

“Blokes are all the same, Mione.” Ron agrees while licking his fingers.

She chooses to ignore them both, “I tried to clear some of it up for him. But I’m not sure he believed me—”

Harry snorts, “No one would.” 

“I know,” she despairs. “It’s a complicated situation, and—I’ll be honest—I might have been a bit harsh…He won’t be happy next time. What if he won't speak to me anymore? What if I blew the entire mission?”

Ron snorts this time. And Hermione glares at him. 

She’s not proud of what she did. Doesn’t mean she’s exactly sorry either. Just that she knows she probably could have handled that better.

Harry, apparently deep in thought, just fiddles around with his curry silently for a moment. But there is a gleam in his eye though, that Hermione has come to recognize with immediate suspicion.

“So—let me get this straight—you argued, dueled, and then what? Knocked him on his arse?” 

Hermione debates the events before shrugging, and nods slowly.

“Flat on his back? Absolutely decimated his ego?”

She makes a noise of disagreement, but Ron injects, “You know she did, mate.” 

Harry hums for a second, before snickering a little. And she knows whatever is about to come out his mouth, she won’t like one bit. 

“You’ll be fine, Hermione.” He says trying to hide a grin and failing spectacularly. “Now, he and I may be different. But I bet you twenty pounds that the git fancies you.”

Hermione looks away with a huff.

“Because the first time Ginny knocked me on my arse during Quidditch—”

Something in the pit of her stomach burns, and she’s suddenly not sure it’s just the curry.

Harry gives up entirely, and a slow steady smile grows on his face. 

“—I wanted to marry her.” 

He dares laugh. 

Her timeline is a little less exact than she would like. 

Her last ‘pull’ was a tad late, and she’s not sure if it’s simply an outlier—or if the Time-sand is more deliberate in its choice of dates. 

She knows Time is a fickle thing—

And she’s not in control. Not really. Time will let them meet when it finds it to be the most fortuitous—

But she still tries to wrangle it in a bit, and attempts for exactly three years. She spreads the timeline out in her mind and aims exactly for January 20th, 1981.

But if Time brings him to her at when it thinks it best—

She wonders…

…why it thought this particular moment is seen as fortuitous in Time’s Eye? 

Severus Snape appears in her stark white room—

Nearly half dressed. 

He isn't fully disrobed, just entirely disheveled—with his shirt half open and his trousers hanging loosely along his waist.

(She’s determined to ignore the pale stretch of his chest that’s visible. Not to mention the black trail of hair at his naval that travels down—nope.)

He has a tie of some sort hanging haphazardly around his neck, and a waistcoat halfway down his arms. His hands are fidgeting with his collar while he looks around completely dazed, as if he doesn’t realize where he is for a second. 

“Am I…interrupting something…?” Hermione asks quietly, while desperately trying to curb the innuendo in her tone.

(He startles, like any proper person would—)

Wide eyes whip to her instantly. His shoulders straighten and he drops his hands, but he’s still twisting his fingers nervously. His expression is mostly blank, but she’s almost sure that there is a hint of red on his cheeks. 

Now that she has a proper look at him, she realizes he’s grown. 

A man now—

Still skinny, and little boyish still in a way she can’t quite put her finger on, but—

A man.  

Who is dressed now in something that looks somewhat similar to his teaching robes. But also, not.

“No! ” He chokes out immediately at her question. 

“I’m preparing for classes…” His face scrunches up like he has tasted something foul. “I am to teach.” 

Oh. Hermione notices it then. Severus Snape is nervous. 

She staggers a little. She expected anger and resentment from her last visit. She even had her wand ready at the draw, and a Protego on her lips.

Instead, he seems far too preoccupied at the moment, and in hindsight—it has been years since their fight happened for him. 

(She certainly isn’t about to remind him of it.)

Hermione didn’t see it before, but as she looks at his bowed head and shifting eyes...She can see there is something demure and exhausted about him. His gaunt features are shadowed even more than usual as she takes in his dark-circled eyes and sallow skin. He’s wired—anxious, maybe—but also defeated. 

Thinking about where she was aiming to be in the Timeline—

He’s grieving, she realizes.

He had flown towards the sun. Then, fallen with his wax wings now already melted. 

Lily is gone. And this Severus has now lost his way. Dumbledore has placed him on a wire. 

Now…he must balance or fall.

And as Hermione stares at his unkempt visage, she sees what he must not want them to see—

A gloomy child playing dress up in an adult’s clothing. 

Severus must know how young and baby faced he still is; and to be honest, not that much older than a Seventh Year. He wants authority. He wants respect. 

“...your first?” 

He nods as his fingers tighten into a fist at his side. She can hear his knuckles cracking as they curl. 

“Your first class…ever? ” She repeats a little unsure. 

He raises a brow, and Hermione suddenly feels more stable at the familiar sight.

“Obviously.” He drawls mockingly. 

Hermione makes a noise in the back of her throat, that is somewhere between acknowledgment and disbelief. 

“I see.”

She doesn’t see.

He looks all wrong. 

He’s in a white shirt, and a sleek waistcoat that looks far too shiny and nice for a Potions Classroom. An embroidered brocade cravat. A nice pair of black slacks and—dress shoes. No no no. No flowy robes. No buttons. No worn boots. Absolutely not. 

Severus looks down at himself, and shrugs. “It’s Lucius’ least pompous formal wear, I’m afraid. I thought it best to steer clear from capelets and walking sticks.”

A snort slips out of her without her control.

She watches as Severus pulls his wand out to conjure a full-length mirror as he raises a brow at his own reflection. Buttoning up the rest of his white shirt, he frowns deeply.

Hermione comes up behind him, and stares at their reflection together. 

She’s wearing her eggplant jumper and a flowy cream-colored skirt that she’s always adored. Her hair is down today and voluminous in all its chaotic glory.

Severus is a good foot taller than her. Far more severe looking than her with his dark glare.

But compared to the shaken, unconfident man next to her—she suddenly feels old. 

Like she is fully grown. While he hasn’t quite grown into his own skin yet.

“...we are looking for classroom wear, correct? Not an evening in Lucius’ Grand Ballroom?” She asks, and his lips twitch in the corner. An almost-smile.

“He calls it the Imperial Ballroom. But no, I suppose that’s not quite what I’m looking for.” 

“I see. Then, why all the glitz and glamour?” 

His gaze cuts to hers in the mirror.

“Tomorrow, I face a school full of children. I’d like to think I'm somewhat more adult than them. But I’m sure…you know that already…?”

He stares at her expectantly, and she catches on—

“Oh,” She grins. “Is this a test?”

His eyes hood, and he stares her down through the mirror. But says nothing. 

“August 30th, 1981, then.” Hermione says primly, while taking a mental note for her Timeline. She's a bit late again, but not too far off. “It’s public record in 2005. Of course, I’d know when you start your teaching career. Not mention, when you start spying one, too.” 

He scowls, and Hermione watches the side of his neck strain. 

“May I suggest a frock coat?” She offers as she clears her throat while trying to hide a smile. “Potion Master’s deserve protection and uniformity. Something…buttoned up, perhaps?”  

“Buttons seem…impractical.” 

“Oh, I don’t know…it always felt mysterious to me. Secretive and…” Oh, no. She has to bite her lip to stop a grin. “Curious.” 

He raises a brow at her. But Hermione shrugs.

“But to you…I’m sure it would be more of an armour of sorts.” 

His lip curls into a little scowl. “I’m not scared of children.” 

She can’t help it—Hermione laughs. “Ha!—you should be!” She feels her eyes gleam. “You never know when one might set you on fire. Or steal from your stores. Or stun you—” 

“What kind of child—” 

“The clever kind.” 

She tries to shrug nonchalantly and look away before she damns herself, but it comes out rather smug. 

“You’re going to need it—your armour. You’ll perfect it one day. That veneer that you keep—it will protect you and many others in the days to come.”

She watches him straighten himself out a bit—he tucks in his shirt and ties his cravat before hoisting his silk jacket over the ensemble.  

Helping him flip his collar down, her fingers accidentally brush the edges of his long hair. It is soft and feathery. And despite the lank threads towards his scalp, she can smell something clean and herby. Like rosemary. It's intoxicating.

When she glances at the mirror, he is watching her. Or at least, watching the hand that lingers by his neck.

Hermione ignores the phantom feel of it on the back of her hand, and she adds—

“You play your part well. Your words will cut sharper than any sword. And your sneer and glare will be as impenetrable as any shield. A proper knight with a knave’s arsenal.”

“…You make it sound so sickeningly noble.” Severus spits out, “The part I play.”

“Well, you know—‘All the world’s a stage’— and all that.” She quotes absentmindedly.

His eyes flash to hers curiously. “Shakespeare. How very…muggle.” 

“Yes…well. Muggleborn, as you know.” 

He continues to watch her in the mirror—dark eyes steady and silent.

She catches him glancing at her wrist that hides her scar. He rushes to look away—

Severus flicks his wand at the waist coat, dulling it a sensible matte black to be paired with a matching plain cravat. The silk jacket he transfigures to a sturdier material that will last potion spills and high heat—a thick wool. One that she has imagined running her fingers over for years. 

He then goes on to flick through styles with his wand—changing seams and cuts; trying them out and discarding every style—while his frustration grows by the second.

An angry huff. A low growl. Or a deep frown and a vehement shake of the head. 

She glances at the clock—

Biting her lip, she tries to stifle the need to rush him. They certainly haven’t got all day. 

Only 2:28 minutes left.

“You have years of it ahead of you. And it will be hard, no doubt.” She said lightly to distract him.

His eyes glance back at her in a hard, but also curious stare in the mirror.  

Hermione takes the pause as her chance. She flicks her wand to lengthen the coat to his knees like her childhood Potion Master. She is not a Transfiguration Mistress, but she’s not bad either.

She flicks it again to add buttons to the ankle of his trousers and the wrists of his coat. Then, she extends the length of the sleeves to cover to his fingers almost entirely.

He’s watching her work, his eyes intent. But silent still. Always watching.

But his stare grows harder by the second. Until she sees something in his gaze crumble. Like glass shattering. His expression, his face, even his body have not changed—but his eyes have. 

There is sorrow hidden away in his pupils. Despair in the way his eyes tighten at the edge. And a wretchedness written across his lids.  

“You were right…” He confesses quietly. “I paid my price.”

She doesn’t look up, but says softly as she can manage, 

“…I know you did.” 

She cuts the frock close to his shoulders, and admires the way it makes him look bolder. Stronger. The expanse of his shoulders becomes imposing. The rigidity of his back, empowering.

Severus is the one that transfigures the lapel to the high collar she knows all too well. And with a scoff down at his feet, he changes the dress shoes from fine shiny leather to worn, comfortable boots. One day they will be dragonhide—she wonders if a nasty spill teaches him that lesson.

“How much do you know.” 

A demand or a command, maybe. Not a question. 

She doesn’t meet his eyes; she can’t. So instead, Hermione watches the way his long fingers flex under his new sleeves as if it’s safer to do so now that they were hidden. 

“All of it.” 

He lets out a slow, steady breath.

“I’m sorry.” Hermione whispers. “I know you would rather I not. I know it’s private—but I pride myself on researching—and I have done so, thoroughly.”

He huffs out a breath, and she fears what his eyes show now. 

“Lily—” His voice breaks, and she thinks part of her heart breaks with it.  

It’s always Lily, isn’t it? 

Remus, Sirius—Harry. Severus. Lily’s eyes. Bright, kind Lily. She follows around the men in her life like a ghost. And she wishes she could save them all the pain they carry from her.

Hermione shifts on her feet, stubbornly blinking back the sting in her eyes. 

“There was nothing you could do. Believe me—I’ve looked. I’ve done all the arithmancy, every variation and every outcome she—” 

Severus hisses at her low, under his breath. “Don’t. If the words ‘she had to die’ comes out of your mouth—” 

God, she’s an idiot. She back pedals—

“Time is…unforgiving sometimes.” Hermione shifts again, “I forget how callous I’ve become with it. I apologize if I offended you.” 

“Yet…you still strive to alter it. You think I need to be ‘saved’.” He tilts his head at her. “Why?” 

Her gaze drifts to his eyes in the mirror finally. His stare is hard and cold— 

She thinks of the man before her; and who that man becomes. She thought of a body that was never found in a shack. A portrait without a Headmaster.

“I just have this feeling…that I already have.” 

He doesn’t say anything, just watches her with dark obsidian eyes. She clears her throat again. 

“I’m sorry I can’t change any of it.” She states slowly, the words coarse and cumbersome in her mouth. “But I can give you advice—”

Hermione slides a hand along his shoulder and pointedly brings his attention back to the mirror.

“Choose your armour wisely, Severus. And protect yourself however you must…no one else will do it for you. Neither of your Masters must know your true worth.” 

He blinks slowly, almost lethargically, like he’s soaking up her words each syllable at a time. His jaw ticks, and something in his gaze grows resolved.

Severus taps his Ebony wand against his shoulders—once, twice—and she watches tendrils of black smoke float down his back and shroud him like a veil. The wisps gather around him until they drip to the floor and solidify into a gauzy outer robe. 

Hermione is almost jealous. It is a beautiful piece of magic.

Flicking his wand one last time, he adds the center row of buttons that loop themselves—one by one—shut like skin being sutured together. 

And in the mirror, standing next to her—

Is a Young Professor. 

Not quite hers yet—he’s not bitter or jaded enough—but still a little unsure, a little lost, and still new. 

Hermione watches his body being stretched sideways into the vortex, just as the last button of his frock coat snugs itself against his throat. 

His eyes turn to granite. Conviction settles in his gaze. 

And she knows—

The best Potion Master in Hogwarts’ history has just been made. 

“Err. Hermione?” Harry knocks on her door. She can barely hear it over the blaring music.  

Hermione makes an absent-minded noise at the back of her throat that is vague even to her—but apparently signals to Harry that he’s welcome. She spares him a glance from her most recent arithmancy matrices, a bit stumped on one particularly troublesome projection. Under Pressure is blissfully keeping her frazzled brain from caving in on itself, while she taps her biro to the beat against her notes.  

"Christ, you're Muffliato must be something. It's a miracle you can't hear Queen coming through in the courtrooms down the hall." 

She snorts. "Well, maybe I should let it. Would certainly liven things up over there." 

Harry chuckles, while shaking his head at her fondly. He makes his way into her office while shutting the door behind him. Flicking her wand at her iPod-rewired-to-a-Gramophone-mess, Hermione lowers the volume to a more suitable level before giving him her full attention. 

“You remember that…thing you asked me for several weeks ago?” 

Hermione blanks. Life has been hectic of late, and she honestly has no clue. 

Shaking his head again, Harry laughs while giving her lopsided smile. He then reaches into the inner pocket of his Auror robes. 

“Sorry it took so long. Basil in the archives was not willing to give this up without every single form in existence being signed.”

He pulls out what looks like a bit of cloth.

“Lot WK-626. The only physical evidence found at the site of Severus Snape’s assumed death. Besides—you know—all the blood.”

Harry extends the handkerchief out as he slides the tip of it down to show what's within. 

“A nasty piece of work—just like its owner, I suppose. The thing zapped me as soon as I picked it up.” He grumbles.

“Basil had no problem with it—but me? Of course, it would hate me. I had to borrow Basil’s hankie just to get the bloody thing out of the room.”

Hermione blinks at the black wand that is stretched between them. 

"I'd be careful though. Basil said something about reports of it being hostile to other people..." 

The same dark, Ebony wand she saw just hours ago in Severus’ fingers.

"Though I guess it warmed up to him eventually..." 

She didn’t think, really. Just immediately outstretches her hand on instinct and tries to grab the square ornate handle, even as she is hearing Harry complain about its volatility. Very rarely has she ever touched another person's wand. It’s just not necessary when she has her own.

As soon as her finger touch the detailed carvings—

“Whoa, wait—” She did not. “Hermione—!”

A burst of black smoke erupts for the tip. It expands, then condenses—until it twines like black tendrils that travel up her fingers, down her arm, and to her throat within a split second. They wind along her body even as she drops the wand and it clatters on her desk. 

Twirling, slithering. Crawling along her like a shadowy creature. 

It stops abruptly.

Poised right over her throat in a threat.

She thrusts her chin up on instinct, as if to make room for it. Hermione starts to panic—

She’s astonished but…?

But it doesn’t hurt.

In fact…

It is almost warm. 

Like his fingers have just run along her bare skin. 

She can feel the heat of it as they wrap around her neck. How his magic lingers on her flesh. And the base of her spine jolts pleasantly. Her eyelids flutter. Her face flushes as she bites her lip, suddenly not wanting to look Harry in the eyes.

(God knows what's he'll see on her face.) 

Then, just as quickly it disperses.

And the darkness, the shadows, and smoke clear away.

Hermione takes in a huge gaping breath, despite her breathing not being constricted once in any way, shape, or form. By the time she drags her gaze back up, Harry is staring at her wide-eyed.

“What the bloody fuck was that?” 

“I—” Sweet Circe. She’s a little dazed. “—I have no idea.” 

Did he curse his own wand? A protection of some sort? Or was it just his wand acting on its own? Did it recognize her?

Harry scrambles to her.

“Are you okay? Merlin—that git…” 

He’s running diagnostics on her with his own wand now, looking for dark curses she presumes. But she’s barely paying him any attention.

Curiosity was always her biggest fault, she knows—

Because she instantly reaches for the wand again. 

And this time—

She wraps her fingers around the handle fully and picks it up.

Fourteen inches long. Much longer than her own. Denser, too. The weight of it feels foreign in her palm, but…

The wand glows. Accumulating into a bright spiral of light. Then, it sparks—gleaming champagne-colored bursts of illumination—that gently float down from the tip and flutter down to the floor.

It almost looks like a muggle sparkler on Guy Fawkes Night. Or just like her Time-sand drifting in her room next door. It’s stunning, actually. Soft, golden starlight that’s utterly beautiful. 

“Well, fuck.” Harry laughs gruffly, causing Hermione to blink out her stupor. 

He’s running a hand through his messy hair. His expression—part awe, part horror behind his crooked glasses. But it is the smug grin that ends up coming through the most. 

“Huh. He definitely fancies you.”

—give love, give love, give love?

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word...

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Is it Admiration, or is it Love?

Harry forces her to St. Mungo’s, despite her numerous objections to it. 

“I’m fine!” 

“Hermione,” He rubs his eyes behind his glasses in frustration. “I just saw a wand attack you for Christ’s sake. Just go to the fucking hospital!” 

She puts up a good fight, but ultimately gives in once she realizes that she may be adding to her best friend’s dark-circled eyes and tense jaw. And she doesn’t really want to test the theory of Harry just stunning her and dragging her there himself. 

Hermione huffs, and puffs—and not so secretly makes it very clear she’s not happy. But follows him through the black tiled halls to the lifts, across the Main Atrium, and to the Floo network. 

They step through to St. Mungo’s together.

She starts making her way to the reception, but Harry quickly tugs her by the elbow and has her trail him after him helplessly. They pass straight by the awaiting Healer that's ready to welcome them. Harry doesn't even pause. Instead with very little concern of all the people staring at him, the Auror struts through the halls making his way to a back corridor. 

“Oi, Malfoy!” Harry shouts before he even gets in the door to the small office.  

Peeking around Harry’s shoulder, Hermione looks into what she honestly thought was a closet of some sort. 

The blond looks up from his stack of paperwork and does a double take.

“Potter?” Stern silver eyes narrow at them both. “Granger?” 

Draco sits huddled in his squished room that is ninety-percent storage shelves, and ten-percent actual office. 

There isn't much in his office besides the usual paperwork and medical notes. But off hanging on the edge of a shelf—is a full-length mirror with several bits pasted on the corners with a sticking charm.

A snippet from a Falmouth Falcon poster. A Slytherin crest. A corner of a letter that begins with My Darling Dragon—. A children's drawing of a family with blonde hair. An adorable magical photo of Adelaide moving to kiss Scorpius' cheek.  

Her friend's hidden heart assembled in fragments and put on display. 

Draco scoffs, “What did you two do now?”

“Bold of you to assume—” Hermione sniffs.

“—she was strangled by a wand.” Harry cuts her off. 

Hermione purses her lips, but stays silent. Draco raises a platinum brow at them with an utterly bland look. 

“The uh, Great Git’s wand decided to have a go at her neck. There were dark creepy things, and smoke—I already checked her for dark curses, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have you look her over, too.”

“I’m fine.” Hermione repeats while crossing her arms. “It didn't hurt me. It didn’t even choke me—” 

Harry snorts, “Oh, I could tell.” 

Draco’s brows furrow. “What did it do to you, then?” 

“—nothing!”

“—fondle her.” 

“Harry James Potter! ” 

Draco starts laughing, and Hermione turns away flustered. But she ends up facing towards the mirror—sees her own embarrassed face—and promptly turns the other way again. 

“Have a look, will you?” Harry grins at Draco. “And you—play nice for a little bit. Just give me some peace of mind, just this once.” 

Hermione softens her glare, but still shoves him out of the office. “Go!” 

Harry winks at her as he leaves. Draco blessedly curbs his smug smirk in an attempt at staying somewhat professional. 

“Alright then, Granger. Let’s have a look, shall we?” 

Ever the gentleman, Draco stands while motioning for her to take a seat in his vacated desk chair. He draws his Hawthorn wand and begins casting several diagnostics of his own. Some—she doesn’t even recognize. 

“I thought you were supposed to be in France with your family this week?” 

The blond scoffs under his breath with a wry twist of his lips.

“Can’t. The wife is pushing new legislation this week for her Equality Act, and I didn’t think she needed a Death Eater standing behind her in every photo. I don’t want the press coming to the wrong conclusion.”

Hermione hums in response, but thinks to herself that wouldn’t that be the perfect show of where his true beliefs lie? Shouldn’t that be exactly where he ought to be? 

“Don’t worry, Granger…” He smiles softly as he taps her forehead with a pointed finger. “I’ll see them this weekend. We have an International Floo at the Manor that links all the Malfoy estates, it’s no real trouble.” 

Before she could even comment about how obscene it is to even have such a privilege, Hermione is stopped by him sheathing his wand. Draco’s hands come up to her chin, pushing her face—this way and that—as he observes her neck. 

“Looks good.” He pulls away with a nod. “If anything seems odd, come back. But you seem fine to me.”  

“I told Harry.” 

Draco snorts. He walks past her to the office door, as he shrugs on his lime-green Healer robes and straightens them out neatly with a last check in the mirror. 

“Apologies, but I have a meeting I need to get to. I’ll give your regards to Adelaide?” 

“Yes, please.” She hops to her feet. “That was it, though? That simple?”

Draco grabs his notes from his desk, as he grins. 

“No signs of curses. No remnants of dark magic that I can see. Not even a mark or blemish left behind. Sorry, Granger. No love bites this time.”

Hermione bristles as his laugh echoes down the hall following him as he disappears. She lets out slow controlled breath, and just as she’s about to walk out the door—

She catches her reflection in the mirror again. 

Her normal dark olive skin. Her splatter of faded freckles. Light-brown eyes. Riotous curls. 

Just her normal self, that is, until it all shifts. 

The woman in the mirror starts to move without her own body doing so—

Both of her reflection’s hands come up. They slide along the base of her throat—finger splaying out as they caress the skin. Both hands wrapping around her own neck as her chin tips up. 

The corner of her hooded eyes slant as her lips curl. She smiles slowly—a seductive grin that's far too wide, far too many teeth. Far too much come-hither, and far too telling. 

“Didn’t leave a mark?” 

Her reflection sings. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” 

God, she really loathes magical mirrors. 

She had a dream the other night. 

Hermione usually doesn’t remember her dreams—

But as she stands in an empty white space, much like her own Time-room, and sees a dark human-like frame standing in front of her—

She knows she will not forget this one anytime soon. 

There is a figure dressed in a long black cloak, standing only a few yards away from her, with its back turned away. She can’t see a face, and the figure is hooded—but she recognizes the slope of the shoulders and the slump of his neck as if there is a weight there that no one else can see. 

So, she smiles. Just knowing Severus is here is enough to make her do so. 

Going to him, Hermione reaches out—

But of course, when her fingers touch his cloak, it is not Severus. 

The figure turns…

…and before her is Death. 

She’s not really sure how she knows at first. There is no face under the cloak, only smoke and darkness, but like looking into a mirror at night—her eyes adjust, the blurry image starts to take shape. 

It's a skull at first. 

White bone, as delicate and prestigious as a porcelain China set. 

It stares back at her—stark white against the black fabric of the hood—and she suddenly notices how the robe has a pattern that she instantly recognizes as Harry’s cloak. In its long boney hand, grasps the wand made of Elder wood. On its barren finger, sits a ring with a black stone. 

Then, the figure blurs and changes again—

And it's a silver mask. A Death Eater’s.

With intricate filigree on the brow, and its metallic mouth threaded as if stitched shut. It’s one she doesn’t particularly recognize, but that doesn’t stop the jolt of her stomach lurching. 

It tilts its head. 

Although she doesn’t see eyes, she knows she is being watched by the weight of its gaze. At first there is no sound. Only her increasingly panicked breathing; puffs of hot air that she struggles to pace. One in. One—barely managing to escape—out.

But as the moment stretches, and her breathing steadily accelerates beyond her control—behind it all she can hear a horrible clicking noise somewhere in the far-off distance that keeps growing louder...and louder. Like a lightbulb flickering. Like nails clicking on a hard surface. Like footsteps coming up from behind. 

And Hermione is on edge. A chill runs up her spine, and she can feel her skin pebble. The temperature has dropped, and cold slowly seeps into her flesh.

Her instincts say to run. 

But she won’t. 

Instead, she says—

“You can’t have him. You can’t—”

Death tilts his head a little more.

His face changes again, this time back to a skull—but it is now yellowed and aged, and its unblemished quality is now marred by a deep gash that is bisecting one empty eye socket. A tooth is chipped out on one side. 

The hinges of the jaw open. But it can not speak, and she is thankful she won’t hear whatever terrible voice it has. At least…she was thankful. Until, her head throbs painfully. 

No, instead she feels—

He isn’t yours.  

Her body freezes. Her nervous system lights up like a Christmas tree. And everything in her—every muscle, every cell—screams at her to turn away. 

Get away. 

“No,” Hermione agrees shakily. “But he’s not yours either. Not yet.” 

She’s not really sure how—but the hinges of its mouth shift, despite not having lips—and Death is smiling at her. 

An indulgent, condescending smile.

She is scared—Fuck, no. No, no—

That's an understatement. She is terrified.

But adrenaline courses through her, and maybe that is why Hermione is foolish enough to say—

“Let him live.” 

She swallows hard. Tries to blink back the fear and control her trembling limbs. She forces it out again—

“Let him live.” 

The hinges open, and she can almost see the glee in his empty sockets...

Maybe he won’t want to. 

That devastates her. She knows that could very well be true... 

But at the same time—

“Maybe he will.” 

And that’s enough for her. 

Her Timeline is slowly filling with data points, but now is the time to test out just how much control she has over these jumps. 

Hermione knows that after age twenty-one, Severus enters what she calls ‘The Waiting Period’. The span of time from 1981 to 1991 where Severus Snape simply puts his life on hold and waits. 

Her data file has very little during these years. 

Besides frequent meetings with Lucius and Narcissa, Severus has almost no contact with other known Death Eaters at the time. At least, publicly. 

There aren’t many around at this point, but the ones that are—largely Nott Sr., Avery, Yaxley, Macnair, Selwyn, and the Carrows—have apparently decided the young Death Eater at Hogwarts was not necessary to their strategic plans. Or trustworthy.

No, they are focused on corrupting the Ministry. 

Severus makes himself known occasionally, but mostly—

Probably to his immense ire—

He teaches. 

An entire generation of Witches and Wizards. 

Therefore, Hermione knows that if she’s going to make a big jump—if she’s really going to test her accuracy—now is the perfect time to try. 

Three days after her last ‘pull’ with a twenty-one-year-old Severus, she attempts to go from August 30th, 1981 to August 30th, 1991. 

Just one day before eleven-year-old Hermione meets Professor Severus Snape, the Potions Master. Just one day before he would surely recognize Athena as Hermione Granger—

If she is lucky enough to time this right, she wouldn’t have to face the incredibly angry Snape that is surely coming for her. At least, not until the next jump. 

(Merlin. She is not looking forward to that at all.)

Hermione focuses hard on her Timeline as she stretches it out in her mind showing her little dots and creating a larger gap to where the next one will go. She has to be specific. As accurate as possible—

“1991—come on, 1991.”  

What was she doing on August 30th, 1991?

Barely sleeping and reading Hogwarts: A History under the covers all night with a torch, probably. She distinctly remembers packing—and repacking—her trunk about three separate times too. Mum was trying not to cry through dinner. Dad kept grumpily asking her why Wizards didn’t have the decency to have proper phones. 

Closing her eyes, Hermione floods herself with those memories—

She chants her spell, and with a wave of her Vinewood wand—

And a healthy dose of apprehension…

Hermione opens her eyes to Professor Snape.

The tall, draped in black shoulders—

Inky hair, and obsidian eyes—

“Speechless, I see.” A shiver runs down her spine. 

Oh, that voice—

“Perhaps I should be the one to greet this time—” He rumbles in a deep, low hum. “Would a ‘Hello, Gorgeous’ suffice?”  

Oh, god—

He’s him. 

The Professor Snape. 

She didn’t understand before, but now she does. The thing he was missing—why he didn’t feel quite right until now—

It's his intensity. 

He’s honed it. Sharpened it like a blade. Severus Snape was always an intense child with his piercing eyes and a barbed tongue, but now—

He is a presence. Overbearing and heavy. Like thick ink that spills all over words on a parchment, and blots them out. 

His gaze doesn’t pierce anymore, it chains you down and holds you hostage. His voice lulls—entrances, really—then, his words cut almost surgically.

He will stalk, and loom, and prowl the halls with long strides and swirling robes. A raised brow and snap of his fingers will command with little effort—

He is controlled. Precise. Severe. 

And she is surprised by how much she’s missed him. 

Taking a deep shaky breath, Hermione blinks back whatever mess her emotions are going through. She thought she was prepared for this—she thought she was ready for him. 

Severus is standing in front of her, simply waiting for her to speak. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looks stoic and cold. But thankfully, not angry— 

(Wait. Surely, her timing isn’t that perfect? Did she seriously—)

“What is your date?” She asks, despite the bottled tightness still in her throat. 

“May 17th, 1989.”

She sucks in a ragged breath. He’s twenty-nine. He doesn’t know who she is yet—there is no Golden Trio in his life yet. She’s early. Too early. 

“It’s been sometime since I’ve seen you.” He blinks at her slowly, still yet to move. “You look…disappointed.” 

“I—” Hermione falters. “You were twenty-one last week. I was trying to see if I could make a bigger jump than the usual three year interval—I was aiming for a ten year jump. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.” 

"I see..." He snorts, “Well sorry to discourage, but I’m afraid you're stuck with me then.” 

Hermione shrugs absentmindedly, stepping forward to walk around him in a circle. She’s observing him like a specimen, curious to see if her memory is living up to its glory. It is most likely rude, but she wants to see. Needs to.

He’s still skinny. Definitely still pale. But he isn’t sickly. He doesn’t look as stressed either. Just bored, maybe. 

“Time…just takes me where it thinks best, really.” 

He raises a brow, “You have no control over it.”

A statement. Not a question. 

“No. It seems not.” She pursues her lips, and his eyes flicker down to the movement. “Which is a tad concerning considering your…turbulent years are coming up quite quickly.”  

Stopping in front of him, she’s just in time to see his lip curl and his scowl grow a little more pronounced. 

“Wonderful.” He says flatly. “Let me guess—the Potter boy?” 

Hermione gives him a little smile, but says nothing.

Narrowing his eyes at her, Severus clicks his tongue and cocks his head. “Choosing to keep quiet, then? How…predictable to keep me in the dark, Athena.” 

“I can’t say much—not yet. But I’ll answer what I can.”

Dark eyes contemplate on her for a moment. 

“How…does it work?” 

She blinks, her brows furrowing. 

“The Time travel, witch!” He snaps. 

“Oh! ” Hermione can help but grin. Now, who’s the insufferable-know-it-all? “Oh, you're going to love this. Come on—come on!” 

She grabs his wrist, but lets her grip slide to the end of his frock coat where the fabric hangs over his fingers. Tugging the excess fabric, she pulls him to follow her. 

He scowls, definitely put out with her for treating him like a small child—but he doesn’t pull away or tell her off. So, she leads on. 

With a quick glimpse at the digital clock’s time, Hermione drags the man through her office and across the room to her Time-Sand Chamber. When she glances back over her shoulder, she notices his eyes sweeping over the space trying to pick up every detail they can. 

She is once again grateful that she doesn’t decorate her office more. There is no name plaque sitting on her desk. No awards; nothing with her name proudly engraved upon it. There are no pictures—no damning evidence—of a boy that looks suspiciously like a James Potter with Lily Evans’ eyes. 

Just her. Books. Papers. A half-dead plant. And a lion pencil holder. 

(And Somebody To Love she embarrassingly left playing in the background, but let’s not mention that—)

Then again, the lion could give her House away, but if he hasn’t guessed she’s a Gryffindor by now—Merlin, help him.

“Okay—okay okay—” She must be smiling like a lunatic. “I never get to talk about this—and to someone that can keep up! This is exciting.” 

Hermione taps the round black painted door with her wand, the door creaks—

“Be careful—please don’t touch, but come take a look.” She leads him in by her grip. 

The dark room is just as she left it only minutes before. Gold luminescent sand floats among the darkness like stars, swirling slowly in a vortex. 

Her own little Universe. 

Hermione feels Severus come up beside her, his steps are slow and cautious. But when she glances up at his face—

She’s shocked by how open it is. 

He has a child-like expression of awe—mouth slightly open, his eyes wide and hungry to take it all in. The light glitters as a reflection in his eyes, and she thinks it is the same look she’s seen on children looking at Christmas lights for the first time. Or fireworks in the sky. Or watching shooting stars streak across the night. 

It’s so endearing. So lovely. 

She wants to hold it. Snatch it, and lock it away in a locket. Then, pull it out one day to admire it—maybe even cast a Patronus with it. 

“What do you think?” 

There is a warmth in her soft tone that she can not hide.

“It’s…” He’s blinking up at the sand, like he can’t quite understand all that he’s seeing. “It’s extraordinary. It’s...brilliant.”

Hermione beams. 

“I know.” She almost whispers, and draws her gaze back to the sand. “The matrix with your DNA in the Time-room is just the guide. It’s an anchor to bring you to me. This—This is the power source. The magic.” 

“It took me years to understand how to use the Time-sand without a Time-Turner. It's finicky. And demanding in a way—but once I got it work…” She exhales a shaky breath, “It takes a lot of runes to stabilize the Sand, and then arithmancy to guide it to within your Timeline accordingly. Not to mention I had to create a spell to activate it—”

Hermione takes a great gulp of air. 

“It’s almost sentient in a way. You were right—I really have no control over it. And there is only a finite amount, so I have to be careful—” 

“I don’t understand.” 

She glances up at him. His eyes are hard now, but still reflecting the stars even with his grim expression. 

“What do you mean—?”

“Why are you using it all on me?” 

Silence echoes after his words. The only noise is her shutting her open mouth, unfortunately. Her brows furrow again.

“Why can’t it be you?” 

Severus’ eyes harden into a glare. Bowing his head, he lets the long curtains of black hair cover his face. 

“You don’t understand.” He hisses out slowly. “You can’t understand.” 

“I might—”

“You know nothing.”

She recoils without meaning to. 

“I have murdered. I have tortured. I have stood by, and watched such horrific atrocities happen that you couldn’t even fathom—”

“—But I can.” 

He flinches, his eyes dropping down to her scarred arm that is covered by a black long-sleeve shirt she wears. 

“I can,” she says again under her breath. 

Hermione blows out a slow steady breath. 

“I think…you might be under a misconception, Severus.” She just now realizes she never released his arm this entire time, her fingers still clutching his frock coat. She lets go of her grasp—her body aching over the distance. 

“There was no consensus on this. No…Order gathering. No—Wizengamot meeting. No trial or some righteous tribunal, that debated every one of your sins and weighed them against your virtues.” 

His face is still hidden, but she notices the way his fingers spasm a little by his side.

“The only person that decided was me.” 

She hears him suck in a breath.

“And I don’t care what you did, or didn’t do. It’s not about that—I’m not offering you salvation, or redemption, or forgiveness—”

“I’m offering you a chance. That I think you deserve.” 

He glances up through his hair, all she can offer is a weak smile. She wants to tuck his hair back, and show him he doesn’t have to hide.

“I’m not trying to save you, Severus Snape...I am trying to let you decide if you want to save yourself.” 

She knows she’s saying too much. It’s too soon, but—

“I think you deserve much more than you give yourself credit for…but whatever you decide—however you choose to live your life—in the end, it will be your decision.” 

“I don’t care what you do with it. If you want to revel in fame, glory, and recognition afterwards—or instead just scorn, and spit, and curse the world. Or maybe neither, and bugger off to Fiji—I want you to at least be able to have that chance.” 

His tense shoulders slump and she knows she has won this round. He exhales a short puff of air that could be mistaken as a chuckle.  

“…we both know my coloring will never survive Fiji.” 

A surprised bubble of laughter escaped her grinning lips. His eyes soften at the sound. 

“…and if you succeed? What will you do once you’ve completed your mission?” Severus asks.

Fair question. This has been her life for almost five years now. 

“Who knows?” Hermione shrugs despite knowing that if she thinks too long about it, she’ll have an existential crisis. “Probably get sacked once the Wizengamot finds out I brought you back with little to no consultation.” 

Severus looks back at the Time-Sand, with his lips ticked up in the corner in a soft almost-smirk. Or maybe an almost-smile. She can see one pointed-canine peeking out from behind his lip, and Hermione wants to see more of that crooked smile. 

“You could come with me,” he offers nonchalantly after a moment.  

“...with you?” Hermione asks in confusion, “To Fiji?” 

He scoffs, but it's laced with humor. 

“To Anywhere.” 

He says it like it’s Neverland—like it’s a place. Second star to the right. Somewhere so far off the map, they’ll never be found. 

And she suddenly feels like Wendy Darling, and an impossible boy who doesn’t want to grow up has just offered to let her fly. Time-sand swirling around them like pixie dust—and she can see it.  

She wants to jump, and see if her feet will lift in the air—

“Anywhere, then. We could go anywhere.” Hermione agrees a little too breathlessly. 

Obsidian eyes with specks of gold reflected back in them, turn to her. He’s looking at her again; like he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing. A little dazed. A little in disbelief. 

But it's soft, and warm. And the base of her spine tingles—

Then, he blinks, and it’s gone. 

His expression blanks, and whatever emotion he had is forced underneath walls of Occlumency. 

He glances back at the Time-sand with a flat stare.

“Will you not tell me more of what’s to come?”

“Soon.” She says, shaking her head. Trying to get her racing heart under control. “When it becomes a little more clear. When your two Masters go to war.” 

“Two?” He scoffs. “It’s become clear to me that I have three—you all play with the actions of my life like a game. The great players of my being: Time, Death, and Conscience.” 

Hermione can’t help but snort, “Dumbledore is hardly a good representation of conscience.” 

Dragging his eyes from the glowing sand, he blinks slowly and makes that sound again. The scoff that sounds like an almost-laugh under his breath. 

He reaches out to her then, as her breath hitches. Long pale fingers that she’s watched for years and years stretch out towards her face. They trace the roundness of her cheek—dragging down the length of her jaw—and settle with his fingers curled under her chin. 

With the pad of his thumb on her bottom lip. 

(Her lips scald at his touch.) 

A shallow breath breaks against the weight resting on her mouth. Hermione can feel the steady buildup of a flush of her face—the kind that starts small, but spreads and burns its way across her cheeks. She tucks her chin involuntarily and blinks up at him searching. 

There is something slow, and adoring on his face that is slipping through the cracks that she has never seen before—

(Her stomach clenches. Her chest tightens—)

“I never said which player is which.” He affirms softly.

Then, he is pulled from her—the black void of his cloak is sucked in first. Like ink swirling down a drain. 

The last thing that she sees is dark eyes, locked on hers, as he’s pulled away.

And…he is gone. 

A coldness settles in the room from the weight of his departure. 

But she—

She is left singed. Scorched. 

(Completely set ablaze.)

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: All while knowing, that the Dream won’t come True

Hermione is in a terrible spot. 

(A tragic…horrifying…unbelievable smudge. Like she is gum on the bottom of a shoe, and the next step is coming in slow motion.) 

She saw it coming, of course—

She knew there was interest there years ago. She knew there was an obsessive quality to her work that could be considered unhealthy. She knew she wasn’t dating like she was supposed to for her age bracket—

She knew that she admired him. 

(And what a slippery slope that is.)

Well, really? How could she not— 

He is tall, dark, and mysterious. Striking looks—that she personally found attractive, even if others didn’t. Intelligent. Curious. And funny, occasionally, in a dry scalding way. Scarred, just like her. Cruel sometimes, but that didn’t bother her like in her younger years—she knows now she could be cruel, too.   

He is also—

Resilient. Determined. Loyal. Brave.   

…

Hermione Granger fancies Severus Snape. 

(Fucking buggering bloody hell.) 

Literally, any other man could have been more conducive to her life. 

But no. She picks the probably dead—was once her childhood Professor—emotionally unavailable—Death Eater-cum-Spy from a War in the past. 

(Perfect, Hermione. I mean, really.)

It is wretched; it is doomed. There is no possible way this is ever going to work—

But despite all that, she is giddy. 

Some illogical, reprehensible, nonsensical part of her is happy to admit it. To solidify what was always sort of hanging around on the edge of her consciousness, and never wanted to acknowledge.  

Whatever happened between them that last jump gave her…hope.  

(That thought made her queasy.)

She wants to skip the required three days of matrix recharging, and go to him right away—even though she knows it is terrible, horrible, unequivocally a bad idea. 

Whatever happened between them—it wouldn’t matter as soon as he found out that she is that Hermione Granger. 

Harry Potter’s best friend. The insufferable-know-it-all. The Golden Girl. Brightest Witch of Her Age. 

Severus will hate it all.

But that isn’t going to stop her from trying. 

And she was going to—

Until life got in the way. 

Hermione is called via Floo two hours after seeing twenty-eight-year-old Snape, by a frantic-near-hysterical Harry James Potter ordering her to come to St. Mungo’s immediately. 

Or face the consequences of Ginny Potter, née Weasley.

(“Hermione, if you don’t get your arse here Gin will have your head—and I won’t be able to stop her.” Harry warns, “Then, I’ll be an accessory to murder. She and I will be bunked in Azkaban together. Do you want that to happen, Hermione? Do you want that to happen to our children?”)

She then proceeds to spend the five hours of Ginny’s labor and one hour of pushing, calming said-Harry-James-Potter down. 

(“Harry, for god’s sake—please!”)  

While simultaneously, herding Weasley brothers like errant goats that have flocked to the magical hospital in a horde of jittery nerves for their sister. 

(“George, you put those Puking Pastilles away or so help me—!”)

(“Percy, stop pestering the Healers.”)

(“Bill—you’re supposed to be responsible one!”)

(Charlie. No.)

Let’s also not forget silencing Ginny’s cursing as it rings through the hospital door. 

(“How dare you make me go through this again, Harry Potter!” Ginny cries. “You, bloody fucking arsehole—”) 

(“Silencio!” ) 

Telling Ronald to stop eating in the waiting room. 

(“…did you honestly bring a sandwich in your…pocket?”)

Trying to get Molly to sit the fuck down instead of pacing.

(“Mrs. Weasley—Molly. You had seven kids. How could this possibly still be nerve-wracking to you?”) 

And chasing Mr. Potter, the younger (aka James), around an entire wing of the labor ward to keep him from the plights of boredom that frequent an almost three-year-old child. 

(“James…? James! Oh, buggering fucking hell. Where is he?”) 

All while Arthur smiles at her sympathetically.

(“Excellent job, Hermione.” He says proudly as he pats her back. “Keep at it.”) 

Then, once Albus Severus Potter is born—

(She cannot wait to see his face when she tells him one day—)

She follows the enormous family back to Grimmauld Place, and is firmly told to take residence there with the rest of them. 

The Weasleys, the Potters, and one very single, Granger. All nesting together. 

That is how Hermione finds herself here—

Three nights after the birth of her godson, rocking him in the Grimmauld library in the middle of the night while she gives Harry and Ginny a much deserved moment of sleep. 

And she is still giddy. 

Because there is seven pounds of perfection in her arms. With a cute little button nose, and light brownish-red hair that could change to god knows what color with this family. And faded blue eyes that will probably change too, just like James' did—

Despite what everyone thinks—

Hermione would love to have her own child one day. And for just a second, she lets her mind change the child’s features to a little darker hair, a more prominent nose, and black eyes, and—

Her heart spasms.

(Fuck.) 

She makes a strangled sound in the back of throat that makes Albus startle in her arms—and promptly apologizes to the little man.

Hermione thought she was better than that. Better than such girlish, childish daydreams—

But the skin of her godson’s cheek is downy and soft. And he smells like sweetness, and honey, and hope—

Hermione mumbles a tune softly under her breath for him. A lullaby that starts as nothing, but ends up morphing into the very familiar beat of I Want to Break Free without her noticing.

Her head bobs. Albus sways along with her as she slowly circles the library's length. But soon the beat in her head has her dancing instead of pacing. A small spin here, a sidestep there—

But as soon as it hits the verse, I’ve fallen in love…!

Hermione stops abruptly.

Blinks back the sting she feels in her eyes…

—and feels like happiness has cocked its gun, aimed, and hit her like a bullet in the back. 

Hermione takes a week or two to help out Harry and Ginny, update Kingsley in a meeting, and then find the courage to summon Severus again. 

It really hasn’t been that long. But it feels like ages since she’s last seen him.

1991. Her original goal that she failed last time. It's her very first year at Hogwarts—and she’s hoping for the middle of the school year somewhere. Honestly, she’s just desperately wishing he’d have time to process her identity without her having to take the full brunt of the shock. 

Hermione tries to remember the first time she saw him. 

Professor Snape wasn’t the first wizard she’d seen—and he wasn’t the most ‘wizardly’ either when you compared the long-bearded-and-snazzily-dressed Albus Dumbledore, or the pointed hats of Minerva McGonagall.  

But she remembered thinking there was something magical about him, too. How he radiated power and strength. How he was the epitome of mystery, and warnings, and the unknown. The quintessential so-called Dark wizard.

Hermione calls on the memory of him—his dark intelligent eyes. And almost-smiles. A scoff that sounds dangerously like a laugh. Or pale fingers that linger…

And summons him, thinking of nothing but being happy to see the man she knows so much better now—

She’s—

She’s…

…Oh. Ha. Of course.

She’s such an idiot. 

She knew he would be furious when he found out—

While she had a week and a half of unadulterated bliss, Snape had three years to deny, bury, and then eventually, simmer in anger. 

Bubbling, and boiling down like a great big pot of hateful stew. 

Her treacherous heart had hoped—

But her head knew. 

When he reforms in front of her, Severus’ eyes hone in on her with the intent of a predator. It is with a glacial glare. Crystals could form between them midair and quietly fall as snow, and she wouldn’t be surprised. It is a cold, burning type of anger that is years in the making. 

Hermione knows as soon as she sees his face—

He knows exactly who she is. 

A numbness blankets her—whatever joy she had moments ago seeps out of her like an open wound. She is bleeding out of her ribcage, and her heart is lying somewhere on the floor. 

She swallows hard. Squeezes her eyes shut as tight as she can...

...and opens them to face the oncoming calamity. 

“Hello again, Handsome.” Hermione hears herself say.  

Her tone is soft and solemn, but somewhere in the depth of it is a smugness that surprises her. She feels vindictive. Cruel.

If he’s about to crush her hopes, she’s going to pretend she got the best of him. She refuses to cower. 

“Athena—no, wait—” Oh, boy. Someone is feeling dramatic. “We know that’s not quite right—”

He makes an exuberant show of thought—complete with a fist under his chin, and an arched eyebrow that would’ve made her eleven-year-old-self tremble. 

“Ah, yes. Miss Granger.” He hisses out her name while barely moving his lips. “How could I have missed that?”

He lifts his chin and stares down his hooked nose at her with murder in his gaze. 

”—Hermione. Fucking. Granger.” 

His voice is a sharpened knife that’s been ground to a point with restrained fury. His words laced syllable by syllable—woven together and tied neatly—with venom.

And it is all aimed at her.

Her hackles rise. A thrill runs up her spine, as she smirks at him maliciously without meaning too. 

“Yes, Professor?” 

Severus grits his teeth in such a deep scowl that she almost feels bad. Almost.

“I saw you sorted at Hogwarts not too long ago.”

He spits out, with his lip curled and his eyes enraged. 

“I’ve seen you walk the corridors. Sit in the Great Hall. Abscond to the library. All with your ridiculous hair. And your big doe eyes. A scrawny stick of a child. A mere caricature of the woman in front of me.”

He stalks towards her, but she doesn’t give him the ground. 

“In what world—in what universe?—would Hermione Granger: the Insufferable-know-it-all, the Gryffindor Princess, and Potter’s single brain cell—” 

“—careful, Professor. That’s not nearly as offensive as I think you want it to be.”

“—what is she doing meddling—no, screwing up my life?”  

He is towering over her, using every bit of menace and height to try and intimidate. So, she stretches up to meet him, closing the distance between their faces. So close, she could speak against his lips if she leaned in just a bit more.

But instead, Hermione bares her teeth—

“Saving your arse.” He flinches a little, and tries to back away but she follows after him with her mockery. Dropping her voice to mimic his, she adds, “Obviously.” 

Severus growls under his breath, and glares down at her. 

“You have no right—”

“I’m trying to help!” 

She is.

“You’re playing with Time like it’s a fucking round of Summoner’s Court—” 

“I know exactly what I’m doing, you horrible bastard—!”

She does not.

“You’re a self-righteous, self-serving, egotistical wench—”

She almost wants to shove him. 

“Why? Because I have the decency to—”

“To slip your way into my life and obliterate it? Implode it? You stupid, stupid girl—”

God, this man. 

“Oh, go to hell!”

“Did you have a laugh? Did you sit there and pity me behind my back? ‘Oh, poor Professor Snape!’ You must have thought! ‘Look how pitiful his life is!’—”

“No! You ridiculous man—! Forgive me for not wanting you to die—”  

“Why?” 

Because—

Because.

Because she’s sorry she left him all alone in that Shack. Because she can’t fucking believe that she never noticed how much he sacrificed for them. How much he protected them. Because she owes him their success. For fighting a War nobody wanted to fight.

Because his life was miserable, and he deserves happiness. He deserves to be free. To be thanked. To be hated. All with a good cup of tea. A house by the sea. He deserves to grow old and grey. To fuss at rowdy grandkids. Or maybe just threaten a cat instead. To have more birthdays, more celebrations. And a funeral with more than just three people—

But mostly, because she cares. She cares.

He has to live. He has to—

She doesn’t say all that. No, those will be her secrets. 

Instead, Hermione clicks her tongue, while folding her arms, and says—

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Yes. There very well better be a fucking reason! I’m no one to you. I’m your Professor. The Cruel Potions Master. The Greasy Git. The Bat of the Dungeons—” 

He is glaring at the floor now, and seems so…disappointed. 

Somewhere in all his ranting, he loses his displeasure with her and starts aiming it at himself.

Hermione catches him blinking several times as his face scrunches up in disgust. His eyes shine with unshed tears. His self-loathing is palpable. His indignant fury is tangible. Like the world is playing a joke on him, and she is supposed to stand there and laugh along with it—

Her heart, already on the floor somewhere bleeding, cracks in half—and gives up entirely. 

“I know exactly who you are, Severus Snape.” She says carefully. “I was there, remember? I’ve seen you bloody, and beaten; crying, and scared—”  

Her voice cracks, he recoils. “And I’m determined to save you. I am. But…you have to want to save yourself, too.” 

Hermione hears him swallow, as his eyes shift back and forth between hers. 

“If what you say is true, and the Dark Lord will rise again—”

“He’s already there. This is the year he starts to make himself known.”

Severus startles, and a crazed look shines in his eye. A visceral kind of fear like a cornered animal. 

“—then I’m already dead. It doesn’t matter if I want to live. There is no ‘if, and, or but’ it’s just a matter of—”  

“Time?” She interjects, “Yes, I rather think it is.” 

Silence follows her statement. His glare returns to her in full force. 

“Then, this is all a waste.” He grits out, “You’re on a hopeless mission—and wasting not only my time, but yours.” 

Hermione can’t stop the rueful laugh that escapes her. 

“Yes—I’ve been told that many times.” Everyone doubts her. And they shouldn’t. 

“Listen. I realized you don’t actually know me very well at this point, but here’s the thing—”

Severus scoffs so hard, she thinks he might dislodge a tonsil. She promptly ignores his theatrics. 

“There is a reason they put me in Gryffindor. I’ve seen what happens when I trust my gut. And I follow what I believe in. I know what it means to be reckless, to jump—and somehow miraculously make it to the other side.” 

She doesn’t mean to—but Hermione finds herself grasping his arms that are folded in front of his chest in an indignant sign of frustration. Her fingers wrap around his elbows, and she can feel the way her nails dig into the black wool. 

He flinches a little at her touch, but doesn’t pull away.

“So, you keep up your Slytherin antics. Hide among the shadows and plot—” a blatant frown at her over-characterization. “And when the time comes, when all the pieces fall…let me do mine. Let me be a Gryffindor—let me leap, and we’ll see where we fall.” 

It takes him a few moments…but a strange sort of calm washes over him. His shoulder loosens, and his unrelenting glare dims. He unfolds his arms, and Hermione can feel those pale fingers that she adores come up to rest lightly against her own arms. 

They are bracing each other's forearms in a strange not-quite hold. Her pleading, and him staring down at her. Somewhere in her head, she thinks it feels like when you give someone a hug but you're not quite ready to let go yet. 

“You’re asking me...to…trust you.” 

He mumbles the words so softly that her distracted brain almost misses it. 

“Yes. No—” Bugger. Severus wasn’t one to give trust. Her thumb rubs a small circle on his forearm without thinking. “I’m asking…I’m asking you to trust yourself. I’m asking—if you want to.” 

“Want to…what, exactly?”

“Leap.”

Hermione smiles gently.

“It’s your choice. You have years to think it over. But my hand is there, outstretched…if you want to make the leap, I’ll be right by your side.” 

That seems to be the right answer. Something settles in him—like a weight is gone from his neck and his hunched over frame melts as his head rises a little higher. 

His lips twitch in the corner—into a frown or an almost-smile, she does not know. But Hermione smiles a little wider for him since he cannot seem to do it himself. 

He gives her another one of those slow blinks—it is so soft, delicate, and like a dam trying to stop whatever he’s actually feeling from coming through. 

Like he knows he’s feeling too much, and doesn’t know how to express it. And she desperately wants to show him how. 

“Professor…” 

No, that’s not right anymore. 

“Severus. I just…” she squeezes her eyes shut. “I really hope that you do.” 

Please, please, please—
Leap. Jump. Fly—

Hermione feels the drag of his fingertips down her arms as he releases her. She thinks to step back, give him room—but before she can, she watches his arm raise. 

A long, slender finger grabs one of her curls, wraps it around his finger like a bit of ribbon on a present—and watches it spring free. 

Glancing up at him, she thinks he looks thoughtful. Just staring at her little curl of hair like it explains how defiance is in her genetics. And when the hand doesn’t disappear, but instead reaches for it again—

Hermione can’t help but tilt her face to follow that hand, and let his fingers graze her cheek instead. 

His breath halts, and his eyes drift to hers like he’s just now realizing she’s attached to that demanding curl. Hermione can feel the twitch of one of his fingers against her skin, and she wants to feel it more. 

So, she shifts her weight just a little more to lean in—

And he pulls away. 

His shields go up—

“Athena.” He states tonelessly. A bored lull just like he used in class back in her childhood. “The kind witch who wanted to be my friend.” 

His lips curl into a small sneer, “Miss Granger. The girl who wants my approval. My knowledge. My recognition…and now…Granger—” 

“Hermione.” She barely breathes out. “Use my name properly.” 

He huffs out a low laugh in disbelief.

She licks her lips and bravely asks, 

“...and what does she want?”

His eyes narrow at her. He cocks his head, black hair falling away from his face, hanging free in a dark curtain. She can see that elusive jawline and ear that she’s mesmerized by, and she’s almost distracted enough to not notice the eventual twitch of his lips into one of those rare almost-smiles. 

Severus lets out a low, deep chortle that pleases her immensely at first. But while humorous, there is sadness to it that she doesn’t notice until after he is gone. 

Her digital clock blinks. The swirl forms. It grabs him with rough, abrasive hands that guide Severus through Time, matter, and space. He is ripped from her and the pang of loneliness stings. 

As he leaves, all she hears is an echo. A soft, quiet—amused, but saddened—

“Too much.” 

When Hermione steps out of her Floo, and into her flat—

She has to take a moment. 

There is something quiet—something fragile—that settles over her. She doesn’t know the name—Grief? No…weariness? Immense exhaustion?  

Maybe all of it. 

But as she stares at the sitting room of her flat, she is blank. Removed and devoid. Completely disjointed. 

Hermione’s eyes trace the room clinically. It’s been her home for sometime now, but she doesn’t have the talent Ginny does that seems to make it warm or comfortable or homey. She certainly doesn’t have Luna’s quirkiness that breathes vibrancy and uniqueness into a space either. 

It's plain. Like her.

Plenty of books. A tired, beat-up sofa that she stole from her parents—not the pristine fancy one from the sitting room, but the one they played and watched movies on in the game’s room. 

Some throw pillows that Crookshanks had scratched until the threads are loose. An old wooden coffee table with rings from cups that she was too distracted to find a coaster for. Peeling wallpaper in subdued calming grey tones.

Lived in. And worn. Just like her, too. 

Hermione bows her head, and starts rubbing the space between her brows at the bridge of her nose in an attempt to curb the oncoming headache. 

Maybe…it is impossible? 

Maybe he would never see her as anything, but an over eager student that is bossy, and annoying, and constantly getting in his way— 

“Meow.” 

Hermione startles as her head jerks up at the sound. She sighs deeply, trying to push those thoughts away.

“Hello, you grouchy old man.” She bends down to pet her familiar. He sniffs her fingers. Large yellow eyes narrow at her menacingly, before he gives it a lick with his sandpaper tongue. A cue, no doubt, that she is now free to pet him with his permission. 

But instead, Crookshanks leaps into her arms. Stumbling back a step, she almost rams herself in the mantle behind her from the weight of the large half-kneazle. 

“Crooks! ” She fusses. “Warn me next time, won’t you? Merlin.” 

“Meo–rw.” 

“Lovely.” She replies flatly. “Have you been good today? Or am I going to find a mess somewhere?” 

He blinks at her with wide knowing eyes. It does not make her feel confident. 

Before she can interrogate him a little more firmly, he suddenly springs from her arms and onto the mantle. His bottle brush tail flicks, and an old family photo is knocked on its side.

“Crooks.” She warns. 

Hermione flicks her hand at him to shoo him away, as she reaches out to the photo. It’s the one photo she put a stasis charm on prior to her Obliviate. Just her and her parent’s sitting on that same ratty old sofa—smiling. 

The one true evidence that she was her parent’s daughter. 

With her mother’s hair color. And her father’s nose. Her mother’s warm skin. And her father’s almond shaped eyes. Him and her. Together in Hermione. 

The last proof that the Granger Family once existed. 

She pauses. Stares at the photo with a detached fondness. 

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” She whispers to Crookshanks, as he purrs beside her. 

“I’m just a nuisance, aren’t I? Every time I try my hardest to do something…it never comes out right.” 

She told Severus to trust her. 

That she’s done it before, and she can do it again. She told him to jump—to leap—

But the truth is…

She’ll pound her feet against the earth and push with all her might into the air—

Her muscles straining. Sweat pouring. Heart pounding…

She’ll fly out as far as she can…

But—

Sometimes her fingers just graze the edge.
Sometimes it crumbles beneath her touch.

And sometimes…

She doesn’t make it to the other side, after all.  

__

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Forever and Ever before You had Introduced Yourself 

They decided to have weekly meetings—just the three of them. In her office. 

Hermione, Harry—

And Draco. 

The two former enemies, lounging in her office chairs and gossiping like old ladies. What would eleven-year-old Hermione say?

Draco and Harry have been skirting around friendship for a while now, thanks to their recreational Quidditch team’s rivalry throughout the years. Banter and an undying need for competition trumps years of hostility, apparently— 

It seems Hermione becomes the final connection. They become friends. 

All three of them.

But it is a different dynamic of a Trio then the one they had with Ron. Ron tried to often be the mediator of the group when his own temper wasn’t flaring. He’d often appease both her and Harry, or stay out of it all together. 

But these two—

They like to gang up on her. They like to tease. 

“So, he knows who you are now?” Harry asks as he fiddles with one of her biros, clicking it obnoxiously in a steady rhythm. He’s hiding dark rings under his eyes with his glasses again, but she still notices. 

“Yes.” Hermione sighs. 

Draco, observing one her biros with a keen eye, snorts. “Would have loved to have seen that conversation—”

“Did you duel again?”

“Again? ” 

“No, no…there was a row, but mostly—”

“—sorry. Again? ” 

“Shush, Malfoy. She’s got more to say.” Harry waves him off. 

“There was…I don’t know, Harry. There was a row and then, he cooled down after a while. He—he wanted to know why I was helping him.” 

“And? What’d you say?”  

Hermione flounders for a second and decides biting her lip until it’s raw is the best way to go.

“I don’t know—I said I thought he deserved a chance.”

Draco leans back, crosses his leg, and stares up at the ceiling as if bored. “No subtlety. I swear—Gryffindors. Might as well have just said you fancied him, and spared the man.” 

Harry grins at her, “Hear, hear Malfoy!” 

“Oh, shut up you two.” 

Hermione is nervous. 

Because despite his complete horror at her true identity last week, she still thinks she can somehow make him see her as more. 

She hopes. And she dares. She wishes...

And she wants, and she wants, and wants—

And by the time Severus arrives, she is a tumbling stomach and a ball of nerves. 

But he is in dress robes—and shockingly—he is in a light, teasing mood this time. 

Hermione can just tell—there is no gloom in his aura. No darkness seeping out of his skin—instead there is a kind of technicolor vividness to him that makes her blink and her mouth hang open. 

“Hello,—what in the world?” Hermione’s lips split into an astonished smile, “Oh~! The Yule Ball.” 

Severus smirks at her, and she has to blink back whatever girlish thrill that runs through her. 

“Should I give points to Gryffindor? Well done.” He remarks sarcastically, while clasping his hands behind his back. But there is no bite; he just looks amused. 

Hermione snorts absently, but she’s secretly a little dazed. 

Did she properly look at him that night? 

(Look at him—)

With his hair tied back, and his sleek dress robes. There are no flowy robes of black smoke. Just a fine tailored jacket of glossy silk that makes him look as polished as a sculpture of obsidian. He is tall, and handsome. With thin, lithe limbs and ample shoulders cut squarely in his stance. 

(He’s beautiful.) 

And Hermione can not stop the way her eyes drag over him. To his Roman nose, and his striking eyes. His pale skin that contrasts like a polaroid photo against his black hair and clothes. Now, with a jawline that she wants to lick, and ears she wants to breathe into with a sigh— 

(She blinks that thought away quickly—)

But he’s lovely. 

How did she not see this? How did she not notice him?

“The Yule Ball…” Severus confirms. “Indeed. I just had the pleasure of watching the teenage Granger dance with a Champion, and then blubber over a Weasley. Must have been a night of exceptional highs and lows.” 

Severus raises a brow, and Hermione can’t help but laugh. She lets out a joyfully surprised guffaw at his quip.

December 1994. 

Hermione can just hear the Weird Sisters in the background. She can see snow-topped trees, and tables lined in silver cloth. Feel Viktor’s feet when they stumble through a dance. Or Ron’s glares from across the room. 

“That’s certainly one way to describe that memorable night.” She wrinkles her nose in jest, “Being a teenager is hard. For everyone involved.”  

But she’s grinning ear to ear; and there is no hiding it. Severus steps closer to her. And her bright mood only stalls for a moment as she watches him, a little unsure still of what she's witnessing. 

They just stare at each other for a second—

She—

(Heart pounding and still a little overcome.)

Him—

(Who knows? But he’s got an almost-smile, a gaze intense enough to make her squirm, and Hermione wants to keep it that way.) 

He reaches out—tucks one of her stray curls behind her ear again—and she thinks whatever the Yule Ball does to people...

...it is magical. 

She doesn’t mind when he is cutting and mean. Or quiet and severe. She doesn’t mind him angry or frustrated or sad—but right now he is sweet. 

Severus Snape is being sweet. And she wants to hoard it selfishly.

Merlin. Maybe she was worried for nothing…?

He certainly seems receptive to her. Then, again he’s been living years since they last met, and her—just a matter of days. 

But her tangled thoughts become quickly dislodged as he lets go of her curl and slowly circles around her. Stepping behind her back, she resists the need to turn and face him. 

He pauses—so very close to her—and her mind blanks. 

Because his voice dips, and says in a low delicious rumble right next to her ear that immediately forces her attention to focus sharply on him—

“I believe…it was rude of me to not greet you properly. Isn’t it my turn this time? What was it again—? Oh, yes—” 

His voice drops an entire octave. 

“—‘Hello, Gorgeous’?”  

Ugh, no. Fuck. 

She is a grown arse woman. She does not swoon. (She did). She does not flush. (Bright red). And she certainly does not choke on her words. (Whatever sound came out her mouth was not eloquent).

The horrid yelp that she makes at the back of her throat is covered by his low chuckle. Hermione watches the way the corner of his lips tick upwards in a smirk. And she simultaneously wants to tip forward and kiss it, or run away and bury her head in the sand forever. 

She’s mortified. She’s captivated. Fuck him for being so sexy. 

“I think…” He emphasizes the harsh consonant of the k in think like a caress. Lets it roll around his tongue and bites it with his teeth. “...I’m quite displeased with you.” 

Her stomach sinks for a second. But his tone is teasing despite the words, and she finds herself grinning, instead.

“Oh? ” God, why is she so breathless? “What have I done this time, Professor?” 

Severus clicks his tongue behind her, and Hermione thinks if she tilts her head just a little more, she will be able to see the amusement in his eyes. 

“I could have used a fair warning—A troll in the dungeon? Then, Quirrell? Really? Not to mention the Basilisk in a girl's lavatory? Or the Werewolf—? And let us not forget…” His features scrunch up viciously, “...Black?”

Hermione can’t help but grimace, despite the laugh that escapes out of her, too. 

“Yes, well…I’m afraid it doesn’t get much better from here on out…” 

Severus pulls back a bit to see her face. Then, blinks at her slowly with a sort of weariness that shows just how little this surprises him. 

“Pity.” He says flatly. “I was hoping Potter as a TriWizard contestant was the height of his adventure this year.” 

Severus looks far off in thought, and she knows he can see the warning signs far clearer than most. Voldemort is coming and there is no stopping it. And he knows that. 

All she can offer him is a dim, stilted smile. “How are you?”

His far-off stare focuses back on her. “Surviving.” 

“One could argue that it’s your greatest talent.”

He chuckles darkly, “Perhaps not for much longer though.” 

Well, she can’t leave him with such morbid thoughts— 

“Will you dance with me?” 

He startles. Almost flinches like she physically hit him. 

 “—what?”

“We have—” Hermione glances at the clock, “Exactly six minutes left—and you look the part. Let’s dance.” 

Severus fumbles for a second—eyes impossibly wide, and jaw slack. Hermione must bite her lip to keep the smile off her face. 

Pulling out her wand, she transfigures the royal blue sundress to a more appropriate design. Her hair is still in a messy bun. She has no makeup on. She’s certainly not styled or painted.

But Hermione wants her dress.  

The one from the Yule Ball—but sleeker and more womanly—layers of flowy periwinkle fabric that dip more daringly at her breast, and slide off her shoulders, then tuck and flow down her hips to the ground. A large slit, one that would've made McGonagall faint, appears on one side and lets a bit of leg peek out.  

The dress that made her feel beautiful for the first time. The dress her Mum helped her pick. The one her Father cried when she put it on for him. The one she felt like Cinderella in, but would never tell anyone that. 

That dress. 

Different. Grown up. But still hers. 

And Severus—

Severus looks Confounded. Almost drunk, really. 

While his face has not really changed—the tops of his ears have gone red. His eyes are hooded and unfocused even as they look her over. The once slack jaw is now tight and locked—and the following swallow he takes is almost audible in the quiet room. His hand spasms at his side—

And it's so flattering.

God, what was she worried about?

The way he looks at her—like no one else ever has. She can see the way he keeps trying to stuff it behind Occlumency shields, and the way it refuses to cooperate. And each time it slips through, her smile grows a little wider. 

Severus Snape doesn’t know what to do with her.

But she knows exactly what to do with him—

Hermione flicks her hand and summons her gramophone-iPod-mess and has it play Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty Waltz. One of her favorites.

She grabs one of his hands; places the other on her hip. Then, grasps his shoulder and pushes—

Until he stumbles back.

Until he leads her into a dance.

“Do you know—? Despite my studious reputation, I prefer Fiction or Fantasy. I’ve always been obsessed with fairy tales. The Grimm ones. Or any children’s story, really.” 

Hermione grins up at him, “It sounds so muggle, doesn’t it? After all, what are fairy tales to magical folk, but a bit of gossip or ancient history?”

They are waltzing loosely, but it's slow and relaxed, and more swaying than rigorously prancing along the room. Severus’ hand is warm on her back. When they move she can feel the way her thighs rest against his for a second, and she wonders if he knows how close he’s holding her to himself. 

“But it's not the magic that is so wonderful—even if it is.” She continues to distract, “It’s the stories themselves that I love—” 

She smiles wider at his curious expression. 

“It’s the ones that grant just a little bit of happiness, before something ultimately takes it away.” 

His steps falter for a second, but he corrects himself admirably.

“…I didn’t know you were such an escapist.”

“Of course, I was.” Hermione snorts, “I was a bookworm that never fit in. I was Matilda one day, with magic I didn’t understand. Rapunzel somedays, where I felt like I was locked in a tower. Charlie Bucket with a Golden Ticket when my Hogwarts letter arrived—”  

His lips tilt, “Then, Alice?”

“Precisely.” She beams. “Which was scary, but wonderful for a while...” 

“...and then?”

“Well…then, I was more like Mowgli in a jungle. Or Bilbo Baggins escorting dwarfs—dragons and all.” He chuckles, but she knows he doesn’t understand quite how true that rings. 

Her hand snakes up his shoulder a little towards his neck. She can feel the strands of his hair that have escaped being tied back that brush against her knuckles, but she doesn’t go further. 

She wants to lean her cheek against his chest. She wants to rub circles with her thumb on the hand that is clasped in hers. She wants to breathe in his scent, and kiss the tip of his chin. His nose. His lips—

But she won’t.  

No, this has to be his choice. 

She won’t push him towards intimacy. Even if she wants to—he needs to be the one to decide. 

“Did you have a favorite?” Severus asks, and the question rumbles deep from his chest between them. 

“I did—I do—The Little Mermaid. Or the Little Sea Maid, depending on the translation.” Hermione mumbles, a little embarrassed by the insight. “I always thought it was so sad, but so so beautiful when she melted to sea foam.” 

A warm puff of air caresses the curls on the top of her head, as Severus lets out a soft huff of a laugh.

“Such a maudlin child.” 

“Excuse me,” Hermione teases primly, “But I seem to recall you being much of the same.” 

He twirls her and she can see the clock counting down the last few seconds—

“You must be mistaken,” he claims airily. “I had my very own fairy godmother that dropped in every once in a while.” 

“Did she bring you glass slippers?”

“Just a book. A used one at that. Complete with worn corners, crumpled edges, and personal notes on every page.” Her hand lifts with his shoulder, when he gives an exaggerated shrug. “She did roast me over an open fire like a suckling pig one time—” 

“Surely, you must have deserved it?”

“Oh, yes. I most certainly did,” He boasts proudly at the faux pas. His upper lip slips back, and she can see that smirk with the snaggletooth again. Her favorite smile. 

Her chest is light. And the technicolor around them is still so bright—

But it dims a little at the realization…

“I’m—” Hermione sucks in air, a little more emotional than she thought she would be. “I’m sorry you got such a rotten fairy godmother, Severus.”

“Rotten…?”

“She was useless. She wanted to help but couldn't even manage that. I’m sure she wished she could have done so much more for you.” 

Severus laughs—it is the loudest she has ever heard from him before. Bold and unrepressed. With a boyish grin, and eyes that are gleaming, like he almost pities her for not understanding. 

“You daft witch…” He says before stepping back out of her reach. “She was perfect.”

And then, he is gone. 

“Well?” Harry asks while throwing a snitch up and catching it repeatedly as they sit for their weekly meeting. “How did it go?” 

“Good, actually.” Hermione answers honestly, only half-mesmerized by watching Draco Malfoy trying to devour a burrito with a knife, fork, and impeccable table manners. 

“Oh? ” 

Another throw. Another catch.

“He was in a good mood. The Yule Ball.” She tries to play it down with a shrug and picks at the tortilla of her taco absentmindedly.

Scoffing as he chews, Draco adds, “Ah, one of Uncle’s rarer, lesser-known moods. I’ve only seen it a few times. When Potter here, was thoroughly humiliated—”

“Sounds about right,” grumbles Harry.

“Or when I told him Longbottom gave up potions.” 

“See—That’s fair. Neville was a hazard.”

Draco looks at her, “So, what did you do to gain such a privilege?”

“There was—” she mumbles the last part incomprehensibly. “…”

“Sorry. Could you repeat that, Granger?” The damn ferret asks. 

“…Dancing.” Hermione sighs. “We danced.”

The boys share a look. Draco in mild horror, and Harry with a wide shit-eating grin. 

“God! Shut up, you two!”

They have a plan.

It is decided that it would be better to start speeding up the jumps, since they were getting closer to the end point. Now, instead of every three years—they were shortening the jumps to every year. 

And on the last year—the year of 1998—they would skip shorter and shorter until hopefully—they plucked him right from his moment of death. 

So, from 1994, it was off to 1995. Well, she is shooting for the end of the school year—so 1996. 

Hermione pulls Severus through while focusing on her Fifth year—

Not her favorite year, truthfully—

Umbridge happened. The DA. Sirius. The Hall of Prophecies. Dolohov’s curse. 

And the most stressful of it all—

O.W.L.'s.

While the entire War was admittedly, well—bad. But there was something about that year that she always hated. It was an odd, confusing time—she was somewhere between being a child and an adult. 

And the war didn’t sound real yet. Until it was. 

She struggled that year. Her eyes felt constantly blurred. Her head, always buried in a book. She was barely conscious between the stress and studying. Just—uninformed, helpless. Directionless. 

Harry was angry. Ron was scared. Hermione was lost.  

Sometime after all that would be best—

So, she thinks of the nights spent in the Hospital Wing recovering from the skirmish in the Ministry. Madam Pomfrey is bustling about the room quietly as Hermione tries to sleep through the pain. Her Potions Master is sweeping in and out of the room with remedies that he brewed for her and the other DA members—

When she pulls Severus through—for the very first time—she can see what she remembers from her last few years at school. She sees the bone-tired weariness. The sallow skin and sunken cheeks. Purple rings under his eyes and lank hair. 

“Hello, Ha—” 

“Hermione.” He breathes out in a soft exhale that makes her immediately stop. He’s never said her given name without mockery before. She doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Severus storms towards her in a lengthy gait that stops abruptly right in front of her. He’s towering over her—crowding her like a rabid animal.  

Claw-like fingers reach out as he digs them into her shoulders almost to the point of pain. It's as if his grip wants to break through the skin and muscle, and bury down to the bone. 

“You almost died.” He rasps with wide, panicked eyes. “You had a hole in your sternum. It was melting through your chest cavity—bubbling the flesh and disintegrating to the bone! You were dying—you are dying—” 

He gulps in the air, while shaking his head. His fingers tighten even more in their grip, as Hermione tries to loosen their grasp. 

“Severus, I’m okay—” 

“You were melting in a hospital bed not an hour ago—!”

“I’m fine—I will be—just fine.” 

For once, she’s glad she’s wearing something as mundane as a pinstriped button up that she stole from either Ron or Harry that she wears like a smock over an old pair of leggings. 

Hermione reaches up and undoes the first couple of buttons of her blouse. 

He’s tall and can probably see the edge of the blush-colored bra clearly, but she doesn’t have the head for modesty at the moment. She unbuttons almost down to her naval—each bit of fabric giving way to the raised purple scar that crosses down from the top of her breast to hip. 

If scars are reminders—

She doesn’t hate this one. While her Mudblood scar reminds her of the oppression and prejudice she faced; this one—reminds her of her bravery. And maybe even her recklessness. 

It’s ugly. Colorful. Mangled. Clearly noticeable—but like spots on a giraffe, she thinks of it as her very own marking. 

“See? Nothing to worry about—” 

She meant it as a comfort, but the way he sucks in heavy breath and almost hisses it out—like a tea kettle about to erupt. She knows he is not comforted, in the least.  

He’s angry. 

Severus is staring down at her chest with a glowering scowl. His jaw tightens to a harsh grit of his teeth and his iron grip squeezes involuntarily enough to almost make her yelp, before he quickly lets go and takes three steps back from her. 

He’s glaring at the scar and squeezing his hands into fists at his side. 

“I owe you an apology, it seems…I’m sorry I couldn’t heal it.” 

“Heal it?” Hermione questions momentarily confused. “You did. You saved my life. You saved it many times over—” 

He looks away from the scar with a harsh jolt. 

“Is that what all this is, then?” He waves a hand around her Time-room. “A Life Debt that needs to be fulfilled?” 

“What—? No! ” Hermione insists, surprised about how honest that feels. “No. There is no Life Debt.”

He scoffs. His hands aren’t fists anymore, but she can see the way they tremble slightly under the long sleeve of his robes. 

“Severus, if anything—this is about me. This is about my own selfishness. I want to help save you.” 

Hermione takes a shaky breath as she starts buttoning up again despite her nervous fingers. 

“Because I would sleep better knowing you were alive in this world—alive and free.”

“I don’t want your pity.” 

He hisses the words slowly, and all she can see is that small boy with a book. Hogwarts: A History is stretched out between them. The same words. Just like he said as a boy all those weeks—years, for him—ago. 

“It isn’t. It isn’t pity.” She repeats. “It’s—you know me better now, don’t you? You know how injustice gets under my skin.” 

“Of course.” Severus glares, “I’m another SPEW to you. A downtrodden House Elf, or an ugly abandoned monstrosity of a cat. A lost cause that needs your bleeding heart to come in a save—” 

“First of all, it's S.P.E.W.” She levels at him. “And secondly, just shut up and listen—” 

A migraine is forming in Hermione’s left temple, and she curbs the urge to rub it in her frustration. 

She wonders what happened—what set him back to this? Last week he was so amendable; this week he is skeptical and mistrustful. 

And she can’t—

She can’t keep having this same argument. Can’t keep trying to convince him that she doesn't have an ulterior motive.

“I was lost after the war.” She confesses. “And angry, disillusioned, and so so bitter. Honestly, I went full Holden Caulfield for a while—everything felt phony, and pond ducks were the only ones that listened, and carousels made me weep over lost innocence—” 

Hermione chokes on a self-depreciated laugh.

“Although no one would know it. I was very good at hiding it most days. And Harry and Ron—and everyone else were doing the same. We were all adjusting. But then…they moved on with their lives. And I—I couldn’t let go. So, I researched. I thought what good could I do in this world? And…” She swallows. “It made me think of you.”

His head cocks at her; his gaze indiscernible. 

“I’ll admit that I admired you. And of course, you had my immense respect.”

His frown deepens a little, but she goes on. 

“‘What would the world be like if someone like the brilliant Severus Snape didn’t have to juggle two Masters, but instead was free to innovate?’, I thought. I wanted that world. I wanted to talk about theory with you. Or maybe research. And experiment! And—and just—create.”  

Hermione sucks in a breath, “But I knew I’d never have the chance. Then, I had the opportunity to become an Unspeakable. And when it came down to choosing what I wanted to work with, I chose what I knew best—Time. And…as I theorized and experimented on my own—somewhere along the way, I realized I could have that chance.” 

He’s looking at her now with a stilted kind of glint in his eye, and she wonders if he can understand. If he knows just how much she craved—

“Severus.” Hermione urges resolutely. “All this time…I think I’ve been leading myself here. This isn’t about paying you back a Life Debt, or saving a lost cause—it became so much more than that. I got to know you. I got to spend time with you—and you are so much more than I ever thought possible. You are—” 

She laughs dismally. 

“You are funny. And sweet. And loyal. And so so interesting. You have your own point of view that stops and makes me think. You push me forward. You check me when I get too big. And indulge me when I need it too. And—as shocking as it must seem—but I like spending time with you. I just like you. And—and—” 

Fuck. Just fuck. What is she doing? 

Circe, help her and her runaway mouth. 

“—and the truth is, that this has always been about me selfishly wanting to live my life with you in it. No other reason than that.”

Hermione gnaws on her lip, as she forces her eyes to the floor. She finishes rather lamely—

“...I just…I want to help save you, Severus Snape, because I want you in my life.” 

God. She sounds…so ridiculous.  

It’s sad, really. 

She thinks he’ll hate her for this, too. He’ll shout and curse her. Just another thing in that growing list. It’s in his nature—to scorn her being so selfish. For her inconsiderate mindless goal of messing with his life. For playing God. 

But instead, he stumbles back from her as his head bows. His hair falls forward and covers his face. That little triangle of skin on the back of neck becomes visible again, right where his hair splits. Just like when he was a boy and curling in on himself—

Severus retreats from her. 

And all of the sudden it’s too much. 

She gave too much of herself away. Threw it an impenetrable wall, and watched it shatter on the floor—thousands of pieces of herself lay at his feet in shards of broken glass. 

She wants to run. 

So, Hermione Granger—bravest of them all—turns and escapes through the door with several minutes still on the clock…

…and doesn’t look back.  

“—why do we not have biros? If there is one thing Muggles got right—”

Harry laughs, “I thought you of all people, love the poncey eagle feather quills—”

“It’s practicality, Potter.” 

“—don’t let Daddy Dearest hear that—” 

“Harry. Draco. Please.” 

Something in her tone must have tipped them off, because they share a concerned look. 

“Well, Hermione? How was the good old Professor?” 

She hesitates, and it automatically makes Harry lean forward in his seat as his gaze narrows. 

“It was fine, I guess. The night of the skirmish at the Ministry—1996, I was in the Hospital Wing with Dolohov’s curse.” 

“And? What happened?” Draco inquires with equally narrowed eyes. 

“Nothing. He wanted to know if I was okay. And then—” 

She leans back in her chair with a sigh. 

“And then…I think I proceeded to spill my verbal guts out, and scare him off in one fell swoop.”

The boys exchange a glance again, as some kind of silent conversation plays in front of her that she’s not privileged to. After moments of strange looks that might as well have been Legilimency , Harry shrugs and Draco leans back with a sigh of his own. 

But when he looks at her, he seems amused—

“Overachiever.” He declares, and it sounds halfway proud and entirely too fond. 

Hermione doesn’t know what to expect this time. 

She still feels vulnerable and raw from last week's—

(Fiasco. Debacle. Catastrophe. Absolute car-wreck. And a flaming pile of shite.)

—and now the game is up. Surely, he must know how invested she is in this? How much she's invested in him. She practically admitted she cared way too much. Her. His weird student that he mocked and barely spoken to, except for a handful of times. 

And that scares her like no other—

But—

Keep Calm, and all that. So, onward she goes. With only pure defiance, and a flimsy bit of bravery she’s absolutely faking—

1997. The end of their Sixth Year. 

The Turbulent Year, she dubs it. The entire castle is wired and skittish—like Hogwarts was absorbing the anxiety in its walls, and letting it leach into all the inhabitants. All those people, just waiting for the other ball to drop. Waiting for a War. 

The year of Lavender and Won-Won. The Slug Club. McLaggen is cornering her at a party. Harry is pining for Ginny. Draco is plotting. 

A bottle of liquid luck. A book fit for a Prince. A cabinet that breaches a castle. A locket that is a fake.

A wand that leaves an unexpected trail.  

A Headmaster’s demise. 

Severus arrives the same as he always has—a stoic statue of black robes and features. Cold. Still. 

Hermione thinks maybe it’s earlier in the year at first; and doesn't notice with her own heart at hyper speed and her nerves working overdrive—

That is—until he crumbles to the floor. 

She doesn’t see the sweat on his brow. Or the trembling in his limbs that’s so severe it’s seizure-like. Doesn’t see how his face is so gaunt, it's almost skeletal. Or how stress is rising from his skin like steam. 

Severus collapses. And Hermione’s heart goes berserk. 

All her fears and insecurities fall to the side instantly. 

Everything in her wants to run to him—but she swallows that all back. Instead, she goes to the heap of black in slow, cautious steps—he’s hurt, that’s plain to see—but she doesn’t know how volatile he is, or how he will react to her. 

She’s never seen him in this state, but she knows from personal experience that Crucio aftershocks affect more than just the body. His state of mind may be tattered too. 

So, she’s careful and gentle—

“Severus…?”  Hermione whispers softly, as she approaches. He looks up from his collapsed state. Bleary black eyes meeting her own in recognition. 

Gently. Quietly. She goes to him. With light hands, Hermione tilts his chin up and pushes back his hair from his face. His eyes shut slowly like a cat. 

“Oh, my handsome man…” She clicks her tongue softly in rage, “...just what have those bastards done to you now?” 

“Gah—”

His throat seizes, stopping his words and instead forces him to let out a solemn sigh before trying his greeting again.

“G-gorgeous.”

Severus takes a deep breath, but it staggers and catches in his lungs. His body heaves, then tightens into a stiff brace as a round of tremors shake him from head to toe. She lets him run through the course of it, her hands fortifying his shoulders, so he doesn’t flop sideways. 

When the wave passes, Hermione half leads him—half drags him—to lean him back and rest his weight against the wall. She can't do much with Crucio, but she'll try her best to lessen the aftershocks. With a quick Accio, she flicks the door open with her wand and summons a small bottle of Calming Draught from her bag. 

And a second later, she decides the hidden bottle of Firewhiskey that she never touches might come in handy, too. 

Handing him the draught, Hermion slumps next to him on the floor. She watches him sniff the little vial of potion, like any good Potion Master would, before deeming it acceptable and chugging it in one go. Handing her the empty bottle with shaky fingers, he doesn’t hesitate to swipe the whiskey from her right after. 

“Oh, goodie. I have ten minutes…to see h-how drunk off my arse I can get.” Severus scowls at it in disgust, but shrugs and takes a deep swig. “I-I never understood the u-urge to drink. It’s a disgusting habit...But tonight the world is falling apart, and someone is here to witness it, so why the fuck n-not?”

One generous swig, then another—and he hands it back to her with his nose scrunched up and his tongue out in a childish display of distaste.

“I had forgotten how bad you looked.” Hermione says before taking her own swig. 

Severus tuts at her in admonishment, despite the full body shudder that follows it. 

“I had always assumed-d…” his voice wobbles for a second “...you were above such trivialities such as appearances, Miss Granger.” 

He’s teasing her—a good sign as any. 

“I meant you looked tired, Severus. Not beastly. Spare me the theatrics,” she smiles in the lip of the bottle, not daring to look him in the eyes. “You’re still quite handsome, of course.” 

Oh, yes. She’s not going to hide. She will not run away. She’s a Gryffindor, for god’s sake. And he’s not a fool. He has to know—he has to see it now—so why hide her feelings? 

He scoffs, resting his head back against the wall staring straight ahead with dull eyes, and doesn’t say anything more. But there is a flush rising from his neck and creeping up to his face. And she wonders if that's the alcohol or her words, that spread it like wildfire. 

So, she mumbles under her breath with all the courage a finger of Firewhisky dares to grant her—

“Truly, beastly or handsome—‘I see no difference.’” 

Severus Snape laughs painfully by her side, and Hermione savors the sound as she grins. 

“Yes. I’ll admit I deserve that one.” 

He reaches and snatches the bottle from her hands with long fingers. They ignite her skin when she feels them against her own—

All while she watches the bottle go to his lips with another long gulp. 

“When are you?”

“The Weasley welp has just accidently poisoned himself tonight.” He shuts his eyes tightly. “As if that was ever going to be successful—”

“I know.” She agrees, “To be honest—I thought Draco would have been better at planning that out.”

Severus makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, “He’s mindlessly scared at the moment. Near hysterical. And refusing any decent help. The Dark Lord is losing patience, and all I can do is take his punishment for him. What’s one more Crucio for a man like me?”   

“Merlin.”

She doesn’t know what to say. 

“Yes—well. Poor Draco. I’m sure he’s suitably insulted that I intervened and not at all grateful, the little prat.” 

Severus is still sipping the bottle. 

Hermione’s never seen him like this. His eyes are still hazed, and his voice slurs every once in a while, but she thought it was more from the Crucio than the drink—that is until—she realizes just how loose his words are now. He must have a low alcohol tolerance, because—

Sober Snape would never have been so honest with his words. 

“He is.” 

He blinks at her. 

“He is grateful.” Hermione reiterates. “He’s just terrible at showing it.” 

Black eyes struggle to focus, as if he’s not quite comprehending her meaning. Like she has just dumped an extraordinary amount of information in his lap. 

Maybe she has—after all, she’s implying Draco will survive. Not a bigot. Maybe evening thrives.

“You…know him?” 

Hermione is very tempted to laugh at his shock, but know it may cause Severus to be put out. She knows just how unlikely it seems—

“Yes.”

“...you speak to him?”

“Every week.”

“You're…” He purses his lips as if his tongue is struggling with the shape. “...friends?” 

Circe, she is going to laugh. 

“We are.” 

His face morphs into a confused scowl. She has to her own bite lip to physically stop a noise from bubbling out of her mouth. He blinks owlishly in thought for a second, trying to process it. 

Then, Severus’ head falls back hard enough to make a loud smack against the wall. 

“Fuck me. What a world.” 

It’s Foock, again. His accent is dangerously close to reverting back to his Northern roots, and she wonders if it was still hidden somewhere in there, just waiting to escape with alcohol. Severus has an almost-smile that might even be considered proud as he huffs out a quiet chuckle. 

“Hermione Granger is friends with Draco Malfoy.”

“Mmmmm,” Hermione grins. “Shocking, I know. We get on. Him and his wife are amazing.”

His amused gaze cuts to her, and he hands her the bottle as if it's a reward for her tolerance. She happily accepts the gift with a small sip, and passes it back—he’s still trembling and needs it far more than she does. 

Staying quiet for a few moments, he stays seemingly deep in thought. A slightly tipsy-Severus-Snape is thoughtful and open in a way she wasn’t quite expecting—and she can’t help but enjoy it. Despite its dark circumstances. 

Leaning a little further back, Hermione lets her shoulder touch his arm. He’s tall though, and honestly, they aren’t matching up the way she wants. So, she’s bold enough—and he’s drunk enough probably—that she gets away with resting her head against his shoulder instead. 

He’s warm and solid under her temple as she sinks her weight a little further into him. He doesn’t fight it—probably doesn’t even notice it with the state he’s in—but she’s soaking it all up. The feel of him. The sound of his breathing. The smell of his wool coat—rosemary and herbs and ink—

“Do you believe in alternate realities…?” He rumbles in low purr. 

It’s not loud by any means, but it startles her enough that she shifts closer—her thigh slips next to his with her hand resting on top of her leg. 

Hermione can’t help but snort.

“Oh, my…What a loaded question for an Unspeakable that deals with Time.” 

He shrugs beside her, and she can feel the lift of his shoulder against her head.

“Peculiar, isn't it? All these years, and we never once ventured into this territory…” 

“Well, I’m afraid it wasn’t worth the wait. I wish I had a definitive answer for you—but I don’t.” Humor weaves its way into her voice. “I know Time doesn’t always work the way I think it does. But if I had to guess—”

“An educated hypothesis, no doubt. Probably with footnotes and a glossary—” He snarks. 

“Shush.” She grins widely. “My answer would be yes. Of course, I do. I’ve time-travelled before—every choice we make leads to a different outcome.” 

He leans forward to see her face. Saying nothing, he just eyes her wearily. 

“Third Year. Time-Turner. Did McGonagall never tell you—? Right. Well, some world out there is a very dead Buckbeak, and you, with an Order of Merlin for delivering Sirius Black to the Ministry.” 

“Of course. How silly of me—” Severus retorts dryly. "Of course, we gave the third year a Time-Turner.”

“It’s not like I asked for it—” 

“That, I have no doubt. Merlin, what was Alb—”  

He stops mid-sentence abruptly. Lifts the bottle of amber liquid and stares for only a moment more before taking several large gulps. 

Hermione doesn’t have anything right to say—so she says nothing. He’s reeling and raw—and all she can do is lean a little heavier on him and let him know she’s there. 

“Do you think there is a world…where lycanthropic twats don’t forget their Wolfbane? Where Potter isn’t forced to enter a suicidal tournament? Where even an absolute wanker like Black, somehow survives the Veil? Or one where Draco never fixes a cabinet?” 

“Possibly.” She breathes out softly. 

“How about one where…Albus…didn’t ask me to murder him?”

His voice is so quiet—so stricken—that it shreds her heart. Her throat tightens. Emotion bottles in the middle of it in a choking, obtrusive glob—that she is forced to blink back tears. 

He shouldn’t sound like this—even though she’s heard it before. Once when he was young and broken, and bruised, and battered—and to hear it again as a man. With a soft, sad, deep, lovely voice—she is…so so heartbroken for him. 

Looking up, Hermione’s not surprised that she can’t see his face. He’s expertly hiding it with his hair and looking away from her—but she can see the strain in his jaw. The way his breathing is harsh and jagged—

“Maybe.” She whispers. “But it’s not this one.” 

Severus staggers a breath, and it catches in his chest. He is right in the middle of a moral disaster, and seeking confirmation—and this was not the answer he wanted.

“Do you know what really tips me off about alternate realities though?”  

She can’t offer him much, but she can do what she’s good at—she can talk. 

“Sometimes I can see it. Such a clear path of ‘what if’.” 

Hermione rambles on. 

“I saw it the moment Ron asked me to marry him at nineteen. I saw a completely different life I would have—a husband, kids, maybe a less stressful career. I could see it aaaall the way to my deathbed as a little old lady. Grey and hunched over—surrounded by a bunch of ginger grandkids and great-grandkids…”

Severus snorts beside her, and she thinks her distraction is going well enough.

“I’d be happy, I think. Loved and content, certainly…” She licks her lips and tastes the Firewhisky on them. “But I didn’t choose that path. I chose—to instead—walk another. I felt it verge at the very moment I decided. Somewhere out there…is a Hermione Weasley, but it's not me.” 

Hermione knocks her shoulder against him in a little shove, and smiles up at him. 

“I still want those things though. I’ve always wanted to be a wife and a mother. But I also want my work, my own accomplishments—I want it all. And one day, I’ll have them. Just not with Ronald Weasley.”

Severus arches a brow at her, but hums in agreement. Her smile becomes a little wider. She hasn’t been drinking that much, she thinks. But she seems to be drunk off the state he’s in. She’s a little delirious. A little high off of him, too. 

That's the only explanation she can think of as the question comes out of her mouth—

“What about you? Could you see yourself married? A family?” 

Severus scoffs. The most guttural and disbelieving scoff of a lifetime. 

“A wife?” He rolls his eyes as he stares at the bottle. “What woman would tie herself to me? Even if I did want it—even if I found her, and she was mad enough to chain herself to me—”

His chuckle is dark and raspy. 

“No.” He tilts the bottle sideways so that liquid slants. “I don’t think I’d be brave enough to ask. To put her through that. As for children, I have enough of those during the day…”

He blinks sluggishly. 

“But if they were hers…” He slurs.

Severus puts down the bottle and lets his hand rest on his thigh next to hers. Their fingers are so close that if she dares to reach just a little—just a smidge more—they could link themselves upon their lap. 

“Well, I think you can have anything you want.” Hermione states matter-of-factly. “Somewhere out there—in some other world—you are free. Safe and happy. Maybe married to someone if you wanted to be…and maybe even stop wearing black.” 

He laughs at first, but it crumbles and turns bitter at the end. 

“But not in this one.”

“No.” She agrees, while letting her pinky stretch out and link with his. “Not yet, at least.” 

“Well? ” Her best friend insists. 

Hermione covers a smile by biting her lip. 

“I think…” She doesn’t look up from writing her arithmancy equations. “He’s starting to trust me. Maybe I didn’t mess it up after all.”

“What happened?” Asks Draco.

“Nothing, really. He was hurt again, and then we…just talked—shared a bottle. Drank, laughed…you know—talked.” 

Harry elbows Draco, and offers his hand palm up. She refuses to look up from her paper. She doesn’t want to see the grin that she knows is plastered on his face right now. 

“That counts. That’s totally a date.” Harry argues.

Draco, frowning at her deeply, proceeds to take out a tenner and places it in Harry’s awaiting palm. 

“Simulating a bar date now, Granger? What next—taking him out on a picnic?”

Hermione snorts to hide a laugh. And places her hand in front of her mouth to try and conceal the stupid dream-like grin that has placed itself there.

Well, why not? 

Maybe she will one day. Maybe when this is all over—

After all, everyone deserves a nice picnic. 

Even Severus Snape. 

____

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Were you able to Remain Yourself? 

“Is that you, Hermione Granger?” asks an airy dream-like voice that rings out into the open air as if it were a chime of a bell. 

“...Luna?” Hermione gasps. “Luna, you’re back!”

She’s running now—straight down Diagon alley like a mad woman on a mission—and tackles the petite woman with a hug. A few wizards frown disapprovingly at her, but she doesn’t care. 

If Hermione is small for an average woman—Luna is fairy-like, in all the ways Hermione is simply not.  

She is small-boned and delicate in a way that Hermione’s wide shoulders and wide hips contrast in every manner. Her olive skin and dark brown hair is polar to Luna’s silvery paleness and platinum locks. Her own sensible army-green jumper and grey muggle jeans with a black outer-robe seem almost militant. Especially when compared to Luna’s blue striped shirt with little pineapples on it and flowy-gauzy-canary-yellow skirt that makes her look like a pixie.

They are foils in every way—physically and mentally.

Hermione has no problem admitting that Luna Lovegood was perhaps her biggest misconception.

When they met, teenage-Hermione could not handle Luna. She was nonsensical, illogical, and all the things her teenage-self did not value, nor understand. Every time she rambled on a nonexistent creature, Hermione longed to shut her down, reinform her, and then politely tell her to stop spouting nonsense. 

In fact, she would go so far as to say Luna antagonized her in a fundamental sense.

If Hermione was all order, rules, and logic. Luna was unbound, quirkiness, and intuition.

But as Hermione grew older—

And the world stopped making sense—where cruelty and whimsy; and despair and hope started to exist side by side—Luna Lovegood became this wonderful, beautiful, sacred thing. 

While Ginny, Harry, and Ron are all her best friends—

There is something about Luna Lovegood that Hermione thinks makes her the very best of friends. 

She is everything Hermione is not. 

And she loves her for that. 

When Hermione was drowning after the war, it was Luna that said Come on! Let’s swim. When she wanted to burn the Ministry down, Luna was the one that said I’ll get the matches. On the days where she was angry over the injustice of losing her childhood, Luna would say It's never too late to have that childhood now. And take her to a carnival, fete, or a bonfire out in the woods where they would drink and laugh until the sun came up. 

She always understood Hermione, more than she understood herself. Somewhere along the way—they became the sun and the moon, and shared the same light. 

And like the wind—Luna blew in and out of her life. She roamed the earth, searching for her creatures. Going from country to country, culture to culture, lover to lover—she was a nomad in every sense. And Hermione would wait for her on these rare days when she would come home. 

“Luna…God—I didn’t know you were in town?—please, please tell me you’re staying awhile?” Hermione blurts, far too excited. 

“I am,” Luna smiles dizzily, as Hermione practically hauls her to the side of the pavement.

“We found the single-striped Occamy up in the Himalayas. I’ll be home writing an article on it for the Quibbler before finishing the excerpt for my book.” 

Grinning as she stores her wand behind her ear, Luna adds, “I was just going to owl you today. How fortunate of us to meet this way, don’t you think?” 

Hermione beams, “Are you busy now? Do you want to grab a butterbeer at the Leaky?”

“Yes, please.” She links her arm with Hermione’s as they walk towards the entrance of bricks.

“You wouldn't believe how much I miss butterbeer. Although, curiously fermented Bicorn milk tastes somewhat similar.” 

“I see.” She does not see. But she’s too thrilled to care.

“You would have loved Nepal, Hermione. I leave you for seven months, and look at the state of the Wrackspurts on you—the clean mountain air would’ve helped clear all that up.”

The blond mentions while looking around Hermione’s head like she can see something that others obviously can’t. 

Smiling, Hermione leads on—genuinely filled with so much nostalgia, it chokes her up a bit. 

“A lot has happened since you’ve been gone, Luna.” 

“I can see that. You’ve obviously been successful, then.” 

They make their way inside and find a quiet booth off to the side of the pub. Luna doesn’t know a single detail about her mission in the Department of Mysteries, but her intuition is always on point. Eerily so. 

“In a manner of speaking. But I’m not quite finished yet.”

“No, of course not.” She replies airily, “Your aura is all mixed up at the moment—all muddled. I expect there is still a lot to resolve.” 

“There is.”

“You won’t tell me more? Even if it’s roundabout?”

“Eventually. But first tell me all about Nepal—” 

They catch up the way only old friends can do—with a whole lot of words, and very little actually said. Just events, and life updates, and emotions pouring from their mouths in a steady stream of laughter, and giggles and shrugs and head nods.

She tells Luna of Ginny’s second pregnancy, and the birth of her godson—the little Albus Potter. Her newfound friendship with Draco, and the new Trio they’ve currently come to know. Then, hears all about Luna’s latest adventures, or escapades—Rolf, or some Magical Oceanographer, or whoever passes her fancy at the moment—with eager ears. 

But Hermione notices how the blonde’s eye keeps drifting behind her every once in a while. 

Taking a stealthy sip of her butterbeer, she takes a peek over her shoulder to see what is grabbing her friend’s attention.

Hermione nearly chokes on her butterbeer.

Oh?

Theodore Nott is sitting at the bar, sipping a tumbler of Firewhiskey and chatting with Hannah Abbott and Neville Longbottom as they tend to their domain. It’s all friendly. Jovial even. Which really shouldn’t be that surprising with how much she finds Draco or Pansy with Gryffindors these days.

His wavy brown hair is slicked back quite handsomely. But the long, green velvet coat and bright orange vest underneath throws Hermione off a bit. 

“Luna…do you know Theodore Nott?”

“I do.” She smiles dreamily. “He’s quite clever, you know.”

She thinks of the scrawny Slytherin boy who was in some of her classes growing up. He was always right behind her in grades, and one of the more tolerable of the old snakes. Smart. Eccentric, too. 

“How do you know him…?”

“Oh, he writes for the Quibbler sometimes—under a pseudonym, of course.” 

“What? Really—?”

“The Silver Fox. After his patronus, I think. He’s very sly like that. I once gave him a pair of spectrespecs, and he charmed them to see Nargles, too. Very clever.”

“Is that so…” 

“He’s been helping Daddy with the Quibbler for years since the War. Unfortunately, his own father was rather horrid before he died. I think he likes finally having a voice after all those years of trying to stay hidden and out of sight.” 

Nott almost spits out his drink at something Neville says, and tips back his head and laughs. It's warm and sincere—

“Ah. I really love seeing him like that.” 

“...like what?” Hermione asks slowly. 

“Free.” 

Something cracks in Hermione’s chest. She understands with such a visceral force that it almost knocks her off her feet. 

“Do you…do you fancy him, Luna?”

Her blue eyes sparkle as if she is waiting for the question. 

“I do.” 

“...does he fancy you, too?”

“Not yet. But I think he will one day.” The blond replies plainly, in the forthcoming way only Luna Lovegood could. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It’s not our time yet. I think he wants to, but doesn’t know how. It’s all very intimidating for him.” She drags her eyes away from Nott, and looks back at Hermione as she leans in, “But I’ll wait. I can be very patient, you see.” 

Hermione blinks. 

“I think you’ll have to wait a bit, too. Whoever you’re looking for—they need the time, it would seem.” 

She says, like it’s something plain like the weather. 

“Relationships are all about timing, I’d imagine. Some move really fast; others extraordinarily slow—some lines just hover inches apart and never actually touch. But I suspect if you’re patient, and honest—it's all just a matter of time.” 

Hermione swallows. 

“What if…what if he never crosses that line? What if he thinks it's not worth it?” 

Luna smiles—that lovely, gentle, dreamy smile that instantly soothes her own sparking nerves. 

“That’s the funny thing about love—” Hermione involuntarily jolts at the word. “—people often have already crossed that line without even knowing it. And then, there’s no going back.” 

She thinks about what Luna says for days. And then decides, with her shoulders back and her head held high—

That she and Severus—

They are stuck between moments of time. Neither going forward, nor back. That if there is an ‘us’, it couldn’t move forward yet.

So, they will hover there—in the in-between. 

In a no man’s land where both are at a stalemate—

Hermione won’t pursue him because the choice must be his. 

And Severus—

If he does feel anything for her. She assumes he won’t act on anything because—honestly, why bother when you’ll probably end up dead? She knows it's not his priority with a War on, nor is it his goal by any means. 

So, they stay there wrapped up in a fog—

With one foot in the future—

With one foot in the grave—

Somewhere—Hermione thinks—Jane Austen would call it Half Agony, Half Hope.

She desperately tries not to think about him during her days—but she will sometimes hear a deep voice, or see a black cloak, or smell pewter cauldrons or herbs—and her face turns to find him like a sunflower searching for the sun. 

Her nights, well…

Her nights she sometimes thinks how nice it would be to sleep in a nest of black wool. To feel the flutter of the ends of his hair on her face or skin like feathers. To hear a dark chuckle ghost the edge of her ear. There are those nights—between wakefulness and dreams—where she can feel his warmth, and can fool herself into thinking he is there too. 

Hermione doesn’t know when it became quite so serious. It was just admiration at first. Then, intellectual interest. Which led to attraction. Now, she wouldn’t dare put a name to it. 

Like an ailment, it overtook her body, then mind—until she became sick from the very thought of him.

It must be visible to others, she thinks. An obvious sign of her illness for all to see.

But Severus isn’t mundane enough to be a stubborn cough that mildly inconveniences her. Or gentle enough to be a fever reddening her cheeks like a tender blush—

No, she might as well have black pustules bursting on her skin. Darkening fingers and toes. Hollow eyes. And a stench that followed her everywhere. 

Her very own Black Plague. 

A half jump this time—

Hermione needs to start narrowing the dates to test control. She subconsciously chooses the most memorable night—the night everything changed—and has the intense need to check up on him.

June 30, 1997. The night of Albus Dumbledore’s death.

Barely a handful of months, yet everything in the world has altered for him since. Hermione knows going into this jump that it isn’t going to be lighthearted, and lovely—

But as soon as he appears—

Hermione is deplorably unprepared for the weight he would bring with him. 

Severus Snape appears in her stark white room, like a black hole that sucks everything—the light, the sound, the air, the warmth, and even the happiness—right out of the room. With a gravitational pull, he pulls it all to him and vanishes it as if it has no right to exist in the very same plane as him right now. 

His black robes are spread out around him. His head is bent, a woeful bow—humbled by the very weight of his grief. She can feel the way his magic blankets the room. The heaviness of it suffocates and smothers everything else.  

Hermione can’t see his face—doesn’t need to—to know. 

It’s tangible. She can taste the wretchedness in the air like the metallic zing of metal on her tongue. Can see how remorse drips from his skin and puddles on the floor. How misery crackles in his lungs and stifles every breath. 

The force of his sorrow is singular. 

Hermione doesn’t—can’t—say anything. So, instead she goes to him; lets herself get sucked into the pull of his gravitational swirl. 

Lets her heart be drawn to his. 

With each step that she takes closer, he infinitesimally raises his gaze. 

By the time she is standing right in front of him, she's able to see the bricks of his Occlumency walls reflecting back in his eyes. Can see the way the carefully built walls are crumbling into grit—cracking between the mortar—and teetering on becoming a ruin. 

Their eyes meet.

And Hermione smiles—a miserable, dismal tilt of her lips that she barely manages—

Within a span of a blink, his walls collapse. And the emotion floods. 

The rush of unchecked feelings pours out of him in drifts. 

“No, no…” Severus stumbles back harshly looking away from her. 

His hands reach up and drag down his face with claw-like fingers that almost tear into the skin. 

“That manipulative, condescending arsehole. That pillock…that twit…!” 

He groans, as his hands flail in front of him as if to push her away. He’s blinking hard, gasping in air as if hyperventilating, with wild eyes.  

“The fucking imbecile…how could he?” 

“Severus…?” 

“No, no, no—” He struggles for air. “I can’t. I won’t—”

“Severus, please.” 

He blinks. And blinks, and blinks—

Each fall of his lashes, chips something away. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, and she realizes the mistake of her words—Dumbledore’s final words—just a little too late. 

He hunches forward, falling to the floor. 

And he is suddenly clinging to her. On his knees while burying his face in her abdomen. His arms wrapping around her waist like a vine on a tree. His shoulders shake and there are loud gasping inhales of breath. His nose digs into the soft marshmallow-y part of her lower stomach, and her shirt becomes damp from wetness of his tears.

Severus is crying on her, and all she can do is stand there like a pillar and keep them both upright. 

Blinking back the stinging of tears in her own eyes, Hermione tries to staunch the sudden impact of emotion at seeing him like this. Her chest aches. Her throat burns as it bottles. And instantly, she caves into him. Tries to soothe with gentle fingers in his hair, rubbing his back, his neck, his shoulders—

Anywhere she can touch, she does. Her magic tries to leach into him on its own accord, as if it's trying to heal a wound it doesn’t quite understand. 

Eventually, her legs grow weak and the weight of him drags her down. He doesn’t let go—instead he pulls her in—transferring his face to her shoulder. Resting her cheek on the top of his head, Hermione lets herself be crushed against him. His fingers grip themselves along her spine—and she knows she couldn't remove herself even if she wanted to.

Swallowed by his black cloak, it floats around them like a cocoon. Both of them tucked safely away inside. As if it is altering the very genetic code of their being, bit by bit—and emerging as something new. Something blended between the two of them. Durable and strong. But pliant. 

Something relentless.

“That bastard.” Severus hisses against her collar bone. “He knew. He was my friend sometimes, but he must have known I hated him, too.” 

Hermione’s throat is sore, her voice graveled. 

“...you have to mean an Unforgivable.” 

“Yes…” 

Severus scoffs—it’s broken with more than just anger. 

“And he had the gall to capitalize on that fact. To use my hatred to his advantage. And here I was, half-expecting it wouldn’t work. But he knew that it would.”

She wants to say that she’s so sorry that Dumbledore made him suffer—made him kill maybe the only friend he’s had for a long while. Used his resentment and rage to further ensnare him on that tightrope where he balances so delicately among Light and Darkness. Made him crack his soul just a little more. 

Hermione wants to say so much—but doesn’t know how. 

So instead, she says— 

“I’m sorry he made you do that. It wasn’t fair.” It sounds petulant and childish even to her own ears. “I’m so so so sorry, Severus—”

God, she’s such an idiot. Surely, there are better words? The vast majority of the English language would be better than this. But she knows no matter what she says, it won’t fix anything.

So, she cradles his head a little tighter. Plays with the ends of his hair and rubs his shoulders. Lets him cling, and lets herself bear the weight. 

When his breathing slows, she releases him with a small sad smile that is more of a wince and apology than a comfort.  Because she knows it’s finally time—

Hermione Accio’s with the wave of her hand. 

The book, far newer than the one that came before it, flies into her hand from her office’s open doorway. 

She pulls his talon-like grip from her—finger by finger—and places the written work in his hands. 

“Hogwarts: A History. The 1999 edition with my own personal notes to fill in the gaps.” Hermione sucks in a shaky breath. “...I think...it’s time for you to see a little more clearly. Read it well, learn everything you can—it’s all in there.” 

Severus is blankly looking at her, but she pushes on. Flipping open the book towards the end of text, Hermione holds it up for him to see. Right where she left a simple ribbon of a bookmark. 

His eyes trail down…

He almost drops the book—like it burns his fingers—as he recoils quickly. 

But she catches his hands and brings them back to the text, with her own to support the heaviness of the words it bears: 

-Chapter Twenty-One: Headmaster Snape’s Reign of Terror- 

Severus is staring at the words with a dead, vacant sort of stare that is the equivalent of one looking at their own epitaph. And Hermione knows she has just become the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and is looking at an Ebenezer Scrooge. The difference being, this Scrooge saw it coming miles away and was doomed to it anyway.  

It takes a minute, but she watches how his long, graceful fingers decide not to let go. The support of the book lessens on her end, as he is finally able to lift it himself. She drags her hands away—lets him carry it on his own. 

Tilting his chin up, Hermione waits for his gaze until it meets hers. She takes her time, cradling his face with both hands—pushing the hair from his face. Cupping his jaw and chin. 

And then finally—

A swipe of the pad of her thumb against his bottom lip.

Just like he had done to her not so long ago—

A sign of affection. 

“We will endure, Headmaster…” 

Hermione whispers and it sounds like a caress. A promise. 

“...thanks to you.” 

Harry invites her to go to Godric Hollow on Halloween to visit James and Lily’s grave. She doesn’t say no, although her stomach turns a little at the thought. 

It is reminiscent of their time on the run—just him and her—but instead of snow and twinkling lights, there are jack o’ lanterns on doorsteps, and fake spider webs in bushes and trees. It's all changed, except—somehow—they are still the same. 

Him and Her. Harry and Hermione.

Harry makes his way to the tombstone not at all solemn, but with a spring in his step, eager to speak with his parents. He likes to tell them of little James and Albus…likes them to know that their family still grows and flourishes. How it persists.  

Hermione stays a few steps behind, watching the grown orphan dust off dead leaves of brown, orange, and yellow. Kneeling before the grave, he begins quietly greeting his mother and father.

She stares at the name written in stone— 

Lily Potter. 

The beautiful, kind, clever Lily Potter. Head Girl. Top of her Class. The Muggleborn witch that not only held her own with her intelligence, but turned every head—the very center of attention. A social butterfly that made friends easily; that drew people to her like the flower she was. 

“I think my Mum would like what you’re doing for Snape.” Harry says out of nowhere, bringing her attention back to him. “He can finally have some peace. Maybe let her go.” 

Hermione manages a wane smile, and a nod. 

She doesn’t hate Lily. Doesn’t necessarily like her either. Doesn’t really know her. But it seems like the woman's legacy is constantly compared with her own in small ways. 

Whether it’s Slughorn saying he had taught another Muggleborn-witch that impressed him. Or McGonagall mentioning she would’ve made a fine Head Girl if she had the chance, ‘—just like Lily’. Or Sirius and Remus joking that she was spitfire just like Lily was—

Or how Harry called them 'The Women in his Life': Lily, Ginny, and Hermione. The Mother, Wife, and Sister. 

And some part of her—

The secret ugly part of her—

The part that wanted to roll her eyes at what Harry just said. Tell him that she could care less if Lily Potter approved or not about Severus. That she wasn’t doing it for her. 

Or the part of her that was desperately hoping that Severus didn’t make the same comparisons. Didn’t see Lily, when he looked at her. 

Hermione didn’t want to be a second choice, or mirror of someone long past.  

If Lily was a beautifully preserved flower forever sleeping in her glass coffin like Snow White, how could Hermione ever compare? 

She was, after all—

Just a dandelion. 

Or a Mermaid that melted into salt and seafoam.   

Two days after Halloween, she makes the decision to do another pull. It's a holiday of sorts—some call it All Soul’s Day, others say the Day of the Dead. Still part of Samhain. Allerseelen. Dia de los Muertos. 

Either way it's a day where souls walk the earth, and people remember. 

She’s no better than Harry, really. She’s an orphan who wants her parents—the only difference being that Harry has a grave to talk to. 

(And she does not.)

Her parents—or what was left of them—died in Australia before she could restore their memories. 

They were killed in a car crash—

(A. fucking. car. crash.)

—cremated and buried there in their little town in Queensland before she could even set foot in the country. 

(Before Voldemort was even dead.)

They died not even knowing they had a daughter. 

So on days like today, she wonders: which souls walk the earth—her parents? Or the couple that was childless? If she lit a candle in a church or put their picture on an ofrenda, who would she get—Mum and Dad, or some strangers?

…if she’s the only one alive that remembers—did it ever really happen? 

(If…if Severus ends up dying—was any of it real?)

No, she can’t let that happen. She must remember even if she is the last one to. 

Thus, feeling a little maudlin, Hermione attempts to call Severus to her on the Halloween Night of 1997. And laughs a little at herself, for basically attempting a convoluted form of a seance by calling a long-departed-soul back from the dead. 

Just four months separate from the last jump, but she’s certain her accuracy is increasing. Each pull, she inserts the data to her equations—as the numbers solidify into a far more manageable matrix—her confidence can’t help but grow.

He appears, and the first words out of his mouth are—

“The snake…?” Severus hisses.

“Of all the ways he could kill me. The nose-less bastard doesn’t even have the decency to Avada me swiftly—” 

Hermione grins at his macabre humor. 

“I see we’ve done some reading.” She ignores his incredulous look. “The date, please?”

“October 31, 1997. Your impeccable timing persists. You’ve picked one hell of a night to call upon me.” 

“Oh, excellent. Love it when I hit my target. Just heads up—I’m going to try for Christmas next jump, so just be ready.” 

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. It’s such a familiar image that Hermione has seen over years of potion classes. She can almost hear him calling students dunderheads, and grumbling as long robes sweep through the room. 

“The Carrow’s have organized a little Samhain ‘festivity’ this year. To which the students look like they’d rather drink distilled Bubotuber pus than have anything to do with it. And I—to my immense pleasure—have to make sure that neither twin is inclined to ‘participate’. Whether that means them leering at the older students, or punishing the younger with Crucio.”

“Charming.”

“No, Hermione. What’s ‘charming’ is watching Miss Weasley and Mr. Longbottom believe they are staging a secret coup right under my sizable nose.” 

“The hazards of Gryffindors, I’d imagine.” Her tone comes out entirely too cocky. 

Severus snorts. “May 2nd certainly cannot come fast enough.” 

“Don’t be so eager for death,” Hermione clicks her tongue at him while crossing her arms. 

“Eager for peace—whatever form that comes in.” 

Well. There is a certain truth in that statement that she cannot argue against. 

“Were you able to read all the way through?”

Severus nods while running an irritated hand through his long hair. It is more lank than usual. His skin is steadily turning sallow almost as if it is decaying excruciatingly slowly. There is the beginning a patchy five o’clock shadow on his jaw and upper lip, and dark rings under eyes. 

He looks rumpled and haggard—and everything a Headmaster should probably not be. 

“I’ve read it all several times over. Practically memorized it. Your added notes, in particular, were very helpful.” 

She tries not to preen at the praise, “Glad to help. It was a chaotic time, with many moving pieces. I’m not—” 

Hermione sighs, “I’m not trying to influence your decisions. I’m just trying to give you an idea of what’s to come—I just want to be clear. My goal is not to help you succeed in fulfilling the past, as much as it is to prepare you for the moment I intend to take you out of it.” 

Severus gives her a long, measured look. His expression is as unreadable as ever—but there is a small dip in the corner of his lips that she doesn’t understand. He takes a moment, then tilts his head in a stern nod.

“I appreciate that.” He says in a low voice. “But there wasn’t much there that I didn’t already predict—although the snake was an unpleasant surprise.”

That is expected. Hermione knows that he and Dumbledore have always been playing the long game. She is sure he has his own instructions from the infamous-puppet-master, and every outcome is predicted to accommodate it. 

“Except.” Severus clasps his hands in front of his waist and raises a brow. “…there seems to be a small issue.” 

“And that is…?”

“How…close…does the outcome need to be to what you consider written history?” 

Hermione blinks in confusion, “What do you mean? I’m not entirely sure, since you’ve never hinted at knowing me when I was at Hogwarts—” a decisive scoff from Severus. “...but it seems to be a closed loop. It should all be sort of…” she waves a hand vaguely, “...self-fulfilling, I’d imagine.” 

Both of his eyebrows are now raised; in a sign she now recognizes as him about to say something exceedingly theatrical.  

“Potter needs the sword—” Severus does a dramatic show of a gallic shrug, with hands out in utter nonchalance. “—which I have at the moment. Based on written histories and Potter’s memories, I apparently place it in a lake in the Forest of Dean for him to find, correct?”

“Yes…?” Hermione asks, not completely sure what he’s getting at. 

“Then why—if I may be so bold as to ask—does he think my Patronus is a doe?” 

Hermione fumbles. 

No, that’s not quite right—her mouth flounders like a fish and she is so momentarily confused that her brain might as well have shut down for a second. 

“I—your—” she blubbers, brows furrowing. “—your doe. Idon’tunderstand. You—love her?” 

“I…love her?” 

“Your patronus. It’s a doe. For—” Oh, God. Her tongue feels like lead. “—for Lily.” 

“I…love…her? ” Severus repeats slowly.

“You love—well, Lily.” Hermione finishes flatly. And stupidly. Honestly, a bit mind fucked.  

Severus’ normally expressionless face is doing the opposite now. There are so many emotions running through his features that it’s like watching the telly flipping through channels. Snippets of emotions flash in and out of visual range—until it just sort of stalls into a fuzzy static.

“I love her.” He repeats again, hollowly. “You think…I love…Lily?”

Then, he just looks done. 

“Do you love Potter?” He asks furiously. 

“W-what—? ” Her tongue trips on the word, as Severus physically takes a step closer to her. He’s crowding her again—towering over her.

“Do. you. love. Potter ?”

 She stumbles. “Of course, I do. He’s my best—” 

“Your best friend? ” He grounds out in a hiss. “You think—I’ve what? Been pining after her all this time? Yearning for a dead married woman for nearly two decades—? ‘Poor, Severus’, you thought, ‘Such a pity he couldn’t learn to let go’.”

“But Harry and the memories—”

“No.” He bites out, but then flinches back as if she slapped him. His expression drops from anger to anguish with each retreating step.  “She is not the woman I love. Surely—you know this. You must know this—” 

“I…but Harry saw a doe. He needs the doe for him to trust it—”

“Memories can be altered. They can be edited or tampered with. If your friend saw a doe, then that is what he shall see.”

His head bows as he pinches the bridge of his nose again. 

“But in the memories. Harry said that Dumbledore asked you if—” 

“Yes.” His gaze cut up to her sharply. “He asked me if I still loved the same woman after all this time. But not Lily. Never Lily.” 

Hermione sucks in a harsh breath. It trips—stumbles and falls flat on its face—in her chest painfully; rattles in her rib cage and feels as though it drops right out her swooshing stomach.

She brings a trembling hand up to her mouth in an attempt to cover the wobble of her lips. 

(Merlin. God—)

Her eyes burn. And she attempts to blink back the tears threatening to escape, but it's like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time—she can’t seem to control the emotional response of corresponding parts of her body congruently. 

Severus swallows—the movement of his tightened jaw, and Adam's apple bobbing—drawing her eyes steadily. 

His eyes travel around her face—no doubt seeing the wide, owlish look of her expression, or the way she can’t seem to breathe with a bottled throat. Her panic. Her hope. 

He takes his time, as if memorizing her. Then, his eyes drop—

Slowly, they rake down her neck…drag along her collarbone…follow the curve of her breast...caress her ribs…the dip of her waist…her hips…

(Heavy-lidded. Lustful. Languid.)

Hermione can feel the way they linger at her thighs, tickle the back of knees, and make their way down to her jittery feet before—

(Leisurely…torturously…deliciously...)

—making their way back up to her own. 

He’s not hiding it. Not even trying. His eyes are dilated and blown wide.  And so so dark that only the most scandalous of thoughts could only exist there.

The way her core tightens. Fuck, it’s obscene… 

She licks her lips—

“If it's not a doe…then, what is your patronus?” 

(Godric, bless her Gryffindor bravery.)

He must be thinking the same thing—because his lips twitch into a terrible smirk that makes her want to lick it right off. 

He lifts his black Ebony wand—pale, long fingers pad the runic handle—and casts a non-verbal patronus. 

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust. The room is already excruciatingly bright, and at first the ghostly form blends with its surroundings. It’s not until she sees something wrap itself around his black form that she can make it out—

(It’s—)

It’s a centipede. 

An automimicry centipede—to be exact—with its head and its tail mimicking each other with long antennae so that it is unclear which end is which. 

Waves of legs slither together as it wraps itself around Severus’ cloak. To call it huge—would be an understatement. It was the size of python, at least. 

The pure scale of it makes it insidious. The only arthropod she’s seen of this proportion are the Acromantula, and she couldn’t argue that this is any less terrifying. The bolt of fear that slides down her spine like ice seems like a reasonable and natural response to such a beast. 

That is, until Severus holds out his hand above the massive thing, and its—head?—lifts up letting its antennae brush against hand, almost lovingly like a pet.   

“The woman I love—that same woman—told me once to be just like this little monster—” 

It coils tighter against him as if disputing that name. 

“—and I’m afraid I took it quite literally.” 

Severus’ hand lingers along the segments of its back for a second looking at the creature with fondness. He then takes a few steps toward her—the centipede, jostled by the movement, begins climbing upward around his body until it perches itself higher on his shoulder. 

Her first instinct is to retreat, despite it being attached to Severus. Trying to swallow her repulsion, Hermione does her best to not flinch back.

By the time he stops right in front of her, the creature lifts its head and cocks it curiously at her. It’s eyeing her with eyes she cannot see, but feels vividly. Curious fluttering antennae stretch towards like a tentative hand, as she offers her own hand for it to—Smell? Recognize? Feel?  

She can’t touch it. It’s not a real thing, just a patronus, but she can almost imagine it tickling her palm. And maybe because it’s Severus’, and this is the summation of all his happiness—all his light—that despite its scary appearance, it still somehow makes her smile.

When she looks up, Severus is watching her with something soft, something delicate, and sweet and beautiful like intricate lace icing piped on a cake. 

“This Little Monster has been mine since I was sixteen years old and first cast it. It has always been this way—” he whispers firmly in a low gentle voice, as if trying to make sure his meaning translates to her clearly.

“…Always.” 

Her eyes flicker back and forth between his. Hermione reads the insistence in his tone and the surety of his gaze, like lines of words on a page. It’s written on his lips and printed on his skin—

Choose me. Want me. Love me—

And she wants, and she wants, and she wants—

(—it all to be true.)

Reaching out, her fingers grip his gauzy black robe like a rope and try to tether it to her being. She sinks her nails into the fabric—but it might as well have been her claws, her hooks, her teeth. 

She doesn’t want to let him go.

But before she can reply, he—

And the little monster—

Fade out of sight. 

They swirl away from her—one bright, one dark—to go back to their time. And something is ripped away; something is taken from her. 

She lets out a shaky, frustrated breath.

(Fuck it.)

She’s so sick of how they always seem to be running out of time…

“Hello, Teddy!” Hermione grins at the six-year-old boy, while offering him her hand in a high five. 

“Hermione—thank Merlin.” 

Draco gives a gentle nudge to Teddy’s shoulder as if he is passing the young boy to her. He manages all this while putting one arm in his lime-green Healer’s robes. 

They almost look like father and son at the moment with Teddy copying Draco’s platinum blonde hair. He could be Scorpius’ older brother. 

“I’m sorry about this, truly. Potter rushed out on us right after lunch—and then I just got summoned for a call at St. Mungo’s. The timing of this day has been abysmal.”

“It's no problem, really.”

“I would’ve brought him down to Level-Nine for you, but I don’t think he has special clearance yet. Isn’t that right, Future-Auror-Lupin?” 

“Not yet, Uncle Draco! Next time bring Scorp, okay?” Teddy beams as Draco gives him a mock salute. He ruffles the boy’s hair affectionately, before turning to her.

“You’ll be alright?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, of course. We’ll just camp out in Uncle Harry’s office for a while, won’t we?” 

She eyes an open filing cabinet of Harry’s files that is stuffed to the brim and overflowing with parchment that has been charmed to different colors. She can see a few of her bright post-its she gifted Harry attempting to label the stacks. 

Hermione clicks her tongue at the mess. 

“Maybe even play a sorting game.” 

Draco follows her gaze to the offending cabinet, and snorts. 

“Don’t do all his work for him, Granger.”

“I’m not.” She says irritably; and it sounds only half-true—even to her. 

“Right.” The Slytherin rolls his eyes at her this time. “Well, have fun…organizing with Aunt Hermione for a bit. Potter or I will be back when we can. Be good, yeah?”

Teddy nods. With one last high five, they say goodbye and Draco departs. 

“Well. Shall we?” Hermione makes her way to the filing cabinet and grabs a handful before dropping the pile on Harry’s desk with a thud. “Let’s see…what kind of yellow would you say this is, Teddy?” 

She holds up the yellow paper for him to see. 

“Mmmm I don’t know. Banana yellow?” 

“Oh, yum. Good choice. I’m going to be hungry after this—what about this one? What fruit is this one?” 

“Blueberry.” 

“Excellent choice, Mr. Lupin. How about this?”

Teddy’s nose scrunches up adorably. 

“It’s green. There aren’t any green fruits. That’s a vegetable color.”

“Ah!” Letting her jaw hang open, she mocks outrage. “What will I tell the Honeydews? The kiwis? The pears? The green apples! Do they know they aren’t fruit?” 

Teddy giggles, “I suppose that’s true…this one is a little darker than that though…maybe a cucumber?” 

“Oh. A fruit hidden as a veggie. Very sneaky—I approve.” Hermione takes her time setting the colors in distinct piles on the desk. “Now—why don’t we make a blueberry and banana smoothie? Could you collect all those for me? And I'll get the cucumbers.” 

He nods enthusiastically before reaching for the blue and yellow papers. 

“Nice, neat piles, please.” 

“Hey, Aunt Mione—do you know, I ate a yogurt just like that at Muggle school the other day.”

“Did you? Was it delicious?”

“It was.” Teddy nods. But then something changes. Teddy looks down at his yellow paper with his nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed. His bright platinum hair fades to a sandy-blonde mixed with brown. The same color as his father's. “Well…it was.”

Hermione slows her shuffling of papers but doesn’t stop completely. Trying to play it cool, she does her best not to pressure him.

“Oh?” She asks airily. “Did something happened?”

“Matthias Grover.” The boy grumbles. “He said I have to buy school lunch so much because I don’t have real parents. That even they didn’t want to take care of me.”

Hermione bristles. “Well, Matthias Grover is a foul, vile, little dung beetle. And has no idea what he’s talking about. Muggles don't know about the War, or what your parents sacrificed—” 

Teddy folds one of the edges of the paper absentmindedly “That’s what Uncle Harry said.”

“Good. What a barbaric thing to say to someone.” 

“Aunt Mione…what do you think happened to my parents?” 

The paper shuffling comes to an abrupt halt. 

Hermione is not prepared for this. Not now. Probably not days, weeks, maybe even years from now would she be ready for this. 

“I—well…they died, Teddy.”

“I know that.” He looks at her dumbly. “I meant after. Where are they now.” 

Her mind spins; mouth full of cotton with nothing right to say.

“Uncle Draco says that they went with their families. The Blacks for Mum, and the Lupins for Dad. Parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts that all came before them.” 

Teddy wrinkles his nose again. Hermione almost snorts because, of course Draco thinks of ancestral lineage as an afterlife. 

“But Nan said that can't be true. That Mum would’ve rather eat troll boogies than be with the other Blacks.” 

“Very true.”

“Uncle Harry says that they stay with me. And watch over me, like a ghost or something.” 

She thinks of what Harry said about the Resurrection stone. About Lily’s last act of love. It’s corporal to Harry. Physical manifestation he can see and talk to. It all makes a lot of sense in Harry’s eyes. 

“And what did your Nan say?” 

The boy shrugs. “She said she didn’t know.” 

Hermione hums quietly in acknowledgment. Andromeda has lost more than most from the war. Her husband, daughter, and son-in-law have all left her behind; her grief is as prominent today as it was then. 

“Hmmm that’s a tough question, isn’t it?” 

She gathers the last few papers in their color-coded piles and lets her fingers do the moving for a minute while mouth takes a reprieve. 

Hermione thinks of her parents. 

Of her Dad. The silly smile he would have when he danced with her in front of the Christmas tree. Or how his slight potbelly bounced when he laughed. The way his mustache tickled her cheek when he kissed it. 

Of her Mum. The soothing smell of her Mum’s perfume. Or the softness of her smooth hair that was so different from her daughters. The curly-looped-handwriting that only she could decipher that she would find on cards, lists, and notes. 

Hermione sucks in a breath—the very air tastes of all she misses. 

“I think…similar to your Uncle Harry, that they are still with you. Just not in the same form.” 

Teddy looks at her curiously. 

“How much do you know about Muggle sciences? You know what?—nevermind. Here.” 

She hands him a piece of paper.

“There is a law in science that states that things—matter—cannot be created or destroyed in a reaction. Meaning if I burn this paper you’re holding right now—all the smoke, and ash, water vapor—would weigh the exact same as the paper does now before the change. What was there before is still there.” 

“I think…when the people we love die, they just become a different form. And all the love they had for you—all that energy—it passes on to you. Like a snowball swelling as it rolls, it will grow and grow. And you’ll find someone you love one day, and grow it more and more. Until you're so full of it that it’s seeping out of you and leaking onto everything you touch.”

“What do you mean?” He tilts his head.

“Like when you eat something with honey and everything else you touch after is sticky no matter what.” Hermione smiles. “And when it’s your turn, then you’ll pass it along too. And so forth and so forth.” 

“I think…we give someone our love. All the happy moments…and sad moments. They all add up to a whole. And that…can never be destroyed.” 

She carries her Mum and Dad in her. They were part of her. She was their living legacy; the entire summation of them.

Whoever she chose to love, and whoever loved her—would be loving part of them, too. 

It is the same with Severus.

If…

If…Severus doesn’t make it. 

Then, that is all she will have. Pieces of a whole. Pieces of him—moments of time with him—that have blended with herself to add up to something so much larger than either of them. 

If she has to walk this earth without him. She will carry the weight of his life on her shoulders. Strap it on her back and continue up the hill.  And she would do it again and again and again…

Hermione doesn’t say much more. But the boy beside her is blinking harshly at the paper, wetness gleaming in his eyes, when he whispers—

“A love that can never be destroyed.” 

And then—

He smiles. 

Her Time-sand Room is almost empty. 

Her floating galaxies and swirling nebula have been diminished to a simple strand of sand that spirals in the center of the empty darkness of the room. The glow from the sand is so dim she is forced to light the sconces on the walls for the first time in ages. 

It’s almost all gone. 

Hermione siphons off her needed amount of sand, and the remaining swirl looks so sparse that it might as well be an assortment of lingering dots. The absent light—like stars that have blinked out of existence one by one—the gaps between what's left speaks of an emptiness.  

She extinguishes the lights and backs out in a quiet panic. Scared of seeing how close she is to the end; she shuts the door as if it could enclose all her fears within it. 

As she crosses her office to the Time-room, she keeps her mind blissfully blank. But there is anxiety creeping up her spine with each step, and a ringing in her ears that echoes all the things that can go wrong—

Hermione breathes out a low controlled breath. Counts back from ten. 

1997. Christmas Day. She’s with Harry in the Godric’s Hollow running for her life—

Ugh. What a terribly shite day.

She breathes in. And out.

Then, summons him. 

Severus appears, as he usually does, with a vortex of black that spits him out. 

He stands in her stark white room, looking neither alive nor functioning, just half-dead. Worn. Tired. His forever state of being, at the moment. 

He’s in slightly more formal robes—a version of his teaching coat, but it is detailed with a small pattern of ornate snakes at the cuffs and lapel. 

“Happy Christmas, Hermione.”  He rumbles in a quiet voice. 

Hermione smiles brightly, happy that she is able to hit her target date. 

“Happy Christmas, Severus.” She replies automatically. “Well, for you—I’m not quite there yet. But I’m glad I was successful at hitting my mark. Christmas Dinner, based on your attire?” 

He gives her a small, distracted smirk but doesn't say anything. 

No, he is too busy looking. 

He’s looking at her like one would look at painting in a museum. Admiring a long-forgotten landscape—memorizing how the colors blend in the sky, or the way greenery pops against the shadows. He’s observing every part of her from her hair and face, down the length of her blouse and tweed skirt, to the beat-up pair of velvet flats she always wears. 

It's not heated, or sexual. Not disproving or puzzled. Not happy or sad. 

Just…admiring. 

As if she is roped off away from him, and behind a panel of glass. A once in a lifetime work of art that he’s privileged enough to see.   

Hermione didn’t know what she expected after their last meeting. She didn’t think he would run into her arms and confess his undying love again. Didn’t think he would run away from her either. 

But then, that’s where they’ve always landed—somewhere in the middle. 

Watching. And waiting. 

“Severus.” It doesn’t stop him—he doesn’t even pause. Not the way his eyes continue to flicker from her hands, to her wrists, and trail up along her arms. “Severus, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” He tilts his head with a little jerk of his chin, like a shrug. His eyes still roaming, his tone unhurried. “Nothing is wrong, particularly. It’s just that I can feel it. It’s all coming to an end soon—and I can feel it.”  

Swallowing hard, Hermione tries to step toward him… 

But he backs aways. Not a recoil or a retreat, but just hovering out of her reach. 

A separation of him and her. 

He’s in an odd mood—like he’s untouchable. Above it all. Nothing can affect him now, nothing else matters, and he just doesn’t care. He’s reached a stage of grief that is somewhere between acceptance, and not having a single fuck to give. 

She doesn’t like seeing him like this. It's reckless; or maybe defeatist. Or both. 

“...are you scared?” 

He doesn't answer; doesn’t need to. 

“Please…” Hermione whispers, “...don’t be scared, Severus.”

A lie, if there ever is one. She is just as anxious—just as worried—but she wishes he wouldn’t be. He cocks his head further, still studying her form—this time her collarbone and neck. 

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s happening—wrapping itself up in a tight little bow. And I can feel it.” 

He’s gone mad, she thinks. Just a tad. With eyes that look too calm. A spine that’s forcing itself to look too straight. Hands that look too still. All barely under restraint. 

Hermione still finds him beautiful even in his madness.

She squeezes her eyes shut, as she tries to offer comfort. “It’s terribly cliche—but they say one ending is another beginning…?”

Severus snorts, “Sounds remarkably a lot like death to me.” 

“It doesn't have to be. It might not be—” 

“It’s a matter of months, Hermione. That’s all I have left. That’s my fate.” 

She wants to touch him. Take his hands in hers, and hold him to her. But she won’t; and he won’t let her anyway at the moment—

“I won’t accept that as an excuse. Words like ‘tomorrow’, or ‘future’ or ‘fate’—mean so very little to me. Not when I’ve seen what Time can do.” 

Hermione finds his gaze and latches on to it. Lets him sink into her eyes; lets him see all that she is. 

“Time is on our side. I’m sure of it. No matter how far ahead it extends—with all our brilliance, experience, and skill; and that courage that you have suddenly set aside and let mildew—”

She squares her shoulders and bolsters her voice. 

“—we can succeed. I know we can. We can decide where it goes from here.” 

She’s still nervous. Still worried. But something has come in and braced her fortitude. Reinforced her faith. And is holding up the pillars of her spine and her courage along with it. 

They can do this. 

If Severus wants to live, she’s going to make it happen no matter what.

Taking his time, Severus lets his eyes roll over her face. Whether he believes her or not, he doesn’t say. Just gives one short, stilted nod and changes the subject. 

But the distance he has marked remains between them.

As soon as Severus is pulled back—Hermione goes straight to her Floo. She half-walks, half-races down the hall to the lifts. 

Christ, she hates leaving the Ministry. It is always such a hassle. Tapping her foot in the far little corner of the crowded lift, she waits for the atrium to open up and dashes. 

Mel from the coffee cart might have said hello. Hermione might’ve bumped into what looked like a ministry intern at one point. She definitely ignored McLaggen when he waved at her with a wink near the Floo exit. 

She goes home, swiftly turns around right on her hearth—grabs her own Floo ashes—and throws them in. 

“Hogwarts, the Headmistress’ Office!” It flares green. “Minerva? It's Hermione.” 

She hears shuffling on the other side. 

“Hermione—?” 

“Can I come through, please? I need to speak with you.” 

She must hear the desperation in Hermione’s voice, because the shuffling grows more pronounced. 

“Good Godric, lass. Give me a minute.” 

Biting her lip, Hermione holds back whatever wants to come out of her mouth to rush her. 

“Alright. You can come through now!” 

Hermione practically launches herself into the flames. As soon as she steps through, she is greeted with the sight of her old Transfiguration Professor among towers of boxes. Stacks and stacks of open boxes—some nearly toppling over, some stacked pin straight. So many that they surround and crowd the Floo and Headmistress’ desk. 

“Merlin, what is all this?” 

Minerva’s lips purse into a familiar sign of distaste, and she shuffles her way through the mess. 

“The Board has made some complaints of official record keeping at Hogwarts. Apparently, letting magic just file things away is too lenient and now want actual human hands backing it up!” Her brogue cuts through in a harsh shrill, “As if Hogwarts hadn’t run itself for centuries on this system!” 

She waves her hands around wildly at the mess, the long velvet sleeves whipping violently. “I’m going to have to hire an—an assistant! A…secretary at this rate!” 

“Ah.” Hermione says unhelpfully. “The other Professors can’t help out? Filius, maybe?” 

Minerva blinks at her with a dead stare, that is so reminiscent of her childhood days—except it was usually reserved for Harry or Ron’s stupidity. Not her own.  

“On top of Head of House duties?” The Headmistress clicks her tongue. “No. I think not. They already call me a slave driver. I’ll have mutiny. Faster than a snitch on a quidditch pitch.”

God. She is. She’s going to—

“Maybe… I could help? Just until you find someone—?” Hermione offers, despite wanting nothing to do with this situation, but just can’t help herself. 

But Minerva—her blessed Head of House for seven long years—recognizes Hermione’s reluctance. Her slightly wrinkled lips, that have worn years of smirks and scowls and smiles, crinkles into a little frown but her eyes turn incredibly fond. 

“That’s sweet of you. But no.” She admonishes softly. “This isn’t your problem, Hermione. I’ll figure it out.” She sighs. “Well, I plan to at least.”

Flicking her wand, several piles of papers shift to reorganize themselves against the wall. 

“Now.” Minerva tuts as she sits at her desk. “What can I do for you today?”

“Oh. Well, actually…I need to speak with Fawkes, I’m afraid.”

Minerva’s wand pauses halfway through a swish. 

“Fawkes? ” 

Hermione nods. “He’s still around, isn’t he?” 

“Well, yes.” She purses her lips again. “But he doesn’t really answer to me. Comes and goes as he pleases, the little beastie.”  

Hermione looks at the empty perch. “Would you mind giving it a try?” 

Minerva blinks at her in astonishment. With a flourish of her wand, she places the tip of her wand at her throat in a Sonorus and clears it primly. “Fawkes? Your presence has been requested, if you could.”

Nothing happens, of course. 

For several long minutes they stare at the open windows of the Headmistress’ office, with straining ears. 

“No good—” Minerva mumbles. “Nothing but a flaming chicken that—” 

A squawk rings in the air. Followed by a song— 

A happy, delighted song. 

That sounds like freedom—like chasing the wind and touching the sky. 

And Hermione can suddenly see the Scottish Highlands. Of mysterious tangled foliage. Of bold misty mountains; the deep clear waters of stormy seas. 

Followed by wings. A flash of warm yellow and red flames that breathe embers in the air like a furnace of life. 

“That’ll do, you daft bird. Decided to show up then, did you?” 

Minerva humphs at the phoenix, as it settles on its perch. Despite her harsh words, she offers a hand and lets the bird nuzzle into it adoringly. 

“You needy thing. I beckon, and you only answer for a neck rub.”

She clicks her tongue again, but it's soft and loving. And Hermione knows just how much she cares for her old friend’s familiar. Glancing up, the Headmistress startles a little like she forgot another person was there momentarily. 

Minerva clears her throat. “Well, who knew? Seems the blasted bird listens every once in a while.” She gives a final pet. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I could use a break from all of—this—anyway.” 

“Tea, afterwards?”

“Aye. Maybe a dram of Ogden’s wouldn’t harm either.” 

Hermione smiles as she watches her old Professor make her way down the stone staircase. Taking her time, she walks around the room in thought. 

She’s been in this room a hundred times since the Final Battle—

But today, it feels different. 

Severus is lurking in the corners of it now. Even behind the tartan and Gryffindor-colored paraphernalia, she imagines him pacing the room. Long fingers sliding along the books on the shelves. A severe figure reclined, seemingly lazy, in the wooden chair like a throne. With a dismissive boredom towards whoever braved his office. 

Hermione imagines him leaning forward behind his desk, with steepled fingers and intent eyes watching her. 

A shiver runs up her spine. 

She blinks and washes it all away. 

The portraits are blissfully empty at the moment, and she wonders if Minerva’s frustrations have chased them all away. Relief floods her queasy stomach, as the thought of having to see Dumbledore right now flares all kinds of heated emotions. 

Repressed rage, among the greatest. 

But it is the blank canvas next to his—that catches her eye. The black frame is sleek and simple and noticeably newer than the rest. It showcases an empty background of a shelf of books and a gothic looking table with several potions that have decorative skulls and melting candles scattered among them. 

‘The Frame of the Missing Headmaster’. 

A Hogwarts mystery if there ever was one. Hermione snorts. He would hate becoming a gimmick. Even if it is mysterious and theatrical.  

“Fawkes—” she starts softly, as she approaches the phoenix. Nudging her outstretched hand, the bird trills a gentle noise. Hermione licks her lips and begins again.  

“I’m not really sure why I’m here, to be honest. It’s a last hope—a ‘Hail Mary’, my mother would call it.” She laughs under her breath at the absurdity of it all. “Do you remember Severus? Tall? Dark? Snarky? Generally unpleasant, most of the time.”

The phoenix turns its head, so its beady black eyes are able to blink up at her.

‘Who could forget?’, he seems to say.

“But not all the time—no. Sometimes, he is clever and loyal. Sometimes, he is brilliant. And brave. He’ll give away pieces of himself, so that he can protect others. And he gives and gives and gives—”

Her throat collapses. “And…and…and—”

The bird tilts his head again.

‘Go on,’ it says. She squeezes her eyes shut. 

“I want to help. I want to try.” Her voice cracks. “I heard phoenixes only give tears in extraordinary circumstances—when shown great love, or goodness...” 

Hermione sucks in a stilted breath.

“I don’t care if he is not kind—kindness doesn’t always mean good. He is good to me. He cares. More than he lets on. Even in this messed up world. Even when no one expects of him—he still fights for something much larger than himself. Imagine what he could be—if just given a little more. If given the chance?” 

“Please, please, please Fawkes—” a strangled sob breaks from her lips as she whispers her plea. 

“Please. He deserves the chance. He deserves happiness. He does—he deserves love. I want to be given the chance to love him. I–I want to love him; and all that entails.” 

“Fawkes,” Hermione cries quietly. “If I could cry the tears for him, I would. But mine are useless. Only yours, would make a difference.” 

Beady black eyes watch her as they dart around her face. His head shifts left to right, beak tilting back and forth. He shakes his feathers and then—

He sings. 

A different song then before—

She’s never heard this one before; but she knows it. Like she’s heard it following her all her life. 

…It was sung in the cradle of her infancy, among her mother’s soft lullabies. And within her toothless first smile. 

…It was sung in the dying laughter of her childhood. Her father’s hands on her back as he pushes her on school swings, and birthday candles, and stuffed animals and imaginary friends. 

…In the years at Hogwarts, with stone halls and happy voices clamoring over each other in their haste. Crookshanks’ purrs, warm crackling fires, and a good book—

It sounds like flying with pixie dust, glass slippers, enchanted roses, and magic swords. Tamed dragons, mysterious islands, and 20,000 leagues under the sea— 

The song sounds like her—and it sounds like hope. 

Hermione laughs, or maybe sobs. A little of both. 

She watches Fawkes bow his head, as moisture beads along his eyes. She conjures a glass vial, and holds it up to him. Pearlescent tears fall into the glass—and the relief of it all makes her lungs expand into a deep, fortifying breath. 

“Thank you...” She whispers. “Thank you for caring. It means everything to me. It is everything—” 

The bird squawks happily and gives her a knowing look that looks so much like Albus Dumbledore’s gaze over his half-moon spectacles that Hermione almost startles.

‘I expect a visit soon’, the bird seems to say.

“I’ll drag him back here one day just to thank you. Even if I have to Incarcerous him, and float him up the stairs myself.” 

She smiles, and tips forward to kiss the top of the bird's fiery feathers. They are warm and smell of cinnamon, and she wants to bury her face in them. 

An optimistic little bubble of laughter bursts from her mouth as she closes her eyes. Her forehead nuzzles Fawkes's own. 

“Thank you.” 

It’s Easter Break in his time when she calls him again. 

Hermione knows the day—it could never be any other day, she thinks—what her instinct pulls to fruition is out of her control. 

It is not the day it actually happens. No, her mind was too scrambled then. 

Instead, she zeros in on that foul morning—the one where she woke up at Shell’s Cottage after Malfoy Manor, wondering if it was all just a bad dream. 

That is, of course, until she looked down at her throbbing arm and saw what was written there for the first time. And the jagged letters seared themselves just as heavily in her mind, as they were on her arm. 

And it all suddenly solidified into something very real.

When Severus arrives in her Time room for their last jump—

Well…

Hermione had a plate once that she loved. 

She made it with her parents one day, on one of those rare times that they spent together on a family outing. Her mother fancied herself an artist, despite not having one artistic bone in her body, and suggested they go to a pottery studio together. 

These places were popular among Muggles in the late 80’s—you could paint a mug, or plate, or some kind of little ceramic statue—and they would glaze and bake it in the kiln right there to take home. 

Now eight-year-old Hermione was not, by any means, talented in painting—but she spent an inordinate amount of time painting this special piece. And if it kept her family bound together for a few minutes longer…well, how could she not? 

A dinner plate. 

Three clumsy human-looking-figures stood in front of what is the only recognizable landmark on the plate—her house. It was robin's-egg-blue, with sage green shutters and white trim. Her Mum’s one true indulgence—she picked out every wall color, every tile, every lamp shade and throw pillow. She made it their home.

Hermione loved their house. Still loved it, today. 

And she loved that plate. 

She used it every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for weeks. Until one day, it slipped from her hand while doing the dishes and cracked in the sink. It split into three large pieces that caused Hermione to promptly scream, panic, and then rush the pieces to the table to hot glue them back together like a surgical procedure. Only after, did she pretend that nothing was wrong. 

Her father warned her—it's still broken, he said.      

Rubbish. That plate lasted her another six weeks like that. It wasn’t until she nicked her thumb on one of the sharp corners and then properly dropped it, that it was truly broken. Shattered now into more than just three pieces, the plate should probably have been thrown out. 

But Hermione picked it up. 

She laid out all those pieces on a layer of cellophane, before hot glueing and taping, and then wrapping it all up in a mummified masterpiece of broken shards. 

Her father scoffed—what good is that? It’s not a plate anymore, he said.  

Hermione had to agree. It lost all its functionality. She could not use it; couldn’t eat on it anymore. But it is—what it always was—what it was meant to be when she began painting it—

A work of art. 

Severus…

Severus is that plate right now. 

He appears with a scarf wrapped up to his nose and snow in his hair. White lumps stuck on his lashes and on his shoulders. No gloves, just raw red fingers and pale pale skin. His breath comes out as fog in the air, a remnant of that bitter cold from the Scottish spring that year that never wanted to change to summer.  

The un-melted clumps of snow don't look like flakes or ice...

...but ash. 

A blanket of ash has fallen on the black of his hair and frock coat—and he looks like he has stared at the end of the world and has watched it burn. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just takes long strides towards her. 

Grabs her wrist with cold fingers, and shoves up her sleeve—and then stares. 

M-U-D–B-L-O-O-D

Doesn’t even blink. Barley breathes. Just stares at the letters on her skin as if it's speaking and he can’t understand a word of what it’s saying.

“...they say they are disgusted by my blood,” Hermione hums quietly, “but they also seem to love to watch me bleed.” 

His lips part, and a little huff of air escapes in acknowledgment. But his eyes are blank and frozen somewhere far away from here. He’s crumbling. Falling apart in her hands. 

And she is so so—sad to see him so lost.  

Hermione can’t help it—can’t help the way she lifts up on her toes, pulls his neck down to lower him. Lets her eyes close and chastely kisses the point of his chin. I see you. His cheek. I care for you. His brow. I adore you. His tightly shut eyes. I won’t lose you. His nose. Please. The corner of his mouth. 

I love you.  

He doesn’t say anything to her onslaught of touch—maybe he can’t. 

He has nothing left to offer. He’s barely functioning as a Headmaster at this point. Useless as a Death Eater. Abandoned as an Order member. 

Whatever thoughts, fears, or emotions he has been muffled and suffocated under layers of Occlumency. They might as well not exist.

He barely has the capacity to exist. 

He is hollow. Being held together by only cellophane, glue, and tape—

He is nothing, but shattered shards of glass. 

A broken work of art. 

Hermione has a dream that night. 

Death is back and standing in her room, looming over her like a mountain. He is twice as large as before; twice as terrifying. 

His face of porcelain white bone shifts—

To red eyes, and a slitted nose. To the snake-like monstrosity that is Tom Riddle in his final days. 

I claim all things. 

She feels that terrible sound, and her legs almost give out. Her knees tremble and sweat starts to form on her brow and back. He leans down over her, brings his horrid face so close to hers. 

The face shifts—

Now, Dumbledore stares back. Then, Tonks. Remus. Fred. Moody. Lavender. Colin. 

Death changes faces like he’s shuffling through a deck of cards. But she knows it is still him—they don’t have familiar smiles or gentle laughter; just a dead vacant stare of all those that have passed.

Hermione doesn’t stumble when her father’s grey thinning hair and brown eyes stare back. She doesn’t crumble as her mother’s black wavy hair and sharp hazel eyes look at her down her regal nose.  

She doesn’t falter—

Until it is Severus staring back. 

Severus—her Severus—with his black feathered hair and black intelligent eyes. With his little scowl, and furrowed brows. 

“No—! ” Hermione bursts angrily, with no self-control. “No. You can’t—” 

She reels back, her arm tucking into her side in a tight fist—

And Hermione thinks—

She is about to punch Death in the face. 

“You absolute fucker! You wretched, loathsome, revolting coward!” She snarls up at him. “Don’t you dare! You can’t fucking have him yet—” 

She can feel Death’s sick glee. Sees how Severus’s face morphs into a vile grin. 

All living things belong to me.  

“I don’t care! You can have us! One day, when we are old and grey—take us away to wherever you please! But not yet.” She seethes. “He is mine right now. And I won’t fucking let you.” 

Death laughs. 

He belongs to me. 

Time will give you no reprieve. 

“No.” She says, “It’s given me so much more than that. I trust Time, I know it’s on my side—”

Death grins. And she gives a horrible grin right back. 

“—and I know it will make you wait.” 

Death’s grin falters.

“Even if you want him now. You’ll wait your turn. Until Time says it’s over. Until Time decides. You’ll wait and wait—”

Her smile grows wider.

“—and I’ll have him in the meantime.”  

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Unravelled Ghoul

Contrary to other’s insistent beliefs…

Severus Snape wants to live. 

He knew it as a boy—when he felt his Da’s heavy fists against his meager frame. When his Ma cowered in the corner with glazed eyes and a vacant expression. 

He knew it when he curled up into himself to try to protect his ribs and organs. When belt buckles caught on his skin, or cigarettes left perfect circular burns. When the empty ache of hunger felt like a growing pain. Knew it, when he would glare up at his old man with clear, concise eyes…

…and thought of nothing, but murder. 

“—you're a stain on God’s green earth, boy. A fucking blighttt.” Tobias slurred. “Do you think yer wizards ar’ better than the rest of us? With yer foolish wand wavin’—” 

Severus licked his teeth and tasted blood. Felt the toe of a hard boot hit a kidney. Smelled whiskey on his Da’s clothes. 

Heard his Ma’s sobs. Then later, the sound of her threadbare voice whispering in the early mornings. So soft, so calm that it didn’t convince neither him, nor her—

“He loves me, Severus. In his own way…and I love him.”

He knew. 

It was going to be him or Tobias one day. He’d either kill the old man, or be killed.  

And Severus decided he was going to live. 

Just to see which one would happen first. 

He must have blacked out? Or hit his head. Maybe Tobias finally went for the kill, and he is somewhere between life and death. 

Walking up into the attic, Severus tries to hide away from the shouting downstairs. Everything aches. Everything is bruised and tender. The tears won’t stop as he stumbles up the filthy carpeted stairs. 

And all he wants is to curl up somewhere safe and pass the time away. Maybe he’ll hunt around the fireplace later, to find a piece of charcoal that he can draw with to waste away the hours. Not much else to do. 

Stumbling to the back of the room, he hides behind his Ma's sewing mannequin and Tobias' trunk of old junk. A safe hideaway among the mice and the rot. He coughs—his throat caught with sobs and dust—as he hunches over in tears and pain. 

When within the next moment—

The air shifts. 

The smothering feel of stale air and grime disperses like mist. A weight disappears. The air becomes clear and open. And he feels like he can finally breathe.

Severus glances up...

Only to find himself in blank white room.

His eyes couldn’t adjust at first, not with the weeping and the way he is squeezing them shut so tightly. But when they finally do—

There is a woman in front of him. 

With skin the color of caramel and eyes so light brown they look like honeyed gold. Freckles splatter along her cheeks and nose; and full pink lips frozen in a shocked little ‘o’. She is an adult, but younger than Ma. With strange clothes that look nothing like what his Ma would wear. 

What is really impressionable about her though—is her hair. It is floating around her like a mane. Curls springing up in all directions, as if drifting in zero gravity. 

She looks crazy; she looks wild. She looks like something Severus has never seen before.

The woman with the impossible space hair. 

“Hello, Handsome.” She says, and Severus immediately bristles. 

He has never been handsome a day in his life. He is an ugly git, and everyone knew that. 

So, who is she?  

“You can call me…” she hesitates. “Athena.”

Severus almost scoffs, because there is no chance that’s true—

The woman—

With the kind eyes, and the soft voice. Who touches him gently on the arm. Who sees his bruises. Who sees his shame. 

Who holds him as he cries like the miserable baby that he is. Who is warm. And caring. And affectionate.  

And feels like a spoonful of honey that he sometimes gets in his tea if he is a good lad. 

But then he blinks again, and is suddenly standing back in his dreary attic. 

And all the warmth is gone. 

Ripped from him like a plaster being torn off.

Severus snorts to himself. Tries to blink back into the darkness; tries to ignore the row downstairs that sounds like his Ma’s sobs and Tobias’ shouts. 

He thinks that of all the dreams his brain could fabricate, that this one—

The one of the kind lady in the bright room—

Is somehow the cruelest choice. 

He meets her under a tree on the ‘good’ side of the river. The side that doesn’t have rubbish on the streets, or smells of piss and motor oil. The side that people are proud to name their address, and send their kids to school to learn, not so that they have one less meal to feed them during the day. 

Lily.

With fiery red hair, and green vibrant eyes. White teeth, and brand-new clothes. 

Lily… 

Who is just like him—magical. That he could show all the things his Ma told him to keep secret. That he could talk about goblins, dragons, wands and potions with. Who wouldn’t laugh when he says he was going to be the most powerful wizard in Britain one day.

Who didn’t think wand waving is foolish. 

Lily—  

Who reminds him of the kind lady with the space hair. 

“Severus?” Lily calls out to him from around the corner. 

He reappears, standing numbly in-between two rowhomes on the way to the dilapidated park that is the halfway point between his and Lily’s homes. 

Blinking absently, he tries to reorientate himself to Spinner’s End. 

“Severus.” Lily repeats. “Don't just dilly dally, silly. Let’s go!—it’s far too hot out here.” 

He didn’t notice the heat, as only moments ago he was deep within the cool bowels of—a grin breaks out on his face—the Ministry of Magic. 

Good Lord. Of course, she is magic. There is nothing that woman could be, but magical. It isn’t a dream, after all. The lady with the space hair… 

…is real.

Severus laughs in disbelief. And in his hands—

Hogwarts: A History. 

Written in fine gold foiled lettering on a leather-bound cover. Possibly the nicest thing he now owns.

Merlin. He can’t wait to read this. Lily will love it, too. He tries not to let his excitement show as he casually walks up to the girl and deftly hides the book behind his back. 

A surprise for later.

Lily smiles sweetly in question. Severus smirks back. 

Oh, yes. This coming school year seems all the more exciting. Here’s to Hogwarts. Here’s to Slytherin, where he knows he’ll belong.

Here’s to being away from Spinner’s End. 

His fist connects with Potter’s perfectly un-hooked nose right below his imbecilic glasses. The sound of the crunch it makes—

It is glorious.

Severus smiles. He can taste blood in his mouth again. Black has cast a nasty stinging hex on one of his arms that makes him slump, and Pettigrew, a jelly-leg jinx on his leg that almost makes him fall flat on his arse. 

But—

The shock on Potter’s face is priceless. 

The little fuckers have never fought Muggle. 

They should have taken that into consideration. Because that is what Severus has thrived on. Tobias…kids at school…he has faced all kinds of Muggle fights. He's survived it all. He wants to drag them down into the murk and watch as they try to roll with his punches. Teach them what a fist or a boot felt like.

Forget Bat-boogies and tripping jinxes—wizards were soft. Let them see what a bottle broken on your head feels like. Or a kick to the kneecap—

In fact—   

Pettigrew gets too close, and Severus strikes out. His foot makes contact with the back of the short plump boy’s knee, and he watches as the fool crashes down to the earth. 

Severus starts stalking towards Black, limping but still predatory in his gait. When Lupin shoots an Incarcerous at him— 

Well...from there, it all goes downhill quite quickly. 

He manages to dodge Lupin, only for fucking Black to hit something on his ankle. He trips—lands on the turf of the quidditch field—slightly dazed, and with a worryingly numb leg. 

Severus tries to push up on his palms, but Black’s foot lands squarely between his shoulders and a hand shoves his face into a mouthful of turf. 

“Bloody Slytherins!” Potter cries through a stuffy nose while trying to staunch the bleeding.

Severus coughs, attempting to spit out dirt. 

“You fucking cowards—”

A hand shoves him back down.

“Shame, ya know? Dear old Mum always said proper boys should always have a clean mouth,” Black baits with a grin. “Here Snivellus, let me help you clean it up a bit—Scourgify!” 

Soap bubbles up in his throat, as his airways violently convulse around the foam. Hacking up suds, he struggles to breathe. His throat burns and his tongue blisters—each cough painful and agonizing. 

He could barely hear their laughter over his wheezing. 

Severus squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears from escaping. Behind his tight lids, he sees golden skin and amber eyes. A soft warm voice. And impossible hair. 

Be a centipede, Severus.

His fingers curl into the earth like claws, and he drags himself forward. 

Crawl…

Black laughs while on top of him, and rips his hair back. His head whips back painfully along with it. 

             Go on. Crawl. 

His hands grip the earth again, he bucks—pushing Black off his back and yanking his hair out of the other boy’s grip. 

                    Come on, crawl! 

Potter rushes forward and steps on his outstretched hand, crushing his fingers under his shoe. Severus screams. 

                                 Forward. Never back.

                                               Until the end...                                                

Crawl, Severus.

Rolling on his side just enough to prop himself up on his knees, Severus rams his shoulder in Potter’s gut. He charges forward until he is able to tackle the arrogant fucker down to the ground with him. 

Pettigrew shouts something somewhere behind him—waving what looked to be some kind of parchment—as Lupin and Black attempt to pull him off Potter. 

They wrench him away and throw him to the side in the grass. Grabbing Potter by the arm, the other two pay little attention to him, as they haul their friend off in a rush. He watches the bastards run as they scramble back to the castle. 

Severus, laying back on the turf, gulps in huge gasps of air. He slams his trembling fist onto the ground—once, twice—

“What do we have…here?” A voice drawls. 

Severus glances up. 

Lucius Malfoy, the seventh-year prefect, several years his senior. The future ‘Lord Malfoy’—with his poncey demeanor, over extravagant hair, and who walks around with the abundant stench of wealth following after him.  

Severus spits out the last bout of suds, followed by a dry heave. 

“Nothing.”

“Surely, that isn’t the case.” Malfoy stares down at him through his lashes, amused. “You look like a stampede of hippogriffs have just run you over.” 

Severus snorts, head falling back in exhaustion. 

“More like I was chewed on by a pride of bloody lions.”

“Ah. Well.” Malfoy shrugs, and then offers his hand out to help him up. “Next time, we’ll just have to drop those lions in a pit of snakes. And then see how well they fair.” 

He takes his hand, and lets the older boy haul him up to his feet. The blonde grins—it is poised, and cruel, and ready to strike. 

“Slytherins take care of their own, after all.” Malfoy says as he raises his chin and looks down his nose at him—but his smile grows a little bit wider. 

Severus gives a feral grin right back. 

Lucius taught him many things that year before he graduated and left Severus. 

Some of it was tangible—how to speak more formally, or table manners, or courting customs. What to wear. What to say.

But other things were more opaque.

And he wished his Ma would have spent the time to tell him about traditions, or customs. Things every wizard seemed to know. Unspoken rules, and secret values. 

Severus had never noticed how distant he was with the other Slytherins. How they gave him a wide berth in the common room, or at the table in the Great Hall. It wasn’t until Lucius began openly talking to him, did some of the others started to be more jovial. 

Rosier, Evans, and Avery began to sit with him in classes. Or make trips to the library with him. Some of the older prefects seemed to be keeping an eye on him in the halls, too. Making a great deterrent for Potter and gang of bumbling dunderheads occasionally.  

He learned his muggle father was a stain on his great wizarding heritage. He learned how muggles were a threat to the wizarding lifestyle. He learned that there was a hierarchy, and to be outside of it was to limit yourself. 

He learned that Lily…

Lily was not welcome. 

He tried not to think about it. Tried to bury it somewhere beneath his admiration for his muggleborn friend, and his need to impress Lucius or the other Slytherins. 

But then, of course—skeletons rarely stay hidden. 

It isn’t until a few years later—when Lucius was long gone from Hogwarts—that the bloody marauders corner him. They make a fool out of him.  

And that very same skeleton slips out of its open grave and might as well be pointing at him with an accusing bony finger. 

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!” 

As soon as the words leave Severus’ mouth—

Well. There is no way to stuff them back in. 

Even if he wired his jaw open, stapled his lips back, and tried to swallow them whole. What’s done is done. Even when he sleeps out in the corridor that night to beg for Lily’s forgiveness—

It is too fucking late. 

It has been mounting for weeks, he knows. In the strained laughs he gave Mulciber when he called them Mudbloods behind their backs. Or when Avery hexed a first year just because she was wearing openly muggle clothes, and he did nothing.

And as he sits out there in the cold stone corridor of Gryffindor tower, with his chest heaving, his stomach churning, and his mind spinning—

He realizes how brittle human affection is. 

One wrong word, one wrong move—and years of friendship have collapsed like a house of cards. It wouldn’t be such a blow if it was anyone else. 

But Lily…

Lily is the best of him. The one speck of light in his life. He doesn’t have much care and affection in his life—but he has her. 

And Athena. 

He’s forced put his head between his legs at that thought. Just so he wouldn’t have a puddle of sick all over himself. 

Athena. The Muggleborn. Just like Lily. 

It’s hard when you have no one to explain things in this world. She’s very lucky to have you.

What if he says the wrong thing again? What if he fucks up with her just as much? 

What if…she walks away from him just as easily as Lily did? 

Fuck. 

He is going to be sick. 

Tobias finally had the decency to find his way to the grave without Severus’ assistance—tripping on the top of the stairs in a drunken rage and falling down to a broken neck. It was just so typical. He would steal Severus’ justice away from him. 

Then, of course, the bastard just kept taking even from the grave—

Severus wasn’t expecting him to bring his Ma—no, his Mother—along with him. 

When Slughorn pulls him from class and casually dumps him at a muggle hospital near Cokeworth, he doesn't understand at first. 

A heart attack, the Doctor explains the factors leading up to it painfully simple, as if Severus is an imbecile. Not that the Doctor knows that magical folk rarely die from such banal things.

After what happened with your father…perhaps she couldn’t stand it, and died of a broken heart, the Doctor says—as if he is painting a beautiful tragic piece of art. 

But Severus knows—it was fear. Paralyzing fear of what living without Tobias would be like. His mother’s only goal in life had been to please him.

Severus stares blankly at his mother’s corpse on the table. 

“He loves me, Severus.” 

Of course. 

Go, then. 

See if he still loves you as he drags you down to hell.

“Lucius.” 

“Severus.” The blond man greets, while motioning the woman at the bar for drinks. “Pleasure to see you out and about from school. You rarely seem to grace Hogsmeade these days.” 

Severus shrugs, trying not to shift in his seat uncomfortably. There is really no point in going into the village if you didn’t have money to buy things. 

“I have other…interests at the moment.” 

“Ah. I see.” The drinks arrive, and Lucius all but ignores the flirty barmaid—Rosamund? Robertta? “Well, it’s been sometime since I’ve seen you. Please enlighten me.” 

Severus sips his butterbeer and Lucius does the same to his more top-shelf Ogden’s. 

“I’m looking for someone.” 

Lucius raises a brow. “Then send an owl.” 

“How astute. However, I don’t have her real name.” Severus scoffs. “I don’t have anything on her except an idea of how she looks.” 

There is a bit of parchment with a sketch of her likeness on it burning in his cloak’s pocket. He made it just for this—to give Lucius an idea of who he is looking for. 

But Severus hasn’t drawn much these last few years—and this one absent-minded sketch, with its curved delicate lines and bright eyes, feels like she’s been the subject of his drawings for years. 

His emotions are written on the lines of the page. 

And he doesn’t want anyone else to see. 

Lucius smirks into his glass. “A woman? I suppose you are that age now. Really Severus, I’m sure we can find someone just as suitable—”  

Severus puts his glass down a little harder than he means to. The blond’s pleasant demeanor shifts at the curl of his lip, and his eyes harden. 

“...she must be something if you’re coming to me.” The Future-Lord purrs airily. “You know you will be in my debt after this.” 

“I know.”  

His icy blue eyes stare back silently for a moment, before he purses his lips and begins examining the beds of his nails loftily. 

“Tell me about her.”

“She goes by ‘Athena’, but that was clearly a false pretense.” Severus sucks in a steady breath. 

“She is older than me…most likely older than you even…but I don’t have an exact age; somewhere in her twenties or thirties, I’d suspect. I know she attended Hogwarts—but I have been through every photo album, every yearbook, every engraved trophy or award—and can find no hint of her likeness or any reference to that name.” 

“Mmmm…I’m not sure what you think I can do then.” 

Severus’ grip tightens around his glass.

“She also happened to mention the Department of Mysteries. Obviously, Unspeakables are all hush-hush on who is on their payroll. But I know you have contacts throughout the Ministry, and I figured you could…offer some bait and fish around, perhaps?” 

“Ah…well.” Lucius grins, “That’s easy enough.” 

“One would think.” 

“Even if I do find someone who fits the right age range, or that name. How will you know it's her?” 

Severus snorts, “Her hair.” 

Lucius lifts a brow in question. 

“Brown. Massive. Curly. Uncontrolled. There is simply no mistaking that monstrosity.” 

The sketch of exactly that riotous hair burns in his pocket even more, but something in his gut tells him not to hand it to Lucius.

His old friend stares at him momentarily in thought—blue eyes boring into his black as if he is trying to understand his tone. 

Then, the blond shrugs gracefully in dismissal and says, “No guarantees, of course. But let’s see if I can find your missing girl.”

Relief settles in his stomach for the first time in a long time. 

He has to know who she is. No matter the cost.

He must.  

…Fuck. 

He hates werewolves. And the Shrieking Shack. 

And Black.

Sweet fucking Salazar, did he hate Sirius-sodding-Black. 

Lupin, you mangey lycanthropic twat—

If I get eaten in this abysmal decrepit shack, I hope you choke on my bones—

—and die.  

“The Young Master Prince, I assume?” 

Severus snorts at the title. He turns to the voice, his worn school robes flaring around him, as he pauses his brisk walk through Diagon.

“Certainly not to my knowledge. And who—are you?”

He has to correct his gaze, as it drops down to the source of the voice.

“Baelok, sir.” The goblin sneers up at him. “Gringotts’ official representative—the Resider of Estates.” 

Pointed teeth grin back. 

“Congratulations or my condolences, sir—whichever suits you at the moment.” The goblin bows, “—either way. You, Young Master Prince, have just…inherited.” 

Severus’ eyes narrow, instantly disbelieving the goblin.

“You’re a tricky wizard to find when not at school.” He bobs his head over his shoulder towards Gringotts. “If I could just have a moment of your time—”

“Rise, Severus Snape! My newest Death Eater!” Cheers ring out behind his Lord’s voice. But Severus can barely hear, as he staggers to his feet. 

Eighteen years of age, and this is how he is spending his Christmas holiday—

Rosier slaps him on the back, the twit. Lucius shakes his only non-convulsing hand, while looking at the other in sympathy. Bella kisses his cheek reluctantly, even if she looks like something foul has crawled up in her in the process. Nott, Crabb, and Goyle give their congratulations to their younger subordinate. 

It is supposed to be celebratory. 

Are you happy, then? 

A whisper of Athena’s voice asks.

You don’t look it. 

His future is now set—he earned his place among society. They are respected friends, and they respect him. His skills as a potioneer will only grow after he graduates from Hogwarts, as the Dark Lord all but guarantees his mastery. Money won’t be an issue any longer. 

He will have power, wealth, and respect—and all he has ever wanted. 

But as he stares down at the raised aggravated mark on his arm—

The mark that feels like the equivalent of a branding iron. Like he is tagged. Or collared. And being pushed into a corral—

He feels the distinct feeling of break. That who he used to be, and who he is now in this very moment—are suddenly two very separate things. 

There is who he was. 

And then, the Death Eater.

She is prettier than he remembers. 

Severus was standing in for Evans as a beater on the Slytherin House Team the next time he sees Athena. Walking behind a bannered pillar on the pitch, he was eager to find the changing rooms and remove the sweat and grime of quidditch.

But she must have called—and he must have answered. Because there he is, in that room, again.   

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen her in years. He was only thirteen the last time, where now he is practically a man by wizarding traditions.

Or maybe just because he never noticed—

But she is far more than just wild hair, that happens to be twisted into a braid today. She is olive skin that feels sun-soaked compared to his icy parlor. Gold eyes that still hold warmth, while his have hardened and chilled over the years. 

“Hmmm…I thought we were quite familiar with each other by now. Perhaps I should say ‘Hello, Gorgeous’ every time we meet?” He sneers into her ear.

He is frustrated and angry with her. And is definitely aiming to insult, but as a flush spreads along her freckled cheeks—that thought quickly dies right away. 

She is pretty. And blood still rushes in her veins. 

Severus can’t help but be enticed by it. Mesmerized by the way she is very much alive. 

While he feels so very dead these days.

It just makes it all so much worse. How can she practically not exist? How can he find nothing on her after years of searching? How dare she—! While he toils away beneath the weight of it all?  

Before he knows it—his wand is drawn. 

Severus tries the mind first. He is naive, it seems. Because her mind fucking explodes, and he cannot withstand the blast. And then there are hexes, and jinxes, and curses spilling from his lips. 

An unrestrained Sectumsempra flies from the tip of his wand. And he doesn’t stop— 

He doesn’t want to hurt her. 

(He did.)

It’s not in his nature.

(It is.)  

He is a man now. Powerful. Talented. When he graduates, he’ll be the Dark Lord’s chosen—

(He is damaged now.)

Unbreakable.

(So breakable.)

Unshakeable.

(So shakeable—he was already shaken up when she found him.)

He can’t stand her.

(Don’t stop looking.) 

Something changes within those few minutes of their duel. The warmth in her eyes leaches out. Her shoulders drag down. Her lips follow after them into a frown. Her hand tightens on her wand, and then—

He is on his back, helpless and pinned. 

And she spews some nonsense about Time-travel, and her life in the future. How she wants to ‘save’ him. All while sitting primly as if this isn’t utter bull-shite. 

“Yes. I’m sure it sounds that way. But I don’t really need you to believe me. Whether you do or not, one day—You’ll know who I am, and maybe that will be enough to convince you. But until then—”

She drops him, fastening his wrist in place as she reveals his wrist. Leaning over him, her braid slips from her shoulder and swings down in front of him. 

Even now, she still smells like honeyed lemons. And his lower stomach tightens at that insight.

Fuck. He’s ruined. 

He knows he doesn’t want her to see it though. Can’t stomach what he will see on her face. Can’t bear the thought of her disappointment—

Athena.

His only real friend. 

The kind lady with the space hair.  

Sometimes, he is proud of it; mostly he hates it. Sometimes, he enjoys using it to gain status; sometimes, he wants to dig it out with his nails.

The inky snake weaves itself around the skull, and his gut churns. 

All there for her to see.

“Oh, my.” She says blankly. Like he has ripped all the sunlight out of her. 

(He always did kill everything he touched.) 

“Did it hurt?” 

(He is going to be sick. He didn’t want her to foresee what he becomes. Please stop looking—) 

“I may not have the Dark Lord’s Mark, but I have my own brand.” 

…M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D…

Fuck.

Fuck. 

(Why is he like this? Of course, he would be the thing she hates most. He might as well have carved that on her skin himself. He’s so sorry. So so so sorry. She’ll hate him. She’ll never forgive him for this—)

“...I wonder what you paid—no, will pay—for yours?”

(He hates himself. A monster born—)

“...whatever the price…” 

(Was he always such a fuck up? Did he ever get it right? Surely, when he was once young and innocent—) 

“I truly hope…it was all worth it.”

Severus wonders if she remembered the old him. Who he used to be. Before the mark.

(Who he still should be.) 

Being an apprentice was easy. His old master was strict but inventive, and encouraged him to experiment. 

Being a Potions Master on his own…is less easy. 

The first time the Dark Lord asks for a potion he doesn’t even blink; the first time he asks for a poison—

Severus hands it over as if he is handing over a piece of soul.

The first time he sees Yaxley Avada a subordinate for screwing up in the Ministry, he Occludes so hard he might have blacked out for hours.

The first time he mistakenly walks in on Nott Sr. forcing himself on a muggle woman during a raid, he holds bile in his mouth just long enough to make out of the room to spill it on his shoes. He will never forget the sound of her screams. 

The first time he sees the Dark Lord Crucio someone until they are brain damaged and drooling on themselves—and then proceeds to leave them as heap on the floor for Bella to find as if they are a plaything. Severus watches with barely restrained horror at the things she did.  

The next time that happens—Severus learns from his mistake—he casts a quick Sectumsempra to their throats before Bella could find them. 

Mercy, he tells himself. But never with an Avada—that would break the soul—and he wants to pretend he still has that whole somehow.

Then, all those first times become second…then thirds…until they aren’t so rare anymore. 

And it all becomes common. 

Lily is gone. 

Gone.

Because of him—

His nails rake down his face, and the tears stream along with them. The sting of them reminding him he is still alive…while Lily is not. 

His old friend. He hasn’t spoken to her in years; hasn't even set eyes on her. But because of him…

Because he opened his big fucking mouth—

Because he can’t touch anything without it withering in his palms—

Because Merlin, or God, or Fate loved laughing in his face—

Because the Dark Lord is a violent unhinged bastard, that kills without a thought—

Because Albus-fucking-Dumbledore can’t keep to his word—

"And what will you give me in return, Severus? "

“Anything.” He once said. And he meant it.  

Because he didn’t know how to love correctly. Because he was always too heavy, too demanding, too intense in his affections. 

A sentiment he and his mother shared—

Loving someone with too much of yourself, and hoping they could withstand it. There is always a possessiveness to it—an ownership. Lily is his friend. His very first. And he killed her—

If people can’t bear to love him, then he will teach himself how to love the only way one could without a recipient. 

He would give—and sacrifice—and carve away bits and pieces of himself little by little…

“Anything.” 

He will protect Lily's boy.

Because Severus is a product of what this world made him—

Because he is a lowly bug. And all he could do on this earth…

…is crawl.  

Standing in entrance of the Great Hall, he is draped in black wispy robes that Athena herself has helped design. An armour and spear in one robe and frock coat, ready to go into battle—all goddess blessed.  

“—and please welcome our new Potion’s Master, Professor Severus Snape—”

He stalks through the rows of students—some only years younger than himself—to the Head Table with a stride of faux confidence. A gait of surety that he surely doesn’t have. 

He must be bigger than himself to convince them of this—has to be a symbol. A staple. A legend. 

Professor Snape. 

The ugly git. Bat of the dungeons, they will say. Vile, but brilliant. Cruel, but efficient.

Be severe. Be ruthless. Be immovable. 

Be a centipede, Severus.

“Come now, Draco.” Severus watches Lucius steer his son away by the arm. “That boy isn’t fit for association. His family are well-known blood traitors, and a Malfoy heir simply cannot tolerate that.”

The young boy, only seven years of age, blinks up at his father in question. But noticing his father’s tone, he quickly mimics the scowl and lifted chin of the older Malfoy. 

“A…blood-traitor? What does that mean, Father?” 

Icy blue eyes cut down to the boy with a raised brow. 

Severus feels his stomach lurch. He corrals the two blondes off the busy Diagon street so that they are on a side alley that leads to Knockturn. No one here will bat an eye if they were to overhear.  

“Blood traitors are—” he looks at Severus as if he wants him to step in to explain, but Severus promptly looks away. “They are...magical folk that believe that…muggles…” 

Lucius spits like a dirty word.

“...and mudbloods deserve respect. That those filthy beings are our equals. They are traitors to their very own magical lineage. And we must never mingle with one so low.”

The boy nods, silver eyes alight with an overbearing sense of hubris and superiority. Just another tick in the boy’s mark of all the things the Great Houses of Black and Malfoy had pride in.  

“Of course. I understand, Father.” 

Something hollow and sour curls up in Severus’ chest. He could taste the acridity on his tongue and hear the high-pitched wail in his ears. Years of bitterness and prejudice are just passed on in a matter of seconds. 

That’s all it took—

No further explanation. No questioning. Just full acceptance of a parent’s word. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees a head full of chocolate brown hair—curls springing up in the air in a wondrous mane. Golden eyes, and a cutting smile underneath the splatter of freckles on her cheeks. 

Is this what you wanted to become?  

He hears it in Athena’s voice, but it's not quite right. It’s far more smooth, far more cruel. A whisper, a lull, and a warning sign. 

Is that…the legacy…you wanted to pass along?

“Excellent. Now…we might as well stop by Borgin and Burkes while we’re on this side of Diagon.”

Lucius straightens his black cape and leads on with his cane clacking on the pavement. 

Draco chases after him—

But Severus grabs the collar of his robes, and yanks him back. 

“—Godfather?” 

“One would think that I’ve taught you nothing over the years.” He speaks low so only Draco can hear as Lucius leaves them behind. “It’s important to ask the right questions, Draco.”

“I did.” The boy says defensively. “I asked him what it meant?” 

“Yes. A truly mundane query. And you received one truly mundane answer. Perhaps…you should think of another question—and see what other answers you will find.” 

“I don’t understand?” Draco asks in confusion. 

Frustration rises in him and blisters underneath his skin.

“Think, boy.” Severus bites out, as he drops the cowl of the child and watches him unceremoniously straighten his robes. Disgruntled and bewildered. 

“Every argument has two sides. Your father’s view is one of them—but there are many others. Why are they filth? Why is it a betrayal to their bloodline? Why are—” his tongue shrivels at the word, “—mud—” No. He can't. Fuck, he hates that word. “—muggleborns a threat? Those who ask, are those that learn.” 

“But—”

He shoves the boy aside and sweeps past him. “That’s enough. I refuse to do it for you—just think.”

It isn’t enough. It will never be enough to combat it all—

But perhaps...it is a start.

Severus didn’t know why he thought he could control it. Maybe delay it. Slow it down. It was never going to come to a halt—

But the next time he sees Athena, he is nearly twenty-nine-years-old, and it has been years. And she looks the exact same. She might even be younger than him now. 

No time has passed for her at all. 

She looks no different—yet somehow—she is new and dewy and lovely. And want settles low in his stomach in a way that he has never quite experienced before. The need to touch tingles in his fingertips. The desire to take, or own, or capture runs up his spine.    

His eyes trace the way her cheeks flush at his voice. Linger at the way her lips curve into a smile, and how the freckles shift above them. How her eyes crease and how her lashes curve when she’s excited.  

Grabbing his sleeve, Athena leads him out of the room, through her office, to a chamber—

And he’s struck by how majestic it is.

He’s never seen anything like it. The Time-sand floats—it all seems deceptively simple—but he can feel the magic in the room. The enormous pressure of layers and layers of threads she has weaved into the walls and floors—the taste of her magic is palpable here. 

He is wrapped in it. Swaddled in the warmth and light of her.

Such energy. Such strength. 

He casts a glance at the witch—she is ignoring him to stare wondrously at her work—and Severus thinks he was always going to end up attracted to her.  

How could he not? The brilliance. The skill. The raw power. 

Yes, his younger self would have been enraptured by all of that rather quickly. But his older self—as he is now—sees the way she doesn't notice her own self-made strength and finds that endearing. Sees how her skill is result of her own persistence. And how her brilliance is not just due to talent, but to hours of thought, planning, and study. And he finds himself just a little bit more captured by her being. 

She must have been made for him, he thinks... 

At that point, he promptly snorts to himself. Because it is an absolute fucking mistake to think like that he knows. He didn’t know how to love lightly. And one day, she would surely reject him. He didn’t deserve an ounce of her. Not now; not ever. 

But—  

Then, he finds himself offering her the world—

“You could come with me,” he says without meaning to. 

Then, he finds himself calling her his master. She is, in a way. And he doesn’t even mind the yolk upon his shoulders, if it’s hers—

“Two?” He scoffs. “It’s become clear to me that I have three—you all play with the actions of my life like a game. The great players of my being: Time, Death, and Conscience.”

Then, he finds his fingers on her lips—

“I never said which player is which.” He says softly.

And he wants, and he wants, and he wants—

He wants the girl in the golden light. The future that’s far away from here. A life that is not his own.

He wants it all, too. 

No.

No.

It can’t be. She wouldn’t—

Someone must have cast a Confundus on him. Or slipped something in pumpkin juice. 

This can’t be right—this can’t be real—

McGonagall is casting a side-eye at him as they sit at the Head Table, but he can’t even manage giving her a glare back because he is reeling. His Occlumency shields rattle under the crash of violent waves of his turbulent emotions. 

Because—

Not only is Lily looking back at him with Potter’s face, and that is just haunting and uncomfortable—

But sitting right next to him—

Fuck. He may vomit right here on Albus’ periwinkle tasseled shoes. 

There is a girl sitting with dark brown curls, and eyes like butterscotch—

With the same constellation of freckles. And the same slight nose—

And oh, fuck. 

Fuckfuckfuck—

He’d know her anywhere. How could he not? He sees her in his dreams. Talks to her in his head. He conjured memories in a Pensieve just to watch her laugh, or smile, or be angry, or sad—just to watch the emotions play out on her face.

And she is sitting not thirty feet from him. 

As a child.  

What kind of child— 

The clever kind.

Oh, Salazar. 

He may faint. 

The first time she raised her hand in class he ignored her so blatantly—that even he found himself a bit shocked. She waved her hand, squirming in her seat like a pygmy puff about to be fed, and Severus could not stand it.  

So, instead he focused on the other bane of existence—

Potter.

“I don't know, sir,” says the boy.

Severus clicks his tongue, “...fame clearly isn't everything.”

The hand waving doesn’t go away—she is relentless and undeterred despite his demeanor—and the anger, and the betrayal, and the frustration leaks out of him every time he sees her face. 

And then…they become a trio. 

Of snot-nosed, reckless, ungrateful brats with a death wish. 

...Ronald-middle-child-syndrome-Weasley. 

...Hermione-goody-two-shoes-Granger. 

...And Harry-fucking-Potter. 

‘The Golden Trio’.  

Merlin, help him. 

The next time he sees Athena—Hermione. Or whoever the fuck she claims she is—it is at the end Granger’s first term. And he is already feeling old, and tired, and so very sick of this—that he immediately goes for the kill. His teeth want to wrap around her jugular and pierce it clean through.

“You have no right—”

“I’m trying to help!”

Salazar. The damn witch. Why. Why? 

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Yes. There very well better be a fucking reason! I’m no one to you. I’m your Professor. The Cruel Potions Master. The Greasy Git. The Bat of the Dungeons—”

Ugh. Why would she put him in this situation? Why wouldn’t she let him know? It's too late—he already wanted her; he still wants her—

He wants this woman standing right in front of him; not that annoying brat of a girl. He wants nothing to do with her.  

But the world won’t see it that way. They’ll call him lecherous. And filthy. And monstrous. For even looking at this woman.  

But…then again, he is already a monster—

“Leap.” She says with a smile. 

Like it's so simple. 

And he finds himself curling her hair around his finger. Finds himself wanting to do just that for her—

But she nudges her cheek against his hand, her eyes fluttering shut and her lips so close to his palm that it makes his heart stutter. 

And he knows if he lets her lips touch his skin, that he may as well as catch aflame. He would burn like a demon stepping into a church—an unholy thing touching something he shouldn’t. 

No. He can’t. 

He won’t. 

The years pass, and the anger doesn’t dissipate. It festers. There is a cruelty towards her that he can’t hold back. He never did learn to debarb his tongue. And while he should feel remorse—and he does sometimes—mostly he just gets angrier. 

Sometimes, he can ignore it—or her. And sometimes it transfers to Potter so easily. 

But other times—

He insults the girl who isn’t who he wants her to be. Her intelligence. Her looks. The way she regurgitates, instead of creates. They slip out of him like the tears he knew as a boy so often.

He hates it—because it is petty, and cruel, and pitiful. 

…And so full of want for someone who isn’t even here.

Soon, he finds her paralyzed in a hospital bed—a victim of the Chamber of Secrets. 

Something cold and hollow slithers through his veins at the sight. Handing the Mandrake draught to Poppy, he keeps his face impassive and his voice curt. But even with his Occlumency, he struggles to ignore her petrified form. It tries to blur her from his sight like when they distort faces on the telly. His consciousness attempting to alleviate the pure panic.  

One year—

He just needs one year without her prematurely trying to kill herself. 

Don’t worry, Severus. 

He can almost hear her say as if she’s whispering in his ear.

 I won’t die so easily. 

“Hello, Handsome.” He overhears, and his bones jolt at the words. “Where have you been hiding recently…?”

He finds Granger in an alcove snuggling with an orange mangey…thing that could be considered a cat, if one were to squint and be drunk enough to mistake Hagrid for a goblin. What she considered ‘handsome’ is entirely questionable. 

“Oh, Crooksy…” she coos while rubbing her familiar’s ear. “Don’t listen to that foul Ronald. You’re not ugly. Or cruel. I don’t care what he’s accusing you of. Who cares if Scabbers is missing—”

Severus backs away—hating everything that is coming out of her mouth. 

“—I believe in you.” 

“Give me a reason.” Severus threatens, with his wand pointed straight at Black’s vile prison-aged face.

Are you asking me? …Or him? 

His eyes drift to the side where he hears her. Granger is huddled somewhere behind him with her two cohorts in a tangle of limbs and fear, but here—

Right beside him is Hermione.  

Sun-soaked skin and a clever smile. Curls springing in every direction. 

“Give me a reason,” he repeats as a low voice, wand still threatening Black. 

He wants validation from her lips—he wants to know he is right to curse this man to hell and back. Albus will be angry with him for spoiling his plans. The Order will probably hold it against him if he kills Black without trial, but…Severus deserves justice. 

For himself. And Lily. 

You do.  

She whispers her agreement in his ear, her arm wrapping around his shoulders. Her hand closing around his own on his wand. 

But…don’t let them pull you down, Severus. Even if they try—don’t let them stop you. Just…keep going.

His wand trembles…falters…and then begins to lower.

But not before he’s hit with a stunner from the back.

She floats into the Yule Ball on the arm of the Durmstrang’s lumbering oaf with a painted face and tame hair. A pretty girlish dress, and a sweet sweet smile—

And he loathes all of it.

He didn’t want that. He wanted wild curls, and freckles, and jumpers and jeans, and a cutting smile—

Krum stumbles. Granger tips back her head and laughs brightly. Severus rolls his eyes and turns away as their waltz starts. Instead, he takes a sip of his punch and lets his eyes drift across the room to Weasley. 

The redhead is fuming with a blotchy, almost purple face, as he gazes at the girl he fancies dance with another. Severus smirks into his glass in absolute glee at watching the drama unfold. 

Teenage jealousy is always amusing—

Something in that thought makes his glass pause halfway from his mouth. 

He should be jealous, shouldn’t he? Isn’t that what he was supposed to feel about this situation? 

He wasn't though. Not at all.

In fact, all Severus wanted to do was look down his nose at them. Krum and Weasley and anyone else in this room that was staring at the girl transformed—

The utter fools. The entire lot.

They can have the girl. 

He’ll take the woman. 

“I’ve seen this before—once on the cover of one of your old potion journals.” Draco holds it up for him to see—while tapping a finger on the image. “What is it? A coat of arms?”

Severus glances over. He forgot he’d drawn it all those years ago. A messily sketched dandelion with a centipede wrapped around it. It’s crude. Simple. And aged by years of handling.

He clicks his tongue, looking away as he goes back to his grinding of ingredients.

“I suppose it’s like a personal coat of arms…”

“Does it mean anything?” Draco tilts to stare at the drawing. “Every family crest has a meaning…Toujours Pur, and all that?” 

Severus grinds a little harder with the pestle. 

“Resilience, mostly.”

The mortar rumbles in his hand—the grating sound against the stone echoing in his lab.

“Determination.”

He stops grinding. Gently, he places the pestle down on the table so it won’t roll off. His fingers linger, before they twitch and move away.

“And love.”

He floats to her bedside like a wraith haunting a grave. Silent yet, territorial. Face carefully blank, but if someone dared to lift the veil—they would see the horror underneath it. The gruesome way he can never seem to drift too far from her. Or how his wand arm gives a ghastly lurch every time someone gets to near. 

Granger is on a medical table with her chest caving in on itself in a purple mass of acid that is hissing and bubbling on the skin. Organs and bones are clearly visible. And she is so so pale—and lifeless. 

And it’s all so wrong.

He saves Granger—at least that’s what Hermione just said. He saw her aged purple scar not moments ago. 

He hasn’t the foggiest how. 

But somehow…

His left arm pulses, and for the first time in possibly twenty years, Severus rushes to his summons with an eagerness. 

He watches the Death Eaters circle around their Lord, like flies on a rancid piece of meat. They hover around their Master jumpy, nervous, and impatient—everyone in this room knows they fucked up. There will be punishment to be had. 

The question is who will the Dark Lord target?    

Severus wasn’t even there at the Ministry—so he is somewhat safe. Lucius has been caught. Bellatrix is whimpering below him and kissing his bare feet while asking for forgiveness. 

He doesn’t grant it. 

When he’s done Crucio-ing her, his bone-white wand tips behind her and Dolohov drops to the ground like a heavy, whimpering log. 

Severus can’t help the slow smile that curves along his lips behind his mask at the sight. 

He deserves every ounce of pain for touching Granger. Every shake. Every tremble. Every tremor. 

And when his gracious Lord has had his fill and whisks away with his flies fluttering after his stench, there is just Severus and Dolohov left in the room. 

“You’ve put me in a bind, Dolohov.” 

Severus strides up to the miserable mess on the floor that may—or may not—still be a man, and stops just as his robes brush against his head. Slipping off his own silver mask, he stares down at the fool.

“Dumbledore has certain…expectations of me. One of those most noble duties is to keep an eye on his trio of righteous child-warriors.” Somewhat true. Mostly. “Especially, his precious Gryffindor Princess—” A total lie. “…and you just put a hole in her.”

His dragonhide boot lands on the center of the man’s chest. He knows that’s the spot—where your ribs ache with each breath, and your heart stutters painfully after each seizure. Where Crucio lingers the longest. 

“And while I’m sure it wouldn’t be that difficult to undo the finesse of such a simple Dark Curse, I do actually have other things I need to attend to. Rather…than…clean up your sizable mess.” 

He presses his boot down harder. Dolohov growls before it dies in his throat and turns into gasp. A whimper. And finally, a scream. 

“The counter-curse, if you would.” 

Severus can feel the rattle in the man’s chest under his boot. 

“Let the mudblood die—”

He crushes. 

“You are…wasting…my time.” 

“Oh, fuck you—”

Severus waits—and just when a Crucio aftershock racks the man’s body—he presses. Dolohov tries to scream, but there isn’t enough air in his lungs to back it up.

How much force would it take to collapse a lung? Or splinter a rib? Maybe today is the day he’ll find out…

“Pity. That didn’t sound anything like a counter-curse to me?” 

“A-alright—alright!”

He lightens the pressure. “Speak.”

“Aci—” a wet gasp, that certainly didn’t sound comfortable. “A-acidum patet et cesso.”

Severus snorts, removing his foot. “Excellent. I do hate to step on each other's toes like this, but try not to put a hole in her again. At the very least…until the Dark Lord says so.” 

He can hear Dolohov curse him through a moan of pain, but Severus is already making his way to the apparition point. 

He has a parody of a witch to save, after all.

“How long?” Albus asks, staring off into the distance. 

“Maybe a year.” 

The twit. Whatever compelled him to put on the cursed ring—to sever his own head like this—is beyond him. Severus turns to leave the Headmaster to wallow in his own reality, but he is stopped—

“—We both know Lord Voldemort has ordered the Malfoy boy to murder me—”

…No.

“You must be the one to kill me, Severus…”

…No.

“So, when the time comes...the boy must die?” He asks numbly. Hermione would have told him this surely? Would’ve warned him—

Layers and layers of traps. An entanglement of webs that have captured him and held him down. He’s always been in a prison with no doors, no windows, no escape—

Tobias. The Dark Lord. Albus—

They take, and take, and take— 

“You've kept him so he can die at the proper moment. You've been raising him like a pig for slaughter.” His voice chills, and there is anger, and resentment, and hate—

Lily’s boy. Hermione’s best friend. 

Nothing can happen to that boy. Not under his watch—Lily…Hermione—he means too much to them both, and Severus vowed—

Albus knew. He knew how much Hermione meant to him. Long before he could properly build his shields, Albus had poked and peered in his mind as a boy and had seen glimpses of the woman Athena. He knew how much she meant to him as he grew—

“Don't tell me now that you've grown to care for the boy.”

Severus could’ve snorted. The boy is just a piece of the whole. An extension of the two great loves of his life—his childhood friend, and the woman he has always wanted. 

Maybe Albus didn’t understand. Maybe he couldn’t—

Maybe he thought those were all feelings of a young boy that had surely disappeared after the life he’s lived…

Severus casts his patronus. His Little Monster crawled its way into existence at the tip of his wand. The damning evidence that Athena—Hermione—has always shaped his life one way or another.

“After all this time?”

The fool. He would do anything for her.

“Always.”

“Severus,” Narcissa whispers her plea, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. “My son...my only son…”

Ha! Yes, of course—

What is one more Vow? One more ledge to balance on? One more trap? One more web? 

One more noose to tie around his neck.

“—maybe I did, or maybe I didn’t. What’s it to you?” 

Draco, the little shite. He is going to get them both killed at this point.  

Severus hauls him against the wall. “I swore to protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow…”

“I don’t need protection! I was chosen for this—! Out of all others, me! And I won’t fail him—”

Merlin. The ego of the Malfoy family knows no bounds…

“You’re afraid, Draco.” Severus purrs. “You tend to conceal it, but it's obvious—let me assist you.” 

“No! I was chosen. This is my moment!” 

Draco. Potter. Hermione—

Why is everyone in this fucking generation so eager to die? 

“Once upon a time…a long time ago…I told you to think.” Severus grinds out through gritted teeth. “Think, Draco. There are other options. More than just one point of view— let. me. help.” 

Silver eyes widen and grow panicked—

“Draco—”

“No!”

His Godson shoves him off, and rushes away. Severus watches, thinking his failures always end up affecting more than just himself. 

He is drunk. And in pain.

And she is so so warm, and real, and lovely—

So, he indulges—blames the whiskey or the nerve damage. Or maybe because this time in his life is so fucked up, that there really is nothing else to do, but go a little mad.

“Somewhere out there—in some other world—you are free. Safe and happy. Maybe married to someone if you wanted to be…and maybe even stop wearing black.” She says airily, with her head resting on his shoulder. 

With her heat seeping into his cold body. With honeyed lemons lingering in the air. 

He laughs at first—

It's absurd. Impossible. And he wishes it were so. 

He wants, and he wants, and he wants—   

But instead, what comes out his mouth—

“But not in this one.” 

“No.” Hermione agrees, as her fingers wrap around his own. And he wants them there—her skin against his—for the rest of his miserable life. “Not yet, at least.”

He snorts. 

No, maybe not ever. 

“Harry shall have his snitch. The youngest Weasley boy—the Deluminator. For what I expect will be a most trying time in his life. As for Miss Granger…” 

Albus looks up at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses in question. Severus scowls. 

“What exactly are you trying to impart on them?” 

The old man’s quill hovers about his written will. “I imagine a sense of direction, if I can.” 

Severus scoffs. Albus has never been forthcoming—it's all convoluted hints, and vague guidance that is not only unhelpful, but downright annoying. 

“If I don’t know the message, I’m afraid I can’t help with direction then.” 

“Come now, Severus.” He chastises in a grandfatherly tone, that fools no one in this room. “Surely you must know if there is something she takes to. An interest of hers that would help guide her when I am gone?”

Severus narrows his eyes at the man. He’s asking a question and looking to gain more than just the answer.

He shrugs, “Books would be the most obvious.”

“I think we can do better than that, can't we? What kind of books?” 

Severus almost laughs. What an imbecilic question. 

“Anything.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “Histories. Manuscripts. Guidebooks. She would read it all. Fiction, too. Especially, children’s classics—fairy tales—”

“Ah!” Albus smiles brightly with a bout of unexpected energy, despite his deteriorating state. “Perfect! Just splendid. I know just the thing for the young Miss Granger then…Mipsy!”

A small house elf appears with a crack. 

“Y-yes, sir!” 

“Would you be a dear, and fetch my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, please?” 

“Of course, H-headmaster sir.” 

Severus watches with keen eyes as the elf disapparates. 

“Thank you, Severus. You’ve been most helpful.” Albus says with a gleam in his eyes. “Ah. Leave the memory of tonight’s meeting with Tom on my desk on your way out, please.”

He stares back blankly. His response automatic—

“As always—I live to serve, Headmaster.” 

Fuck. 

Fuck, that old man—

How dare he. How could he? 

“Severus, please.” 

But he blinks, and it's Hermione, instead. Not a dead man. And then tears are running down his face, and he’s clinging to her like whatever little part of his soul that is left, is trying desperately not to disappear. 

She hands him something—

And his eyes sear the words into his brain like a brand on his skin all over again. His legacy is written for the entire world to see—

 - Chapter Twenty-One: Headmaster Snape’s Reign of Terror-

Severus reads the ending of that book four times. 

He sifts through every one of her notes, every notation, every index entry. And every scrap of information he could claim—he absorbs. 

Some of it is quite detailed. Some of it is worryingly vague. 

Just a note that says, Charity Burbage and a date, is among the most concerning. Maybe it is something of little importance. Or worst-case scenario, she’s keeping it from him purposely. 

But he could’ve spared her the trouble. He doesn’t want to know. 

He didn’t want the burden of it. 

So, he burns the book.

Because that knowledge cannot exist to get into the wrong hands. But mostly—

Because he hates every bit of what is written within.

“...to her the mixture of magical and muggle blood is not an abomination, but something to be…encouraged.” 

His skin feels too tight.

“Severus...we’re friends…” Charity wails as she hangs above the table. Not loudly. No, softy. Quietly, like she’s already become a ghost. A whisper. A prayer. 

His spine, too stiff. His eyes, too unblinking. They start to drift away…

Don’t look away…  

Hermione demands in his ear. 

Don’t you dare. Who you used to be—he would have. He’d avert his eyes. Overlook her death. But not you.

She sighs, and he can almost feel the ghost of her fingers on his jaw. 

You will look. Bear witness to the brutality of her death. The injustice. The atrocity and cruelty of her life. And will remember. Because you know—  

"Severus...please...please..."

Those words. 

Those. Fucking. Words.  

They will follow him—

and anyone he dares to know, or care about—

…straight to their death. 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

—that this world is all wrong.

It’s like his worst nightmare—

There are an abhorrent number of polyjuice-Potters flying around, all of them taunting him just by merely existing. And one of them…is surely Hermione-with-death-wish-Granger. 

Severus casts as carefully as he dares, while still looking engaged. Still flying his broom as if he is part of the chase—

But when a Potter flies into the path of one of his minor Sectumsempra he nearly has a heart attack. The way his composure obliterates in a matter of seconds is concerning at best, but the way—

“Fuck—!” slips out of his lips behind his mask is downright troubling. 

Blood pours out of Potter as he watches a fleshy bit fly clean off. And Severus’ heart literally leaps in panic. He desperately tries to remember if Hermione had two perfectly functioning ears hidden under that mass of hair—because if he maimed her—

Oh, fuck. He was going to fly into a tree at this point. 

“George!” Someone shouts at the bleeding Potter. 

Sweet fucking Salazar. He just lost years of his life.  

Thank Merlin, it isn’t her. 

He must be going mad. Surely, that’s the only explanation.

He hears an odd sort of scratching noise coming alarmingly from the room he has commandeered for his private potion stores. It is warded seven different ways, ranging from mild to outright impossible—Peeves isn’t even able to find his way inside. 

One could consider it a literal vault.

So, how the fuck did Granger’s cat get inside? 

He throws open the door, wand first, trying to access the threat that he is truly hoping to be a wayward house-elf trying to tidy up, when—

…an orange monstrosity…

—meows back at his wand and swats it with an annoyed paw. Severus stares and stares. 

He lowers his wand.

“Your Mistress is not here, cat.”

Yellow eyes stare back, with a tilt of its head.

“She’s currently on the run, who knows where. So why…exactly are you here?” 

The beast’s nose and tail twitch almost simultaneously. 

“Shoo. Go bother a Weasley, or something.”

Yellow eyes narrow, menacingly. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not your bloody pet sitter. Be gone!” 

A rather deep, disgruntled purr.

“No. Absolutely not. You are not welcome in this castle. Not while I am Headmaster of this hellhole.”

“Meow?”

“....”

“Meeeooow.”

“No.”

“Meeeee—”

“Fuck. If I see cat hair on my robes, you are gone. Do you hear me?”

Watching smugly, Severus silently gloats behind his mask. Yaxley falls to his knees in a sign of obedient prostrating that is expected at this point. The Dark Lord’s red eyes narrow on his subject. 

Everyone knew he is in for it—

He had the trio in his grasp—literally wandering around the Ministry right under his nose—and he let them get away.  

She would grin, cutting and clever, and so very endearing—

They shouldn’t have underestimated me.

No, he thinks. They shouldn’t have. He wants to be proud of her—Potter and Weasley wouldn’t stand a chance without her leading the charge. And he is proud. 

He is… 

But as the first Crucio falls from the Dark Lord’s wand, a delayed anxiety sets in. 

She’s walking a very dangerous line. The Dark Lord will double down now on snatchers and patrols. He will grow more daring, more demanding. He won’t let them be so bold again. 

Severus’ hands start shaking by his side. 

Potter will drag her into only more danger from here on out, no doubt—and every scrape, every near-death experience—he will lose just a little bit more of his sanity. 

He’s unravelling—bit by bit—

He doesn’t hear about them for weeks…then months…

There is no sign of Granger, or Hermione. And he can’t stop the worry, the panic, the fear that seems to follow his every step. 

He is left alone. Just left to waste away. 

Severus rarely sleeps these days…scared of what his dreams will have to say back to him.

He barely eats as well…his stomach is too queasy, too nervous. His body, too jumpy to sit down and sup like it’s all perfectly normal. He becomes a gnarly, skeletal thing that his robes sag upon with excess. 

Scourgify and a good Tergeo are poor substitutes for personal hygiene, he knows, but he refuses to pamper in steam filled luxury—when ice cold water, a flannel, and an old bar of soap will do the job in between cleaning spells. 

As he deteriorates, he is almost pleased that the Dark Lord deteriorates right along with him. 

His Master grows wild in the following weeks. Whatever bit of humanity he once had, has now clearly been snuffed out. He is delusional in his insecurity—suspicious of every Death Eater. Of every move his regime makes in fear that either their stupidity, or their sabotage will unhand him. 

Volatile and violent. 

He looks more snake than human now—the bones of his face have narrowed and slighted to reptilian. The ridge of his brow is almost absent. His eyes have become even more narrowed to slits. His mouth, too wide, too unhinged at the jaw. 

No one pleases him it seems. And no one escapes his Crucio.

And when it is his turn—when Severus is laying on the floor in a heap of burnt-out nerves, and flaring spasms—he has a sick thought that maybe this is how it is supposed to be… 

This is how it was always going to be…

He has bitten his tongue at some point during all the excitement, and a mixture of saliva and blood pools out his mouth and drips onto the floor. 

…that Severus will burn himself out. And he will take the Dark Lord with him...

His fingernails grip the marble floor as if they could scratch into the stone. 

…yes. Maybe…by the end of it all…he’ll just succumb on this floor. 

His Master and him... 

And they can slowly grow mad together. 

His eyes close, as blood runs down his chin and puddles against his cheek.

Yes. And then they can finish each other off… 

…like a snake eating itself…

…from head to tail…

…on and on...

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest painfully, right underneath several of the lacerations on his chest that are openly spilling blood. 

But before he can accept the thought, own it, and make it happen—

He hears her…

Crawl. 

And he does. He gets up. Goes on with his wretched life. 

He does it for her. 

You can’t stop. Not now. Not yet…

Headmaster Black’s portrait has finally pinpointed their location, and Severus knows he has a sword to deliver. 

He is running on just three vials of Restorative Draught a day, five pots of black coffee, a ghastly amount of chocolate biscuits, and pure spikes of adrenaline. 

His liver must be sputtering like an old muggle vehicle at this point because his skin, his nails, and the whites of eyes are all worryingly yellow. His hair litters his brush, bed, and floor in clumps like a terminally ill cat. And his bones creak and poke from behind his skin as if they are ready to pop him like a balloon from the inside-out. 

Well…he never has been handsome. 

No bloody point in trying now. 

As he sweeps off to find the Boy Wonder, he knows the basic details from Hermione’s book: doe, lake, sword. He tends to overlook the slight problem with one of those things. But that doesn’t slow him down. 

When he finds the small lake nestled in the Forest of Dean, he plops the sword in it unceremoniously like a rock and casts a quick Glacius to freeze it over. 

Their campsite is not too far off, and he's slightly impressed with the strength of the wards he feels. It’s only because he knows her magic—he’s been wrapped in it, tasted it, felt it on his skin—that he is able to sense it so easily. To anyone else—it's just a vacant clearing.  

Severus casts his patronus... 

Astonishingly enough…It’s still not a doe.

How shocking.  

His Little Monster—his slithering centipede with waves of legs and spry antenna—greets him by crawling along his form up his shoulder. Extending his hand, Severus lets the ethereal creature find its way on top of a boulder in front of him. 

He’s experimented with a glamour on his patronus to overlay it with the image of a doe. But it never worked. No, this is going to have to be an inside job. 

Sending his patronus out, he lets it crawl near the edge of the wards—and it's as simple as that. Potter comes clumsily out of the invisible walls to investigate. Like candy to a baby. 

Severus rolls his eyes, sneaks up behind him and paralyzes him with a Petrificus Totalus. The boy falls—eyes open—as planned. 

“Surely, Potter, after the incident with Black you’ve learned your lesson about being drawn into a trap?” He can’t help but bait as he sneers down. “Apparently not.”

The boy struggles under wide frozen eyes. 

“Confundus!” 

Those green eyes—Lily’s eyes—they haze over in a dreamlike daze. It's a strong Confundus, not only to confuse but to compel. To suggest. It says, Follow the patronus. 

It takes skill to have one that influences enough to be reminiscent of the Imperius. But that’s not the hard part today—

“Legilimens—” 

Now, to sort his memory out—Severus erases himself with a targeted Obliviate—and alters the centipede to a clear ghostly hind. It will be a little murky surely, and he’s sweating a little bit to pull this off without ever attempting this before but…

Between the Confundus charm and the memory alteration, it should all come together correctly. Potter will remember his mother’s doe, and most likely follow it even without the suggestion. 

He backs away, and releases the boy from his bind. 

Bleary eyes watch his centipede vacantly. They can’t seem to focus, but there is no alarm in his face. Severus silently orders his Little Monster towards the sword…

…and Potter follows dutifully after.

Seeing only a doe. 

Relief settles in his stomach. For once, he is granted an accomplishment. He turns to go, knowing Weasley will be along shortly to rescue to stupid boy from drowning, but something catches his eye.

It is the shimmer of her wards. 

He’s not fifty feet from her at this very moment. A tempting thought—she’s right there. Right within reach. Probably curled up on some sad little cot, sleeping in a pile of old blankets. Shivering. Starving. 

He wants to see her. Granger, Hermione—it doesn’t matter anymore. He wants to know she is real, and not a figment of his imagination. 

He could slip his fingers into her hair. Feel her warmth in his arms. Smell honeyed lemons on her skin. Kiss right below her ear. Graze his teeth against her throat. 

She isn’t me. 

“I know,” he says to the cold wind. 

She doesn’t know you like I do. Not yet. 

“I know—” Severus scoffs. 

She wouldn’t welcome your affections. Not like I would.

“I know.” His voice catches on the word, as his throat bottles for some reason. His eyes become wet, and he finds himself crying in the middle of the Forest of Dean. In the middle of ice and snow. 

…If you’d let me. If you let yourself. I’d have you—you know I would. I’d welcome you so easily… 

“I—” he chokes. “I know.”    

You would be mine. And I would be yours.

His eyes shut tightly. Tears, still slipping through. The chill is a bitter sting against his sniffling nose and hollow cheeks.

“...I already know.” He says to the wind. 

It is no wonder that she didn’t tell him. 

All he got is a purple post-it note with The Manor written on it with no date. An event so singular, it didn’t warrant an explanation. 

Fuck Time. And whatever omni-powerful ‘Timeline’ they have to adhere to—

If he had known—

If he knew before—

If he was there—

He wouldn't have failed her. He would’ve razed the building prior. Killed all of the snatchers. Got the goblin out beforehand.

Bellatrix would have been found in a ditch somewhere.

He’d probably be dead after outing his allegiance as spy, but—

Granger would’ve had one less scar. 

And that's all that really matters.

Are you becoming what you’ve always hated?

They start to look like her somehow. 

The Carrows make an example of a First-year half-blood that openly wears muggle clothing—and her defiance; her fierce gaze—is the same. 

Fenrir is chasing down a woman with curly riotous hair. Bella is playing with a girl with light brown eyes. Nott Sr. finds a lady with freckles on her cheeks—

He sees her everywhere.  

Some of them he saves. Some of them he knocks out, or disillusions, or lets run—

And some of them—

The ones that have gone on too long; suffered too much—

He looks them in the eye as he ends their time. Even if it’s like looking at her. Killing her. 

Don’t look away…

He tries his best not to. 

Sleep is overrated. But that doesn’t stop the nightmares. No, he lives those. And all he hears are screams. Can barely look anyone in the eye. He might not even be human anymore. 

Numb. So numb. 

Doesn’t remember what it feels like anymore.

“—you're a stain on God’s green earth, boy. A fucking blight.”

Isn’t that the truth. 

Are you doing all that you can? 

There is a dragon escaping Gringotts with a girl on its back—

And Severus knows his time is coming to an end.

He doesn’t jolt—doesn’t move—when the orange fiend wraps itself around his legs while nuzzling into him. His purrs still annoy him. His hair drives him crazy. He’s vanished more hairballs and dead mice than he’d like to admit. 

But—

“You must find her—after it’s all over. Don’t let her be alone,” he pleads.

Yellow steadfast eyes watch him intensely for a moment in silence. Then, a flick of a tail in confirmation. 

“Me-ow.”

Don’t be scared, Severus…

He really hates—This. Fucking. Shack. 

Of all the places to face Death…

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.”

Oh, fuck you, my Lord. 

“Nagini, kill.”

And fuck your sodding snake, too. 

He hopes Potter and Longbottom will give him memories of their demise one day. 

Hopes the Dark Lord trips on his way to hell and lands in the grasp of every soul he’s ever hurt or destroyed. Hopes Nagini chokes on every soured bit of his over medicated blood. 

He is chalked full of antivenin and blood thickeners—his blood levels saturated to an alarming level for any normal human being. His blood is so sluggish it could drip like syrup at this point. 

Not that you could tell. His neck is in pieces. And he’s breaking down. Bleeding out. He can hardly breathe. And all fucking hurts—

(It hurts. It hurts. It hurts—)

He is alone. Dying on a filthy floor in a shack that has haunted his dreams for decades—

(He’s trapped in the cage that this world created—)

Maybe it was all for nothing? Maybe all his efforts didn’t amount to anything. The War would’ve been won without him. And Hermione won’t remember any of this…

(He can’t escape. He can’t escape—) 

But…

He is not alone. No, he knows that. He read it in her book—the Trio are here now, watching his pitiful life fade out. 

Still. When he sees Lily’s eyes and Hermione’s hair—

(Those memories inside of him, innocently they pierce through—)

“Take them…Take…them…”

It's hard trying not to think of her. Even when he so desperately wants to. Instead, he forces his thoughts on Lily. Lets them pour from him for Potter to find. 

(There is something deep inside of him. A change was made; he can’t go back—)

“Look…at…me…”

Potter pushes closer in his line of sight. And Severus thinks it’s just so typical that the boy would think he’s talking to him. The arrogant twit. 

(The darkness and the light collide. Our fate ahead won’t be denied—)

Ah—

He wants her. Always had; always will. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for out for her warmth, her light—

So breakable.

(No. He feels unbreakable.)

So shakeable.

(Now unshakeable.) 

He probably won’t ever see her again. He wants to say goodbye. Say all the things he should’ve said for years, but never seemed to find the right time. Does she know? Surely, she did—

She has to—

(Before his future melts away, he has to say this—)

He wanted to live. 

For her. With her—

(Please don’t forget me.) 

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: When He had Awoken from His Sleep, We Head to a Place of No Return

“I’m going to be sick-k.” Hermione slurs, as she squeezes her eyes painfully shut. 

Plunging her head between her knees, she sits in her office chair as her hands wind up and lock her fingers on the back of her neck. She tries taking great, gasping breaths to curb her hysteria, but they mostly just make her panic at how very little air seems to be getting to her lungs.  

“Hermione.” 

“I can do this. I can do this. You can bloody fucking do this—” 

“Hermione—” Harry attempts again. 

“Let it go, Potter. She needs a good panic. Let her wallow for a moment, and then I’m sure she’ll pull her big girl britches up and move along.” 

Draco leans against her office wall with his arms crossed, looking almost bored as he ignores her current meltdown. 

“She doesn’t need to panic. It’s been weeks of planning. We’re as prepared as we are ever going to be—”

“And if it was Ginerva?” Draco straightens up, his body no longer casual. “If it was your wife we were about to extract, and trying to save from near-death?”

Hermione can hear Harry grit his teeth. Popping her head up, she's surprised by how serious Draco has become suddenly. He’s staring a hole through his ex-enemy, all traces of humor gone. Cool and confident demeanor, now sharp and defensive.

She instantaneously feels like she owes Draco Malfoy a hug after this. 

“Let her worry. It’s someone she cares about.” He continues pinning the Boy-Who-Lived with a cold glare as he looks down his nose at the man. “Someone, I care about. It's years of work. A culmination of all she has strived for boiling down to literal seconds—”  

“—ugh, this is not helping me—” she interjects. 

“—so let her fucking panic.” 

Hermione groans, as she rubs her face in frustration. The boys stay blissfully silent for a moment.

“He’s right.” Harry says tersely after a moment. “I’m sorry. I know you're nervous—we are all nervous. I know it could all go…wrong. But—” 

Green eyes look at her brightly from behind his glasses. She knows this expression—seen it a good majority of her life. His smile is mischievous and daring and so very comforting. 

“—I’ve got a really good feeling about this.”  

“…have you been into the Felix Felicis again?” She asks, eyes narrowing.

Harry laughs. “No. Though that would’ve been an excellent idea. Why didn’t we think of that?”

Her best friend steps up to her and kneels down to her height as she sits in her chair. Placing a soft hand on her knee, his eyes lock with hers. 

“He’s clever, isn’t he? Some might even call Snape brilliant.” Harry says softly, despite how his nose scrunches up in at the compliment.

“He would’ve prepared. Two Slytherins, and two Gryffindors. We have the Malfoy Heir, the Chosen One, the Golden Girl, and the Half-Blood Prince all working towards the same goal—honestly—how can we fuck this up, Hermione?”

She laughs—but it's wet, and tired, and half a sob, too. 

“What if he didn’t prepare…? What if this isn’t what he wants—?” She sucks in a harsh breath to cover the way her voice cracks. “What if he doesn’t want to live?” 

“Granger.”

Hermione looks to Draco. He’s come closer without her realizing. Mirroring Harry, he closes in on her and settles a hand on the back of her chair as he stares down at her. 

“If he didn’t take this chance—if he took one look at you and decided that you were worth giving up—then, my Godfather is in utter fucking idiot.” 

She let out a pitiful sound, a mix of whine in a chuckle. Her eyes are bleary, already beading up with tears. 

“He’s not though. I know he’s not. Just have faith in him, too.”

Draco—the boy she used to hate—smiles down at her. And it is just soft and gentle enough around the harsh edges to make her smile too. 

Godric, she loves them both. 

Hermione wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper, springs up, and wraps her arms around their necks in a vice. She forcefully tugs them down to her level and buries her head between the two. 

“Christ, Hermione. My neck—”

“Ugh, your hair is in my mouth—”

“Thank you.” She says breathlessly, nuzzling in closer. “Thank you for being with me through these last few months. I would've gone mad without you—and thank you for trusting me. And him.” 

“Steady on, Granger—”

“I knew you were a great big softie, Hermione—” 

“Hush.” She squeezes them tighter. “He never needs to know what a blubbering mess I was, yeah?” 

She feels their heads shift to look at each other over her own. Some kind of silent exchange happens. 

“My lips are sealed—”

“Absolute vow of silence—” 

Lies, she knows. Hermione smiles fondly into their shoulders. “Shhhh, you two are ruining it.” 

She lets them go, pulling back to steady herself on her feet, and then promptly slaps her own cheeks with both hands, in a harsh massive thwack!. 

Clearing her throat, she says a primly as she possibly can—

“Well, then…let’s go save Severus Snape.” 

Draco brushes off some kind of invisible lint from his shoulders, fixes his platinum hair, and then picks up the leather duffle bag of who-knows-what that is beside him. 

Harry fixes his glasses, shakes out his own messy hair, and then proceeds to palm his wand in excitement. 

“Ready?” she asks, as she gathers her hair up into a high ponytail on the top of her head. When it’s secure, she snatches the last bottle of Time-Sand off her desk and stares at golden dust for the last time. 

Harry grins. Draco smirks. 

Hermione bites her lip.

Counts back from ten.

Then, pushes the door to the Time-Room open. 

Severus could hear his heartbeat before it went out.

Could feel the warmth of his blood down his neck, too. The rush of it dampening his clothes and trailing down his limbs. The slick feel of it, painting his skin down to his fingers and to the floor. 

The way his breaths slowed to a stop, one broken gasp at a time… 

The sound though, that’s all he could focus on. The steady thump of it as it trailed off in slow stagnant beats…

Ba-thump,

          Ba-thump.

                  Ba-thump...

                           Ba-thump......

He closes his eyes—one blink—that’s all it takes. 

And when he opens them again, he is standing alone in swirls of dark smoke. It drifts around him steadily in a crawling, lethargic flow. Leading him somewhere that he does not know. But there is that steady beat off in the distance that calls to him, and he wants to obey.

Severus follows. One foot after the other—his robes dispersing the smoke around his feet in disappearing wisps. His heartbeat is so sluggish. Ticking down like a clock between each thump as he moves. There is more smoke up ahead, thicker than what’s at his feet; darker and concentrated. 

As he comes up closer, the mass of smoke drifts back as if a great gust of wind has pushed it all away in one large swoop—and a object converges into a solid form from the remains of its wake. 

A mirror. 

A gold rimmed—ornate and antique, with letters faded at the top—mirror is standing high before him. It is taller than him, wider too. Large enough that it looks more of a gateway than a furniture piece or a looking glass.

One beat...

     another......

            and another.........

He’s heard about a mirror like this. He knew Albus had it hidden away in the castle, although he was never allowed to view it. I’m afraid it would be far too tempting for you, Albus had said. And maybe he was correct in that assessment.  

When Severus peers inside, he scoffs to himself with his hopes dashed. It’s just himself. Like a normal mirror. Nothing special. Perhaps wishing it would show his greatest desire is just too easy.

No, it’s him.

Slumped against the wall of the Shack. Bleeding out; mouth open in pain. Eyes fading fast. 

There is a sick fascination in watching yourself suffer. Severus can’t help but think how very small one death amounts to. How meaningless it all really is.

The entirety of his life...leading to this?

Light streaks across the surface of the mirror, and flashes brilliantly in a blinding vein within a matter of a blink. Severus waits for his eyes to adjust. 

The image has changed. 

Now— 

Hermione is standing on the other side. 

A pleased thrill runs up his spine, as his eyes land on her. 

Maybe he will get his greatest desire, after all.

She’s right there—right in front of him. And even after all this time, that instinct to go to her thrums compulsively in his blood.

She walks up to the mirror, almost floating. Her hair is down and drifting around her in a buoyant mane. Her black robes are fluid around her form; her feet look as if they barely touch the ground. Reaching forward, she lets her fingertips brace the near invisible glass that separates them.

Hermione tilts her head—

Then, smiles.

And it is soft and gorgeous and kind—

…and Severus feels his bones melt. 

His weariness, his exhaustion is suddenly so much lighter. Like the first time she took him out that dreary attic as a child, and he could finally breathe.

He extends his own hand, wanting every intention to touch her. To feel her warmth. To just be with her.

Her smile widens at his approach, just as he knows it would. But her teeth suddenly become more visible. Her lips pull back sharper. Something is honed and sharpening in her eyes. And it makes Severus hesitate right before his own fingers touch hers on the other side of the glass.

Her mouth opens—lush lips so perfect he wants to watch them forever—as he reads the words on her lips despite not hearing a sound. He can feel them right under his skin—

Where is my weapon? My warrior?

Severus recoils back. 

The one that shared our dreams, and wanted to sit our throne?  

Her predatory smile grows impossibly wider.

Where is my friend?

A chill runs up his spine.

The one I’ve known since he was only just a kid? 

Another flash across the surface of the mirror. Quick and blinding. When he opens his eyes, he sees himself again. Young, so young. Maybe eleven, just starting at Hogwarts—with secondhand robes, and a tattered Slytherin scarf tucked all the way up to his nose. 

Where is my home?  

His younger self lifts his chin from the scarf and grins back at him. It looks all wrong coming from his own face. 

Why don’t I recognize our faces anymore?   

Severus wants to pull away. He wants to go. Wants to run as fast as he can away from here—

He knows this isn’t right.

But his body won’t move. It won’t budge even as he tries. And his eyes stay frozen on his younger self. Watching in horror at the way silent words form on his own thin lips. 

Oh, my enemy, how could you have ever let me down?  

The boy cocks his head. And Severus’ fingers twitch as he reaches out again to touch his fingers to the mirror.

All without his control. 

Isn’t it time to say goodbye—?

Draco removes his Healer’s robes. Folding them with a wave of his Hawthorn wand, he begins rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. He rarely does this with the Death Eater’s mark still faded upon his skin, but…in all honesty—

Today, he is expecting the worse. Hoping for the best.

And utterly nervous, too. 

But he sure as fuck isn’t going to let Potter see that. 

Granger is already fretting. That’s enough to put him on edge. He has developed an odd sense of faith in the woman. 

She’s capable. And trustworthy. And he's grown to respect her throughout their years together.

When he's being a prick, she doesn't rollover. Doesn't take any of his shite. But she didn’t turn him away after the War, either. Didn’t ask for an apology before he was ready to give it—and actually mean it with sincerity. She spoke for him at his trial. Spoke for his mother. Kept Potter alive for years, so that he could end the snake-bastard’s reign. 

She is a friend to his wife. Kind to his son. And possibly, the lover of his Godfather.

He owes her a lot. 

Hermione Granger is his friend. And Draco won’t forget that.  

“Potter.” He mumbles quietly, as Granger starts altering the runic circle in the middle of the room. The Head Auror turns to him in question. “If we bungle this somehow—if it all goes sideways…how bad will Granger be?” 

Potter blinks behind his glasses, his gaze shifting to the Unspeakable as she prepares. 

“I—” the man licks his lips, “She’s lost a lot. Even though she doesn’t show it…If she loses him—I’m not entirely sure what we’re in for.” 

Draco nods, even though his chest squeezes. 

“Will we have to stun her?” 

Green eyes shift to him. He is silent, staring at Draco with an empty, haunted look. Swallowing hard, Potter’s eyes drift away before shifting down to the floor. 

“She doesn’t like to fail.” Potter mumbles, unhelpfully.  

“I know.” An understatement. 

“She won’t accept it easily.”

“No. She won’t.” He agrees. 

“She—she’ll be—”

“Let me rephrase this: can you handle stunning her if we need to?” 

Potter’s eyes snap up to his. Pain is written there, in the tightening of his eyes and the dip of his frown. 

Draco pushes on, “If she’s wounded, howling, and screaming like a dying animal—can you raise your wand at her?” 

Wide eyes grow glazed and wet. The Auror starts blinking harshly. Draco knows what he’s asking. They’ve been together for years; Hermione is his sister—his family. And Potter can’t stand the thought of hurting her. 

Potter swallows again. “Yes.” 

“Good. One of us should be ready,” he warns flatly, as he opens his leather duffle and starts removing several vials of potions and draughts on the conjured table. Dittany, blood replenishers, and antivenin. Bandages, needles, and stitches too. 

Draco has prepared as much as he could—both magical and muggle means have been explored. He’s watched the memories of his Godfather’s demise several times over. He has an idea of the damage. 

And he’s willing to try anything. 

So much is at stake if he fails. The pulse of pressure on his spine is familiar to him after years of stress—but he pushes down the anxiety and fear behind Occlumency walls. It helps, but adrenaline still lingers—he still feels a sharpness of being vividly alert. 

“...are our chances really that low?” The Auror asks as he eyes Draco’s supplies laid out. 

“Not entirely sure.” He grips his wand tighter. “We’re about to find out.” 

“If you two are done, whispering over there—” Granger calls over to them with an annoyingly bossy tone, “I’m ready when you are.” 

Draco nods, shifting closer to her. He lifts his wand delicately between loose fingers, letting his magic spark at the tip in preparation. Potter, the physical brute, squares his stance and narrows his eyes in determination as if he’s facing a tangible threat.

Granger raises her wand like a maestro directing her orchestra—

Ruins glow as the Time-sand spills out of the glass vial while dispersing among the apparatus. It has about a dozen more symbols and lines on it since he’s last seen it—each trip has only made it more complex, as she adds and adjusts the trajectory.

It’s fucking impressive, is what it is. 

Even he doesn’t understand half of it.

Potter flinches a little as the wind picks up, this being his first encounter with Granger’s insane version of time-travel, and Draco nearly smirks at the other man’s unease. The sand glows golden and speeds up in its swirl.

Granger sings—

...tempora mutantur, tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis—

Potter braces along with him against the wind, the power, the magic—

...tempora mutantur, tempus omnia vulnera sanat—

Her eyes are shut in concentration. Her hair whips wildly, nearly sparking as it floats around her despite being tied up. Her hand is shaking, but her voice is stubborn and steady. 

She looks like something other in the golden glow—like Nimue or Circe—something of stories and legends. 

She looks like pure magic. 

Draco knew she always had been scary. But it’s still unsettling to see just how much scarier she has become since they were children.

The world swirls into a vortex of light…

…and spits out a clump of darkness. 

The lump of black lands in the middle of the room with a sickening crack that puts Draco’s teeth on edge. 

But that pitiful lump—is a man he admires. 

Not that he knew that when he was younger. When he sat in a holding cell at the Ministry waiting for his trial—he thought of his Mother, or his Father even. Pansy, Theo, Blaise—but never of his Godfather. 

He was the very last person on his mind. 

It wasn’t until he was sitting in a barbed cage in front of the Wizengamot, hearing how his mother begged the man and trusted him with Draco’s life, did he stop—and think.  

That lump—

Is a man who taught him—let him pull up a stool along his work bench and watch him brew potions as a child. Told him problems often have different points of views, different solutions. That asking for help is not a weakness, but a sign of trust. 

He owed him a great deal. And Slytherins always repay their debts. 

Draco rushes forward, his magic eager and soothing in his hands—

It’s his turn now, to help the old bastard out.  

His fingers touch the glass. It’s cold and steely. Yet his younger self pushes through, the boy’s fingers snaking through his own and entwining together.

I think it’s time to say goodbye—

Hermione can’t look at him—

Not yet. 

She has to finish the incantation. Has to make sure the Time-sand seals the breach between times, leaving its delivery in its place. That her string from her tapestry has been pulled cleanly out without unraveling the entire piece. 

Her mouth keeps singing the incantation—

But—

But she’s overcome.

Her tears are starting to escape through her shut eyes, and her voice is starting to bottle on the words. She’s barely holding the tune. 

She can hear Draco’s fast panicked breath that is almost rhythmic. Can hear Harry suck in a quick rush of air and hold it silently in his chest.

She can’t hear her own breathing. Which is a tad worrisome and a shame, as she has a strong feeling that she might be hyperventilating. Not a great start. Questionable lung capacity isn't a great sign.

And she knows for a fact that her heart is beating twice the pace it should. Can feel the prickling on the back of her neck. The pressure building on her temple of her forehead. 

…tempus omnia vulnera sanat.

‘Time can heal all wounds.’ 

The song stops. The sand is all gone. There is no clock this time.  

This is it—

Fourteen total extractions. Ten minutes at a time. One-Hundred-and-Forty total minutes spent together. 

All of it leading to this.

A rasp, then a gurgle, breaks the stillness. And her eyes fly open—

And Severus is still here.

Hermione runs. 

She sees Harry first… 

He is staring down in shock. His lips open and chapped, his posture jumpy and startled as if he’s not quite sure what he should be doing. Hermione half-shoves Harry back, as she collapses on her knees in front of him. 

She looks at Draco next… 

Because some piece of her wants to know he is doing his part. That he’s doing all he can, and he hasn’t given up. 

The Healer is pushing gauze into the wound, his hands covered in blood, as he shoves vial after vial down a throat. He throws the empty vessels aside and grips his wand with bloody fingers as diagnostics, and charts, and spells, and charms all glow above the still form. 

His brow is sweating. Wide, grey eyes are flickering back and forth between glowing visuals and his patient and—and—he reaches up to swipe his hair back from his eyes and it comes back leaving a vivid streak of red among the platinum…

Hermione dreads looking down. 

No, she doesn’t want to see. She's afraid. She’s terrified. 

But her eyes drift down anyway…

She once dropped a brick on her toe when she was a child helping her Dad in the back garden. It wasn’t until he pointed it out, and she looked down to see it bloody and broken, did she feel the pain. 

Sometimes you don’t feel pain, until you see it.

“Aaagh—” A scream erupts in her throat. 

All the air leaves her lungs. 

Her eyes blur. They sting. They burn. Immediately, her nose starts running—there are tears and snot and her mouth hangs open uselessly and she can feel saliva run. Even as her chest racks in a sob that has no sound, but still rattles with pain. 

“Se…verus!” Her gasps hurt. And she can’t get a single breath in. “—verus!” 

“Hermione—” Harry says behind her. 

“No, no, no—no, please—Sever–” She chokes on something—tears, or spit, or her own screams—and starts coughing between the gasps. “—us!”

Fuckfuckfuck—

His neck. His neck is shredded. His windpipe is open and hanging by threads of human flesh and there is blood—and blood. And blood. And blood—pooling around her knees and down her hands as she tries to pull his hair out of the wound. Tries to support what’s left of his neck with her bare hands.

She is swallowed in the warmth of human blood that seeps out of him. And the tang of its scent as it lingers in the air. Something is wrong with it too—it's thick in some places, oozing like honey—and simply spilling in others. His frock coat is saturated. His hair matted. His eyes—

Half open—

Staring at nothing. Unseeing and lost. 

“He had Blood Thickeners and Antivenom in his system prior—”

Oh. Oh—

He tried. 

“Severus please, please please—” 

Hermione hunches over, kneeling her forehead against his as Draco works on his body. But her mouth is still gaping, still gasping sobs that hurt, as everything runs down her face and drips at her chin.

She whimpers—

“Come on, come on, not yet…” 

She can hear the sizzle and hiss of dittany being dropped on open flesh. 

“I’m not done. And neither are you—” 

Her head pounds from the pressure of her contorted face. Her voice, seizing up on her. 

“You have to try. J-just like me—try, and try, and try—” 

“Potter! I need her off of him!” 

Harry grips her arms, but she rips them out of his grasp. Curls over Severus like a shield. Tries to block him from it all—

“Don't you dare leave me! S-somewhere out there is a world where you and I are together—let’s make it this one. Let’s live our lives together. Let’s make time verge, and make it branch. Let’s make an alternate universe—just for us. Right now. Please, Severus—” 

She sobs as she curls in tighter, speaking against his lips and his nose. His chin, his cheeks. 

“Live.” Hermione demands. “If anyone can change fate—it’s us. Please, please, please—”  

“Potter—fuck!”

Hermione’s eyes snap up. She is rabid, and half-mad—she can barely focus—but she manages to see Draco’s wand hovering over Severus’ chest magically inflating his lungs. And she loses her mind just a little bit more. 

“He’s stopped breathing—Potter, get her the fuck away!”

“—Draco! Draco here—” She fumbles into her robe pocket for the vial and pushes it at him with sticky red hands. “Take them! Phoenix tears—hurry!”

“—how did you get—?”

“—shut up, you twat. Granger, phoenix tears aren’t going to fix this.” 

“They will—!”

“Granger. I’m telling you they aren’t going to heal all this damage and the venom—”

“Doesn’t fucking hurt to try!” Harry shouts. 

“Draco Malfoy—! You dump that vial on him right now, or I’ll—”

“For fucks sake—” he stops his wand movements for a second and tips the vial of tears on Severus’ neck.

His neck was already partially knitted together by the dittany, but now it layers over like a web. Connecting blotches of flesh and muscle, and too thin ligaments together.

“It’s not working." Hermione states numbly, "Why is it not working?!”

“I was trying to tell you. Stop telling me how to do my fucking job—”

“—he’s not breathing, Draco!” 

He hisses a noise absently as his wand casts diagnostic after diagnostic.

“It’s not about the wound or the venom now. He’s in shock. His systems literally are in overdrive trying to keep him functioning—” 

“What do we do—?”

“What do you mean ‘we’, Potter—oh, fuck! Hold on, his heart stopped.” 

“Draco—do something!” Hermione shrieks. 

“Salazar’s ballsack. Stop yelling in my ear, witch!”

She watches the Healer point his wand to his patient's heart. A thick electrical rivet connects with Severus' torso and his entire chest cavity jumps in shock. 

Nothing happens. 

“Fucking hell…” Harry mumbles.

“Draco…” She cries softly.

Draco doesn’t move. He has sweat dripping in his lashes, and his tongue bit between his teeth while watching Severus—waiting for something. 

“Do something!?”  

“Potter.”

Hermione’s gaze snaps to Harry. 

“Stun her, now.” 

Harry hesitates. 

But Hermione does not. 

She once theorized with Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt about a potential weakness in the Ministry’s anti-apparition wards. 

Not apparating in, but out. 

That if someone had enough magical power. They could, in theory, tear through the wards just by pure force.

But they’d have to be exceptional, Shacklebolt said. Another Albus Dumbledore. Or Tom Riddle. And how many of those do they have left? 

Hermione surges.

She bottles her magic in herself—loads it like a gun. Layer and layers of magic from the tips of her toes and fingers, and into the depths of her soul—she funnels it all into a hoard. Coils it tighter and tighter, until there is no more room. No more space. 

Destination. Determination. Deliberation. 

And then—

She lets it spring free.

Their palms meet, just below their tangled fingers. His younger self’s hands are cool to the touch—and the boy pulls. 

It must be time to say goodbye—

Holy—

Fuck. 

Harry rushes toward Malfoy as soon as he realizes what she is going to do. He shoves an arm around his neck in a very ungraceful way and pulls the ferret as far as he can from Hermione, half-choking the man in the process. 

The crack—

No, that isn’t even close. It’s the sound of an explosion—a Bombarda maxima, or a muggle bomb detonating—in an enclosed room, right under a roof. Like someone has just broken the sound barrier in a cellar. 

Christ, Hermione. 

The entire chamber rumbles and shakes—dust falling from the ceiling, tiles falling loose from the walls—as cracks form in the ground. There is a literal crater in the middle of the room. 

Hermione Granger has just forced her way out of the Ministry of Magic with pure grit, and a half-dead Potions Master. 

And all that remains, is leftover magic that is charging the air in streaks of lightning and sparks, and the sound of sizzling, like she has just spliced open the wards with a red-hot iron.   

Malfoy coughs under his arm. The Slytherin’s own hands are up against his ears as if they were trying to protect himself from the sound. Not that Harry had the privilege of doing that to his own ears. Those are ringing painfully right now—a muffled sort of underwater white noise, laced with a high-pitched whine. 

“Salazar fucking Slytherin—” Malfoy gasps through the dust and debris, as he pulls away from Harry. And stumbles to his feet, with wide eyes staring at the crater.

“She’s mad. She’s fucking nuts—” 

Harry grumbles, shaking his head like a dog as he tries to get his ears back to working order. He scrambles to his feet.

“Yeah, well. Not the first time.” 

Malfoy blinks. “We have to find her. He’s not dead yet we can still—”

“Yeah, yeah—I know. Let’s go.” 

The blond grabs his duffle and the dusty Healer robe from the opposite side of the room. They both step out of the chamber, and it's clear on the other side of the door that none of the damage has affected the outside world.

Hermione’s office is pristine, despite smoke and dust leaking out of the now open chamber doors. Not even a paper or book has fallen out of place.

Killer Queen is still playing on Hermione’s iPod-fuckery-invention.  

Fastidious and Precise—

She’s a Killer Queen~

Gunpowder, and Gelatin…

People are still going on about their lives right above them, not knowing a witch has just obliterated a room. 

Harry sighs. If only she'd torched his office, too. And all that paperwork along with it. 

"Quickly!"   

They're hurtling down the black-tiled hall at full sprint. It's like Fifth-Year all over again. Thank God, for his early morning jogs.

Malfoy is still coughing even as they clamber to the lifts. And Harry feels slightly bad that he might have hurt the other man’s trachea, but then remembers he probably saved the git’s life, and doesn't bother mentioning it. 

The paperwork he's going to have to fill out after this mess?

Brilliant. Fucking brilliant—

“Where would she go?” The blond asks as they race through the atrium. 

“St. Mungo’s, I’d imagine.” 

“Bloody witch, if she just would’ve stayed put—” Malfoy mumbles under heavy breaths while sprinting. 

“Well, if someone didn’t shout ‘stun her’, maybe she would’ve.” 

"What was I supposed to do?"

Dodging the crowd, Harry huffs in frustration as someone steps directly in front of him and manages to steal the Floo.

"I don't know, Malfoy. Maybe a signal or something—” 

"Oh. Apologies then, for not giving a super-secret hand signal in the middle of healing someone."

"Literally anything. A tap on the nose, a wink, a head nod—"

“Shut up, Potter. You had one job.” 

Harry snorts, just as he's finally able to grab the Floo powder. “St. Mungo’s!” 

As he steps through, it becomes very clear this is exactly where Hermione would go. 

The entry room is in shambles. More dust, debris, and cracks center around Hermione kneeling by a limp Snape. She's crouched over him—protective and defensive.

Lightning rivets across the air in excess magic, and other—healers? It doesn’t look like there are any patients around—are scurrying away in fear, most likely thinking they are under attack. 

She’s got both hands, red and shining with blood, cradling Snape’s head as she leans back on her haunches—face towards the sky. 

Hermione cries—

A soft, wounded sound that puts Harry’s spine on edge—as he watches her mouth open helplessly, large wet drops pouring down her cheeks and chin. Curls have escaped her tied up hair, and they are pasted against her skin in sweat and tears.  

She looks...awful. Broken. Wretched. 

Harry’s heart stutters at the sight. She—

She shouldn’t be like this. She should never be like this—

Hermione Granger is the strongest person he knows. 

She takes every hit, every punch, with grace and cleverness. And courage. 

She gets blasted by Dolohov, nearly dying, and walks it off in a few days. She gets tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and comes out with a sample for polyjuice. She saves her parents in the most compassionate way she can, and doesn’t linger on her sacrifice. 

She never abandons him.

Her brown eyes lock with his from across the room—through the smoke and chaos—and something breaks. Her face crumples even more. Her brow scrunching up, her jaw wobbling. 

“—Harry!” She croaks. “Harry, help me! Please…” She wails softly, her eyes squeezing shut. “Harry, please.” 

She racks in a sob as she bows her head over Snape again. Her breath looks rattled and painful. 

“Harry, help me…” 

He stumbles. All the strength in his legs disappear, and he falters in his steps to her. His ears are still ringing; everything is muffled except her voice. Her cries. Her gasps for air. 

God, he is useless, isn’t he? What good is being the ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’ if he can’t help one friend? How could he have let her get to this? 

“Potter!” Malfoy pushes past him to Snape. “Get it fucking together. Go grab help!” 

Harry rips his eyes from her, and it feels like he’s peeling off his own skin. He’s crying. Doesn’t know when he started, but his glasses are wet and his nose is dribbling. He shoves his sleeve over his face in a rough wipe and looks around the room quickly. 

Throwing a Colloportus at every immediate door he sees, Harry seals them all shut to cut off anyone else from entering the room. He frowns at the Floo entrance. Nothing he can do about cutting that off yet.

Continuing further into the waiting room, Harry searches the area. He finds a few Healers, only recognizable to him by their lime-green robes, huddled against the wall. Two healers, maybe. The rest of the room is blissfully empty at the moment. He is so thankful for that fact, that he can’t put it into words. 

“We need help! Right now! Please get what you need and help her!” He practically hauls a man out from under a table. “Malfoy said the patient's systems are crashing—he needs to be stabilized!” 

The man snaps out his shock, starts running towards Snape to help. 

Harry turns towards a nurse that is ducking behind a door, “What do they need? What can I get—?”

A door slams open from across the room.

“This is not allowed!” A stout, portly man bellows as he charges in from a back room, rushing towards Hermione as if to shout at her. “Not allowed! Do you hear me? Not. Allowed.”

The man is purple in the face, wand drawn towards her.

“Apparition into the waiting room is strictly forbidden for a reason—!”

Harry intercedes before he even gets close to Hermione. He shoves an arm against the older man’s clavicle as he pushes him back against the wall. Palming his own wand, he aims it at the man’s throat. 

“Sir.” Harry says as pleasantly as he can. “This is Official Auror business now. And an emergency. You will treat the patient to the best of your abilities. Or I will call Minister Shacklebolt myself.” 

“Sark, sir.” Malfoy barks somewhere behind him. “Can you take his liver and kidneys? Nurse Carlisle, would you mind monitoring his brain activity? I’ll take his heart and lungs—” 

The older man’s eyes shift to Harry, wide and frightened. 

“M-mr. Potter?” 

“—Draco!” He hears Hermione scream, and his grip tightens on his wand.  

“Hello, sir.” Harry smiles as his wand pushes a little firmer, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name. But I need you to understand how serious this is.” 

“O-of course. It’s Director Blightley, currently the acting-Head Healer on this shift.” 

“Blightley? Excellent. Well, please listen carefully, Director.” Harry eases back a little. “I need you to move them somewhere secluded. Everyone in this room is now under a Vow of Secrecy. And I don’t need anyone else walking in.”

“Of course, right away-y—” 

Harry backs away, while pushing up his glasses. The Director straightens his robes as he walks over to the other Healer, Nurse, and Malfoy all working over Snape.

But Blightley pauses mere footsteps away, his cheeks growing red and blotchy.

“Snape! Snape, the Death Eater—!” The man shouts. “He should be left for dead—” 

Hermione’s eyes snap to the man. Fire rising in her stare. 

Well, fuck—

“Oh ho, no sir. You don’t want to do that.” Harry grabs the man by the arm, steering him clear from the witch. 

“I’m only going to say this once.” Harry warns, “I am not the biggest threat in this room right now. Neither is Snape, in fact. But that witch leaning over him right now, will find a way to make your life miserable if you do not help.” 

Blightley’s eyes shift behind his shoulder, and he can only assume Hermione is watching him like a lion accessing a threat. 

“Sir. Director—” he says to grab the man’s attention. “I would choose very wisely right now.” 

The Director blanches, shaky eyes meeting Harry’s. “And Minister Shacklebolt has approved this?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’m afraid so.” 

The man gives a firm, stiff nod. Straightens his robes again, just because he can. And saunters off to assist. 

Harry flinches a little when he finally looks at Hermione. She watches Blightley, unblinkingly; with her wand in her hand and her claws ready to eviscerate. Tears still streaming down her face, yet her gaze remains fierce, and defiant, and ready to strike. 

Golden-brown eyes shift to his in question, and Harry nods with his approval.

“He’s stabilizing—” Malfoy says, and her death stare is lost to the distraction of looking down at the man in her arms. 

“Small seizure, incoming! Everyone, brace!” The Nurse alerts from the diagnostic around Snape’s head.

Harry watches the Professor convulse. Hermione is near hyperventilating, as she drops her wand and puts two hands on his jaw and neck—trying to keep him from jostling the fresh wound too much. Malfoy has his arms. The other Healer, his legs. Blightley his feet. 

It's fairly quick. A tremor. But all the medical personnel don’t hesitate to cast several follow-up diagnostics, charms, and charts that are all far above Harry’s understanding.    

“All clear?” Malfoy asks. 

“Clear!”

“Clear.” 

“Let’s get him to a room, quickly!” The Director orders. “The Floo isn’t closed, and Auror Potter said secrecy is paramount.”

“Agreed. I’ll levitate.” Malfoy rises to his feet, wand at the ready. 

They all move away.

Hermione does not. 

“Granger...” Malfoy whispers, his eyes and voice just as soft. “Please…I need you to move.” 

She blinks at him with a blank expression—dried tear tracks on her cheeks and chapped split lips—like she doesn’t understand. Completely dazed.

Malfoy casts a look at him. 

“Hermione.” Harry says gently, as he steps up to her. He curls his fingers on her shoulders, tries to give her support. “It’s just for a moment. I promise.” 

She turns to face him, her brows furrowing as her jaw loosens, as if it wants to protest. But she’s too tired—far too exhausted—to make it work. Instead, she just looks at him with all the pleading she can insert into her big brown eyes. 

“Hermione—” Harry urges, his hands tightening on her biceps. “Trust me, please—if you can.” 

Something he says must have reached her. Because her hands loosen just enough that Snape’s robes slip out of them—and she gives a small solemn nod, as if words were asking too much of her. 

Lifting her to her feet while bearing most of her weight, Harry pulls her back into his arms. She leans against him, her face burrowing into his shoulder just like she has for years and years throughout their lives—throughout moments of their grief. Through fear. And death.

Throughout an entire War.

As soon as Hermione is removed, Malfoy takes the opportunity to levitate Snape’s fragile form from the middle of the waiting room. He must be tired, Harry knows. But his Mobilicorpus is strong and secure, and Harry's reminded again that the git he knew as child is now a competent Healer. He follows the other healers towards a different wing, slowly floating Snape along with a careful gentleness that he rarely associates from Malfoy. 

Hermione watches steadily even as she's curled into Harry. Threading fingers through her hair, Harry tries to tame some of the wild curls that are expanded out of her ponytail. They tickle his nose and chin, despite his attempts but the movement seems to calm her.  

“He’s going to be just fine.” He mumbles in a soft voice. “I told you I had a good feeling.” 

Hermione, currently hiding her face in his one of his shoulders, lifts her hand up and slaps him hard against the opposite shoulder. She’s shaking in his arms—and he’s not entirely sure if it's from crying or laughter or panic. Or maybe all three. 

“Good thing I’m an Auror—” He huffs out lightly, “Because we’re looking at, at least a few cases of property damage, restricted ward breaking, and possible attempted murder on a Hospital Director if I weren’t.”

She lets out a little whimper that also sounds suspiciously like a chuckle, as her hand slaps him three more times. Shaking her head, she rubs her face deeper into his shoulder—and he knows she's laughing and crying, for sure this time. 

“Harry.” She says firmly.

It’s an admonishment; but also, tender. 

And so very very Hermione Granger. 

He snakes a hand up to the back of her shoulders and squeezes her a little tighter. His glasses become annoyingly crooked as he lays his head on top of hers. He couldn't do much—

But hopes she can feel all the love, affection, and devotion he has for her. 

One of his first friends. His best friend, really. His sister. 

“Well done, Hermione.” 

Severus’ hand slips through the glass of the mirror like passing through the line between air and water—just a cool impression along his skin that settles differently on the other side. Like there is no air over there. No gravity.

Maybe nothing at all. 

But the boy pulls—

And he watches his arm go through, up to his wrist. Then, his elbow. And by the time his shoulder almost passes through—something twists in his gut, and he tries to wrench back. 

He tries—

But the boy refuses to release him. 

He grins sharply with all his crooked teeth; grip reenforcing on their laced fingers.

Never letting go.

Let us say goodbye…

Hermione follows his hovering form like she is following a will-o-wisp. 

She is directionless, and disorientated. 

But she thinks there is something in her—some kind of innate form, as atmospheric and ghostly as a wisp—that leads her to him. No matter where she is in the world. No matter how many years separate them. No matter how lost, how astray—

Floating bluebell flames line up with her steps, she knows she’ll find him on the other side. 

She’s seen unconscious patients being levitated before. But Severus floats with his cloak around him in a black cloud and his feathery black hair drifting about him so beautifully, and she can—

…almost miss the way blood stains the majority of his form. Can almost miss the angry pink scar at his neck with branched veins of black that lead underneath his half-open frock coat and down his shoulder and chest. 

Can almost miss how close he is—was—to dying. 

“In here!” Someone orders ahead of her. “The training room will be the best bet.” 

The healers bring him to a room tucked off to the side of the main hall, its door is blank of any room number or signage. Inside, she can make out several dummies and training apparatus along the wall. Thick curtains are drawn blocking out the late afternoon sun and covering the room in a dim, muted shade of gold. 

The only actual light source—are the numerous charts and diagnostics still poised along his body. One circling his head. Two over his chest. Two more lower along his stomach. She glances at them when she can—her limited knowledge pulling tidbits of information that she sees—but it's not enough to satisfy or calm her nerves. 

She slips into the room, Harry following her just steps behind as they both watch. Bustling about, she barely notices the healers prepare the space.

It's Draco—sweating and strained in intense focus—that she observes. He looks calmer, steadier. And that by itself relieves her immensely.

Carefully, he places Severus down on the barren medical cot in the middle of the room. As gravity resettles around him, his cloak drips off the edge of the bed like spilt ink running on the floor.

And she finally manages a breath.  

“Draco…” she whispers. 

Her throat is hoarse and painful. And she still feels her eyes sting, even now, but there aren’t any tears. No, she ran out of those ages ago. Now she’s just dehydrated and suffering from a migraine. 

Hermione clears her throat and tries again.

“Draco.” 

He shifts his eyes from the diagnostic to her. 

“What…” She licks her chapped lips. Her chest stutters a ragged breath, causing her puffy eyes to squeeze at the pain. “...what is…the diagnosis?” 

Silver eyes move to the multiple charts again, as if to just double check. Silence eats up the room, and her nerves start to alight again at the time it takes him to speak. Anxiety rises and she starts to shift towards Severus just to be closer again.

“Stable.” Draco affirms finally. “At least, for the moment. Now it’s just a question of whether he wakes up or not.”  

“The venom?” 

“He had a copious amount of antivenin in his bloodstream. The venom was counteracted fairly quickly and fully nullified now. But despite that, it still spread—and did damage to several organs. All are on the mend.” 

“The blood loss?” 

“Not great.” Draco’s eyes narrow on one of the vital readings. “He had the maximum blood replenishers I can safely give. I wouldn’t risk more—but a muggle blood transfusion might be in order.”   

“...his neck?” 

Draco snorts. “An absolute mess.” 

She manages to nod, as a shaky breath escapes too.

“Bone is easy to regrow. Skin, even easier. It’s muscle, and connective tissue—his larynx and trachea—that are going to take time to recover to what they were.” 

“He’ll speak though…?” 

“Not right away. I’d expect they keep him under for a few weeks to let it all sort itself out and keep him somewhat comfortable. It's not a pleasant experience. Breathing, eating, speaking—”

“But he’ll be okay—eventually?” She interrupts. 

 Draco rolls his eyes at her. 

“He’ll have a nasty scar, but… yes. I would like to think so.” 

Oh, good God.

Godric. Merlin. Nimue. Circe— 

And anyone else who wants to join in. She’ll even take Salazar himself. The bigoted prick. 

Her knees give out. And she halfway towards the floor, before Harry manages to hoist her up like a ragdoll. She didn’t realize she is taking huge, gulping swallows of air, until she hears—

“Just breathe, Hermione.” Harry commands, as he drags her to the little loveseat that is pushed into one corner of the room. She wobbles along with him.

Breathing in and out—

“Harry...what did I do? I-I couldn’t do a thing." She wails softly. "I was just—so useless, Harry…” 

The prat snorts at her. 

“I mean—you managed to pull a human being through Time. You got Draco the help he needed to succeed. That’s something.”

She grimaces, “More like I panicked. Exceptionally so.”  

Harry eyes her with a fond, little lopsided smirk. 

“You're allowed to panic sometimes. You just happen to be exceptional at everything that you do. Panicking, included.”

Hermione makes a sound in the her back of throat in total dispute, but is far too tired to argue. She collapses in the middle of the sofa, watching Severus’ still form. 

One healer is finishing wrapping his neck in a temporary binding. The other healers are conversing near the doorway going over a plan of action. Draco speaks with them only for a moment, face clam but sharp, before dismissing them and coming over to her. 

Harry plops down next to her on her right. Draco’s heavy drop beside her on the left, is not that much more graceful. 

They sit together—squished hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder—on this little sofa that is far too small for three adults. 

Hermione leans forward, elbows on her knees and face in her hands, as she tries to control her erratic breathing. The boys are sprawled out behind her in pure exhaustion, with limp limbs hanging off the armrests and legs spread out in front of them—but they both manage a hand on her shoulder or her back in comfort.

She really does love them both. 

“You’re a menace, Granger.” Draco drawls slowly with a weariness. 

“—what he means to say is ‘You’re spectacular, Hermione.’” Harry objects. 

“What I mean to say is you’re fucking insane.” 

“—‘Fantastic’, he says.”  Harry corrects, tiredly. 

“An abomination of nature, and all magical laws—”

“—‘Really fucking smart and powerful’, is what I’m hearing.” 

Hermione chokes out a laugh in her palms. She lifts her head from her hands to look over her shoulder at Draco. He has that same cutting grin on his face from all those months ago, when he sat in the chair of her office and she gave him her plan. 

Her partner in heist.

“—and I’m so fucking glad that you are.” 

Harry pauses in his interpretation. And she feels his hand squeeze her shoulder. 

“...‘Thank you, for saving my git of a Godfather’, is what I think that just was.” 

Her eyes well up in tears for a whole different reason. 

She falls back, right in between the two, with a bounce on the old cushion that jostles them both. Hermione tilts her head, lets it fall on Draco’s shoulder for a moment, then pushes to Harry’s shoulder next, before letting herself lean back right in the center. She puts a hand on both of their forearms as she closes her eyes—with a tired smile on her face. 

“You’re welcome,” Hermione mumbles, halfway asleep with debilitating fatigue that hits her like a truck. “...but let’s never ever ever do something this ridiculous again. Agreed?” 

Draco snorts. 

Harry grumbles something. 

Hermione hums happily. 

…goodbye, goodbye…

They stay there at an impasse. His younger self pulls him in towards the mirror; and he pulls away. An inch forward along his arm. An inch back. Forward and back. Back and forth.

It's time to say goodbye…

goodbye, goodbye—

It feels like minutes of deadlock. Maybe even more?—hours, days—who knows. 

We must say goodbye…

goodbye, goodbye…

The smoke closes in on him day by day. His younger self’s eyes never leave his own. His smile never falters, never growing less. But sometimes he swears he sees his Da instead. Or maybe his Ma. Sometimes, Albus. Or Charity. Lily and James. Black. 

They all seem to be there, just waiting for him to fail. 

Goodbye, goodbye…

The mirror wants to swallow him whole. And he starts wondering why he is fighting it so.

…goodbye, goodbye… 

When the silence becomes too much—when the darkness feels too stifling—he starts to slip. The mirror is up to his shoulder, almost at his chest again, and he thinks it won’t be long now. 

He’ll sink into it. 

Just to see what’s on the other side. 

—goodbye, goodbye—

Just when he is about to—

Right when he’s had enough—

The mirror cuts. It solidifies, with a flash of light, and the glass slashes his skin. The rush of pain is enough to pull away on instinct. He rips himself out of the mirror—

And sees only himself, as he is now. Looking back at him.

Sallow skin. And lank hair. A scowl on thin lips, and dark haunting eyes. 

A man. No longer a boy. 

The mirror flashes again. This time, it's blinding. So much so, that he has to cover his eyes and look away.  

His eyes squeeze shut, and when he opens them—

All he hears is—

“Hello, Handsome.” 

_

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: You were the Only One, I Could See Clearly

Ugh—

Her mouth is dry. Tastes foul, too. Her hair is surely matted into one massive knot at this point. And her eyes and cheeks are covered in old tears, snot, blood, and whatever else.

Hermione feels old, stale, and wrung. Like a grimy dish towel that's been used to clean up one too many spills. 

She must have passed out on that loveseat only seconds after Harry and Draco. The three of them piled together like overtired children after a day of excitement.

Based on the crick in her neck, she's not completely sure how long they let her sleep. But she wakes up briefly to Harry murmuring a quiet message as he sends off his stag patronus.

Between bleary blinks and a pounding headache, Hermione ventures in and out of a drowsy cycle until she hears a knock on the door.

“Goodness.” Kingsley grins as he enters Severus’ room. His rich eggplant robes contrast beautifully with his dark-toned skin, and with his hat with its beaded tassel—he looks regal and striking.

And very much like a leader of the Wizarding World.

“You two never could manage subtlety, could you?” He adds. 

Harry smirks sheepishly. “Never been my forte. No.” 

Draco, who is observing another diagnostic, scoffs under his breath. 

He is scribbling on a chart while standing over Severus. At some point during her crash of a nap, they removed his bloody clothing and cleaned him up a bit. He rests now in standard hospital wear—a loose grey linen shirt and pants—with a freshly bandaged neck, and blood-free hair and skin. 

Hermione blinks away the sleep in her eyes as she watches the others in the room. Draco looks oddly stiff. Harry is yawning with the back of his hair sticking up in odd angles. It was like a bad joke, Hermione thinks. ‘The Minister, an Unspeakable, the Head Auror, and two Death Eaters walk into a bar’...what an odd mix of people. 

Hermione sits up. 

Everything aches. She wasn't expecting the physical exhaustion on top of the mental. But as she fumbles into a standing position, she feels like her spine is aligning itself, vertebrae by vertebrae, as it clicks back into place. Suddenly, she’s a doll that has become rejointed and moveable again. 

“Kings.” She greets, but she’s tad horrified that it sounds like a croak of a toad.

“Hermione.” The Minister gives a sincere smile, then shifts his gaze to Severus. He lets out a slow, low whistle. “What a nostalgic sight—I never thought I’d see that face again. It seems you were successful, Unspeakable Granger. He’ll live, then?”

She tips her head towards Draco. 

“So says the Healer.” 

“He’ll live.” Draco says without looking up and flipping a page of the chart. 

“Brilliant. We now have a very un-dead Potion’s Master.” Harry comments flatly. “Now, what do we do?”

Kingsley rubs the stubble of his chin in thought.

“I’d like to think that would be up to him.” 

All eyes in the room shift to Severus. 

Kingsley continues, “For now we keep this quiet. And depending on how he wants to live his life…we tackle whatever we can from there.” 

“Is it quiet, sir?” Draco asks the Minister. 

Kingsly, having the air of man who has dealt with all sorts in his life, does not balk at Draco's insistent tone. Instead, his eyes warm slightly as he patiently crosses his arms behind his back—giving the Healer his full attention.  

“Harry managed a Vow on those that were in the room at the time of Hermione’s…arrival. No other witnesses are known. I’d like to believe we can just keep this wrapped up for now while the patient recovers. Unless I missed something?” 

Draco puts down the chart on the side table. His silver eyes staring at the older man blankly. 

“And what about Granger?” 

Harry’s brows furrow. “What about Hermione?” 

“You're an Auror, Potter. Time manipulation is illegal. And she didn’t bring back Dumbledore, or some heroic figure—she brought back a known Death Eater. The Wizengamot will want to make an example of her.” 

Draco rolls his eyes at Harry, “Maybe they won’t send her to Azkaban with her being the ‘Golden Girl’ and all, but she’ll at least be sacked. Maybe even barred from Ministry employment.”

Kingsley’s inquisitive brown eyes turn to her in thoughtful contemplation. 

“They can’t do that—” Harry starts.

“It’s true.” She agrees. “I knew that from the beginning. Minister Shacklebolt knew a vague outline of my goal—but never knew my targeted recipient by name. Head Auror Potter and Healer Draco also did not know—” She emphasizes even as Harry objects. “—that I was planning on retrieving Severus Snape. The blame remains entirely with me.”

“No, Hermione—”

“Harry.” She sighs. “Being an Unspeakable…is not the summation of my life. It was only a means to an end for me. And now…maybe it’s time…” Her entire body moves toward Severus without her meaning to. “...for a different branch of my life to start.” 

Harry’s face scrunches up in pure defiance. 

“If I may—” Kingsley interjects. “—I do not know Severus very well. But I think we might be jumping ahead. If Severus wants to be known—then we will deal with the Wizengamot, the Press, and the unfortunate amount of paperwork then.”

He grins knowingly. “But for right now, Unspeakable Granger is taking a few weeks of much deserved personal leave with my consent…and we’ll just see from there.”  

The boys grumble beside her, obviously not pleased. 

Kingsley ignores their protests by slapping his hands together loudly, “Excellent—!” 

He holds out a hand to Hermione. 

“Brilliant work, Unspeakable Granger. If anyone was going to accomplish such a feat, it was always going to be you.” 

Hermione smiles tiredly, and grasps his hand in a firm shake. 

“Not at all. I feel I should be thanking you. It was my pleasure, Minister Shacklebolt.”    

It takes weeks.  

Weeks of watching him heal. Weeks of watching his neck slowly stitch itself together again. Watching as they pour potions, tonics, and draughts down his sleeping throat. 

It helps, she knows. 

Half of what he takes are Strengthening Solutions—chocked-full of vitamins and nutrients that he apparently didn’t deem necessary in the last few months leading up to the Shack. Draco insists that his wounds can’t heal if his body isn’t healthy to begin with. 

He was absolutely skeletal when they brought him in—

But now there is flesh on his bones. Less waxy, sallow skin. His hair, less brittle. His nails and the whites of his eyes are not tinged yellow. And the purple-bruise-like rings under his eyes have diminished to what she assumes is his natural state. 

He looks peaceful. Well rested—and each day she thinks—decidedly, not dead. 

And for the first time in a long time, she waits.

Waiting…

            Waiting…

                       Waiting…

The way he must have been waiting for her in between the years of her visits.  

She’s terrible at it.

Hermione isn’t made for waiting. She’s determined and brash on a good day; reckless on a bad one. She always has a goal—a plan—and now she is suddenly without one. Without him.  

So, she comes every day despite the growing itch under her skin. 

And when the itch is too caustic, too irritating, she rubs her fingers along the back of his hand—skin to skin—as if the nasty rash can transfer to him. 

When her feet are anxious, and she paces the room—back and forth—along the side of his bed, with her unruly curls falling in her face. She’ll stop, and brush the hair out of his own.

When her brain is too addled, too noisy, she’ll sit by his side and read as slow as she can while pretending it's his voice she hears. 

She waits…

               and waits…

                              and waits…

Because she has a feeling that no matter how long she suffers by waiting, that at the end of the day—

He waited so much longer than this for her.

“Granger.” Draco states one day. He’s looking at his charts—looking, looking, looking—like he does every day, three times a day. “I think it’s time to stop the Sleeping Draughts.” 

Hermione sits up, suddenly willing to give her full attention. 

She’s settled on her loveseat in the corner. The little blue sofa that she’s been camping out on and practically owns at this point. 

There is a bag of crisps, a muggle can of soda, and a Cadbury milk bar stuffed in one corner that is her secret stash. A pillow for naps in the other. Below, a pair of slippers are tucked away for everyday use against cold hospital floors. 

Hanging off the sofa’s arm, is Severus’ frock coat that they took off him. She has washed the blood off, mended it, and started using it like an extra housecoat to keep warm. It still smells like him somehow—like earl grey, potion ingredients, and rosemary.

If she just had Crooks here—well, she might as well pay rent for this little loveseat. 

“You think he’s ready?” She asks breathlessly, while trying to keep her excitement to a minimum. 

“I think…” Draco says slowly, as if he’s trying to be gentle with her eagerness. Silver eyes that are full of pity, and trying to be delicate with her. “...we take him off, and let his body decide if he’s ready to wake up or not.” 

A slow, steady breath leaves her lungs.

—or not. 

What a scary thought. 

“Is he healthy enough?” 

Draco scoffs. “I know it’s been some time, but he’s the healthiest I’ve ever seen him in my life. The old codger was very lenient with his selfcare.”  

He flips a page of the chart absently. 

“He still has scars—past inflictions that we can do nothing for—but everything else will certainly be better than what it was.”

She can’t argue with that. Severus certainly looks less like an Inferni, and a thousand times more like a human. 

Hermione licks her lips. “What do we do?” 

“Nothing.” Draco suggests. “We stop the draughts. I’ll keep feeding him Strengthening Solutions and observing him, and you continue to…” He flails a hand at her. “...hover.” 

Hermione bristles. “You make me sound so—”

The blond laughs, his ridiculously pointy face morphing to a smirk. 

“Just talk to him, Granger. Read. Hold his hand, if you must. Let him know you're there, and coax him out of…wherever he’s gone to.” 

She deflates a little; her shoulders relaxing at his orders. Hermione flops back again on her loveseat and tilts her head up to stare at the ceiling. 

“That’s all? There’s nothing else I can do to help bring him back?”

Draco shakes his head at her, as if she just said something completely hopeless while he snorts so unbecomingly—

“You don’t need to. I’ve got a feeling he’s gotten very good at searching for you by now.”

Well. 

Perhaps, that’s true.

And she has never desperately hoped that Draco Malfoy is more right. 

“Really…why…here…um, should it be doing that...?” 

Severus hears a voice ask. It sounds so annoyingly grating, so irritatingly familiar—

“—its normal…his vitals to spike…starts waking up—” 

Another male. 

“...you’re going…smother him, Herm—....Give him…space for god’s sake—” 

Cloying. Maddening. Defiant. Yes, he knows that voice. 

“...let her be, Pot–...She’s not bothering anyone—” 

Oh, he knows this one too. Brash. Arrogant. Childish. Still infuriating, just less so than the other—

Fuck. 

His head is foggy. His eyes won’t open, far too heavy and sluggish, even if he tries. Severus shifts his head, and barely manages to pull his chin from his left shoulder to his right in a drowsy endeavor. 

He tries to blink his eyes open again—

Sound fades away. An intense quiet rings in his ears.

And then—

“Hello, Handsome.” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

That voice. 

Soft. Smooth. Sweet. Sounds like honey dripping from a spoon into a cup of hot tea. 

He knows it. It has filled his head, and poured out from his soul. It has warmed his skin, and lulled his darkest days away. 

He would know it anywhere. 

With a truly herculean effort, Severus opens his eyes. Just to see her.  

Just because he would do anything to see—

“Severus.” She calls. 

Oh—

Merlin. Or God. Whoever the fuck was looking after his wretched life—

He must be dead. 

That is the only way he can explain Hermione being here. She stands over him—hair falling on either side of her face and shoulders as it blocks out the outside world. He can feel warm fingers on his jaw and neck. Sees shining butterscotch-colored eyes. And as soon as hers gaze meet his—

Her face falls apart. 

Almost in a child-like lack of control. Tears pool in her eyes, and her bottom lip quivers. The little wrinkle between her brows scrunches up, as she gasps out a sob—

“Severus!”

Fuck. 

Fuck.

His chest caves in on itself—a huge gaping hole forms right where his heart is—as all the air leaves his lungs. He can feel the way his stomach dips beneath his ribs and struggles to reinflate properly. 

He’s crying. Of course, he’s crying. He never had control over that. 

Not the long traitorous tears that line the corner of his eyes and slip down his temples towards his ears. Nor the way his normally stoic mouth blubbers at the sight of her.

He’s pitiful. Pathetic. 

And so fucking happy to see her. 

He’s never cried from relief before. Doesn’t understand the way it fills him, make his bones shaky and his muscles tense, but also makes him feel like he’s warm, and safe, could melt into a giant puddle at the same time—

His hand reaches out for her—

A throat clears.

“Err. Hiya, sir.” 

Severus’ eyes drop to the side of Hermione. 

He did die. Must have. 

Otherwise, Potter wouldn’t be ruining this moment for him. 

Harry-fucking-Potter.

Bloody hell…he looks even more like James than Severus ever would have imagined—he must be older than his father at this point. The likeness between the two is even more uncanny and disturbing with Lily’s eyes right behind those glasses. 

But Severus’ control must be slipping, because Potter sees his instant irritation on his face and takes two large steps back. 

“Yeaaah.” The man huffs out, with his hands up in defeat. “You know what—? We’ll be outside, Hermione. Let us know when you need us.” 

As he turns to leave, Severus spots the other presence in the room. 

Draco.

Platinum hair of a Malfoy. Silver eyes of a Black. They are wide and open with shock at the moment, just like he’s seeing a ghost. Tall too, maybe even taller than Lucius. Lime green robes.

—a Healer?

He didn’t know that. Huh. Clever boy. A Death Eater to a Healer. What a change. 

Potter nudges the boy, and he blinks out his stupor. Draco’s loose jaw finally shuts, and gives Severus a small, stilted nod before turning away with his old-school-age-nemesis as they leave the room. 

What a sight. 

“Severus?” 

Ah. His attention immediately comes back to her. 

Fuck, she’s gorgeous. He’s never seen anything quite so beautiful before. Her face is scrunched up in worry for him. An absurd notion—he doesn’t deserve one ounce of her concern. 

But he wants to hold her and run his fingers through her monstrous hair—

Severus tries sitting up. He pushes up on his palms with shaky arms and tight muscles, expecting absolute pain…but finds none. 

None. 

His neck is tight and a little itchy, as he lifts a hand to feel the scar that is no doubt there thanks to Nagini. But his body—

Fuck. He could run a marathon. Go for a game of quidditch. Lift ten cauldrons. 

What in Salazar’s name—

“What…” His voice is a hoarse wheeze from lack of use. “...did Draco do to me?” 

She chuckles. “Oh, well…he made you healthy.” 

He blinks. 

“Sweet Circe.” Severus murmurs dryly, laying back on the pillow again. “What a novel feeling.” 

Hermione’s grin grows wider, thoroughly amused by him, despite her eyes still wet with tears. She attempts to hide a sniffle. 

“Ho—w..." She clears her throat, but he knows it's just at choked up as his own. "How are we feeling?” 

He turns his head, feels the pillow on the side of cheek, as he stares at her—

If someone had the nerve to ever ask him what his ideal woman was, he would have described the constellation of freckles that lined the delicate slope of her petite nose. The soft point of her golden eyes where the lashes meet. The angle of her sharp inquisitive brow. Or the dusty pink curve of the cupid's bow on top of her lip. 

He would have described Hermione—point by point. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. 

“I’m not entirely sure yet.” He mumbles, trying to hold back the sting of his eyes.

Merlin, he’s such a crier. He really should try to control it.

Hermione must have seen that he is barely holding it together, because something soft breaks her features and she gives him a small, knowing smile. His fingers twitch—and he moves his hand to the edge of the bed towards her again. 

But that’s as far as he’ll go. 

“Are you real?” He asks pitifully.

A surprised laugh leaves her, as she leans forward and lets her fingertips touch the back of his hand. She’s warm. Always has been. And Death seems so far away now.

“I’d like to think so.”

A rough, wet chuckle escapes Severus without thought. He is forced to pinch his eyes shut just so he’s not weeping like a child again. 

“Not the most confident of answers.” He half-jokes, but his voice is too broken. 

He hears her move behind his closed eyelids, and her touch is suddenly missing from his hand. The loss of it immediately spirals into a compulsory need to grab her. His muscles tense, and he’s about to reach out and claw at her to get back here—

But he doesn’t have to—

Not seconds later, Severus feels Hermione lean over him—both of her hands on his face, his jaw—and her forehead bends to meet his own. 

“I’m real,” she promises. 

“You’re here with me—right where we're meant to be. In my time now.”

Her thumb strokes his cheek…

And he swears his chest heats, thunders, and shoots off like lightning in a bottle. 

“Voldemort is ash and dust. Dumbledore is merely a portrait with peeling paint. And I…am no longer a Mistress of Time interrupting your life.” 

She sighs, as her nose bumps his own. 

“You’re safe. And free—and I’m so fucking proud that you made it here—that you never let them bring you down.” 

Hermione starts to back away, as if to release him. 

And Severus can’t have that. 

Not at all. 

So, he snakes a hand up to the nape of her neck and keeps her there against him. His fingers finally—finally—tangle in her hair like he always wanted.

“You were always a welcome interruption in my life.” He says softly as Hermione gasps into a wet sob. He can feel wetness on her cheek, and he’s almost sorry for making her cry again. 

“We both know that’s not true—”

“It is. Always. If I’m finally safe, it's because you cared enough to make it so. If I’m finally free…it’s because you pushed me to see a world where that was possible.”

“If you're proud of me…” 

He watches her eyes flutter closed, her lips inching towards his— 

“Then, you should be proud of yourself, too. Because I’m only resilient because I had you to make me. I had you—” 

His overeager Gryffindor won't even let him finish. He has to say the last part against her lips. 

“—to make it worth it.”

Oh...

Oh, fuck.  

Dead. Definitely dead. 

He has no other possible explanation for this being real. 

No way to justify the high-pitched whine that escapes her mouth right before she kisses him. No rational defense of how her teeth scrape his bottom lip before soothing it with a lick. Nor could he vindicate the feel of her tongue pushing to find, and curl around his. 

The way her nails scratch his scalp. Rub his jaw. Slide against his neck.

Or the way she tastes.

Fuck—

His eyes roll back, and it’s possible he groans a little too loudly. 

He might have to fuck her right here on this hospital bed, with a Potter and a Malfoy right outside the door. Entirely indecent thing to do. But who cares.

He is done—

So fucking done fighting this. 

He’ll never let her go after this. He’ll follow her anywhere; take her everywhere. 

And she’ll just have to fucking suck it up. She’ll now have a clingy, middle-aged pet that follows her every step.     

Bloody hell, when did she get in his lap—?

Shite. Him and Crookshanks, if that mangy beast of a cat is still alive. They’ll just be her ugly, touch-starved strays that follow her home and hiss at anybody that comes near. 

Sweet—what—?

She licks a wet stripe up the side of his neck, and Severus almost passes out. He’s the hardest he’s ever been in his life. There’s little to no blood going to his brain at this point—

He's going to make sure their home has a cat-door, for fuck’s sake, just to make her happy. And live with long curly brown hair—and orange cat fur—all over his robes.

Did…did she just move her hips against his—? 

Ah, fu—ck. 

He squeezes her hips, not sure if he’s trying to stop her or bring her closer. Both choices, he finds seemingly impossible.

They shouldn’t be doing this—He just woke up. He’s going to have a heart attack at this rate. 

Her lips make their way back up to his—just as soft, pillowy, and delicious as they were seconds ago. 

And Severus thinks to himself—

He is going to love Hermione Granger for the rest of his life. 

And nothing is going to stop him. 

“Suspiciously quiet in there.” 

“It is.”

“Could be a silencing charm, I suppose. Lots of…” Harry’s words fail him. “…catching up…to do, I’m sure.”

Malfoy shudders. “Merlin, please stop talking.”

“…should we…?”

“Potter, if you have a death wish—then be my guest.” 

Christ. He can’t just stay out here all day—he has things to do. They need a plan for Snape. Not to mention, Gin will kill him if he’s home late again.

He’s going to do this, isn’t he? 

“No, Potter—I was joking! Don’t fucking—!”

Harry knocks on the door. 

“Erm, Hermione?” His voice wavers. He might be sweating, too. Malfoy grimaces so hard next to him, that he relates. “Just…you know, checking…up on you?” 

No answer. 

Lovely. Damn it, Hermione. 

“Fuck.” Harry says under his breath.

He twists the door handle…

Malfoy’s eyes are like saucers next to him as he tries to grab his wrist to stop him.

“Don’t fucking do it—!” He hisses in a whisper. 

But Harry does. He really really does. 

The door pushes open—

And Hermione is on top of their old Potion Professor straddling his waist, with her tongue in his mouth, and his grubby hands splayed wide across her arse. Snape groans deeply—

Holy fuck—

Harry gags. 

He manages to look over at Malfoy in pure horror. The pale git is literally covering his own eyes like a Victorian nun shielding her virtue, while simultaneously saying, 

“Salazar’s saggy bollocks—”

Bloody buggering fuck. Is this how she felt walking in on him and Gin? 

He wants to bleach his eyeballs. Maybe he could self-Obliviate himself like Lockhart did.

Good god—

“Harry!” He hears a shrill shriek, as he refuses to look up. 

Well, at least her tongue is free now. 

“Oh, jeez. Oh, gosh. Oh, hell—” Shite. He’s going to vomit. “Hermione, I’m just going to…you know, shut this door really quick…maybe bash my head against a wall. And I’ll be back in two minutes so you can…” oh fuck no. “—sort yourself out.”

He goes to shut the door, but not before Malfoy yells in—

“—two minutes, Granger! Then we’re coming back in. For Circe’s sake, please be ready.” 

Harry manages to shut the door.

Malfoy crumples on the wall halfway down to the floor. He has the exact same look as Ron when he was hurling up slugs in Second-Year.

“Ugh, ugh—sweet mother of Merlin—why did you open the door, Potter!”

He doesn’t answer, just rubs his eyes beneath his glasses as if that will blissfully erase the image of his Best Friend, and the Bat of the Dungeons together. 

It doesn’t. 

It takes a minute, but finally Harry is capable of answering—

“That might have been the biggest mistake of my life.”

Malfoy throws a medical chart at his back.

Hermione sighs—

One of the longest. Exasperated. Most suffering sighs of her life. 

“Oh, Harry…” 

Severus is livid beneath her—glaring at the door in such a way that if he wasn’t the most controlled person in the universe, she is sure accidental magic would’ve caught it on fire by now. 

Oil and water, those two. They can’t function without pissing the other off. 

“Severus.” She vies for his attention. 

He still has his hands on her arse, and she has hers on his shoulders as she sits on his…lower abdomen. Reaching up, she shifts his chin towards her. His glare immediately softens. 

“I apologize for...well...escalating things. Honestly, I shouldn’t have hurled myself at you. Especially when you're recovering.”

His fingers squeeze the flesh of her rump, and he bears her weight down on his hips. 

“Hermione.” He snarls mockingly, as he rolls his eyes at her. “Perhaps it wasn’t clear—but I’m not quite sure you understand how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

Her heart thrums happily. She leans down again, kissing him chastely on the lips. 

“Then, waiting just a bit longer will be no problem for you at all.” 

He growls grumpily, as she swings her legs off him to get up. Going to the door, she straightens out her pale green sundress a bit. 

“Don’t blame Harry. He’s right, you know, we do have things we need to sort out.” 

She’s pretty sure she hears ‘Fucking Potter’ mumbled under Severus' breath as he sits up, while propping himself against the headboard. 

God, he looks good. Honest to Merlin—good. 

So much less like a starved scarecrow, and so so much healthier. His hair is a bit of a mess at the moment, but his skin is flushed and warm. His weight is so much better than weeks before despite still being wiry and thin. Even though he’s missing his black intimidating robes, he still looks striking and fearsome with his raven hair and piercing black eyes. 

She owes Draco immensely. 

“Ah. Here—” Hermione reaches into the side-table drawer and pulls out his wand. “Before I forget…we found this in the archives. Apparently…it’s not friendly towards others, except I’ve found it to be uncommonly welcoming.”

Severus raises a brow, but keeps an otherwise straight face.

“Is that so?”

He reaches for his wand. Long pale fingers wrap around the Ebony ruins of the handle, and it glows in recognition. 

“Perhaps, it just has exceptional taste.” 

The corner of his lip twitches into that almost-smile, and Hermione quietly bites her lip to hide a smile.

“Before I open that door, is there anything you need?”

“Yes.” He gives her a flat look. “You, back in my bed, obviously.” 

Hermione grins.

“Later, Handsome.” She purrs, as she turns the handle. “—Harry! Draco! It’s safe now.” 

They take their time, both of them dragging their feet in like the pouting toddlers that they are. She tries not to laugh at their queasy expressions. Harry is firmly refusing to look at her; Draco avoids his Godfather just as badly. 

Children, these two. Honestly. 

“I would just like to point out—” They flinch at the sound of her voice, dreading what’s about to come out her mouth. “—that I’ve seen both of you in compromising positions. Several times. And if I can survive it, then so can you.” 

“—listen, it's not my fault. Gin has no boundaries.”

“—name one time, Granger.” 

Her frustration rises, her arms folding across her chest and her hip popping out on their own accord. But despite the fighting stance, she keeps her tone even. 

“Well then, Harry, maybe you could explain to Ginny that Victoire’s second birthday is not an acceptable place to commandeer the loo for sex. Or Christmas. Or Geroge’s wedding. Or any family gatherings.”  

Harry gives a sheepish grin, while ruffling his messy hair. 

“And Draco—maybe you’ve forgotten, but I unfortunately haven't—that you were possibly the most randy of the randiest as a Fifth-Year. You and Pansy seemed to be in every alcove, of every corner, of every wing of Hogwarts.”

Draco picks some kind of invisible lint off his shoulder and shrugs. 

Hermione continues, “So then, excuse me—for this one time.”

Both boys look to argue again, but then flinch when they look behind her. She peeks over her shoulder to find Severus’ smug, devilish smirk; as if promising it will definitely be more than just the one time.  

“Now then,” She smothers her own smile. “Shall we move along like proper adults?”

The boys grumble but move further into the room as if it is suddenly more bearable. Draco, to her surprise, is the first one to approach Severus.

“Godfather.” Draco greets, while offering his hand to shake. 

“Draco,” Severus rumbles in that slow, deep bass tone of a voice that she knows now is him attempting to control his voice. 

He takes his Godson’s grasp. 

Draco seems to have missed the sound of his voice as well, because his face shatters for a second as soon as he hears it. He’s always been emotionally stifled, but watching him try to rein in his tears and struggle to keep his face blank makes Hermione just as overwhelmed. 

“I—” Draco swallows. “I’m so glad you're here with us now. And…” He clears his throat. “...thank you, for all the things you did for me back then. I never was able to say that during the War—and you deserved to know how much I appreciate it. All of it. I’m truly in your debt.” 

Severus doesn’t say anything for a long moment—just watches Draco, as if he is reconciling the man from the boy he once knew. 

“I presume you are the one that saved my life from Nagini’s grasp, yes?” 

Draco nods, as Severus lets go of his handshake and sighs. 

“I told you once that ‘Debts are a Slytherin’s true currency’. But I’m so very tired of debts these days…things like sincere thanks and appreciation have grown to become far more valuable to me now.” 

Draco blinks in shock, and Severus’ lips twitch into an almost-smile again. 

“I’ll take them both at full value then. Yours are more…than enough, Draco.” 

Draco reaches for his hand again—shakes it one more time—with the same admiration and respect, but with a dash more of happiness mixed in. Like some kind of fortuitous deal was struck, the younger man smiles, 

“Very well then.”  

Harry, clearly uncomfortable with whatever this situation is, looks at Hermione with pure confusion on his face. She shrugs back. 

“Right…” Harry says slowly, “Now, that the very-manly-Slytherin-bonding is done—By the way, nice to see you again, Professor—”

Draco and Severus snort. 

“Sir, in case it wasn’t clear—” Harry continues, “Hermione here has extracted you to our year early 2006. Where you are—have been—pronounced dead since the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

“As of this moment, you are still technically dead. No one besides us, Minister Shacklebolt, and a few sworn medical staff know of your return.” 

He straightens his glasses. “All of your assets have been dealt with according to your will—which I have no idea what that situation is, because Gringotts refuses to fucking tell me without a ‘reasonable cause’—but as far as I can tell, Spinner’s End has been long gone.”

“I know Minerva has some of your personal items still held at Hogwarts—but besides that, I have no clue to the condition of your estate.” Harry pauses, “Right now—you are practically a walking ghost —no money, no home, no identity.” 

“Still better than an actual ghost,” Draco adds, as he leans against the far wall with his arms crossed.

“Rather debatable at the moment,” Severus raises a brow at Harry, as if to say get on with it.  

Harry’s worried eyes shift to hers for a second. 

“I’m not going to sugarcoat it—public opinion is a bit shifty at the moment.” Harry pauses, while sucking in a deep breath. 

“Some people see you as a hero—all of us in this room, included. You received an Order of Merlin posthumously for your deeds in the war. And as a result: you were pardoned from all crimes leading up to your ‘death’, and miraculously, I believe that would still stand. They can’t haul you to Azkaban even if they wanted to.” 

Severus’ lips turn down into a gritted frown. No, he never wanted to be a hero, Hermione knows. He would hate to be seen that way. 

“You could—” Harry continues, “—walk out of this room, and be exalted and cheered on as a War Veteran. I could release a press statement with some type of explanation of your appearance. We could go to Minerva if you wanted to be back at Hogwarts—” 

Severus’ frown darkens even more, and Harry quickly stumbles over his error. 

“—or…or you could open up your own apothecary? Or whatever. Live life just as it was—or at least, how you want it to be. No Hogwarts.” 

Hermione crosses her arms a little tighter across her body. 

“But…” Harry lowers his voice, “...I think you’re also aware that not everyone sees you that way. You’ll need to be careful. There are many, some old Voldemort supporters or even Order members, that feel…that your betrayal was unforgivable. Some are still weary of your allegiance.”

“I’m afraid you might have been in better standing dead than alive, sir.” Harry finishes. 

The room is eerily quiet for a moment. Severus is no doubt aware that he is hated—it seems like the world can’t spin correctly unless someone hates Severus Snape. 

Hermione scoffs, and squares her shoulders, her stance widening with her hands on her hips. 

“Well, I don’t care what they think.” She sniffs impertinently. “It’s entirely irrelevant. We know who he is, and that’s all that matters. They shouldn’t be allowed to dictate his life.” 

“Hermione,” Harry’s shoulders slump in an exhausted plea. “He’s a hero, I get it. But he’s also a target—they won’t trust him right away. He’s always screamed ‘dastardly villain’, and that’s not going to go away overnight—” 

He looks to Severus. “And to be honest, Professor, your personal, or even your not so personal—” Harry’s eyes shift to her. “—safety might be in question.”

Severus’ spine goes rigid, his sharp eyes snap to hers too, slightly wide with alarm.

“Listen. I just want you to be careful.” Harry sighs. “We didn’t go through all this effort so that some Drunk-off-his-arse-Wanna-be-Death-Eater could Avada you or Snape in the back.” 

Harry tiredly rubs his eyes beneath his glasses. 

“Stay with me and Gin, if you want. Or even Draco at the Manor. Hell, you can even stay at your flat, Hermione, if you let me bulk up the wards a bit more. But just don’t be walking around expecting everyone to be happy to see him. Most people don’t know what to think of him.”   

“Scoundrel or Saint?” Draco adds in, unhelpfully.

Harry snorts a laugh, while Hermione rolls her eyes. Severus looks at them all, with a curious tilt of his head. 

“Excuse me?” 

Draco’s eyes take on a maniacal glee that matches his sadistic smirk. 

“You're a best seller, Godfather. That harpy Skeeter wrote a compelling tale called, Snape: Scoundrel or Saint? that was all the rage a few years ago.”

“That unpleasant cow.” Hermione grumbles. 

Severus, to his credit, just closes his eyes slowly as if his suffering knows no bounds. He mumbles a curse under his breath so venomously that it's a wonder Skeeter doesn’t drop dead somewhere suddenly. 

“It’s not too bad, sir.” Harry offers, but his own smirk is ruining whatever comfort he is trying to extend. “The historical events were mostly true, even if it was a tad bit…flowery here and there.”

She watches Severus’ eyes snap open in an instant glare. 

He scowls mercilessly, as he growls through his gritted teeth, 

“And how—Mr. Potter—did she come to know these events? The only journals I keep pertain to my work. Never personal information. And if I recall correctly, only you had excess to my memories—perhaps, you had a jolly good time spilling my life’s woes? Maybe even made a tidy profit giving them away…?”

Hermione sucks in a breath, ready to defend Harry—but the giant prat grins. A petty, childish, taunting grin. Slipping his hand into his Auror robes, he removes a small glass vial. 

“These memories, sir?”

Oh, for the love of Merlin—

Severus bristles. His hand snaps out in a flash of clawed fingers, as he lunges for the vial immediately, and almost falls off the bed. Harry, of course, steps just out of his reach—his grin growing just a bit wider. 

“Hermione.” Harry commands firmly, with his eyes still set on a fuming Severus. “I need a moment.” 

“Harry, no. Please don’t do this—”

Green eyes flicker to her, and his baiting grin slips into a lopsided smile that she knows all too well. 

“Just one moment, and I’ll never bother again.” 

She bites her lip, glancing at Severus. He meets her gaze for a moment, but he’s too ruffled and angry to be concerned with anything other than what’s in that glass vial. 

Pushing off the back wall where he was leaning, Draco places a hand on her shoulder. 

“There are a few things that need to be said, Granger.” He whispers down into her ear. 

Severus, suddenly noticing them, zeros into his hand on her shoulder. But Hermione ignores his sharp stare in favor of glaring at Draco.

She growls, “Then say it with me here.” 

Draco raises a brow at her. 

“I understand your objection. But if I were you, I’d just let them get it out of the way now and save us all the trouble in the future.” 

Hermione snorts angrily.

"It's going to happen, Granger. Now, or as soon as you turn your back on them. They have years of hostilities between them—let them get it out of the way without having to worry about you, too." 

Hermione sighs, glancing at Harry’s smug grin and Severus’ melting glare.

Idiots.

She shakes her head at them suddenly fatigued. 

Leaving the room to the boys, she just hopes they’ll all be in one piece by the end of it—so she can tear into all three of them one more time.

The door shuts behind Hermione—

And Severus stares at the two boys—men—in front of him with as blank of an expression as he can manage. 

His Occlumency walls have been refusing to cooperate with him since he’s awoken, and he can feel the telltale twitch of his lips in anger. The way his jaw tightens. The way the cords of his scarred neck grow taunt as he tries to hide any emotion on his face. 

“Well, Potter…” Severus provokes under a painfully-unimpressed-half-lidded gaze, “...let’s hear what you have to say. No need for niceties now.” 

Lily’s eyes stare back in defiance. But says nothing.

Severus raises a brow. 

“If your aim is to interrogate me on anything Death Eater related—I’m afraid you’ll find my information is now somewhat outdated.”

Potter snorts, but ignores his clip.

“She hasn’t seen these, you know.” He holds up the vial, as if admiring the ghostly wisps of his memories. “No one has but me. I didn’t think it was right to parade them around, even with the Wizengamot asking for them.” 

“How…infinitely considerate of you.”  Severus levels flatly. 

Harry shrugs, unabashed. 

“Well…she’s always had a soft spot for you. Even when we were kids,” His high falsetto mimics Hermione, “—‘It’s Professor Snape, Harry’—as if you always had her respect, no matter what.”

Severus snorts, as did Draco. 

“She’d watch you, too. Always had admiration in her eyes. And when you killed Dumbledore?” Severus tries not to flinch. “Well, she didn’t say one bad thing against you. It was like she knew something we all didn’t—” 

Potter huffs a laugh, “She always gave you the benefit of the doubt. And I’ve always been suspicious of it.”  

“Now.” Potter tips his chin down, and stares over the rim of his glasses in a clear threat. 

“She says these memories were altered to write a narrative—that your love for my Mum—was just a way to get me to accept you. But, as we know, I’m a bit skeptical when it comes to you. So, there are somethings I need to know—”  

Severus doesn’t blink. 

“Hermione didn’t tell us everything that had happened between you two over all the times you met. But she didn’t need to—it's written on her face. It’s always been written on her face, whether she knew it or not.” 

Draco steps a little closer to Potter, his eyes just as steady and accusing behind the other man’s shoulder. They apparently seem to be in agreement over this—and solidly against Severus.