In the writing that follows, I cheerfully ignore the epilogue to Deathly Hallows, but will otherwise attempt to work within the bounds of canon. I am quite certain that Severus Snape is dead from a purely canonical point of view, but I offer this bit of alternative fiction as a way for me to play with the characters I love. I am not British and am therefore ignoring British spelling and using the US version of Harry Potter as my reference. Nevertheless, I have attempted to keep phrases and words as close to British English as possible.
I own none of the places, characters, or ideas created by JK Rowling that appear in this story. I take credit for everything else.
Thank you Southern Witch for betaing this for me.
Chapter 1- Phoenix Rising
The perfect quiet of Godric's Hollow was disrupted by a soft popping noise, which sent a nearby squirrel racing up a tree. Tail twitching, the squirrel looked down at the cloaked figure that had materialized out of nothing. The woman stood rigid and still, clutching a profusion of flowers in both hands. She looked up and down the deserted street and, evidently satisfied with the silence, walked along the road. The squirrel tracked her progress past a stone structure until she strode out of its sight. Waiting warily for a moment, the furry creature scampered back down the tree to reclaim its abandoned acorn.
On the other side of the dark stone monument, the woman passed under a kissing gate and into the graveyard. Her trek was marked by the brittle crunching of fall leaves beneath her feet. Pausing in front of a headstone, she separated a bunch of white lilies from her bouquet and replaced them with a withered wreath that was already laid against the stone. The clean white of the flowers were bright against the carpet of brown leaves.
She observed the grave with a sad and serious expression in her brown eyes. There had been too much death, too many losses, in both the past and the present. The graves that surrounded her stood as sober witnesses to the destruction. A piercing caw from a nearby crow startled the woman out of her reverie. She glanced up into the cloudy sky, then drew a wand out of her robes. A flick of her wand and a softly spoken spell vanished the dead wreath in front of her. She ran her fingers over the words cut into the stone, lingering over the second name, and then stood.
Two rows back, she hesitated before another headstone. Ariana Dumbledore's grave was kept tidy—grass clipped, flowers fresh, and stone moss-free—but the witch who lingered a few paces away thought the spot seemed neglected all the same. She felt it was a pity, really, that Ariana remained overlooked by the wizarding world, even after the publication of Rita Skeeter's infamous The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.
"At least you were spared all this," she murmured, half to Ariana and half to herself. She bent down to place the remaining flowers next to the grave when a deafening crack rended the pervasive calm of Godric's Hollow. With a frightened screech, the woman scrambled backwards and tripped in a tangle of robes and flailing legs. Amidst a shower of her forsaken flowers, she landed on her bottom with a bone-jarring thud.
A pristine envelope now rested on top of Ariana's grave. The witch eyed the note, mouth twisted into a moue. In spindly handwriting, teasingly familiar, the envelope read: To Miss Hermione Jean Granger.
The recipient of the letter, being a witch possessed with a rather formidable trove of knowledge, appeared to be more doubtful than surprised by the letter's arrival—although her sore bottom had as much to do with her current scowl as her suspicion of dark magic did. Hermione scrutinized the graveyard. The place was deserted, but for a single squirrel perched atop a gravestone and grasping an acorn to its chest.
"I certainly hope you weren't responsible for that," she quipped sharply. With a rather prim sniff, Hermione flourished her wand and proceeded to check the letter for hexes, curses, and jinks. Finding nothing amiss, she picked the letter up and turned it over. A seal was pressed into red wax: a phoenix, wings raised, bursting into flames.
Hermione became as rigid and still as when she had first Apparated into Godric's Hollow. Her fingers danced lightly over indented wax, feeling and memorizing grooves that were made over a year ago. Breaking the seal with great care, Hermione unfolded the letter and read:
My Dear Miss Granger,
Let me start in the hopes that this letter finds you and yours well. It is never easy living in the aftermath of war, but sitting where I am now, having just come from dinner in the Great Hall and having seen the smiling faces of you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley, I cannot help but hope that the end of Tom Riddle came with as little hurt and bloodshed as possible. This may seem a silly wish to you: war is not pleasant, nor is it painless, but remember, Miss Granger, that a belief in love and peace is more powerful than any magic you will ever learn in your classes at Hogwarts.
That you are in possession of this letter means that my sincere wishes for a painless end to the war have not occurred for everyone.
When I left you a copy of "The Tales of Beedle the Bard" in my will, I trusted that you would do with it as I intended. I write you this letter now out of the selfish desires of an old man who hopes that you will once again fulfill a task for which I have not prepared you.
You have found your way to my sister Ariana's grave, and this must mean you have learned a great many things about my past that you did not know before. Your experience in the wizarding world has taught you that not everything is as it seems. I ask that you remember this in the near future.
You may trust that whatever Nestor Nettlebot tells you is the truth.
Yours most sincerely,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
With another thunderous crack, Hermione Jean Granger disappeared from Godric's Hollow, leaving behind a thoroughly affronted squirrel that had once again abandoned its acorn in favor of the safety of the trees.
Nestor Nettlebot was not pleased. He was a large wizard with bulky muscles and thick, black eyebrows that gave him a perpetually disgruntled look. This meant that, in times such as the present, the corridors of the Ministry of Magic cleared out as quick as a Niffler on the trail of gold when Nettlebot wore an infuriated expression to match his eyebrows.
He arrived in front of Department of Mysteries door number 15.6-C with his robes issuing a tremendous cloud of lime-green smoke. The wispy wizard standing outside door 15.6-C thought Nestor smelled remarkably similar to rotting troll flesh—and that was putting the matter kindly—but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
"William, get Edgington over to Experimental Mishaps now," Nestor growled.
William abandoned his post in a swish of robes, calling over his shoulder, "Right away, sir."
Watching William retreat down the hall, Nestor nodded in satisfaction and let his scowl melt from his face. He discarded his robes into a rubbish bin next to the door and fiddled with the collar of his suit. There had been enough catastrophes for one day. Nestor sincerely hoped that he was not about to walk into another one.
"I would like my wand," Hermione stated succinctly when Nestor was through the door. She was standing by the room's only window, arms folded across her chest.
"Certainly, Miss Granger." From inside his shirtsleeve Nestor pulled out a sturdy vine wood wand and placed it on the table in the middle of the room. "Simply a precaution; I trust you understand. It is standard Ministry procedure to confiscate any wizard's or witch's wand upon Portkey directly into the Ministry."
Hermione tucked her wand away and pushed a bushy bit of hair out of her face. "And is it now standard Ministry procedure to Portkey innocent wizards and witches without permission? To detain them with no explanation? I thought the Ministry was through with such actions now that Voldemort is gone."
Nestor pursed his lips, but chose to ignore the questions. "Would you care to sit, Miss Granger?" He indicated a chair across the table and took a seat in the one in front of him.
"If this is about Voldemort and the fight at Hogwarts, I've already told the Ministry…"
"This has nothing to do with Harry Potter's defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, at least not directly."
A silent moment passed in which wizard and witch stared at each other. Whatever it was this wizard wanted, Hermione decided she would at least hear what he had to say. Dumbledore's letter must have had something to do with her appearing here, and there was no point in antagonizing a Ministry already frazzled by the changes in a post-Voldemort world. Her chair scraped along the floor tiles as she pulled it out and seated herself.
"I had intended to introduce myself upon first meeting you," Nestor began. A pink tinge flushed Hermione's cheeks, and he waited until she met his eye. "My name is Nestor Nettlebot. I believe you have heard of me?"
Hermione cleared her throat. "Yes. I had a letter."
"From Albus Dumbledore," Nettlebot clarified.
"Yes," Hermione said and then amended, "perhaps." She pressed her hand against the letter in her pocket, and it crinkled against her thigh.
"I can assure you that the letter was from Dumbledore." Nettlebot pulled a card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Hermione. "Incidentally, should you try to tell anyone unrelated to what is happening here about me or my department, you will find that you are suddenly at a loss for words."
Hermione glanced at the card, then back at Nestor, both perplexed and miffed. "You're an Unspeakable? But what does Professor Dumbledore's letter have to do with the Department of Mysteries?"
"Albus Dumbledore has everything to do with the Department of Mysteries, and I am sure he will continue to be a very influential figure in our department five, ten, or even twenty years after his death." Nettlebot tapped his wand against the tabletop, and a thin file popped onto the surface. Hermione saw a glimpse of writing, penned in neat handwriting at one corner of the file, but Nestor covered the script with his hand before she could read the words.
"This file will explain part of your question—though I am sure you will have many more after you have looked at it—and I have something to show you afterwards that will shed more light on the matter." Nettlebot slid the folder across the table, but kept his hand on it, holding it in place, even after Hermione reached to take it.
"Sir?" she asked.
"I had wanted you to take a wizard's oath that you would not speak about this file with anyone, but Dumbledore assured me it would be unnecessary. I hope, however, that you will be entirely discreet with what you are about to learn. Our department has rarely allowed anyone access to these type of files without some binding oath to secrecy."
Hermione worried her lip and looked down at the two hands resting on top of the file: his large, hers small; one hesitant and one eager. "I will do my best, Mr. Nettlebot," Hermione promised, and Nestor relinquished the folder to her at last.
She settled the file in front of her—square against the table edge, drawing out her greedy curiosity—before reading the name that had been hidden underneath Nettlebot's hand.
"Professor Snape? But I don't know anything about him," she protested. It wasn't entirely true—she did know several important things about the professor's past—but he was still an utter mystery to her.
Nestor nodded to the file by way of explanation. Folding back the cover, Hermione glanced over the information penned in precise, black ink. The professor's life was meticulously recorded between the covers of the folder. A queer tightness settled in Hermione's chest as she scanned the generic information on top and found his current employment still listed as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
There were so many things that no one had ever known about him, things Hermione was sure that no one even thought to wonder about: his birthday was January 9; he owned a home, inherited from his parents, called Spinner's End; his first display of magic occurred in an embarrassing incident involving an exploding toilet when he was three. A few pages later, she smiled to discover he had earned eleven O.W.L.s, just as she had done. Following his academic achievements and mishaps was an abundance of pages regarding his affairs as a Death Eater and Order of Phoenix member, witnessed through interviews and rumors, newspaper clippings and reports. There were so many pages—Hermione saw no end in sight no matter how many she turned over—that she was certain magic had been used to arrange the folder that had appeared so thin when sitting on the tabletop.
"The file is yours to keep," Nestor said. "We have a duplicate copy at the Ministry, but Dumbledore believed you would need your own. You can take it home with you to look it over in detail at your convenience."
"It appears you were correct, Mr. Nettlebot," Hermione replied as she shut the folder. "I have several new questions, but it may be easier if you showed me whatever it is you wanted me to see." She shrunk the folder with a spell and slipped it inside her robes, following Nettlebot as he led her out the door and down a corridor. At the end of the hall, they passed through another door and into a room that she had hoped to never see again.
"You should feel quite at home in here," Nestor remarked. They stood in the center of a room, ringed on all sides by identical doors. "It was very clever of you to use Flagrate."
"Not clever enough. It didn't work, did it?" Hermione clenched her teeth and stared ahead.
"No," Nettlebot agreed, "but I've seen worse attempts." He squared his broad shoulders and called out clearly, "Spinner's End, Snape residence." His voice set the doors whirling around the walls, moving faster until they were a blur of solid wood. The wind whipped their hair and tugged at their robes before the revolving slowed and came to a stop.
"Right then." Nettlebot opened the door that came to rest in front of him and waved Hermione through. "On you go."
Hermione gaped at him. "That's all you have to do?" she asked, incredulous.
Nestor's lips twitched as he motioned Hermione through to the shadowed room beyond. "Not everything needs to be complicated, Miss Granger."
It was an oppressively drab place that they entered. A dull, golden light flickered from a candle set on a table, illuminating the outline of a bed. Moldering window covers and dusty, gray bed hangings swallowed what light and sound was left, save for a rasping wheeze that emanated from the bed. The air was stale, and Hermione wrinkled her nose as she moved deeper inside.
From the gloom of the bed, a shape began to coalesce. Hermione could make out a long, prone form, and then a face appeared, sallow and sheen with sweat, followed by a pair of glittering black eyes that rendered her still and dumb.
She gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, backing into the wide chest of Nettlebot. She spun on her heel, eyes large. "My God. But he…" She darted a glance over her shoulder. "I saw him."
"It seems, even after death, Dumbledore is not finished meddling in others' affairs," Severus Snape replied in a winded hiss from the bed.