Encounter at Harrod's, of all places

by cb mcwhorter

The war is over and Hermione is reunited with her parents. As it turns out, things aren't always what they seem.

[Type text]

ENCOUNTER IN HARRODS, OF ALL PLACES

Summer 1993

A tall, stern man strode through Harrods. He was by no means handsome, but he cut a striking figure, trim and feline so that he gathered more than one appraising glance from women. Maddeningly, he seemed utterly unaware of any attention at all.

As a matter of fact, he was annoyed, having exited the escalator at the wrong floor, and now he must navigate the ladies' clothing departments to continue on. It all came to a screeching halt when he heard his name. "Professor Snape!"

Startled, he glanced towards the voice, only to see one of his students, a student who was his secret favorite. There stood Hermione Granger, sunburnt and holding an armful of garments on hangers. A woman stood behind her. She had a cap of dark blonde curls and wide grey eyes, and she seemed to be startled.

Snape stopped and nodded to the girl. "Miss Granger."

"It's nice to see you!" she said, with no trace of artifice. She glanced over her shoulder. "Mum! Would you believe it? This is Professor Snape, my Po-, er one of my Professors at school."

He transferred the package he carried so he could shake Mrs. Granger's hand, gazing only a fraction too long into her eyes.

"We're shopping for beach clothes," said the girl. "Just think! We're going to Greece. I've wanted to go there for ages."

"It's such a pleasure to meet one of our girl's teachers," said the mother. "We hear so much, but this is quite nice."

He bowed. If he was flushed, the girl didn't notice, and the lady seemed to be slightly amused, now that she no longer appeared shocked. "The pleasure is mine."

"Hermione, love, why don't you run and try those on?"

The girl nodded, and then blushed as she seemed unable to make eye contact. "Did…did you get my letter?" she stammered, and now she did look at him, nervous.

He nodded gravely. "Yes, Miss Granger, I did."

"Are we…are we OK?"

An eyebrow twitched in amusement, but his gaze was stern. Ordinarily, he'd have sought revenge on any student who'd hexed him, but her written apology was so earnest, and she now seemed so worried that he couldn't find it in his heart. And of course, there was the other thing. "Yes, Miss Granger, we are, as you so gracefully put it, OK."

Her grin was breathtaking. "Oh, thank you, thank you! Goodbye, Professor!"

He watched her dash off between the racks until he could no longer avoid the mother's gaze. He cleared his throat. "Well. This is… Em…"

Her glance was not unkind. In fact, she looked very much like a co-conspirator as she appraised him. "So. Steven, was it?" she said quietly, gently emphasizing the name. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I think so. Are you?"

"Yes. Really. I have had longer to get used to it. It just explains so much."

"Oh, that it does." He looked towards the direction the girl disappeared to, his face finally unreadable as usual. Suppressing his urge to flee, he looked at the woman next to him. "I am sorry," he offered, almost tentatively.

She smiled at him in grateful surprise. "Oh, don't be!" she said. "I have absolutely no regrets. But thank you for saying so. I actually did try to find you, you know. I thought you'd want to know."

"Probably safer I didn't" he muttered. He hesitated again before he said, "But I suppose we should talk."

"I suppose. Whenever you're ready. You know how to find us." That "us" did not get past him. Anything he had to say to this woman must include her husband. Awkward, certainly, but it was only right.

"I will contact you after the school year begins."

She nodded. And she smiled, a smile of an old friend, someone who had no quarrel with him. When was the last time someone looked at him like that? How could she think of him without blame or resentment? But there it was. She offered her hand. "It's been a pleasure, Professor."

"Indeed, Madame," he bowed over her hand.

"Don't let her drive you too crazy," she warned and laughed as his eyebrows rose. He couldn't help but chuckle in reply. Another nod, and with relief, he strode away from a woman he'd met only once, years before, in a crowded disco. And he walked away from her daughter. His daughter. Dear God. Dear God and all the saints!

Spring 1999

The young woman bustles in the kitchen door with a load of groceries. "Oi!" she says.

"Oi, indeed," says her mother as she tucks the last clean glass in the cupboard. The grocery bags are dumped on the table and unpacked, that family dance that happens in every home and no one recognizes for the choreography it is.

"Curry for lunch," says Hermione, holding up a smaller bag that smells wonderful. She glances over to the corner of the kitchen, where a box sits on the floor. "What's with the legal box?"

"That," says her mother, "is something we need to go through."

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Ooh. Is it grim?"

"Not all of it."

Curry eaten, dishes cleared, the box is transferred to the table, and Mr. Granger, after appearing for lunch, kisses his wife on the cheek and leaves the room. "Where are you going?" asks Hermione.

"He'll be back," says Viola Granger. "First, we need to chat, I think."

"Is this the grim part?"

"No," is the firm answer. "Oh! Grapes. Reach over to the icebox and get them out, dearest, would you?"

As Hermione rifles through the refrigerator, her mother smiles fondly. "Reminds me of the mother-daughter chats we used to have when you were a girl. Remember that story I told you about the girl in my dental school class who wound up pregnant our last year?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Yes. The object lesson about not taking precautions. And not getting drunk."

"Yes. That story. I left out some parts." She stops and bites her bottom lip. "You see… the girl was me." She watches her daughter with no little trepidation.

"You? But I thought Dad…" Hermione frowns. "So that's why I'm in your wedding pictures? It wasn't that you had to wait till Dad got back from Africa?'

Viola sighs. "No. I'm afraid that was a fabrication to protect your little mind when you were younger. And in his heart, you are his child to the depth of his being." She fiddled with a grape, unsuccessfully trying to peel it.

"Up until my final year of school, I'd been dating a young man who was dashing and charming and all that rot. A couple of weeks before Christmas hols I discovered he'd been stepping out on me – a good bit actually. The row was NOT pleasant. Rather than apologize, he let me have it with both barrels about how un-exciting I was. If it weren't for the help I'd given him, he'd have dumped me long ago, and he certainly had no plans to continue the relationship after school."

"Ouch! Ah, hence the lectures about not letting classmates cozen me into helping them with their homework."

Viola nods sharply. "Well. I was a mess, as to be expected. I felt used, duped, and all that, and I was mortified by the bit about being a dull sort."

"He really wasn't paying attention, was he?"

"So my room-mate, your Aunt Jenny, decided that the thing we needed to do was go out and be as UN-dull as two dentists could be. We got ourselves all tarted up and headed for the clubs. I must say, I thought I looked rather dishy, and Jenny certainly did. We had a lovely time. And we got quite, er…"

"Blotto? Disguised?"

"Well…" Viola shrugs and blushes. "Stupid." She shrugs again. "We danced and teased every man that came up to us. At the last disco, and yes, dear, it was the Age of Disco, and your mum could do the Hustle, there was a boy who was a fabulous dancer. We couldn't stop watching him."

"Boy?"

"Yes. He was certainly younger than we were. Anyway: blokes were asking us to dance, but I wanted to dance with that bloke, and in the pursuit of being Un-dull, I stalked him and caught him without a partner. And somehow, dull little Viola had him all to herself for the rest of the night."

"Was he gorgeous?"

"Not so much. But he was sex on legs; I'll tell you."

Hermione makes a face and waves her hands. "I think that, I didn't need to hear."

Chuckling, Viola judiciously skips over a good bit of the tale, leaving out the absolutely unrestrained coupling against the wall in the chilly basement of the bar that would have been unforgettable even without a life-long reminder. "The following hangover was definitely UN-dull," she says. "For both me and Jenny. Neither one of us actually remembered how we got home. It took me a while to recognize that hangovers don't last as long as mine seemed to do." She covers her face with her hands. "How embarrassing." She sighs, and goes on. "I went back to the club, and the ones near it, several times, to find him. I did remember what he looked like and that his name was Steven, or so he said, and of course, I never did see him again. And I was mortified at how stupid I was right up to the moment I saw you on the ultrasound." She beams mistily at her girl, all grown up and lovely, and pats her cheek. "I knew then and there that I couldn't possibly have made a better mistake."

"Oh, Mum…"

At this point, Gerald Granger re-enters the kitchen to wrap his girl in a bear hug. "And I must say that I am enormously grateful she had you."

"Da…"

"You see, I'd decided that the smartest thing for me to do was to NOT have kids. And here was this amazing – and never dull – woman who stole my heart and already had a little one for me to raise. How perfect was that?"

"No kids because of Grandpa's Huntington's disease?"

"Right."

"So what did this bloke look like?" Hermione says, jumping back into the previous discussion as if a digression has never occurred.

"Well, first off, as a copy of me, I don't see much of his features in you," says Viola. "I suspect you reflect his personality more than anything. Lord knows, I don't have your temper."

"Ha, ha. Do you think he's a wizard?"

"We know he was," says Gerald.

"You found him?"

"No, dear. He found you." Viola lets this sink in before she points to the box on the table. "This is for you, from him. Although I added some things to it."

"He doesn't want to see me himself?"

Viola's gaze is soft. She takes her daughter's hand. "He's dead, dearest. And you are his heir."

It seems they've arrived at the grim part.

Gerald clears his throat. "Once he realized who you were, he asked us to promise never to let you know any of this until he said it was safe, or he was dead and the war over. Now that we've returned from Australia, this box appeared on our hearth last week. We already knew he was dead, so it was no surprise. It was just a matter of choosing the time to tell you."

"Why didn't he want me to know?"

"He was afraid if your relationship became known, it would mean your death. The worst thing that could happen to you, he said, was for people to know he was your father."

Hermione ponders this for long moments, chewing on her lower lip. She raises her eyes to her mother's face, clearly afraid to voice her next question. "Was he… was he a Death Eater?"

Sadly, Viola nods. Hermione swallows hard before she whispers "Wow. Why didn't he want to kill me himself?"

Viola takes the lid off the box and lifts out a scroll, wrapped with official-looking ribbons and seals. "Let's just start with this," she says. "It's his Will."

A little tremulously, Hermione unrolls the document, spreading it smooth on the table. When she sees the first line at the top, she cries out loudly.

" The Last Will and Testament of Severus Tobias Snape, Potions Master"

She runs her finger across the name, not noticing a tear has escaped the corner of her eye. "That day in Harrods!"

"Yes."

"He never let on."

"I know he wanted to."

"He did?"

"Yes, sweetheart, he did."

Hermione gasps and slaps a hand over her mouth. "I was there" she mumbles. "I was there when he died. There was so much blood; I didn't know what to do… and he locked his eyes on Harry's face, communicating with him so hard, but, Mum, he was reaching out. His hand. He was reaching for me! I didn't know!" Viola pulls her daughter's head to her shoulder as she sobs. "He wanted me! Oh, Mum! And I didn't know! I didn't know what to do!"

"There was nothing you could have done, dearest," says Viola, gazing helplessly at her husband, who looks like he wants to cry as well. "You told me yourself that the Aurors said that that beast's venom was unbeatable. It had changed since the monster bit Arthur. Isn't that so?"

Hermione nods. "Yes." She sits up, wiping her face with a napkin. "That's why you asked so specifically, isn't it?"

"Yes."

They sit in silence for a bit, gathering their composure. Viola pushes the Will towards Hermione. "Have you read it?" she asks. They shake their heads. Picking it up, Hermione begins to read. "…do on this date, October 5, 1995, so aver that this… Legalese is the same no matter what, isn't it?"

Her parents chuckle, glad for a reason to.

"He names his "natural daughter, Hermione Jean Granger, as his sole heir"… The house at Spinner's End, which he "advises that it be sold at once, if only for the kindling it provides…" She gives a watery giggle. "Is it a dump?"

"He said it was" answers Gerald.

"… all its contents, including but not limited to the library – Ooh!" She looks up at them, smiling. "He was a bookworm, like me! … the potions lab in the basement, the furnishings – which he also advises should be gotten rid of. If he didn't like the stuff, why didn't he get new? … The contents of his living quarters at Hogwarts, including but not limited to the library." (Another smile.) "Oh, and the furnishings, of which he was particularly fond. Ah. That makes sense. The potions equipment in the classroom and the specimen jars on the shelves of his office were not his, and therefore should remain at Hogwarts." She drops the Will on the table. "Those weren't his! They were so very disgusting! No one liked going into his office because it felt like those, those things in the jars were staring at you! It's a good thing I don't have to get rid of those. Wait. I'd be happy to get rid of those …

"The equipment, however, in the private lab off his quarters were his, and pass on to me. Hmmm. The contents of his Gringott's vault, amounting at the time of his death to be…. Oh, no." She stares at her mother, breathless. "This can't be right."

"What, dear?"

"If this is right, I'm richer than Harry! … and the royalties from his patents pass to me. That includes proceeds from the sale of – oh, you've got to be kidding! Sleakeasy?" She stops again, shaking her head. "Colic-Ease, for babies. Mens-Ease. What's with all the 'ease'? The long-lasting base for Sugar Quills! Really? One, two, three… six medicinal potions. And Wolfsbane, which although not perfected as he would like at the time of this writing, is available for public use. 'And should Miss Granger choose to go into Potions, at which she excels, she has my blessing to proceed with experimentation as my notes have outlined.' 'At which she excels'! Now, he tells me!" She takes a moment to look up at her parents, who are looking on quite fondly. "He advises that for the books on the top shelf in his quarters, and in the small study on the second floor of the house, I should collect them with the help of Bill Weasley and/or Frederico Mysterio, an expert in grimoires and Dark Arts texts, since they are 'not at all benign'. Figures. And what should I do with them? … The funds are to be transferred to my vault at Gringott's on delivery of this Will and Testament to the heir, and the vault of Severus Snape to be closed permanently." She lays the Will on the table, smoothing it out before she runs her finger over his name again. "Clearly, I haven't checked my Gringott's account this week. He had this much money, and he stayed at Hogwarts? We always assumed he taught because it was the only job he could get. He hated teaching. But he could have done anything he wanted!"

"He stayed at Hogwarts because of his obligation to Dumbledore," Gerald says.

"Funny what you can learn about a person from his Will. Sounds like you got to know him rather well."

"Why don't you keep going through the box?" says Viola.

Hermione nods and reaches for the box, then stops, eyes wide. "Wait. Severus Snape danced?"

Viola laughs. "Quite well. And he was tall, slim, dark and broody. Rather Byron-meets-Clockwork-Orange. He was impossible to ignore."

"He did dominate a room, yes," says Hermione. The next thing on top of the stack in the box is a letter.

September 8, 1994

Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

If it is convenient, I ask to be allowed to call on you on September 16. There are things you ought to know.

Severus Snape

Potions Master

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Garrulous as ever," says Hermione.

"Well," says Gerald. "That day, he had plenty to say."

Fall, 1994

He arrived at their doorstep exactly on time, clad in dark grey trousers and a slate-grey Harris Tweed jacket heathered with blue. He had shaken his host's hand with grave respect, presented his hostess with a box of chocolates, and complimented her tea. They'd granted each other leave to use first names, discussed the weather, Hermione's first week at school, and he'd actually smiled at her description of the entrance of the Durmstrang and Beaubatons students. Finally, he put his cup down, looking a little sad.

Before he could wind himself up to say whatever he thought needed to be said, Viola had a question she needed to ask. "Severus? You know that I knew who you were almost at once. You really haven't changed that much. But I think I have changed. How did you recognize me?"

His smile was just a little wolfish. "Where did you get that idea?" He watched her blush, and then he looked a little sheepish. "I promised myself I'd hold back as little as I could when I came here. I hadn't thought that you'd ask this."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What?" she said, in that low suspicious tone of mothers everywhere.

"Do you know what a legilimens is?"

"A mind reader?" Her blush returned.

He nodded uncomfortably. "I admit that I didn't recognize you as soon as you did me, but your shock was so obvious that to a Legilimens … well, it's called broadcasting. I didn't even have to look to see the mental image you had at the time. And then, of course I remembered. The girl with the brain-dead boyfriend."

At this, she laughed. "Oh, no, did I blubber on your shoulder about that?"

He smirked. "Indeed you did. And then I told you all about the girl who spurned me for an oaf."

She frowned. "I do vaguely remember that. Two wounded hearts and all that, with something to prove. I promise, I did much better later."

"As I see. I, however, did not." He shrugged. "I certainly never expected… I must admit that one of the first things I thought when I got over the shock was 'Thank God she doesn't have my nose.'" He shrugged when Viola raised an eyebrow at this. "It's a fact" he demurred, "and it would have been a dangerous identifying factor, I think."

"Dangerous?" she said.

He sighed. "How much do you know about what goes on in our world?"

"We subscribe to the Daily Prophet, for all the good it does" Gerald replied. "It's best value is that we can talk to her about things that happen, and she knows she can't hide things from us. And we keep in touch with the Weasleys."

Severus nodded. "They are a good source of information. You know what happened with the Dementors?"

They exchanged a glance. "We actually considered withdrawing Hermione from Hogwarts," said Viola. "But she would hear none of it, even believing as she does that You-Know-Who will be resurrected."

He winced. "I wouldn't use that term. He was never actually dead." He fingered the remnant of a sugar biscuit, rendering it to crumbs. "I'm glad you let her return. Hogwarts is the safest place for her, other than sending her to a school in another country.

"I suppose the first thing I want to reassure you of is that I have no intention of trying to take her away. Quite the opposite."

To his surprise, they both smiled. "You wouldn't get very far," said Viola gently. "You know our girl. She would be more than happy to add you to her world. But to replace anyone? Subtraction isn't her style."

He smiled. "No doubt. Yet there are things you should know about me. If you then decide that I should forget the whole thing, I shall. I would like your permission to make her my heir."

After a moment of surprise, Gerald asked, "Are you planning on dying any time soon?"

Severus smirked. "I'd rather not. But it isn't actually up to me, it seems. And any hint that there is a relationship there could only mean trouble for her. I tell you, she must never know. Not with things the way they are now."

"You have a story to tell," said Gerald. "Why don't you go ahead and tell it?"

He swallowed hard and said "You've heard of Lily and James Potter? Lily was my oldest childhood friend…."

The story went on for some time. They were good listeners, and surprisingly non-judgmental, which actually led him to tell them more than he'd planned.

"He even showed us the mark on his arm," Viola says to Hermione. "And he told us how it affected him to look at you in class, and know you were his, and he was so proud. Yes, dear, he was proud. Very proud. And he hated how he had to treat you, as well as how he had to treat Lily's boy. He also told us how you three had led him to near cardiac arrest at least once a year, and now he was afraid he'd have to fight the urge to kill the boys to protect you."

Hermione laughs. "I think our entire class was a nightmare!"

Gerald nodded. "Especially the Slytherins."

Hermione stops smiling at that. "I suppose they were. What a mess. And that year, we were all just…" She shakes her head, remembering.

"Well, I'll tell you right now that all three of us were NOT PLEASED at you being submerged in the Lake" declares Viola.

"So you've told me."

"Severus had to live through it, all the while keeping his mouth shut. We had the comfort of knowing you were fine when you wrote us about it."

Hermione picks out a letter. "This is your handwriting."

"He kept everything we sent him, hidden in his quarters. His attorney knew where to find it all."

December 27, 1994

Dear Severus,

Thank you so much for the toiletries. I've never had anything so luxurious, and everyone – and I mean everyone – has noticed a difference in my hair. That they come from formulas concocted only for us makes me (for one) feel quite privileged. Gerald says that he was actually seriously considering growing a beard because shaving bothers his skin so much, but these potions have changed his mind.

And, oh, Severus, the pictures of our girl at the Yule Ball were lovely! Not a girl anymore, is she? Can you tell us more of the dashing young man who was her escort?

You are too kind to go to so much trouble for us, and we will NOT say "you shouldn't have." We are hoping devoutly for a very good New Year for all of us, and especially for you.

Viola (and Gerald, too)

Underneath that is a thick parchment roll. Hermione unrolls it to find a cover sheet:

In case you run out and I'm unable to send you more, these are the formulas. Hermione can easily brew them for you.

She rifles through the rest of the roll. "Violets," she says. "How literal."

"You know I never thought much of violet-scented things, but this was heavenly."

"That's because the potions are based on magical Viola ethereum. Not the least chemical. Hmm. Leather. That must have smelled yummy, Dad."

"Your mother thought so. What I liked was how it treated my poor pink face. And I am out of it, you know. Anytime you want to pull out a cauldron…"

"Duly noted."

Gerald nods at the box. "There's more in there, you know."

She pulls out an envelope and shakes a handful of ticket stubs onto the table, followed by a few bar bills. "Ticket stubs? Rugby! Oh, Da, you mean you found someone as mad for rugby as you?"

December 28, 1994

Dear Viola and Gerald,

I thank you for the Christmas gifts. The photo album of Hermione's childhood pictures is priceless to me. It's only fair to tell you that I've disguised it to look like a potions book that would interest no one, to keep it safe.

Hermione looks up. "What sort of potions book would be uninteresting?"

"I believe it was Gammy Dustruffles' "Remedies for the Tummy and Below," says Viola.

"Oh," Hermione grimaces. "That one is pretty dull. And woefully out of date. And full of mistakes."

"Obviously, it interested someone" mutters Gerald, and he ducks a grape thrown by his daughter.

Unfortunately, Gerald, wonderful as the rugby tickets for the rest of the season are, I believe you made an error and sent me your set as well as mine. I have returned them to you, and the first pub crawl after is on me.

Wishing you both a happy New Year,

Severus

"I'm trying to imagine Professor Snape at a match, twirling a rattle and yelling like a madman," says Hermione. "With a green-and-silver muffler round his neck."

"You've got the muffler bit right. He wasn't a rattle-waver. But when it comes to sport, my dear, 'A man's a man fer a' that'" says Gerald, butchering a Scottish accent at the last. He dodges another grape. "Oi, now, grapes don't grow on trees!"

Winter 1995

The two men stomped into the pub, shaking off the snow and cold. They shouldered their way through the boisterous crowd to the bar.

"This place does a fine black and tan" Gerald shouted to Snape. "And good fish 'n' chips."

Snape nodded and held two fingers up to the barkeep. "Black and tan" he mouthed. The barman nodded and set to work. Soon enough, they were drinking appreciatively and allowing the crowd to push them away from the bar. Snape gestured towards the back wall.

"Table opening up."

Gerald sighed. "Let's try, but I doubt we'll get there before someone else does…" But Snape was already threading his way through the crowd towards the back wall, where there was no empty table to be seen. "Where did it go?"

"Come on" Snape called over his shoulder.

Bemused, Gerald followed, and a table suddenly appeared when Snape put his hand on the back of a chair. Studying his companion, Gerald sat down slowly. "What did you do?" Snape only smirked as he twitched a laminated menu from between condiment bottles.

They flagged down a harried waitress and ordered fish and chips and more black and tan. As promised, the fish was quite good. Nursing the last of his beer, Gerald sat back and cocked his head.

"So," he said. "This bloke everyone's so afraid of. Is he really coming back?"

Snape lowered his brows at him but sighed and sat back himself. His hand dropped below the table, and the noise of the pub faded a bit. Gerald looked around cautiously. "Aren't you not supposed to do that stuff in public? What was that?"

Snape shrugged. "Privacy charm. Doesn't count if you don't get caught."

"Is that so?"

Snape smirked briefly, but then he sobered. "He's coming back."

"Didn't they dispose of his body?"

"Not the deterrent one would hope it would be."

"How can you know this?" For answer, Snape rotated his left wrist, so the palm faced up. Gerald could imagine the Dark Mark, hidden under layers of sleeve. "Was it supposed to go away?" Gerald asked.

Snape shook his head sadly. "It's supposed to be nothing more than a tattoo. But it's still active. That means there's still enough of him to sustain the magic."

"So he's a ghost?"

Snape shook his head. "A ghost has no hope of becoming corporeal. Nor can one really retain his magic. He's done something else."

"He hasn't come back yet."

"Not for lack of trying."

"And when he does it?"

Snape stared at the table top for a long moment. "Then he tries to start it all over again." His tone was flat.

"And he'll call his Death Eaters? And when he does, will you go? What will you do?"

The dark man's eyes snapped to Gerald's face. "I will do what it takes to protect Lily's son," he said harshly. "And.. our.. daughter."

It took a bit for Gerald to remember to breathe. "What will he want with her?" he finally croaked.

The feral expression had drained from Snape's face. The contrast was striking, and Gerald realized that he'd had a glimpse of a dark side of this man that he'd assumed would be there, but hadn't yet actually imagined.

"His first ambition will be to annihilate the brat who defeated him. When he targets someone, that person's family, friends, and friends' families are part of the destruction. Harry Potter's two best friends are Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. Everyone knows they are inseparable." He watched Gerald process this. "Before you go far into making plans, Hogwarts is the safest place for her. Dumbledore started layering modern protections on top of the old on the property before Riddle was even born."

Gerald nodded. "What if we got her out of the country?"

"You'd have to go with her. And you'd have to change absolutely everything about yourselves. Everything. Including her magical signature."

"And that's hard to do?"

"Radical. If it wasn't sufficient, and they decided to find you, they would. They'd leave your bodies at Hogwarts' gates."

Gerald signaled the waitress. "Another round."

"Your house is heavily warded, by the way," Snape continued. "Also your practice."

"And she's at this level of risk because of Harry?" He watched the Professor nod. Burying his nose in his glass, he muttered, "She finally makes friends…"

Snape huffed a humorless noise that could have been a laugh.

She regards him solemnly. "You did make friends, didn't you?"

Gerald nods sadly. "I won't say that he wasn't right messed up, and I can see how he could be a thorough bastard, but he was a good friend. And I miss him."

Snape looked over at Gerald with a hard look. "Hermione is an only child."

"Yes."

"You didn't want to have a child of your own?"

"She is my own. I couldn't ask for more."

"What, did you hold off on another when strange things started happening with her?" Snape sneered, just as Viola walked by the couch.

To his great surprise, she slapped the back of his head as she passed. Affronted, he turned his patented glare on her, only to find her looking at him with an expression that instantly made him ashamed. "Behave," she said sternly.

"In my defense, many Muggle parents do just that. The child shows signs of bizarre behavior, and they stop in fear that they have another 'retarded' child."

"People are atrocious," she replied. "And you can still be nice."

He turned his attention to his beer.

"To be honest, I'd resolved not to have children of my own before I ever met Viola."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

"My father and grandfather both had Huntington's disease. That's a hereditary neurodegenerative…"

Severus waved a hand. "I know of it."

"So I decided not to carry on that particular family tradition. We did look into adopting, but by that time, I was determined to be 'too old.'"

"Balls," Snape growled.

"That's what I said," said Viola.

"Did you ever get tested for the gene yourself?"

"No." Gerald shrugged sheepishly.

"Do it," Severus said firmly. "There's a potion, and it works best taken sooner than later."

Gerald blinked at him for a few moments. "There is, by God? And it works on Muggles?"

"Yes."

"Can one of your Healers test for it? So I can leave the Muggle health system clear of the whole thing?"

"I'll see."

Gerald sat back in his chair. "I'll be damned."

Snape arrived early the next weekend for the next rugby game. "I've sought out the spell to check for Huntington's. Would you trust me to do it?"

Gerald was about to roll his eyes, but he looked at Severus narrowly instead. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

Severus shrugged. "I'm not a healer."

"And that means, what, exactly? That you're not proficient with a spell?" he grinned at the look of umbrage he received. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just stand there."

Viola came up beside Gerald to take his arm. "You'll need to let him go'," said Severus. She stepped away. A very simple wand motion with a not-at-all simple incantation and a bubbly silver mist collected around Gerald's head. Viola made a small sound of distress. Gerald looked a little sick.

"It seems we have an answer," said Snape. "It also seems that we are in good time. The pall is barely there." He pulled a muddy grey vial from his pocket. "At the very least, this will keep the disease from ever expressing itself. If we are early enough, it will make it so that any test, Muggle or Magic, will be negative from now on."

Gerald took the vial with no little reverence. It was cold to the touch. "What are the side effects?"

"I would take it in the evening because you will sleep while it does its work. And it would be best if you take no alcohol for twenty-four hours before or after."

"Sleep how long?"

"I expect no more than twelve hours."

Gerald passed the vial to Viola. "Then no beer for me today. I'm not interested in waiting."

Viola frowned at the vial. "Should I put it in the refrigerator to keep it cold?"

"No. It's that cold on its own."

She held it up to the light. "Hunh." Then she looked sharply at Severus, and with no warning, threw her arms around him to hug him tight.

"Viola."

She sniffed. "What?"

"I can't breathe."

She gave a damp giggle and let him go, smiling up at him through her tears. "Just … thank you."

He gave a little courtly bow, but he also blushed. "I … "He actually needed to search for words. "I couldn't sit by when there was something I could do."

"Was it a complicated formula?"

Now his smile was the wolfish one. "Delightfully so!"

"I slept for a little more than twelve hours," Gerald tells Hermione. He chokes up a bit when he sees the look on her face. "He saved my life, just like that."

She hugs him, long and hard.

Underneath the tickets are more thank you notes, from each following Christmas, all thanking each other for the same gifts: more potions, more tickets. Hermione fights a pang. They had a tradition with him. She knew nothing. It wasn't fair.

Dear Viola and Gerald,

I think I can set your minds at ease a little about Viktor Krum. He seems to be rather besotted with our girl, but I don't think he has designs to do her any harm. The boy clearly has a full-blown crush. I'm not sure how much is reciprocated, but whenever he ventures to talk to her, he is not turned away.

To be honest, the boy is everything they say he is. He balances his schoolwork with a professional Quidditch career and seems to be succeeding. He is acquitting himself adequately in the Tri-wizard's tournament. (And yes, Viola, I am worried about the Potter boy.) I have found him to be a little stiff, but his manners are good.

Hermione won his attention in the fool-proof method for any teenaged boy: she didn't seek it. He could barely study in the library for interference from other students wanting to talk or flirt with him. Hermione never did. I was in the library the day he summoned the courage to move his books to her table. She nodded a brief greeting and ignored him. The first simpering girl to come up to poor Krum was treated to the Harridan of Gryffindor hissing something I didn't hear. The simperer went away. At this point, the two of them have a table to themselves in the library, and no one bothers Krum when Hermione is there.

For a first boyfriend, he is acceptable. And if he lays a finger on her, I'll break his neck. Worse, I'll break his broom.

See you Saturday,

Severus

"Up till the very end, that was a rather good year," says Hermione. "I wonder if anyone saw the nightmare that was coming. I mean, I know Professor Snape knew something was up, but for it to happen that way?" She shakes her head. "And then fifth year was a nightmare through and through."

FALL 1995 (5th year)

The pub had become their favorite after a rugby match, and somehow, they got the same table more often than not. Gerald stretched his legs out, full of fish and chips and working on his third black-and-tan. "Tell me about this Ministry chippie that has Hermione so worked up."

Severus growled. "The story is that she's inspecting the school and teachers on the Ministry's behalf. And now she's High Inquisitor, whatever that is."

"What's this quill she's using on Harry?"

Snape raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Apparently, when he has detention with this Umbridge person, the quill she makes him use to write lines carves the words into his hand. Hermione's quite enraged, but Harry won't tell anyone in authority. Afraid of causing them trouble." He trailed off at the sight of Snape's face. This was the glare that always gave him pause, that reminded him who else this man actually was.

"If I could find her neck, I'd wring it" Snape snarled.

"Can you do anything about it?"

"I'll have to figure out something. I'm sure if she's using it on Potter, she's using it on others. Certain parents get word, it'll be hell to pay." He took a thoughtful swallow of his beer. "But that won't happen. She won't use it on the Purebloods. Bigoted bitch. She thinks I'm one of them."

"Of whom?"

"Purebloods. I'm the only teacher who doesn't treat her like she deserves."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, I'm her best friend. Someone thought I should be."

"Someone needs to have his lemon drops cut off."

Both eyebrows rose at that until Gerald caught what he'd actually said. Gerald could never comprehend how much Snape loved the chance to laugh like that.

"I think it's only fair to tell you that after the ridiculous invasion you lot staged of the Ministry, he came here." Viola smiles as her daughter's face shows her horror. "Oh, yes, we got a blow-by-blow description of what you had done. I must say he did get a laugh over that Umbridge creature being carried off by the Centaurs."

Hermione laughs. "You know, I never planned on involving the Centaurs. We were hoping to avoid them, actually. It was my plan to take her to Hagrid's brother Grawp and ask him to keep her out of the way. Only he was gone. And then the Centaurs came. What happened after that was a result of that ninny's inability to keep her mouth shut. She did that one to herself." She sobers. "So all my hopes of soft-peddling things so you wouldn't worry?..."

"Totally lost," says Gerald. "He kept us informed of anything he thought was of interest. And that night, he stayed and got good and drunk." He looks sad. "It was my pleasure to feed him the gin."

"I'd have pegged him for a whiskey man, myself" Hermione muses.

"No. Gin and tonic. Easy on the tonic."

Spring 1996

He arrived unwarned on their doorstep, impressively swathed in his teaching robes, late in the evening. They ushered him in at once, noting how drawn his face was. "I've been sent to tell you that there's been … an incident," he said, then he threw his hands up before him. "She's all right! Well, she will be."

He made short work of the story, such as he knew of it. "They didn't trust me to come to me," he said, rubbing his hand over his face. "Not till it was really too late."

"Is she awake?" asked her mother.

He nodded. "I haven't spoken to her. I suppose it's a good thing since I want to throttle her. And those boys, the lot of them." He sighed. "Being a teacher is hard enough. But when one of them is mine… How do you stand it?"

Their sympathetic smiles were grim, and Gerald handed him a hefty drink.

"I wish you would help me to send one of those Howlers," said Viola.

He smirked but shook his head. "You'll get to take it out of her in person soon enough."

Hermione shakes her head. "All that time and he never let on. I don't think he even told Dumbledore. He wouldn't have been able to resist dropping some cryptic statement."

"He especially didn't tell Dumbledore," says Gerald. "The old man held Lily over his head – that was enough. If he'd known about you…"

"He was a little easier those few times at Grimmauld place. Helpful, even."

Summer 1996

A fly buzzed fruitlessly at the charmed window barrier that kept it out of the library. A 16-year-old girl bent over a book on the desk where sunlight splashed across its pages. "Egg white," she mumbled. "C'mon. Where's egg white?"

A tall man had made it all the way into the room and was standing by the desk before she noticed him. "Oh!" She shook the hair out of her eyes and smiled. "Hello, Professor! Do you want the desk?" Funny how she was less afraid of him in the summer. He was still stern, but it was as if he didn't go out of his way to terrify people. Even Neville was aware of this.

The Professor shook his head as he scanned the book titles stacked at her elbow. "Planning to become an artist, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir. I just know that the British Museum uses an egg white wash to seal cracks on old paintings. Supposedly works a treat. I was, um, looking to see how to use it on a wizarding portrait."

"Sadly, it won't silence her, Miss Granger. It doesn't work on moving portraits."

Her shoulders slumped. "Oh." But she sat up again, a martial light in her eye. "Where'd that turpentine spell go?" And she pounced on the pile of books to her right.

He laughed. Professor Snape actually laughed.

Hermione dreamed. She'd fallen asleep on the settee in the parlor where she'd taken a book – just a novel this time. As she lay curled up with her head on the arm of the settee, she dreamed someone gently brushed a curl away from trailing across her cheek and conjured a light throw to tuck around her. The night was cool; the cover was welcome. She dreamed she saw a man in dark trousers and a white shirt leave the room. Odd dream, she thought. In the morning, she woke to find herself covered with a rosy coverlet. Dream? Then who?

"As things went along, he became more certain that he couldn't survive. So awfully unfair," says Viola sadly. She catches a tiny twitch of her daughter's eyebrow. "Make no mistake, Hermione. He was never anything like an old flame. It always seemed as if our friendship with him was somehow independent of our kinship with you, especially for your Da. You introduced us. We made friends on our own."

"You were probably the only real friends he had. Anyone in the Wizarding world would be caught up in the War and as such unsafe for camaraderie. I wondered once how he made it through those last years without cracking. I think you were it, even though you were far away in the end."

"That wasn't very much" whispers her mother. "He was devastated on the night…"

"What, Mum?"

"The night that barmy old man ordered him to kill him."

"He came here?"

"Where else could he go?"

FALL 1996 (6th year)

They were watching the news when his head appeared in the fire. "Gerald? Viola? May I come through?"

"Of course."

He'd taken one step away from the hearth when Viola said, "Something's wrong."

"No. She's fine."

"Good. What's wrong with you?" She took him by the arm and led him to sit as Gerald headed for the bar.

Snape sat staring at the drink in his hand looking as if the words were stopped in his throat. They were.

"When I went to Dumbledore and turned from the Dark Lord, I made an unbreakable vow to do anything he ordered me to. Anything." He trailed off.

"What's he done now?"

"I can't tell you."

"Sworn to secrecy?"

"In a way. He sometimes puts a geas on something so that I cannot speak of it."

"This is one of those times," said Gerald.

Snape nodded and took a drink. He sputtered. "There's no tonic in this."

"No," said Gerald.

"Good."

"So he's ordered you to do something awful."

"I'm caught in a three-way bind I can't see my way out of."

"Can't see your way out like you can't see how to survive?" asked Viola.

"I can't see how to get everything done that needs to be done. I've thought I wouldn't be able to survive this mess for some time. I'm certain, now."

"Severus!"

He just shook his head and took a drink. And then: "I had visitors this week…" He told them of the Black sisters – and he diverted himself by describing each in detail – and the outcome of their visit.

"So if this child doesn't kill Dumbledore, you must? And if you don't?"

"I die."

"You made a vow to Dumbledore. Won't you die if you hurt him?"

"No."

"Wasn't he upset when you told him about this?"

"Not as much as you'd think."

Viola was close to blurting out something that made no sense, but she hesitated.

And then Snape told them about the long-term effects of Slytherin's ring.

"He's already dying."

"Yes."

"So he…" started Gerald.

Viola jumped to her feet. "That manipulative bastard!"

"Oh, no," said Gerald as his wife stormed from the room to the kitchen. She came back with tears on her cheeks and a face like thunder.

"What sort of a person capitalizes on his own death like that?" she said.

"Kamikaze pilots," said Gerald.

"Oh, and they were so sane."

"He's really charged his truest friend with…?" said Gerald.

Snape could neither nod nor shake his head. At least his throat allowed him to swallow gin. A distressed silence fell on the room.

"He just expects you to be a cold-blooded killer" seethed Viola.

That irked him for some reason. "I already told you that I am," he snarled.

The look she gave him was the look that always made Hermione gulp, and one that he wished he could figure out how to copy at school. "Was," she said firmly.

He subsided. "Maybe."

"What can you do?" said Viola.

"At this point, no opportunity to carry out his plan presents itself. I'll just have to hope it won't. Maybe one side of the triangle will disappear."

"And, er, after? What happens to you then?"

"Hopefully, I rise in the Dark Lord's favor enough to do him some real damage. And the other side will move heaven and earth to kill me."

Viola looked heartbroken. Gerald looked furious. Snape could tell them how much it meant to him to feel that someone cared what happened to him. He could thank them for being true friends. But any of those words were linked to his losing his composure. Instead, he said, "You two have to plan to get out of the country."

Viola wipes her eyes, straightens up and nods to the box.

June 26, 1997

Don't hesitate to trust what she suggests. She knows what she's doing.

Hermione stares at this paper a long time. She makes a shuddering sigh. "Was this why you didn't fight me too much when I first brought up the memory thing?"

They nod.

"It was his idea" she whispers.

"How so?" asks Viola.

"He taught about memory charms and protections in class. And he assigned me the subject as my term paper. He planted the idea and then made sure I learned as much about it as possible. It was the first time he didn't complain about my running over the assigned page limit. And I ran far over." She wipes a tear. How much would she cry today? "I have to dig the thing out. I think some of his comments were intentionally informative. The sneaky clever git!"

"Expatriating was his idea, actually. He was the one who encouraged us to plan ahead" says Gerald.

"So, in the end, it wasn't over-cautious, I guess," says her mother.

"It wasn't. One of the junior Death Eaters testified that he'd been assigned the task of 'teaching the Granger Mudblood a lesson,' not even 2 weeks after you left. Snakeface wasn't pleased to find that you weren't where they thought you were. I just don't get why they left the house alone."

"Just thank the Lord for small mercies" murmurs Viola, shuddering.

"This might be interesting," says Gerald, unrolling an official-looking parchment. He reads aloud:

Drs. Granger,

Our client, Severus Snape, instructed us to inform you that while you were out of the country, your home at 16 Willow Dr., Richmond, was made secret-kept, with Master Snape as the secret-keeper. He arranged the protection so that any prevention to accessing the property did not include you or your kin. If there are difficulties, please do not hesitate to let me know.

Unfortunately, he was unable to prevent any property damage at all in the event that Death Eaters sought out your home. He was able to deflect them to a house with the same address on a street to the east of yours, and I'm afraid that house was destroyed. We have learned that at the time, it was unoccupied.

Automatically, all three turn to look out the rear window. The house across the alley stands serene with its neat garden, but between the houses can be glimpsed an empty lot across the street. "Well that explains a lot," says Viola.

"What did happen over there? Did you ever hear?" asks Hermione.

"I talked to Elizabeth," Viola points towards the house behind them. "Old Mrs. Garland's house had been empty for nearly a year before we left since her will was in probate. Apparently, the whole place blew up one night that summer. They thought it was a gas leak."

"They always do," Hermione murmurs. "Any chance that she mentioned that the flames looked green?"

Viola shakes her head. "The lot's still for sale."

Once again, Hermione finds herself tearing up. "It's all he did. He protected everyone else. He never gave up on us even when we drove him crazy. He thought of everything. Why didn't he think of that snake?"

"What does secret-keeping actually entail?" asks Gerald.

"An enchantment is cast so that no one can see the house unless they are given permission. Owls can't find it, and they can find anything. It's hiding in plain sight."

"Well, that explains why we haven't gotten any mail," grumbles Gerald.

"Can you turn it off?" Viola asks her daughter.

"Don't know," says Hermione. "I need to ask Bill. I've never heard of a secret-keeping being pre-set to permit certain people. That has to be something he came up with." She shakes her head. "He was just a genius."

Her mother pats her hand smugly. "And so are you."

"I'm going to be reviewing every time we met after that day at Harrods, trying to remember if he let on anything. I wonder if he told anyone."

"Are you going to tell anyone?"

The young woman's eyes widen. "I hadn't thought of that. I'll have to tell Bill, I suppose. I have no idea who Frederico Mysterio is, and I think I'd trust Bill first anyway." She scans the Will again. "It doesn't say that he wanted me to keep it secret forever. But you know, I can't help but think of the publicity storm this would cause. He'd hate it. I've certainly hated it up to now."

The next find is a photo album, charmed to look like Gammy Dustruffles' "Remedies for the Tummy and Below". Hermione flips quickly through it. "Oh, please, you didn't give him the photo of me in bunny pajamas!"

"I happen to love that picture. It was hard to part with it."

"Oh, Mum."

Under that is another album. She opens it find herself staring at a Muggle photograph of a solemn little boy. He is dressed in his Sunday best and looks fearlessly into the camera.

"Oh," she breathes. Her parents huddle round – they haven't seen those.

Spidery handwriting under the pictures says "Me at age 4. My grandmother Snape took me for a professional portrait. I finally did smile for the camera, but I like this one best."

"Of course he liked that one best," grumps Hermione. "Ornery git, even then."

The pages that follow hold both Wizarding and Muggle photos of young Severus and various adults, all labeled. Some had notes on the facing pages.

"My father."

"My mother with me."

"My Snape grandparents." - My Snape grandparents were in Gloucester – still raising cattle. But the cattle business was not what it used to be, and my father moved to the mills up North during the boom. I have no idea why my parents stayed there after the accident. We had little contact with the rest of the family because of the distance, except for the time my grandmother came to help after my father's accident.

"My Prince grandparents." - The Princes were, not surprisingly, Potioneers and Apothecaries, although I am the first Potions Master in three generations. My grandfather ran an alchemist's shop. They were proud Purebloods, but they were solid middle class. I don't know much about them. My grandparents were abysmally disappointed in their daughter's choice of husband on multiple counts, and my grandmother, for one, couldn't bring herself to visit us in such a low-class home. We were never invited to visit them. Mother was their only child, the last person to bear the name of Prince, and they had dreamt of joining their family to one of better standing.

"A trip to the zoo."

"Me at platform 9 ¾ for the first time."

"My great-grandmother Elvira Prewitt Prince." - Yes, Hermione, you are related to Molly Weasley. You could do worse. My grandfather's mother had no scruples about where we lived, and I remember many visits when I was little. She always had something good for me. I had a taste for ice mice then, as I recall. As I got older, I came to prefer chocolate, the darker, the better, so you come by that honestly.

"The day I earned my Mastery." - I did get a letter of congratulations from my grandfather when I achieved my Mastery. I don't know what's become of it.

This was the last in the album, showing young Severus Snape proudly holding a scroll laden with ribbons. He wasn't a handsome young man, but he had a commanding presence, and all at once, Hermione can see the appeal, especially if those dark eyes were surrounded by disco lights. She pushes that shudder-inducing thought away and closes the book.

The box is nearly empty now. She pulls out the scroll with ribbons and realizes it's the same Mastery certificate as in the picture. "I think he had this framed in his office."

"There's one last thing" Viola pulls out a final scroll. It's emblazoned with the green seal of Slytherin. Hermione takes it and swallows hard. The scroll is thick.

"I think, dearest, that you might want to read this privately. I know he spent some time composing it for you." Viola brushes the hair from her daughter's forehead. "You might even want to wait to read it till after supper. It's been a long afternoon."

Hermione glances out the window and is surprised to see how long the shadows have become. "We've been here for hours!" She turns the scroll in her hands. "I think I'll finish it all. I know I'll go through it all again. And again. But, if you don't mind…" she stands, and her mother shoos her towards the door.

She settles against the headboard of her new bed – one thing she did, even before she went to Australia – was update her bedroom. She is so not pink anymore. She takes her time breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment, marveling. She spent most of her life furious with the man or hating him that last year, boiling with misunderstanding. She'd even figured it out, once, but hesitated to say anything to the boys. It wouldn't have gone over well. She spent a chilly day by a forest stream throwing things into the water, scalded that she couldn't do anything to prove her theory. And then, well, things got crazy, and she forgot about it. And now? Now she's nearly heartbroken that she didn't even get a chance to hug him once. That the one time he looked at her as a father would, she'd had no understanding and the moment could never be retrieved. And the one time she could have comforted him, she did not. She can only be satisfied that in some ways, she did what he wanted of her.

She spreads the roll across her knees and finds herself in tears – again – before she finishes the first paragraph.

To Hermione, My Daughter,

How I wish I could call you that openly, right now. I wish I could acknowledge you for what you are – the best product of my life, however accidental. Proof in all your vivacious true-as-a-compass valor that I could be credited for something good. And good you are. I have never been able to tell you what I truly think of you, any more than I was able to say what I think of your friend Harry and dozens of Muggleborns who have passed through my classroom. You. You are the finest mind I've ever taught, the most rewarding student in my career, and believe me, please, when I say I thought that before I knew who you truly were.

I know you have questions. I will try to anticipate them as well as I can. As I write this, I can only guess at what the future holds for all of us. I cannot tolerate the thought of what will happen if the Dark Lord wins, especially what can happen to you. I can only hope that you will have thought of precautions that will save yourself from disaster so that you can join your parents. I have no such hope for myself. There is no outcome that I can imagine that includes my survival, and to be honest, I don't mind that. If the Light falls, I have no wish to be part of that world. If the Light prevails, I'm sure I wouldn't know how to live in it, or that I'd be allowed to. I can almost imagine your railing at me about this attitude – believe me, my child, I have worse failings.

Let me tell you about your family.

I'm sure you know that your grandfather was a Muggle and that we lived in a neighborhood that was depressed, shall we say. My earliest memories of my father are happy ones. He loved your grandmother and doted on me. He was proud that his wife was a witch, I think. He had a sarcastic sense of humor and loved rugby. I have his nose. When I was nine, there was an accident at the factory where he worked, and he sustained a serious injury to his head, as well as several broken bones. He was in a coma for months. My mother wanted to take him to St Mungo's but his mother was not to be moved from his bedside, and Mother couldn't contrive to move him and keep her mother-in-law ignorant of Magic.

She did have a Healer come in, who surreptitiously did what he could. Mother mentioned to me once that she wished she hadn't brought him in. He saved my father's life, but in her opinion, it wasn't a life worth living. When he woke, he was not the same man at all. His memory was shredded. He even forgot that Mum was a witch, and she was afraid to remind him as unstable as he was.

He was easily angered, and violent outbursts were common. He couldn't keep track of time or remember simple tasks. He tried to go back to work at the factory, but he couldn't keep the job. He lost a few jobs after that and then started to drink.

The unstoppable screaming rages that would take him are some of the most frightening memories of my life, and that is true even after the things I have seen with Voldemort. I couldn't understand what was happening.

After I left for Hogwarts, she asked a Healer to see him again, and that was when she learned the extent of his brain damage, all irreversible. Muggle medicine wasn't advanced enough to be of help, and at the time, neither was magical medicine. Mother started to cast charms to keep him stable, but calming draughts in his morning tea worked better. She tried to explain this to me, but I had already grown to hate him.

Our lives were lean, to say the least. Mother had always brewed potions in the basement. She made simple things like lotions and shampoos, cough medicines and liniments that she sold in the neighborhood, calling them "folk medicine." I helped as soon as I could sit up on a stool and stir. Those are some of my best memories of Mum, the two of us in the basement of an afternoon. After the accident, those potions were our primary source of income.

Your grandmother was a quiet person, smart and very kind. It was the summer after my fifth year that she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Somehow, the severity of her situation made an impression on Dad, and for those last years, he was increasingly withdrawn. The rages were replaced by fits of tears, which humiliated him. She died during my last Spring at Hogwarts. That is something for which I am grateful, for she did not live to see me become a Death Eater.

One of the first tasks given me by my new Master was to "cleanse the world of the filth that is your father". I had already come to regret my dunderheaded choice. This solidified that regret.

I was living at Spinners End with Dad – essentially caring for him, for he had become rather childlike after Mother's death. I went home that night in despair. I could not for the life of me come up with a plan that would keep us both alive. While I had yet to find it in me to truly forgive him for all he had done since his accident, I could no longer blame him, and I found I still had some small affection for him.

Your grandfather had solved the problem for me that very night. I found him in his bed, the suicide note on the nightstand. Simply, he stated that much as he loved me, he could not go on without his wife. The Dark Lord was impressed at how quickly I obeyed his order, and he was pleased at how cleverly I'd made it look like a suicide.

I think the most important question you might have is why I made such a gruesome mistake as to join that megalomaniac. I wish I had a good reason.

I had playmates growing up, but my first real friend was a little girl who lived a few streets over, on a nicer street than mine. Her name was Lily Evans, and unbeknownst to her; she was a Muggleborn Witch. I knew it the moment I saw her fly off a swing and land as lightly as a bird. We were 9 when we met, and inseparable for the next two years. It was a blessing to me in the turmoil that was our family after Dad's accident. I thank my mother for the way she raised me, for I would have been expelled from Mrs. Evans' home if I hadn't used the manners I was taught. I was skinny, and my clothes were threadbare, but I knew how to behave, and she treated me nicely because of that. Her older daughter wasn't so nice, but if you want to know more about her, you can ask your friend Potter. I wouldn't waste my time on it, actually.

Lily was ever the most important thing in my life, until you. It was a blow when we were sorted into different houses when we got to Hogwarts. Looking back, I don't know what else could have happened. It was no surprise that she was sorted into Gryffindor. The surprise was my sorting into Slytherin. I don't have the bravado in my nature for Gryffindor, but I wonder if I wouldn't have been better suited to Ravenclaw. Perhaps I should ask the Hat what it wasthinking.

Any separation would have taxed our friendship, but for the first few years, we did well. Things started to change in fourth year. I think you know that the Marauders and I were sworn enemies. I wasn't their only target, but I was the one who fought back, which made matters worse. They were bullies, but I gave as good as I got. Maybe better. It took them until fourth year to develop a knowledge of defensive and offensive spells that could compete with mine. They never quite matched me, but it was close enough.

Lily was caught in the middle. At first, she disliked the Marauders, but as time went by and it became more obvious that I was dangerously creative, she began to doubt me. I grew up in a rougher neighborhood than she did. There was a difference between her street and mine. Where I grew up, if you got in a fight, you fought with everything you had, and if your opponent needed medical attention, more's the better for you. The Marauders were rich boys playing at being top of the heap. Thank God a part of me knew to hold back. If I had done my worst, one of them would have wound up permanently injured, and I'd have been expelled. Lily didn't understand this any more than Potter or Black did. All she saw was that our conflict became more serious and she blamed me for it, or she blamed my friends in Slytherin for being a bad influence on me.

Because to make matters worse, I had attracted the attention of the rich boys in my house, who were all enamored of the Dark Lord or intended to join his forces by their parents. He liked to recruit early when people were impressionable. My classmates told him that I was the smartest boy in my form, and they were told to bring me to his way of thinking. They despised Lily and Lily hated them. It was another wedge between us, one I have regretted beyond words.

My new-found popularity in my own house convinced me that if I could raise my social station, then Lily would think better of me. Lily wanted a better life than her parents had. I wanted to give it to her.I saw the Death Eaters as a means to that end. In my youthful arrogance, I was sure that all the talk of their being evil was just jealousy. I could prove it to Lily, and she would want to be with me.

We had a hideous row our fifth year, and that was the end of that. I was devastated, and the worst thing about it was that she wasn't. Lily had her own failings. I always knew this. I don't know how she went from scorning Potter to loving him, but I suspected then that his greatest appeal was his wealth. And yes, I still loved her.

I clung tighter to my Slytherin friends. They were the ones who would get me on the fast track to opportunity, to the chance to show Lily I could amount to something, and I ignored any warning signs that appeared.

I regretted my choice almost instantly. It was obvious that there was no way out. Regulus Black tried and failed spectacularly, and by the time that happened, I was alone in the world except for the Death Eaters. So I was alone.

I won't go into my activities as a Death Eater. This letter is not a confessional. The only thing I liked about my involvement was the freedom I had to do a Potions apprenticeship. I might not have been able to do that without the Dark Lord's financial support. He placed me with a Potions Master, who was a supporter. He might not have been my first choice, but he was a good teacher. I was able to study as much as I wanted, which thrilled me.

As a defense, I cultivated the mien of an ascete. I was humorless and uninterested in any of the debaucheries the others enjoyed: I wasn't interested in rich foods, alcohol, or orgies and murder was not a sport for me. They were all distractions from what I considered important. I came close to annoying him when I scorned his dinners, but it mostly amused him. He enjoyed having his own personal monk, and I was excused from raids after a while. Raids were no fun with someone standing around acting as if this was beneath him. After his return, there were few enough Death Eaters that I wasn't able to bow out, but by then I'd become canny enough to notify the Order for at least half of the outings I was sent on.

The autumn that Lily announced her engagement to James Potter, I was at a low point of self-esteem. Except within my apprenticeship, I saw myself as a pariah in the Wizarding world, but I found that I could easily slip into Muggle nightlife, meet astonishingly accommodating women and drink myself into a stupor relatively cheaply. And no Death Eater thought to look for me in the Muggle parts of town. It was during that binge that I met your mother. It ended after those Christmas hols simply because my studies became too intense. I should probably tell you that I have scried for other probable offspring of that era, and you are the only one.

You know about the prophecy. You know its misinterpretation was my fault. I begged the Dark Lord to spare Lily, and he did promise, but I couldn't trust him. I begged Dumbledore to save the Potters, and I shouldn't have trusted him, but he seemed as omniscient then as he does now – I never thought he'd fail. Furthermore, I've never been able to think how I could have saved her in spite of Dumbledore, and that always feels like a failure in and of itself.

I hope that by the time you read this, you know the truth about the intrigue behind Dumbledore's death. I could barely bring myself to do it, but even to his last breath, Dumbledore insisted that my taking responsibility for his death was the only way to get me closer to Voldemort. He was right, but the price I will pay for following his order I fear will overwhelm me.

What no one could know is this: I did not use the Killing Curse that night. I silently cast a Heart-Stopping curse but also a Levitation charm to get his body off the tower before Grayback could tear him to shreds. I don't know what difference that makes, but it makes a difference to me.

I use it as a lesson to you: consider deeply before making an alliance with someone. I let my emotions rule my head when I joined the Death Eaters, and even more so when I went to Dumbledore. Between the two, I was almost always in a bind, and I curse my impulsiveness in either case. Think, Hermione, before you make a life-altering promise to anyone.

This includes marriage. It seems that you are entertaining a relationship with Ronald Weasley. You could do worse than marry a Weasley, but I have to say I wouldn't choose the youngest son for you. He has a good heart, but I'm not sure how trustworthy he really is, nor how well he'll tolerate your inevitable successes. I wouldn't want you to marry too soon. And if you throw away everything you are only to stay home and make babies, I may come to haunt you horribly.

School is about to start. Your parents are far away – well done. And you are God knows where. I will confess, I am not that clueless. The best thing you did was kidnap Phineas Nigellus' frame. He keeps me informed, and I will be able to help. It keeps me from going wild with worry. Harry Potter is the most important person in this fight against the Dark, but not to me. I hate that you are in danger next to him more than I am grateful you are keeping him safe the way you do. Potter is reckless, but his instincts serve him well, and his heart is true. (Tell anyone I said that and I will take my revenge from beyond the grave.) It is the Weasley boy whose strength I doubt.

I can only hope that you get the chance to read this since that means the Light has prevailed, and that monster is no more. The world will be free of megalomaniacs for perhaps a generation or two, judging from history's pattern. Grab life, Hermione. If there's anything you've dreamt of, go do it. Travel. Dream. Learn. Do it all. And share your bright mind with the world any and every way you can think of. Do what I couldn't do. Live, my girl.

Your Loving Father

Hermione rolls the parchment back up and curls onto her side, hugging the roll like a doll. It seems she's cried herself out. He was behind her all the time. He saved her parents. It had to have been he who smoothed the way for her to find food at times during the World's Worst Camping Trip. Harry never knew that on the night Ron came back, Hermione had found a large pile of tinned goods outside their wards. She'd racked her brain to think who could have found their tent – Snape never occurred to her as a possibility. It did lead her to invent two more wards, though.

How does she feel about all this? Cheated. Proud. One more thing to hate Snakeface for: he kept her father away. One more thing to want to brag about. As long as his letter is, he said nothing about making this public. Clearly, this is her decision to make. And she wants to keep it to herself. The press has been bad enough. He deserves the secret, even after death. But she's proud. Oh, yes, she's proud.

Summer 1999

Bill Weasley tucks the last of the dusty volumes into a carefully warded box and hefts the lid to seal it into place. He shakes the tingling sting from his fingers that such tomes tend to send out. There's a reason no one wants to dust them. "That's the last of it," he says. "I can't help but wonder what he did with all these."

"By the looks of the dust on them, not much in the last years," replies Hermione as she loads a much less tricky box.

"It's almost a privilege to see some of these up close. Those last two are simply legends. I don't think anyone truly believes they exist anymore." He looks at her sternly. "DO NOT let a private citizen buy those. No matter what they offer."

"Not by half! I already had the Solicitors set up something of an anonymous auction among the libraries and museums. The response has been surprising."

"What you can get for them will make you a rich woman forever."

'I already am,' she thinks, but doesn't enlighten him.

"I have to ask, Hermione: why you? Any clue?"

"Why am I his heir?" She shrugs. "I have a mental image of his thumbing his nose at all the Haters while he set this up, yeah?"

Bill chuckles. "He had some potion patents, didn't he? Should give you a steady income."

"Yeah. I could easily afford Muggle Uni after my apprenticeship if I want."

"And do you?"

"Don't know. I think what I really want is another Mastery, in Potions."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Charms and Potions? I'm looking at a future Unspeakable!"

"Is that good?"

"I don't know anyone who knows."

He sits on the box, but only long enough to hop back to his feet with a hiss. "That needs re-warding." He spends another five minutes casting numerous spells. Then he finds a chair.

"Hermione." He waits for her to sit back on her heels. "I'm going to say something, but don't tear me down for it, all right?" She nods. "You've got a tidy income now, and you're about to make a fortune. You've sworn me to secrecy, and you should have. But don't tell my little brother."

She raises an eyebrow, and he wonders why that makes him think of Snape. "What are you thinking?" she says.

"Ron and George are making themselves filthy rich with the shop, but he'll always be insecure about money. He loves you, but he'll resent this, and I fear that will hurt you both terribly. If there's a way he'll never know, find it. That is, if you two are still talking marriage."

She looks very uncomfortable. "I don't know if we are," she sighs. It wouldn't be just the money he'd react badly to. He's never gotten over his hate for Snape, while Harry has. Even Ginny has. But Ron is Ron. Big-hearted, but only to a certain point.

Bill looks sympathetic. "He'll hate the second apprenticeship."

"Yes, he will. And the Unspeakables would be the End."

"Is that what you want?"

"I don't think so, really. I'd like to teach and experiment."

"You could go anywhere."

"I could, couldn't I?"

Fall 1999

Minerva McGonagall looks over at the glistening black stele that stands over Severus Snape's grave. Filius' new apprentice is standing there, looking as if she's having a private conversation. She wanders away from Albus' tomb to join her. Hermione glances up with a welcoming smile.

"Hermione," Minerva nods. They stand in front of the stele for a moment. "My dear, this is the third time I've seen you visiting him. May I ask why?"

Hermione shrugs. "I don't suppose many people do come to him, do they?" she says. She stares at the grass a moment. "I hate all the things that happened to him," she growls. "It's like he was fated to have nothing good. It's unfair."

"I couldn't agree more," says Minerva with a sigh. "Do you visit Albus as much?"

The answer is quiet and firm. "No."

"You sound as if you're angry with him."

Hermione favors the Headmistress with an appraising gaze. "I suppose I am."

Minerva nods slowly. "I know what you mean. He did try the best he could, Hermione." She stops when she sees the young woman shaking her head.

"He went too far," she says. She motions towards the grave. "He loved him. Harry surely did. What he asked of them… Harry still has nightmares of force-feeding him poison. The look on Professor Snape's face the night Filius came running in shouting about Death Eaters in the castle… anger, horror, fear and a grief that seemed huge. And then he looked at me…" She swallows hard. "You don't ask that of people who love you. You don't demand it of two of them in one night. The 'greater good' twaddle doesn't excuse it."

Minerva watches as she takes a long breath. She agrees with her sentiment, and she harangued Dumbledore's portrait for 20 minutes while he pretended to sleep, the goat. And yet, she is still surprised at the young woman's obvious nearness to tears.

"How well did you know him, my dear?"

"Who? Dumbledore?"

"No, Severus."

Hermione pauses before she shakes her head sadly. "No better than any other student." Nowhere near as well as she should have been allowed to. That was wrong. That's what makes her cry. The night of Dumbledore's death – that was the only time Snape's mask slipped, and to her great incomprehension, she saw feelings he had for her, a fear born of fierce protectiveness. She has no doubt Snape hexed Filius to give her a task that would keep her in the dungeon, away from the fighting. Filius has told her he thought the same, even when he believed Snape to be a cold-blooded murderer.

Minerva carefully says, "Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

Hermione shakes her head, then stops, and starts to nod, and stops again. "I think I shouldn't." Minerva cocks an eyebrow. "The papers and rumors and who-knows-what have been all over him, dredging up every sensational and speculative bit of nonsense they could. He'd hate it. He doesn't deserve it. No one needs to know anything about him except that he sacrificed himself for a mass of people who didn't deserve it." She takes a deep breath. "But his friends… I don't know." It's so obvious the girl wants to talk to someone. Minerva has a flashing moment of concern. Could there have been something between them when she was a student? Certainly not.

"You know I'm here if you ever want to talk. Come to my office anytime."

"Oh, no!" the girl blurts and then blushes. "Not your office" she mumbles. She finally looks Minerva in the eye. "And I'd ask that you not discuss anything with anyone."

"If you wish."

"Not even portraits." At this Minerva raises both eyebrows. "All right. Should I get out my wand?"

"Huh? Oh. Of course not. Your word is as good as gold; I know that."

Minerva smiles fondly and pats Hermione's shoulder.

Having decided to talk about this, Hermione nearly changes her mind. But she knows she'll need advice from someone besides her parents, someone in the Wizarding world, and who better than Minerva? She takes a deep breath and glances at her father's grave as if seeking permission, and then casts a sheepish look towards Minerva. "As it turns out," she says. "I'm not a Muggleborn."

For some reason, this was not something Minerva expected, and her surprise is obvious.

Hermione smiles wryly. "Rather messes up the propaganda, doesn't it?"

Minerva laughs and then sobers. "My dear, we were assured that both your parents are Muggles."

Hermione nods. "My mother is a Muggle. So is my step-father." At this Minerva startles. Hermione fixes her eyes on the stele. "My father," she murmurs, "was a wizard."

Minerva finds herself casting a censorious gaze at the grass before her toes before she shakes herself out of it. "He never said a word," she murmurs.

"He didn't know till I was nearly 15. And then he was adamant that I not be told until Snakeface was dead and the war over."

"Snakeface?"

Hermione smirks. She watches Minerva think, every thought and linked emotion sweeping across her face. "He was still a teenager."

Hermione nods. "Eighteen. Mum's a few years older."

"That would have been when he was deep into the Death Eaters. What was he doing with a Muggle?"

Hermione can't bring herself to explain all this. She feels badly for her mother. "It wasn't a relationship," she says. "It was two people on the rebound seeking comfort from each other. No one left anyone in the lurch." She passes a hand across her red face. "Nearly killed Mum from embarrassment to tell me."

"I know the Muggle world is more lenient about these things, but it still must have been hard."

"Mum was lucky. She had me a couple of months before she started a new job. She could afford help. It could have been worse. And my grandparents were always there. I was two when she met Dad. Match made in heaven for all three of us."

"And now you're the mysterious heir. I understand why you want to keep it a mystery."

"He'd hate it."

"Yes. … And what are you going to do with that house?"

Hermione grins. "He told me to sell it for kindling."

"When did he tell you that?"

The young woman fishes a necklace from her blouse. On it dangles a prettily enameled cylinder that looks like an etui. She shows it to Minerva. "He left me a letter. I put it in here." Minerva blinks back tears. "And the house is worth more than kindling. That area is about to rezoned for commercial use. They want to build a mall."

"So the land will be pretty valuable." Hermione nods. "You're going to have to un-ward it," the old woman continues.

Hermione throws her hands up. "I've been there three times! And I just know there will be more when I go back. I wish I could ask him 'Where does it end?'"

"Well, you could."

"You mean his portrait. Not with Dumbledore around."

"Hmmm." Minerva shows no inclination to talk her friend out of this attitude. "I may have an idea. How about a spot of tea in my office?"

"Um… I suppose so."

Hermione enters her quarters with her new prize and stops in the middle of her lounge to turn slowly, scanning the walls. Minerva is right: the best place is right near her father's lovely large desk that sits in a corner. She moves to the point on the wall and holds the frame up, then applies a sticking charm. She settles the little picture and hurries around the desk to sit. Just above eye level. It's a charming view of the Lake Country from the vantage point of someone's garden, with a wrought iron table and cushioned chairs in the foreground on the patio. A breeze blows the trees and little boats down on the lake. The frame is charmed to allow only one portrait person access. She smiles, then frowns. No.

Back around the desk she goes, plucks the frame from the wall and sits back in her comfy desk chair. Turning the picture over, she concentrates as she conjures a pretty stand that will prop the painting up. She places it in the left-hand corner of the desk, just within arm's reach. She grins.

Then, she pulls open a drawer and retrieves tests to mark, chooses a quill and sits back to read; her feet propped up on the little stool under the desk. Close to half an hour passes as she uses all her self-discipline to keep from staring at the little picture.

She nearly jumps when she hears a scrape of a wrought iron chair on slate. She finishes a comment before she looks up. There he sits, looking out at the lake. Then he turns, his face as blank and impassive as ever until she smiles and says, "Hello, Father."