Prologue
Aberforth Dumbledore opened the Daily Prophet with a grunt, his aged shoulders paining him as he held the newsprint up to his icy blue eyes. He ignored the students from the school who had decided two years before that his pub was suddenly a fashionable place to be. Over twelve years before, Harry Potter and his friends had patronised the pub, and after the ten-year anniversary of Voldemort's demise, the pub had become popular—just because of one boy.
Blue eyes scanning the headlines, happy, deep down, that there were no more notices of disappearances, prison breakouts, and thefts of sensitive materials from the vaults of Gringotts. However, as he turned to the Classified advertisements, his eyes paused on one box of text near the bottom of the page.
Walpurgis Night is upon us! Gather your kindling for a blaze!
Below was a small image of an old, bearded man's face, one eye missing—Odin.
Aberforth set his jaw, his white beard shivering as his hands tried to calmly fold the paper and place it on the bar.
"Sir? Can we get some clean glasses?"
Aberforth turned, leaning against the bar to stare down at a Hufflepuff girl, a pretty child with bright blue eyes like his own, she was nervous, he could tell, but she needn't be.
With a grunt, he produced glasses from under the bar, setting them before the girl, remembering to appear surly and disgruntled.
The girl scampered back to her table, her friends giggling as she meted out the glasses for their butterbeer. Aberforth watched them for some time, noting that the table, primarily Fifth or Sixth Year girls, were all from different Houses. Blue, green, red, and yellow—all sitting together, all friends...
If only Albus could see what he was seeing now, thirteen years after his brother's death.
Aberforth limped toward the back of the bar, drawing his wand to Charm the sink to begin washing the dirty glasses, satisfied that the cold, murky wash water would maintain the pub's reputation for grubbiness. Moving to sit on a stool, Aberforth's rheumy blue eyes moved to the dark mark on the adjacent wall where Ariana's portrait had been. One hundred and twenty-six years was a long time to live, and Aberforth had been able to gaze upon his beloved sister for one hundred and fourteen of those years.
One hundred and twenty-six years—Aberforth had always believed that he would have died sooner. The Dumbledore line would die with him, at last.
However.
The advertisement in the Daily Prophet told Aberforth that he could not die just yet. Part of him was angry, and he wanted to begin blasting everything in sight, but part of him was relieved, for he knew that his end was soon approaching.
With another grunt, he turned to watch the young people in his pub, wondering if he should be envious of their youth and vigour. His thin mouth curled into a slight smile at the sound of their voices and laughter.
The young ones were so innocent, so carefree. Aberforth wished, for their sake, that their carefree days in a post-Tom Riddle world would be happy. He had lived long enough to know that their world, a world of wonder and magic, demanded a dark underside. When one Dark Lord fell, another would rise. And the lull between such evil days brought many secrets to light.
The words of the advertisement drifted through his mind, and Aberforth Dumbledore knew he would have, once again, to play a shadow role in the shaping of the future.
Meanwhile, far to the south…
She woke up screaming, clutching her belly through a sweaty nightshirt. It took several moments for her to realize she was in her bed, staring at the dingy walls of her one room flat. She had returned from another terrible dream, a dream that had been growing more and more insistent in her subconscious mind ever since the Battle of Hogwarts.
Glancing at the digital alarm clock on the floor next to the mattress, she realized she had slept late into the day. It was cold, but she was sweating. She could not stop shivering, and as she calmed her breathing, every trace of the dream drifted away into nothing.
The only lingering sensation was the sharp pain in her womb, a sting that was more of a phantom pain. She had felt pain there once, and the dreams only brought back her body's memory of that pain.
Hermione Granger thought it a bad omen.
Part One The world wants to be deceived
Mundus vult decipi
I
One Year Later…
I was still smiling even after arriving at Grimmauld Place, Apparating from Percy Weasley's Islington flat. It was a nearly midnight on a balmy April day, and I felt as if it were going to begin raining at any moment.
Thirty years old, unmarried, I thought myself to be an attractive professional, working for the Ministry of Magic. However, as I walked through the wards obscuring Grimmauld Place, jogging up the steps to the front door, my thoughts were far away from my work. Casting a silent spell, the door opened to the old house, and I slipped inside the narrow entryway just as raindrops began pelting the street outside.
The night had been spent in the company of my good friend Percy, having enjoyed a meal, a show, and then a drink at his flat. I doffed my light cloak and hanged it on the coat rack just inside the door. Smoothing my wavy hair over one bared shoulder, I sighed in the dark. I had decided to wear a fine gown of dark red taffeta, expensive heels and a brocade bolero jacket. My hair was coiffed with ruby coloured pins and my face wore only a pale red eye shadow and lipstick. I had tried to look elegant for one evening. It truly was a rarity for me, trying to play 'elegant.'
Grimmauld Place was dark and cold, as I always found it to be, and as I walked down the corridor toward the steps leading down into the kitchen, I paused. A strange sound had come from the front drawing room, and I started to walk again, assuming Kreacher was dusting the Black Family Tapestry.
Grimmauld Place would forever have Kreacher, despite the elf now belonging to Harry Potter. I avoided the hideous creature as often as I could. In fact, I was wondering why in the world I had agreed to house sit for Harry and Ginny while they were on vacation. The children were at the Burrow, and Grimmauld Place, the home of the Potters, was vacant.
Moving to the steps leading down into the kitchen, I could hear Kreacher's muttering 'Mudbloods in the house,' and other such rubbish. I paused again, glancing back into the dark corridor behind me. Again, a strange, shuffling sound…
Drawing my wand again, I slipped out of my shoes, my bare feet cold upon the wood floor.
The front drawing room had been the only place where the old vestiges of the Noble House of Black remained. Harry had stuck an accord with Kreacher—the elf would not denigrate the Potter family in exchange for the continued survival of the elf's beloved tapestry. Needless to say, the Potter family rarely entered the room, having remodeled the house with an upper story drawing room next to the library. The tatty rugs, the heads of past Black Family elves, and Walburga Black's portrait had been moved to the cellar, Kreacher's domain.
Pressing my back into the newly papered wall, I listened near the drawing room door. Footfalls—someone was pacing was all I could hear within the room. I considered summoning Kreacher, the old elf was not to allow anyone in the house. Grimmauld Place was no longer under the Fidelius Charm, but it was warded not to allow any one but the Potters and myself inside. Kreacher acted as a 'home security system' of sorts, and I wondered if the barmy old elf realized that there was someone in his sanctum sanctorum.
Hand grasping the knob, I turned it slowly, regulating my breathing, hoping that the latch would not squeak. When the latch opened, I gently released the knob, pushing the door open slightly to let a ray of light catch my eye. The only thing I could see was the front window, and the cobwebs moving as the figure inside paced. Pushing the door open a bit more, I winced as the hinges whinged. The figure inside did not seem to notice, and continued moving.
From my angle, all I could see were black robes, dancing on the maelstrom of wind created by the figure's movement. They were thick robes, far too thick for April. Black dragon hide boots stepped resolutely on the old worn Persian rug, the buttoned cuffs of black trousers fitting about the ankles. I could not see much else of the figure, and slowly moved in the dark corridor to the other side of the door. From the new angle, I narrowed my eyes, catching sight of the tapestry on the back wall and empty glass-faced bookshelves.
The figure turned, pacing away, and as it did, a fringe of long, lank, black hair entered my field of vision. I frowned. Enough was enough, I told myself, and with a hand upon the door, pushed it open, slipping into the room, my back pressed against the jamb.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" I announced coldly, wand raised, my left hand cradling my wand hand—out of habit.
The figure had its back to me, but I had never forgotten that back—wide shoulders, inky hair, which was longer as I studied it, narrow waist, long legs, and long fingers from large palms.
"Turn around slowly, keep your hands away from your cloak," I demanded, gently widening my stance, feet planted, knees bent, shoulders in line with my hips, eyes keen. "If you as much incant silently, I'll know. I am an Auror for the Ministry of Magic…"
A lie. I had been an Auror—years ago.
The male figure raised its hands at the elbows, and with a twist of his boot heel, moved to face me.
I used to be good at swallowing my fear and shock—that had also been years ago when I was an Auror, but as a pale face and black eyes met mine, all that mental training was for naught.
"You…" I whispered, my eyes widening.
Severus Snape stared back at me, onyx eyes narrowed, dark brow furrowed. His black hair had grown to a ridiculously long length, falling past his shoulders in shiny, greasy, inky curtains of raven wing black. His lips were still as thin as I remembered, as was the sharp line of his nose and jaw. However, he was not as pale as I remembered, nor was his skin an ashen olive shade. In fact, much about his face was different. There were no lines about his mouth and eyes; his skin was a healthy shade of cream. I could see the length of his eyelashes where once I had seen circles about his dark eyes. He also seemed more substantial, as if he had somehow been rejuvenated into something that looked like a man and not a vampire or wraith.
His palms were open before me, and I expected to see teaching garb under his cloak, but instead was faced with a man dressed in regular clothing, only the trousers seemingly familiar with the buttons about the cuffs. He wore a matching black jerkin under the cloak, sleeveless—his wand in a holster in his belt at his left side.
I blinked at the shadow of the Dark Mark on his left arm, my brow knitting.
"You…" I tried again.
Severus Snape blinked at me, and suddenly was whinging into my mouth as I propelled myself forward with a speed I had learned and somehow maintained years after my Auror training.
I was not sure what possessed me to kiss Severus Snape, but as I did, my eyes shut, my arms about his neck, I knew I should have incapacitated him and ascertained that he was not someone under the influence of Polyjuice—not a threat.
He tasted like anise drops, maybe licorice Allsorts…
He pushed me away as if to toss me as far away from him as possible. The disgust written on his face did not deter me, however, I was far too happy to ever be put off my joy. His reaction, to me, was a type of verification.
When my back hit the wall and the Black family tapestry, I let out a sigh. Severus Snape, a man Harry had said died nearly thirteen years earlier in the Shrieking Shack was standing in the front drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.
"How dare you!" he bellowed, taking a step back from me, his black eyes glittering.
I could only stare passively at the dark man, he was trying to decipher something about me, and I could feel a prod between my eyes. When he came back with nothing, his eyes began to study my body.
At any other time, I was sure I would have felt self-conscious, but I was too busy studying Severus Snape in turn. He did not seem to be a man of fifty-one.
Composing myself, I straightened. "I might say the same of you, sir, coming into people's homes uninvited," I said stiffly, still tasting anise on the tip of my tongue. I had always loved anise.
Severus also straightened, crossing his arms before his chest, his face darkening with anger.
"And who are you, young lady?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but did not. Surely, he would remember me, the insufferable know-it-all. Of course, thirteen years had passed and I was no longer the gawky eighteen year old girl—by September I would be thirty-one, but was I so different after so long?
"You are supposed to be dead, sir," I answered by way of not answering.
Severus' face contorted briefly and he let his arms fall to his sides.
"But it seems you are not…" I whispered.
He frowned, his lips curling into a snarl over crooked teeth.
"You know me?"
I nodded, and pushed off the tapestry. Severus did not flinch when I stepped near, my eyes studying his face, his hands, the only two uncovered parts of him I could see.
"I know you quite well, but it seems you do not know me."
Severus finally sighed to breathe when I stepped away from him.
"Hermione Granger?" I asked an eyebrow rising in anticipation of some nasty rebuke for kissing him.
Severus said nothing. It was clear by his sour expression, which I had learned years before, had varying degrees of expression that he did not have a clue as to who I was.
I leaned toward him again, brows furrowing, and touched his face as I moved to the tips of my toes. He felt real and alive, but still I was puzzled. Bringing my face close, I sniffed at his jaw, his neck. I could smell anise, and potion fumes. It was as if he had stepped through some crack in time from years before to that very moment.
"You know me well enough to kiss me?" he asked, his voice just as deep and sensuous as I remembered. I had missed his voice, even when it was scathing and cruel. I had always respected him, trusted him, until the very end.
At his question, I began to recoil, slipping to stand fully on my feet—but found that two large hands were holding me, grasping my upper arms.
He kissed me again, and I felt I would like to taste anise forever. His tongue tangled with mine, and I moaned into his mouth, my hands grasping the front of his robes. I knew I tasted like tea, a sweet chai mixture Percy had given me at his flat, but with Severus' anise flavour, I found the chai too sweet.
Severus released me, but still I kissed him, my right hand moving from his wide chest to touch his hair. It was slightly greasy, but it was real.
Finally pulling away, I swayed on my feet, causing Severus to grasp my elbow to steady me. I gazed up through my lashes at his face. He did not smile; instead, he stared back at me, confusion clear in his scowl.
"I assume you are a member of the Order. I need to speak with Harry Potter, immediately."
I blinked, and opened my mouth to speak, anise thick on my tongue. "You…you are really Severus Snape?"
His scowl deepened. "Yes, and I need to speak to Harry Potter immediately."
I wanted to ask why. Why now? But the anise had numbed my tongue, and Severus' face, and his kiss, had numbed my mind. And with an unattractive moan, I collapsed into Severus' arms.
It was only four months after the Last Battle that I began Auror training, one month shy of my nineteenth birthday. It had not been the career I would have chosen for myself, but it had been for Harry and Ron. The months after Voldemort's demise had been as stressful as the ones leading up to the Last Battle of Hogwarts. The Wizarding world was in turmoil—and I followed along with my two best friends, hoping to set the world to rights.
By my twenty-fourth birthday, I was no longer an Auror, and my relationship with Ron Weasley was at an end. Ron had lived outside my notice for six years by the night Severus Snape appeared in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, and I was a near destitute Ministry employee working for the Department of Historical Documents.
I had been a good Auror, too good. The pay had been wonderful, but the threat of injury not as appealing. When I left the MLE, I walked away with fantastic references, as well as an open-ended invitation to return to duty if I so desired.
I had not desired to return to a life spent living out of a shrunken trunk, days without a good, hot bath, and the various injuries I sustained in the line of duty. Those days were over for me.
Life had been complicated in those days. Ron Weasley had been the source of most of the complication. Unable to decide whether to be my husband and my partner in the MLE, or be my lover and my partner, had caused numerous problems.
At twenty-three years old, I learned firsthand the virility of the Weasley bloodline. Despite potions and Charms, I was pregnant. Ron could only stare at me when I told him. All the precautionary measures had been for naught and I realized why Molly Weasley had had so many children. It was something about Weasley men, it seemed.
It was not meant to be, however. Three days after Ron proposed marriage, I miscarried five months into the pregnancy. With the miscarriage, the proposal disappeared. I had taken a leave from work as soon as I learned I was pregnant—the stress of work had not been the cause of the miscarriage. Even unmarried, even if the pregnancy had been unplanned, I wanted the child. I wanted the child, even though I had considered refusing Ron's proposal, a proposal made because he believed it was 'the right thing to do.' I loved Ron; sex had been one thing, friendship another, but marriage… I had never loved him that much.
The Healers told me that 'these things just happen sometimes, especially with first pregnancies.' I could not formulate in my highly analytical mind why I lost the baby—a little girl… I could also not formulate why the Healers told me that I could not have children, that I should not try again, that I was never meant to have children. The field of gynecology and obstetrics in the Wizarding world was as backward as much else pertaining to the understanding of a woman's body.
Telling a young woman that she could never, should never, have children is perhaps one of the worst experiences one could face. I thought so. I had faced Dark Wizards, killed, captured, and interrogated Death Eaters… I had done so many 'bad' things in my life, why couldn't I do at least 'one' good thing?
The real depression set in when Muggle doctors explained the details of why I should never have children. Ron blamed himself, cursing his bloodline, and then, he began blaming me, irrationally. It frightened me to see Ron so upset. He had not wanted a child, not yet. He had only proposed to save face. He had told me on more than one occasion that I should not ever get pregnant, as if I were the only one to decide upon such a matter.
By twenty-four, I said goodbye to many things: my nice salary, Ron, and any chance of having a family of my own. I was bitter—for approximately a year.
I was strong, stronger than many gave me credit. I was also far more brilliant than most, and in my logical mind I comforted myself in thinking that if I wanted a family, there was more than one war orphan who needed a mother. I comforted myself in thinking that I did have friends who did not look upon me as a failure as Ron did—a barren wretch to be pitied. I also comforted myself in my own brilliance, no matter that my work did not pay, and that I lived in a one room flat in Sheffield, staying more often with friends than in my hovel of a flat.
That spring, in my thirtieth year, I was happy to call Number 12 Grimmauld Place a home. Of course, I worried where I would go after Harry and Ginny returned from their vacation in Greece, but as it always had, things would work out.
However, when I woke upon the Persian rug in the front drawing room, staring up at a familiar, supposedly dead, face, I had a sinking feeling that my life was going to get complicated once again.
I directed the man who looked like Severus Snape to the kitchen, striping him of his wand. Kreacher had muttered that he had not known that 'Master Severus' was in the house; the old Order member had always slipped in and out of the house unnoticed before…
Sitting across the plank table in the small and secluded scullery, Severus Snape stared at me, obviously annoyed. I had also stripped him of his cloak, searching it only to find a few phials of potions and a handful of red foil wrapped anise candy. He sat with his pale bare elbows resting on the plank, his hands folded on the tabletop. I stared back at him while Kreacher shuffled out the scullery and into his cupboard, muttering all the while.
Severus' arms were long, wiry muscle thickening his upper arms, tapering down to more slender forearms, covered in dark hair. My eyes lingered on the faint outline of the Dark Mark before moving to meet his eyes again. I had my wand pointed at him under the table, and sighed, having finally chosen which question to ask first.
"What are in the phials?"
The phials in question rested on the table between us. Three phials of a reddish potion were something I could not identify easily. I could think of at least five potions that had a reddish colour when properly brewed.
"They are a sleeping draught of my own manufacture," he answered softly, barely containing his annoyance.
My brows rose. A sleeping draught? I knew of no draught of such a shade.
I moved on to the next question.
"I told you my name, and you did not seem to recognize it, why?"
Severus moved his pale arms, sitting back on the bench to cross his arms before his wide chest.
"I assume that since you are in this house, you are a member of the Order of the Phoenix?"
I said nothing, narrowing my eyes. He had not answered my question.
"On that assumption, I will further assume that you know Harry Potter."
I sighed. "How do you know Harry Potter?"
Of course, I knew very well how Severus Snape was connected to Harry Potter. However, every time the man claiming to be Severus Snape said Harry's name there was a cold detachment. I remembered how the Professor Snape usually said Harry's name: in an angry hiss, or punctuated growl.
Severus blinked at my question and averted his eyes to the rough tabletop. I observed the man's dark eyes and the suddenly glazing and distance between mind and location. He was trying to remember.
This fact disturbed me, and as I watched the muscles in his jaw twitch, I wondered who the man across the table truly was.
"I…" he began. "I cannot remember for certain."
His voice was soft, and his arms slackened to fall to the tabletop again.
"I think I taught him…"
I frowned. There had to be something, anything, to ascertain whom the man across from me was—or was not.
With a sigh, I asked, "Whose house is this?"
Severus Snape's eyes snapped to mine. "Black's," he snarled.
I licked my lips. The question was not good enough. He could have ascertained the original owners by seeing the tapestry in the front drawing room. I bit the inside of my cheek and then hissed:
"Snivellus."
The reaction was immediate. Severus Snape shot up from his seat, his palms slamming against the tabletop to lean over me. I did not flinch.
"You have no right to call me that! Who are you?" he roared.
I twirled my wand between my fingers under the table, unperturbed and not bothering to meet Severus' eyes.
"I told you who I am, sir. Now, kindly sit," I said calmly.
Slowly and mechanically, Severus Snape sat, his jaw set, his eyes flashing malevolently.
"Hermione Granger…that name means nothing to me," he growled.
"What names do mean something to you?" I asked, finally meeting his eyes.
Severus looked away again, hugging his arms about his chest as if cold.
"Albus Dumbledore…Harry Potter… I know that this house belongs to the family of Sirius Black…the bastard who called me that ridiculous name in school…"
I smirked. "And Black's friends?"
Severus nodded, his face softening. My eyes narrowed again at the vulnerability I saw in the pale man's face.
"Potter…Lupin…Pettigrew… They called themselves the 'Marauders.' James Potter nearly killed me in Seventh Year…"
I nodded. "What else do you remember?"
Severus sighed and stretched out his left arm, exposing the skin of his inner arm to the lamp light over the table.
"I remember when I got this. I remember the Dark Lord. I remember that I was a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, for Albus. I remember killing Albus, and I remember that I died."
I bit my lower lip. "How can you be dead when you are here?"
Severus met my eyes. "I was saved by someone. I slept for a long time, and when I woke, I was told to find Harry Potter and deliver a message."
"Who told you to find Harry?"
Severus shook his head. "I cannot say."
I twirled my wand again. "Cannot or will not?"
"Who are you? You said you were an Auror… Is this some Ministry sanctioned interrogation?" Severus snarled.
I smirked. "Just answer the question, sir. If I like the answer, I might believe you are who claim to be."
"I am Severus Tobias Snape, damn you. My father was Tobias Snape, a Muggle, and my mother was Eileen Prince, a Pureblood witch. I grew up at a place called Spinner's End just outside Sheffield. I went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was Sorted into Slytherin House, tormented by the Gryffindor 'Marauders,' called Snivellus… I took the Dark Mark in late 1979, and changed allegiances not long after. I was hired to the post of Potions Master in 1982…and I killed Albus Dumbledore in 1997!
If that is not enough for you…you…silly witch, I will give you anything you want. Anything so I can convey my message to be out of this sodding house!"
He was towering over me again, and again, I did not flinch. I had always kept a cool head. It was part of the reason why the MLE did not want to let me go.
Falling back onto the bench again, Severus held his head in his hands, his unusually long hair falling about his fingers.
"I will ask again, sir. You will not say who sent you here, or cannot?"
"I cannot," he answered, his voice muffled. "I am under a Fidelius Charm. I also cannot tell you were I have been, or why I am compelled to only speak to Harry Potter. Do not ask me why or what I have to tell him…I just need to speak to him."
I frowned.
"If you are Severus Snape, you realize that if you speak to Harry, he will also want to ascertain that you are who claim to be. There will be others as well, who will want to know where you've been."
Severus peeked through his fingers at me, his black eyes haunted.
"The Order?"
I hesitated to nod. The Order had been disbanded for over a decade. The only older members were Arthur and Molly Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid. The rest were younger, only having fought Voldemort once. In my mind, the phoenix had not risen from the ashes again since the Last Battle.
"I remember… I remember that Black died," Severus muttered, removing his hands from his face to stare at me again, haunted. "We met in his family's house…but I can't…" he trailed.
I twirled my wand again. Memory loss, perhaps? It would require a Healer to determine if it were memory loss, and if so, to what extent. I pursed my lips.
"You will stay here, in this house."
Severus' expression hardened again, the vulnerability gone. "Potter is not here?"
"Not just now."
"I can wait."
I nodded. "And so you shall. I will ask that you stay here. If you leave, you put your credibility as 'Severus Snape' aside. You will stay, you will submit to questioning, and you will submit to an examination by a Healer."
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
Sighing again, "Verification, that should be obvious."
Severus said nothing.
"I will be keeping your wand. I will have Kreacher prepare a room…where you shall stay, locked and warded inside. I will collect you in the morning, and then we'll see about your speaking to Harry Potter."
My voice was steady and concise. I felt as if I were reciting a writ from the MLE on rights of silence.
Severus opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the hardness in my eyes, kept silent.
By the time I stood before the doorway of the only spare guest room, my hand on the knob, I watched Severus sit on the bed with his back to me, staring toward the window, weary from my questions, I was ready to scream. It had been Sirius' room, and I thought it was some perverse punishment, but it was the only spare room.
Shutting the door, locking and warding it, I stood barefoot just outside, listening. There was a sound of a loud sigh, then the bed creaking as if a body were lying down. Satisfied, I made my way back downstairs to the kitchen.
"You got a good look, Kreacher, is it him?" I asked, kneeling near the fireplace in the kitchen, Kreacher retrieving the Floo powder from a nearby cupboard.
Kreacher scowled. "Master Severus it is, Mudblood. Old Kreacher knows."
I sighed as Kreacher retreated to his cupboard again, grumbling that he hoped the 'Mudblood' did not need him again that night. I stared into the empty fireplace for a long while. It would be early in Greece, and surely, the Burrow was all in bed. I did not want to wake the Potter children.
However, the Order, or what remained, needed to be called. Digging my hand into the pot of Floo powder, I made the first call.