Chapter Text
2 July 1997
The house at 8 Heathgate stood empty, though no one knew it but Hermione herself.
She Apparated directly into the front garden just after dark, the crack of displaced air swallowed by the quiet elegance of Hampstead Garden Suburb. Her legs nearly gave out as her feet touched solid ground, exhaustion and grief finally catching up after holding herself together all day. The funeral. Dumbledore's funeral. She'd stood beside Harry and Ron at the edge of the lake, watching flames consume the greatest wizard of their age, and then the chaos of King's Cross; the Weasleys gathering their brood, the Dursleys collecting Harry with their usual tight-lipped disapproval, everyone absorbed in their own grief and shock. No one had noticed that Hermione's parents weren't there. No one had asked where they were when she'd slipped away from the platform alone.
The key felt foreign in her hand as she unlocked the door, muscle memory carrying her through the motions of coming home to a place that was no longer really home at all. Inside, the house was exactly as she'd left it at Christmas, immaculate, frozen, a museum of a life that no longer existed. Her mother's reading glasses still sat on the side table. Her father's dental journals lay stacked beside his favourite chair, a bookmark holding his place in an article he would never finish reading.
She made it as far as the sitting room before her knees buckled.
The sob that tore from her throat was ugly, primal, the kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. She crumpled onto the Persian rug her mother had been so proud of, curling into herself as everything she'd been holding back crashed over her in waves. Dumbledore was dead. Gone. The one person who'd seemed to know what to do, who'd had a plan, murdered by Snape on that horrible tower. Her parents were in Australia with no memory she'd ever existed, living peaceful lives that didn't include a daughter. And the Horcrux they'd retrieved was fake, courtesy of the unknown R.A.B. Worthless. All of it for nothing.
By the end of summer, she would disappear with Harry and Ron to hunt the real Horcruxes with almost no idea where to look, no way to destroy them if they found them, nothing but desperate hope and the growing certainty that they were going to fail.
She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes burned, until there was nothing left inside her but hollow exhaustion and cold, creeping fear. The house absorbed her grief in silence, offering no comfort, only the terrible luxury of privacy.
When she finally dragged herself upstairs, her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like a stranger, eyes swollen, face blotchy, hair a wild tangle. She looked exactly like what she was: a girl who'd systematically erased herself from her parents' minds and was now facing a war she didn't know how to win.
Sleep, when it came, brought no rest. She dreamed of the tower, of green light and Dumbledore falling, of her parents' confused faces as she'd modified their memories, of Harry walking into darkness with only her and Ron beside him.
She woke in grey morning light with a single, sharp thought cutting through the fog of despair: No.
She couldn't do this. Couldn't spend the next month drowning in fear and grief while the world crumbled. Harry needed her. Ron needed her. They had work to do, impossible work, and falling apart in her empty house wouldn't help anyone.
Hermione forced herself through the motions, shower, breakfast she couldn't taste, tea that sat cooling on the desk. By mid-morning, she was surrounded by parchment and books, making lists because lists gave her something to control when everything else felt impossibly out of reach. Supplies they'd need. Spells to master. Everything Dumbledore had told Harry about Horcruxes, written out in her careful script, analysed from every angle she could think of.
The scratch of quill on parchment was meditative, familiar. She lost herself in the work, in the comforting illusion that enough preparation might somehow make the impossible possible.
The tapping at her window came in the afternoon.
She looked up, disoriented. An owl, unremarkable brown, the kind that delivered subscription notices, waited at the glass. The letter it carried was sealed with dark red wax, and something about the way the parchment sat made her pause. Heavier than normal post. More deliberate.
Her wand was in her hand before conscious thought. She approached the window carefully, every paranoid instinct screaming warnings.
The owl dropped the letter on her desk the moment she opened the window, not waiting for treats or acknowledgment before launching itself back into the morning sky. Strange. Owls always waited.
Hermione cast every detection charm she knew. No hexes. No curses. No tracking spells. Just layer upon layer of privacy wards, sophisticated protective enchantments that had taken real skill to craft.
When she finally broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, the spiky, angular handwriting made her breath catch.
Miss G.
What I am about to propose will seem impossible given recent events. Nevertheless, I find myself in need of your particular skills for a matter of considerable urgency.
In exchange, I am prepared to answer questions you have not yet learned to ask.
If you are capable of setting aside your justified hatred long enough to hear what I propose, come alone to an address I will provide. If not, burn this and speak of it to no one.
But understand: the castle will not be safe for you come September regardless.
You have three days to decide.
—SS
She read it three times, her hands shaking. Each word was chosen with surgical precision, revealing almost nothing while promising everything.
Severus Snape. The man who'd murdered Dumbledore. The Death Eaters who betrayed the Order. And he was asking for her help?
It had to be a trap.
She should burn it. Should tell Harry immediately.
But that phrase, questions you have not yet learned to ask, lodged itself under her ribs like a splinter. Because they had nothing. A fake Horcrux. Vague hints. No real plan. And Snape was dangling answers in front of her like bait.
She spent two days thinking, analysing, examining every angle. By the evening of July 5th, after two sleepless nights, she picked up her quill with hands that trembled only slightly.
5 July 1997
Prof.,
I accept, conditionally.
Proof: Third year, the essay topic when you substituted for Moony.
How do I know this isn't a trap?
—HG
She folded the letter and sealed it, then moved toward the window to call for a rental owl, only to find the same unremarkable brown owl perched on her windowsill. Back already. Waiting.
Her breath caught. Snape had sent it back for her reply. He'd known she would take the full three days to decide, known exactly when she would respond.
Was she truly so predictable?
The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. She attached her letter to the owl's leg with hands that weren't quite steady, and watched it disappear into the grey morning sky.
Then she waited.
She didn't have to wait long. The owl returned before she'd even finished her cold tea, a second letter tied to its leg.
Miss G.,
Werewolves. Identification, symptoms, treatment. Your essay was the only one demonstrating actual thought rather than regurgitation.
Guarantees? None. You'd be a fool to trust anything I offer. Come alone into potential danger with a known murderer, or don't.
Come anyway.
You're practical enough to know anger won't accomplish what's necessary. You need answers. I have them.
The location is under Fidelius. I am Secret Keeper.
Tomorrow. Three o'clock. The address will be provided upon agreement.
—SS
She read it twice, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was right, damn him. She would go. Not because she trusted him, she didn't, but because she couldn't afford not to.
She flipped the parchment over and wrote directly on the back, her hand steady despite everything.
I'll come.
The owl took flight the moment she released it, disappearing into the evening sky.
Hours passed. Hermione tried to read, to focus on her lists, but her attention kept drifting to the window. She paced the length of her room, wore a path between her desk and the door, checked the wards on the house twice though nothing had changed.
When the brown owl finally returned, the sky outside had gone full dark. She nearly ran to the window.
The parchment was brief, the spiky handwriting stark against the page:
Spinner's End, Number 13, Cokeworth.
Don't be late.
—SS
Hermione stared at the address, her mind already working. Cokeworth. Where on earth was Cokeworth?
She pulled out a map of Britain, spreading it across her desk with shaking hands. It took several minutes of searching before she found it, a small industrial town in the north, the kind of place that wouldn't merit more than a footnote in most atlases. Declining manufacturing, poverty, exactly the sort of place no one would think to look for Severus Snape.
Which was probably the point.
She looked at the clock. Nearly midnight. In fifteen hours, she would Apparate to a condemned man's house and walk willingly into what might very well be a trap.
She should sleep. Should rest.
Instead, she began making preparations.
27 July 1997, 4pm
Severus,
I've been at the Burrow for less than half a day and I already feel like I'm suffocating. Mrs. Weasley keeps asking if I'm feeling well. Apparently, I look pale. I told her I didn't sleep well. Which is true, though not for the reasons she thinks.
I'm writing this knowing the charmed pouch will get it to you safely, wherever you are. It was clever, giving me this. Owls would be impossible now, you were right. I keep touching it, this small piece of magic that connects us. It's the only thing that feels real right now.
Three weeks. We only had three weeks, and now I'm sitting at the Weasley's kitchen table pretending I spent the last month at home doing research. The lies come easier than I expected. I'm not sure what that says about me.
I know what's coming tonight. You explained the plan, explained why you have to do what you have to do. Understanding the necessity doesn't make it easier. I'm going to have to watch you fight us, and I can't do anything except trust that you know what you're doing.
I hate this. I hate that this is what's required of you.
What if something goes wrong? What if you’re hurt? I can't stop running through all the ways this could end badly.
Write back when you can. Let me know you're safe.
—H
P.S. I didn't say it properly when I left, any of it. Thank you. For trusting me. For letting me stay. For those three weeks that changed everything.
27 July 1997, 5pm
H,
The plan is sound. I have accounted for every variable within my control. Focus on your role. Keep Potter alive.
The Dark Lord does not suspect. He has no reason to. I have given him none.
Do not concern yourself with my safety. I have survived worse with far less motivation to continue doing so.
Write when you need to. The pouch is secure.
—S
P.S. Those three weeks were not a mistake, if that's what you're asking. Though perhaps they should have been.
27 July 1997, 11pm
H,
Are you safe?
—S
28 July 1997, 1am
Severus,
I'm safe. Unharmed.
Moody is dead. The ambush, you know about the ambush. Mundungus disapparated the second the Death Eaters appeared. Someone betrayed us, and I know it wasn't you.
George lost his ear. Sectumsempra. Your curse. Mrs. Weasley tried everything to reattach it before the Healers arrived, but nothing worked. He'll never hear from that side again. Lupin saw you cast it.
Everyone is talking about you now. The traitor Snape who tried to kill Harry Potter, who murdered Dumbledore and now attacks the Order. Ron wants you dead. Harry won't say anything at all, which might be worse. I had to sit there and listen to all of it, pretending I agreed with every word.
I saw you during the fight. I saw you stop, just for a second, when you looked at me. How did you know it was me? We all looked identical.
What happened with George? I need to know …
Are you safe? That's what you asked me, so now I'm asking you. Did he suspect anything?
—H
28 July 1997, 1.30am
H,
The curse was meant for a Death Eater behind Lupin. The boy moved. I redirected mid-cast to avoid killing him outright. Sectumsempra was the least lethal option available in that fraction of a second.
The ear cannot be restored. Dark magic prevents it. He knows this already.
Lupin saw what he expected to see, a Death Eater attacking. Nothing more.
The Dark Lord does not suspect. He is too occupied with his fury over Lucius's wand snapping and Potter's escape. He believes I proved my loyalty by pursuing Potter directly.
Moody's loss is significant. The Order has lost one of its most capable fighters.
Your disguise was adequate, but I would know you in any form. The way you sat on that thestral, the way you moved, I knew immediately it was you.
I am unharmed. Do not concern yourself with my safety when you are surrounded by people who would destroy you if they knew the truth.
—S
P.S. I did not want this. George's injury. You’re having to witness it. Any of it. I am sorry does not suffice, but it is all I have.
28 July 1997, 2am
Severus,
Thank you. For explaining. I knew there had to be an explanation but hearing it from you…I needed that.
George will survive. He's making jokes already, trying to keep Fred from falling apart. The Weasleys are strong like that. But I keep thinking about how close it was, how differently it could have ended.
You recognized me. I don't know whether to be terrified that you could tell, or… something else. If you noticed, could someone else?
Moody deserved better than this. He survived so much, fought for so long. It feels wrong that he's gone while the rest of us are still here.
I'm relieved you're safe. I know I shouldn't say it, shouldn't feel it when George is upstairs missing an ear and everyone here wants you dead, but I am. Relieved.
Be careful. Please.
—H
28 July 1997 2.30 am
H,
Moody did deserve better. I could not save him. I could not even retrieve his body from my brethren. He would understand the necessity of such sacrifices, even if it offers no comfort.
I recognized you because you're mine. No one else would notice. You are safe in that regard.
Now go to bed. Sleep. You are no good to anyone exhausted.
—S
30 July 1997, 5pm
Severus,
The world is ending and I'm enchanting ribbons.
Bill and Fleur's wedding is in two days, and the Burrow has descended into complete chaos. Mrs. Weasley has everyone working on preparations: de-gnoming the garden, sweeping, polishing, arranging flowers, hanging decorations, organizing seating charts. Ginny and I spent this morning making buttonholes for what feels like half of wizarding Britain. How can one family have so many relatives?
It's surreal. We're planning a celebration while Moody's body is still with the Death Eaters. While George is upstairs learning to live with half his hearing gone. While you're… wherever you are, doing whatever you have to do. Fleur keeps talking about the colour scheme. Ron keeps complaining about dress robes. And I have to smile and help tie ribbons and pretend any of these matters.
Maybe it does matter. Maybe that's the point, to keep living, keep celebrating, even when everything feels like it's falling apart. I don't know anymore.
I made something. It's foolish, probably, but I did it anyway. A buttonhole for you, white roses and myrtle, traditional. I charmed it to stay fresh. I'm sending it through the pouch to see if it works for objects, not just letters.
In another world, in a world at peace, I would have asked you to come with me. As my date. There would have been scandal, of course, the former student bringing the surliest professor from Hogwarts as her plus-one. Everyone would have been indignant. It would have been so much easier than this.
We could have danced together. You would have complained about the music and the crowds, and I would have made you dance anyway.
In another world.
But we're in this one, so I'm sending you flowers instead and hoping the pouch's magic is as clever as you are.
—H
31 July 1997, 10am
H,
The pouch works for small objects. The buttonhole arrived intact. White roses and myrtle, you know the language of flowers, then. Virtue and love. Appropriate for a wedding. Reckless for us.
I have placed it somewhere no one will find it. In another world, I would have worn it. In this one, I will keep it hidden.
Yes, the world is ending and you are enchanting ribbons. Perhaps that is precisely what you should be doing. The Dark Lord believes fear has paralyzed the Order, that Dumbledore's death broke whatever resistance remained. Every flower you charm, every moment you spend maintaining the illusion of normalcy. It is resistance he does not anticipate. Do not dismiss it.
Moody would want the wedding to go forward. He would want you to celebrate and remember what you are fighting for.
Dance at the wedding, even if I cannot be there to see it.
—S
P.S. You are correct about one thing. I would have complained about the overwhelming number of Weasleys, the noise, probably the food. But I would have danced with you anyway.
31 July 1997, 11pm
Severus,
Something unexpected happened tonight. We were celebrating Harry's birthday, seventeen, finally, and it was actually nice for a few hours. Mrs. Weasley gave him a watch that belonged to her brother Fabian. Did you know him? From the first war, or perhaps from Hogwarts?
Then Minister Scrimgeour arrived and everything changed.
He came to read Dumbledore's will. I had no idea Dumbledore had left us anything, I don't think any of us did. Scrimgeour was furious about it, kept demanding to know what instructions Dumbledore had given us, what the objects meant. As if we had any idea.
Harry received the Snitch from his first Quidditch match. Ron got something called a Deluminator that puts out and restores lights. And I…
I received a book. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. A children's collection, written in runes. Have you heard of it? I hadn't. Apparently, it's common in wizarding households, but my parents are Muggles, so...
I don't understand. Why would Dumbledore leave me a book of fairy tales when he knew what we'd be facing? There has to be a reason. He never did anything without purpose. But what could children's stories possibly have to do with...with any of this?
Did he ever mention his will to you? Did he say anything about leaving us these things?
I'm exhausted. The wedding is tomorrow and I should sleep, but I can't stop thinking about this.
—H
31 July 1997, 11.30pm
H,
Fabian Prewett and his brother were killed by Death Eaters in the first war. Powerful fighters, both of them. Potter receiving his watch is no small gesture from Molly Weasley.
As for The Tales of Beedle the Bard, every wizarding child knows those stories. I am... puzzled that Dumbledore left you a book you should have read in the cradle, except that he knew you hadn't. Your Muggle upbringing means you will read it differently than those of us raised with the tales. Perhaps that is precisely why he chose you to have it. Translate the runes. His gifts are never arbitrary.
Now, pay attention to what I am about to tell you.
Something is happening. I am not privy to the details, but the Dark Lord is in dangerously good spirits. That never bodes well for the Order. He has intelligence or a plan in motion, I do not know which.
Tomorrow at the wedding, be ready. Every moment, be vigilant. Keep your wand and bag on you. Have an exit planned. Do not let celebration make you careless.
Keep Dumbledore's gifts close and safe.
Be careful.
—S
1 August 1997, 9am
Severus,
I'm ready. Everything is packed, mine and the boys', though they have no idea yet that I've packed for them. I have my wand. I have exit routes planned. I will be on my guard.
The house is complete chaos this morning. Mrs. Weasley is directing everyone like a general, and I'm meant to be helping Ginny get ready. But I wanted to write first, before everything begins.
I'll be careful. You be careful too.
I'll miss you today.
—H
1 August 1997, 11pm
Hermione,
Tell me you're safe.
I knew something was planned. I did not know what, or where, or when.
Are you with Potter and Weasley?
Answer me.
—S