Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Prologue:
So, this is death, Severus Snape thought to himself. He'd expected it to be less - well, painful. Less agonizing. Then again, he supposed, wasn't pain the very definition of hell? His thin lips quirked upwards the tiniest bit. Not that he had expected any less.
Severus Snape was prepared for hell. He was prepared for death. However, what Severus Snape was not prepared for is for his eyes to fly open and to still be in the Shrieking Shack.
He placed thin, white fingers gently on his collarbone, and brought them up to his nose. The smell of blood hit him immediately. Wiping his hand on his robe, he pressed his fingers together experimentally. They stuck together, somewhat, when he pulled them apart. Tacky.
He was alive. Even in his rather confused mental state, he knew that he shouldn't be alive, and that he should be dead. He smiled. Oh, didn't he just love to mess things up.
Suddenly, a thought hit him like a ton of bricks. He was alive, and the world thought him dead. He could do whatever he so wanted.
For the first time in who knows how when, Severus Snape was free.
A tremor ran through his body and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming out loud, his eyes crossing slightly in an almost comical display of pain.
Well, as free as one can be when critically injured.
He closed his eyes and his head fell back with a thump. He could go back to Spinner's End. Yes, he would go back. He could study to his heart's desire in his childhood home. Will do.
But, first, the more pressing matter at hand. He would gather potions from his lab to heal himself, he decided, get out out of Hogwarts boundary areas, and then appirate directly into an alleyway, where he'd spend the night.
And he would have to get up. That, too.
Snape pushed his feet under him, and shuffled himself so that he was leaning on his elbows. Sweat was pouring down his back, and his breath came out in small, painful gasps. Unshed tears formed in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
Grasping the wall, Snape pulled himself up and almost cried out. He closed his eyes in concentration as the world began to spin.
Damnit, Snape, he consoled himself, you can do this. He thought back to the war. Everything. He would probably get executed now, even if he was proved innocent. This was his one chance for survival.
He quickly cast a charm on himself that allowed no substances to drip down onto the floor. It wouldn't do to have people following his trail of blood, Hansel-and-Gretel-style, to where he escaped. It would completely ruin everything.
He took one step forward, and threw up his occlumency walls. He never had been more grateful to be a master Occlumens - without his mind walls, he'd probably be dead from the pain. He cleared those thoughts out of his head the second they came in. It wouldn't help him to think like that.
Using the last reserves of his energy, both magical and mundane, he made his way to the castle, where he heard the tell-tale signs of people celebrating. Good. They wouldn't look for him for a day or so. At the very least, he'd have an hour.
On the horizon, Hogwarts castle came into view. Snape smirked. It was fitting, he supposed, that he almost died right near it. He got closer and closer to the castle - or, perhaps, it was the castle coming closer; with magic, you never really know - until he was only a few paces from it. Gathering his strength on shaky knees, he persevered to the castle, gritting his teeth the entire time.
Yes, indeed, it was going to be painful. Very much so. But, Merlin, Snape finally understood what it felt like to taste freedom.
Two days later, when an auror came to pick up the dead body, all they found was a pile of blood, the smell of rotting flesh, and a little piece of black robes, fluttering in the dank breeze coming from the open door.
Hermione always had a way with words. Strange the ability should fail her now, of all times, she mused to herself, as she trudged down the muddy pathway, grime ruining her once-shiny leather boots and lapping at the hem of her robe.
She sighed, her breath visible, spiraling up to the heavens, trailing up to the murky-gray sky. She had never been good with divination, but she had a suspicion that it was going to rain. She could feel it in her knees - a magic that always worked better than any spell.
Sure enough, a drop fell onto Hermione's neatly-plated hair, before running down one of her smooth auburn curls before dripping down onto the nape of her neck. Soon, another followed, and another, thoroughly drenching Hermione, yet she felt no reason to pull her cloak closer. Perhaps, she reasoned, this small suffering could make her feel a bit of the pain of others who hadn't survived. It was oddly fitting, the rain. It was almost if the sky was crying, crying just like everybody else.
Death. There was no other word for it. No way to describe it. Sure, Hermione could rattle out a whole list of synonyms - parting, end, passing on, finish, extinction - but none of those felt right. One was simply there one moment, and gone the next. Gone. She smiled to herself (it was not a very nice smile), that was the word she was looking for. Gone.
Gone like her childhood - Gone like the war - Gone like the people that hadn't been saved, that she hadn't saved - Gone, Gone, Gone. It was five years after the war, the anniversary, yet if she closed her eyes, she could still hear the screams of the battle.
Hermione looked up into the rain, not feeling the cold. She inhaled a puff of air and let it out. It was now or never.
She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. Minerva. After the war, she and Minerva had become especially close, and Hermione could honestly say that she felt more comfortable with her than almost any other person to date. She had apprenticed under her, and now was a proud Transfigurations Master. She was strict yet fair, and Hermione still learned something from her every time they met - which was quite a frequent occurrence.
"Hermione," her mentor greeted, and enveloped her in a hug. "So, shall we?"
Hermione looked out onto the rows and rows of graves, each with their share of mourners. Godric's Hollow - the place where the casualties of the second wizarding war were buried. It gave her a bittersweet feeling inside - not unlike the feeling she got from reading those tacky romances that she wouldn't admit to enjoying on her deathbed - to see families, broken, still loving and remembering and cherishing their loved ones who had passed on.
The Weasleys, with Ron, were crowded around Fred's grave, each placing a small box of pranks from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes on it, George crying and whispering something almost incoherent to his dead brother - "Remember that map, the one we used to sneak around Hogwarts? Well, I think we're really 'Mischief Managed', because you're mischief and I'm managing...I'm managing without you, Freddie-". A little Teddy Lupin, accompanied by Harry, Ginny, and little James Sirius, was standing over the graves of Nymphadora and Remus. Teddy was jumping from side to side, talking to his parents who he thought could hear his every word, and Harry didn't have the heart to tell him the truth - "Last week we went frog-hunting mum, and in the Summer Harry's taking me to a place called Dee-snee World, Da-". A large crowd was gathered around Dumbledore's grave, as well as the Graves of James and Lily Potter - "Greater good's been accomplished, Dumbledore, sir, Mr. and Ms. Potter-". Pravati and Padma Patil, as well as the Brown family, were mourning Lavender Brown - "You were the bestest friend ever, and a great daughter-". Denis Creevy putting pictures and clippings from the Daily Prophet onto Collin's grave - "Da's milk business is really getting famous, Colin, look, it's in the paper-". Narcissa dropping a red rose onto the ground, talking to a grave that wasn't there - "Bella, sometimes I don't know what to do - our family's ruined, with Lucius dying in Azkaban and Draco...Draco-". Kingsley Shacklebolt speaking to the dead body of Mad-Eye Moody, telling him the news from the auror office - "It's great, Alastor, you would be proud of where the would as we know it is going. I know, I know, I won't get lazy - Constant Vigilance, right-" Many others stood at graves, mourning the losses of dead Order Members, all together, as one wizarding community.
Hermione tightened her grip on Minerva's wrist, tears streaming down her face, being washed away with the rain.
"Minerva?" Her voice cracked ever so slightly.
"Yes, dear?" Minerva gripped her shoulder.
"I...I'm going to go...look around, a bit, I suppose," she shivered. The cold had suddenly caught up to her.
Minerva gave her a firm nod.
"Owl me, in a day or two," she said, and though Hermione knew it was phrased as an invitation, it was undeniably a request.
"Thanks, Minerva." Perhaps some tea later would do her good. Hermione's nerves were on edge.
She continued to walk down the slushy path, her once neat, ringleted hair that had taken her an hour to do in the morning hanging down in wet, greasy strands around her face. Absentmindedly, she rubbed a lock between her fingers.
Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her as she continued her journey though the marshy graveyard. She planned to pay respects to Lily and James, as well as Fred, Remus, Colin, Nymphadora, and Moody. Perhaps..perhaps she'd also visit Snape, even though he didn't have a grave. There had been nothing to burry.
Dark hair flashed by in the trees, only for a second. Hermione looked both ways. Black hair...she worried the bottom of her lip. Should she go after the mystery person? Her natural curiosity and Gryffindor courage was calling her, but...this was a time to honor the dead, not run after animals. No, Hermione decided, she wouldn't go after whoever was running in the trees. It wasn't her business, anyhow.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet sob. She looked around, and realized that she had made it into the edges of the graveyard, near where a weatherworn, old tree sat. Venturing closer, Hermione pulled out her wand, just in case.
"Gone-Dead-WHY..." the voice said, which she now distinguished to be female.
She turned the corner, ready to help, when she was greeted with a mop of blonde hair.
"How could you?!" The person was obviously in pain. She froze. She knew that voice...
Narcissa Malfoy? No, it couldn't be, she thought, but she still wondered. Narcissa had become a total recluse after the war, and nobody had seen hide nor hair of her for around five years. Hermione shook her head. She must be hearing things. Still, she wanted to help.
She approached the mystery woman cautiously. She now noticed that said person was holding a very beat-up, wet, wizarding photograph, though she couldn't distinguish the details of the picture because of the pouring rain. She laid a gentle hand on the slim shoulder. She felt the body tense up and her head whipped around.
Hermione was greeted with a pale, pointed face, and red-rimmed blue-gray eyes, the color of the storm above.
She drew in a harsh breath. Her suspicions were correct.
"M-M-Malfoy?" she stuttered, and cursed her own insecurity.
"What do you want, mudblood?" she spat profanity out through her teeth. Hermione raised her chin.
"What are you looking at?" Narcissa visibly paled.
"N...nothing," now it was her turn to stutter. But Hermione was to fast. She grabbed the picture out of the ex-Slytherin's hand and gasped. In the photo, a young Draco, most likely around three or four, was climbing all over, his hands and feet dirty, a sleeping Severus Snape, who looked infinitely younger and healthier than the one she remembered. She flipped the picture over. June, 1984. Blackmail, Severus - remember, never fall asleep when Draco's around. Thanks for babysitting, Narcissa. And, beneath that, in the spiky handwriting she had seen written on the board for many years, there was: See if I ever do it again, Severus.
Hermione felt a tear slip down her face. Severus Snape. Despite having his name cleared, nobody had really ever mourned him. Everybody just remembered Snape, the greasy git, who terrorized the dungeons and their every inhabitant. The fact that he had one mourner, even if it was Malfoy, made her feel slightly better.
"They never found his corpse, you know." Hermione whipped around to see Narcissa talking in monotone. She didn't even appear to know what she was confiding in her. "I'm not sure if they even looked. Glad, I think, they're glad he's gone. Didn't get a portrait in the headmasters' office. Didn't this, didn't that, didn't, don't - whatever. I miss him, though. Best potions' maker in a century. Youngest, too."
Despite the pouring rain, and the cries and tears in the graveyard next to her, everything in Hermione's world seemed to stand still.
"I still remember him, though. I remember when the Bat of the Dungeons was a scrawny kid in hand-me-down-robes with a solid understanding of curse words and - what did he call it? - Oh, right, 'Algebra'. Smart kid. Great NEWTs. Lucius was jealous, but on his deathbed would he admit it. Though, it might come to that. His deathbed, I mean." She fingered the picture. "What's the use, even? Still, I remember both of them. Loved both of them. Still do, really."
"Why? Draco's still alive!" Hermione clasped a hand to her mouth. Damnable Gryffindor recklessness.
"He's not. He committed suicide, oh, say, a month ago," Narcissa sighed.
"I'm - I'm so, so sorry," Hermione was. She had never liked Draco, but she could understand what it would be like to miss someone. She did every day.
Narcissa slumped and looked Hermione straight in the eye. "Don't. Don't you dare."
Hermione backed up a little. It was strange to see the once-proud woman looking so haggard, worn, and - dare she say it? - high.
"Don't you dare pretend like you care." Narcissa gestured to the graveyard. "Look. Look at those graves. How many of them are graves of Death Eaters? How many of the people who died on the other side are forgotten?"
She pointed to the picture in Hermione's hand. "Even those who did the most are still considered evil."
Suddenly, Narcissa stood up.
"Well. I need to go. See you around mudblo- Oh, what the hell, Granger." She sighed and disappeared into the distance, disapparating once she reached the trees.
Hermione's fingers started to feel numb, and she was somewhat aware that her toes were starting to freeze over. She looked down. She still had the photograph, clutched tightly in her almost-blue hand.
Hermione shivered, and walked through the trees to a good apparition point. She found one, and disappeared with a crack. She was really shaken up, and needed to go to the one place where she'd feel completely safe.
When she was eleven, she'd embraced her wizarding side - a fairy-tale world full of wonder and hope and magic, who wouldn't?! Now, she wasn't sure if the two worlds were that different after all.
Shivering, she walked up the street to her parent's house. She breathed out a sigh of relief. Home. Raising a swollen, shaking finger, she pressed the bell.
Her father came out first. "Sorry, we don't want whatever you're selling, th - Hermione!" He grabbed her and ushered her inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
Pulling off her cloak, her mother enveloped her into a warm hug. Hermione sighed. The warmth of the house was working its magic, and her appendages felt like pins-and-needles.
"Hermione! What in heaven or hell were you doing out there! You could've gotten frostbite! Or hypothermia!" Her mother wagged a finger in her face, not unlike how she did with Ron and Harry.
"T-t-thank-ks, M-m-um," she managed to get out, her teeth clacking together.
"Now, honey, why don't you go upstairs and take a quick shower, your mum and I will prepare something warm for you to eat," her father said, and Hermione managed to nod.
Still shivering, she gripped the banister and dragged her aching feet up the stairs, before stripping and jumping inside the warm shower.
Ahhhhhhh….. Hermione sighed, and nearly melted into the water. It felt so good to finally be warm. After shampooing her hair and body, she stood in the water and just let herself heat up.
What a day. What a life, all things considered. She exhaled. Well, her parents would be asking what she was doing, and she would have to give them an answer. Now that was something she wasn't looking forward to.
When she was young, Hermione and her parents had been really close, but recently, she had started drifting away from them. However, that didn't mean she didn't love them, not necessarily.
After the war, she had resolved all conflicts with her parents, now safe on English soil, and had informed them about her, but since then, she hadn't really kept up or thought about them. In fact, she had been so consumed with her Transfiguration's mastery that she hadn't even written to them - or had any contact with the muggle world - for over a year or two. She had her reasons, however; her parents were constantly pressuring her to get into a serious relationship. She had tried to date, of course, but nobody was right for her. Not one person she'd dated had lasted more than a week...aside from Ron.
Ron was a complicated subject. Turns out, the "relationship" they'd had was only lust, and they parted, never going to look back. They'd said to keep in touch, but Hermione had a suspicion that Ron was more hurt over the breakup than she was.
"Hermione!" Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Honey, come downstairs!"
"Coming, Mum!" Hermione hopped out of the shower, and glanced at her reflection. She made a face.
After a few years of not being on the run, she'd lost some of that thin, athletic build she'd loved. Oh, well. Sacrifices. She'd have to remember to go on a diet, though.
Hermione threw on old jeans and a faded, blue t-shirt and ran a comb through her unruly mess of hair.
She put down the styling utensil and her hand froze. She looked down. The picture was sitting on the countertop. It was almost mocking her, the way little Draco smiled and grabbed at the hair that wasn't quite as greasy as she remembered, and the way that his eyes twinkled mischievously. She looked at the other person in the picture besides the toddler, and gasped. She hadn't seen it in the rain, but Snape looked so…young. Not exactly carefree, but less…burdened, less tense. He looked around her age - twenty-four.
Hermione tore her eyes away from the picture. She could really use some studying right now. Where was a good library when you needed one?
"Hermione! I know you got out of the shower around ten minutes ago!" Her mother.
Hermione clomped down the stairs, feeling refreshed, despite everything, photo still in hand. "Sorry, Mum, I didn't mean to keep you waiting." She reddened. She wondered how she must have looked, coming in so distraught after a year plus of no contact. "Er…." Agh. For someone with a way with words, she certainly messed them up a lot.
"Sorry for the imposition, Mum, Dad…"
Her mother held up a hand. "Hermione, we're your family. We're here for you when you need us." Her expression turned somber. "But, however, is there any reason why you arrived at our doorstep, soaking wet, at twelve at night?"
"Merlin's beard! It's that late?" Hermione jumped a bit.
"Yes, it's that late," her mother looked concerned. "Hermione, why….."
"It's the date, isn't it?" Her father interrupted. Hermione nodded and her mother's expression flooded with sudden understanding.
"Oh," was all she managed to get out.
"Yes," Hermione said, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Her mother quickly snapped back. "That still doesn't explain everything, young lady. And who…" she looked down at her hand, gesturing to her picture. "Is that?"
Hermione felt a surge of relief. She could finally confide in someone!
The happiness must have shown through. "Oh, Hermione!" her mother hugged her. "Really? Finally? Even after Ron? Honey, this is fantastic!"
Hermione looked quizzically at her mother. "Mum, what-"
"So, can I see the picture?" Without another warning, she felt the picture being taken from her hand.
"Well, he's not classically handsome, but I suppose he'll do, honey. I mean, there is something enticing about him," her mother began. "How smart?"
Even her soft-spoken father cracked a smile. "How kind?"
What they were implying hit Hermione like a ton of bricks. "Oh, no, Mum, it's nothing like that - er…"
"Breakup?" Her mother asked. "Honey, he's not worth you if he did that."
"No. No no no no no," Hermione felt her face getting redder by the moment. Why couldn't she just tell them he wasn't her boyfriend? "That's an old picture….before the war."
"Before the….." her mother grabbed her hands. "I'm so, so sorry, Hermione."
Her father nodded. "Why don't we sit down and discuss this?"
She nodded, on the verge of tears. Too much had happened in one night. Her parents dropped down beside her.
"Okay," her father began. He was the one who was better at these kinds of situations. "Hermione, I want to know what happened tonight."
"Er-" Hermione exhaled and looked to the side. Well, best start at the beginning. "I was going to the graveyard - for the anniversary, you know - and I came across a rather peculiar sight," she looked around to see if she still had her parents' attention. "I went towards it, and turns out, it was Narcissa Malfoy - she's the mother of that nasty child I told you about. Narcissa was crying, and I went to comfort her, and she ended up telling me her whole life story, for lack of better words." Hermione paused. "Oh, and, she gave me this picture."
"Who is it of?" Her mother asked.
"Now, Susan," her father began, "she doesn't have to tell if she doesn't feel comfortable."
"No, it's fine," Hermione started. She wasn't just a teenager anymore - she could live with uncomfortable situations. "It's one of my old professors, Professor Snape, when he was young. The toddler is Narcissa's spawn - yes, same one I told you about before, mother."
"Snape?" her mother asked.
"Professor Snape, Mum," she corrected out of habit. She supposed that she could call him Severus, if she wanted, because of her newly-appointed Transfigurations Mastery, putting her in the same academic class as him, but old habits die hard.
"Wasn't he the one you were always complaining about?" Ugh. Trust her mother to remember that. "The one that was with Volie-moldy and his Death-Munchers-"
"Voldemort and his Death Eaters-" Hermione corrected.
"-Whatever. And wasn't he the one that teased you about your teeth?" Her mother's eyes narrowed. As non-magical dentists, they really had taken that insult to heart, though they couldn't do anything themselves to fix the size of her teeth.
"Well, Mum, you see, turns out, he was good-"
"None of that nonsense, Hermione Jean Granger," it was her father this time. "A good person isn't just someone who is fighting for the right side - a good person is one that helps others feel confident and assured."
Hermione gulped. She looked down. "He's dead, Mum, Dad."
Her parents paled.
"H-How? I-if you don't mind, Hermione," she put a shaking hand on her shoulder.
"He died when Voldemort's snake killed him," Hermione's voice was flat. "They never found a corpse - That's Snape for you, difficult to his last breath."
Her mother's hand tightened. Her father sighed.
"Hermione, I'm sorry for how your mother and I have treated you today. We didn't mean to make you feel this uncomfortable. Here, why don't we go into the kitchen and take some tea. We can read the news - our news," he said. Hermione knew that her father wasn't avoiding the question, but resolving it. She knew that this was her parents' way of saying sorry, we understand, have our sympathies.
Hermione made her way into the kitchen, smiling slightly as she traced the beat-up, blue and white tile that held so many memories. Her grin broadened when she saw the trusty poster that was tacked up to the fridge that read: "A healthy smile will take you miles! Brush every day."
Her mother went to the cabinet and pulled it open. Hermione raised an eyebrow. The junk food cabinet.
Her mother saw her look and waved it off. "We need this."
Hermione looked down at her figure and pulled her shirt down. She certainly didn't need this.
"Hermione, please get some plates out for me," her mother commanded, and Hermione was reminded of the days when she would help her Mum in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Those days seemed so long ago. And, Hermione mused, she supposed they were.
She reached up and grabbed three smooth, china plates, slightly cold from sitting in the cupboard.
She handed them off to her mother, and sat down at the table, where her father was studying the photograph with strange intensity.
"I know," Hermione said, and she did know. "He looks - they both look - so young. Innocent."
"But, Nothing gold can stay, right?" she added as an afterthought, and thought back to the book she had read and discussed with her father at length when she was in grade school.
"So, you do remember The Outsiders, Hermione?" He put the photo down, but his eyes still lingered on it.
"Of course I do. How could I forget? It was the first of the group!" Before Hogwarts, Hermione and her father had formed a kind of book discussion group, and had often stayed up till the wee hours of the morning discussing literature. They hadn't done it since she was fifteen, during the summer.
"Do you ever regret it?" he asked.
"Regret what?" Hermione wondered out loud.
"Regret going. Magic. Do you ever wish…that maybe you had stayed in the - what did you call it? - 'Muggle' world?" he drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Hermione looked to meet his eyes and noticed how many gray hairs he had. "Not that I don't respect your decision - I do, Hermione. But, since the day my little Hermie boarded the Hogwarts' Express of to God know's where, I've always wondered - Why? Were we bad parents that you wanted to escape that badly?"
Hermione pulled her father into a fierce hug. "No. No. No, no, no. Don't you dare think that, Da. You've given me everything. You and Mum. You've given me the world - and you've helped me make it my oyster. Did I tell you that I've gotten my Transfiguration's Mastery? Really young, too. I love you, Da, I love you," Hermione pulled back, a bit red in the face and embarrassed that she'd been rambling. To her surprise, her normally reserved father had tears running down his face. And, to her even greater surprise, in her peripheral vision, she saw her usually loud-mouthed and outspoken mother turn on the spot, and heard the telltale creaks that signified that she was heading upstairs.
Outside, the rain still pounded, thumping on the roof, and, for the first time since she'd left home, it was a comforting sound, rather like nature's lullaby, singing the world to sleep.
Hermione opened one eye and groaned. It couldn't already be morning.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," she looked up to see her father reading the morning paper. Hermione groaned and raised her hands above her head, leaning side to side, gently working out the kinks in her back.
She stood up and stretched, smirking at the envious looks her father was giving her over his newspaper.
"Ah, to be young again," he said, and Hermione took her seat again.
"Not that young," Hermione reminded him. He frowned at once.
"Hermione, I mean no offense at this," he said, and Hermione realized instantly that he was going to say something offensive. "But…are you going to…er…find a boyfriend? I'm not asking for marriage - I don't know if you're ready for that…but…It's been three years since Ron, and I think it's time for you to start moving on."
Hermione felt a flash of anger. So what if she didn't have a boyfriend? Why did it matter? So what if she wasn't interested in settling down? Two bright splotches appeared on her cheeks, and her father immediately sensed he'd stepped into a danger zone.
"Forget I said anything," he said, and watched Hermione deflate. The silence that followed was so thick, Hermione reckoned that she could've cut it with a butter knife.
"So," Hermione said, a few minutes later, crossing one leg over the other, breaking the eire quiet to the great relief of her father.. "Any news?"
"Same old, same old," he sighed, and folded up the paper. "Of course, there's the American president election this year," he paused. "And, the job list if one young Ms. Granger would be interested," Hermione raised her eyebrows and he shook his head. "Had to try." A sigh. "Apart from that, there's always The Researcher, I suppose." At Hermione's blank look, he laughed out loud.
"Hermione, you can't possibly be serious, right? I mean, The Researcher has been the main news story for over two months. I know you live in the wizarding world, but this is giant news! Surely, they have at least touched base on it?" Hermione reddened. The Daily Prophet had its strengths - as it should, being the most popular newspaper in the magical world - but delivering the news from the muggle world wasn't one of them. In fact, Hermione suspected that was one reason that pure-blood wizards and witches looked down on muggles; they didn't know what they had achieved without magic. In some ways, they had even achieved more than their wizarding counterparts.
"No, Dad, they haven't said anything on it," Hermione reddened a bit. "Perhaps, I should start receiving the muggle news as well as the magical."
Her father exhaled. "Perhaps," he said, nodding his head toward her, "but I'm still amazed that you don't know anything."
"Tell me," her father smiled at his daughter's endless thirst for knowledge. Though very different, that was one thing they shared.
"This man, dubbed 'The Researcher' by the press, is making these amazing discoveries in the field of science - medical studies, that is. His theories have saved hundreds of people. It's amazing - this one man's tuned our world of modern medicine inside-out in the course of, oh, six months or so. This guy's curing cancer, Hermione, and he doesn't even have a college PhD!" Like his daughter, his eyes became light and his gestures became more and more animated when he was talking about something he was passionate about. Hermione had forgotten how much she'd missed talking to him.
Her mother choose that moment to come in, holding a mug of tea and a small shot of espresso.
"Hey, morning, honey," she said, and handed Hermione some peppermint tea. Hermione inhaled the spicy fumes and wrapped her slim fingers around the warm cup. She shuddered - she didn't realize how cold she was.
"Thanks, Mum," she said, and offered her a smile.
"No problem, Hermione," her mother then took her own cup - her choice this morning was French Press - and settled down in the chair opposite her.
"So," she asked. "Anything up with you, Hermione?"
Hermione suddenly felt herself warm up from head to toe, and it wasn't just the tea. She was so lucky to have parents who cared for her so much.
"Well, Harry's married Ginny," her parents nodded. They'd known that for some time now. "And they have another on the way….I think it's a boy, again. I feel bad for Ginny - she must be bedridden for months on end, with all the children she's having. Not very logical, if you ask me. Though, the age difference is beneficial…"
"Another!" her mother jumped a bit. Hermione laughed.
"Yes, I forgot to tell you. Sorry. Harry and Ginny have one child - James Sirius Potter. He's two now, and very mischievous, just like his namesakes."
"Namesakes?"
"James was Harry's father, who, as you know, died when Voldemort attacked the Potters. Sirius Black was his godfather." Hermione leaned back in her chair. She didn't know how a nice, civil conversation could take a turn to that road.
Her mother sighed. "So, Hermione, what were you speaking about with your father?" she asked to break the tension.
Hermione brightened. "Oh, we were talking about 'The Researcher' - the one who's been revolutionizing the field of medical science."
"Oh," her mother laughed out loud. "The ever-elusive Mr. Prince. I mean, you'd think that-"
Hermione's tea splashed over the side of her hand. "Mr. Prince, you say?" her voice was unnaturally high, interrupting her mother's speech. "What's his first name, perchance?"
"Tobias. Tobias Prince. Hermione, you sure you're feeling okay? You look a bit peaky, dear," her mother started, but Hermione's eyes had already glazed over.
"Hermione?" her father asked, but it was in vain. Hermione was already lost inside the folds of her spacious mind.
Prince. Hermione knew that name. Could it be Tobias Snape, playing on the surname of his wife? Or could it be Eileen Prince, taking her husband's name? Could it be some random person, who just happened to be named Tobias Prince?
Or…could it be…Hermione shut her eyes, but her heart was breaking down all the barriers her logical mind had put up. It was a one-in-a-million chance, but, it was still as chance. They hadn't found his corpse, after all. Could it be…
"-ione? Hermione?" her mother's voice shook her out of her daze. Hermione glanced back up at her, embarrassed.
"Sorry, I didn't catch what you said," she responded, her cheeks pink.
"Oh," her father said. "Is there anything wrong?"
"No, nothing worth concerning yourselves of," Hermione said, and smoothed her pants down. She vaguely noted that she hadn't changed or gotten ready since last night, and should most likely go freshen up.
"Prince is just a popular wizarding surname, that's all." Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. It wasn't the truth, either, though. Inside her, Hermione's Slytherin side was cheering.
She stood up. "I need to go and get ready for the day. Thank you for your hospitality, Mum, Dad."
"Sure, Hermione, thanks for visiting. You can use my beauty products, if you'd like," her mother responded. She knew something was up, but decided to drop the subject, not feeling the need to press at that moment.
Hermione all but ran up the stairs and raced into the bedroom. She tore off her clothes and almost tripped over her jeans before slipping on a pair of her old pants and adjusting them to make them more comfortable and putting on a more respectable shirt. She looked at her hair in the mirror, and decided that it would be too much effort to really try and do something with it, so she pulled it into a messy bun at the top of her head.
Not even bothering with makeup, Hermione raced downstairs and grabbed her robe, which had dried overnight, and slipped on a pair of flats before throwing the door open.
"Hermione?" her father asked, taken aback by her sudden enthusiasm. "Are you going anywhere?"
"Thank you for having me," Hermione said, fiddling with her cloak and draping it over her arm. She didn't want to wear it in Muggle London. "Sorry, but I simply must go to the library."
If any person was to see Hermione's face at that moment, even if they weren't as smart as she was, they would be able to pinpoint an exact word for how she was feeling; Utterly frantic.
Reviews are very much appreciated. Every 100th review earns a one-shot!