This was written for krissy_cits as part of the 2015 SSHG Promptfest over on LiveJournal.
Prompt Fic: Secret Garden-esque: Hermione stumbles upon a hidden courtyard and finds Severus there. Why is he there? Is he a ghost or alive? The mystery is up to you (SS/HG).
This was a lot of fun to write - I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!
Disclaimer: Not mine - not even the concept of the garden: all HP belongs to JK Rowling, all Tom's Midnight Garden references belong to Phillipa Pearce.
Hermione stood before the portrait of Severus Snape, trembling.
"You should have told me," she said through gritted teeth.
The portrait slumbered on.
"Damn it, Severus," she screamed, her voice ringing out in the empty office, "wake up!"
Even the other portraits had left, moved by her earnest plea to Minerva that she needed to speak to the portrait alone. The tears held off until she was alone before pouring down her cheeks.
"Please," she whispered, pressing her hand to his painted one. "It's me, Severus. It's Winter."
At last, the portrait stirred.
No one had questioned why Hermione Granger, one third of the Golden Trio and darling of the Ministry, had turned up at Hogwarts one fresh spring morning. The Daily Prophet had taken great pains to record word-for-word the conversation that had occurred between her and Ron Weasley the previous day. This was followed by a comment from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures that yes, she had taken a leave of absence; no, they could not comment on the personal lives of their employees; and please, could the reporter remove themselves from Ministry property before the Aurors were summoned to escort them away. Argus Filch had taken one look at the wand in her trembling hand, her tear-stained cheeks, and had stepped aside.
"You'll be needing the Headmistress, then," he grumbled, shuffling away with a limp that was more pronounced following the Battle of Hogwarts. Two minutes later, Minerva McGonagall swept imperiously into the Entrance Hall, stern look firmly in place.
"You'd best come up to my office," she said, gripping Hermione's elbow firmly enough to provide support. "It wouldn't do to have any students see you."
"I came early," Hermione said with a sniff, reaching in her pocket for a handkerchief. "I'm sorry to trouble you, Headmistress."
"Nonsense, Miss Granger. Now dry your eyes and hold your tongue until you've got something warm inside you."
Hermione allowed herself to be escorted up to the Headmistress' office. She hadn't been here much since the Battle – once to receive the her NEWTs; another to attend the unveiling of the portrait of Severus Snape, Harry's pet project after leaving Hogwarts. It slumbered, still, exactly nine months after it had been placed on the walls.
"Has he woken yet?" Hermione asked, gratefully accepting the warm cup that was pressed into her hands.
"Not yet." Minerva sighed. "Young Mr Potter had good intentions, I'm sure, but Severus seems to be as stubborn in painted form as he ever was in life."
"Harry just wanted him to be recognised." Hermione sipped the tea, relaxing as the warming liquid, with a liberal helping of Calming Draught, she noted, made its way through her body.
"And so he has been." Minerva arranged the parchments on her desk. "Why are you here, Hermione?"
Hermione's lower lip trembled, but her voice was steady as she answered, "I had nowhere else to go."
"Nowhere?" Minerva raised an eyebrow.
"I couldn't stay at the Burrow. Grimmauld Place would put me directly in Ginny's line of fire, and it would put Harry in an awkward position."
"I see." Minerva passed a plate of biscuits over. "And your parents?"
"Irretrievably in Australia, quite content as Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and with no idea they ever had a daughter." Hermione tried to smile. "I meant it for the best. We tried to bring them back, but there was no way to reverse the spell after such a long time."
Minerva coughed to hide her surprise. "I didn't know that was the case."
"Few people did. It was safer that way, and then, it was too late." Hermione slumped back into the chair, staring into the tea as if it really could read her future. "I didn't know what else to do."
The Headmistress studied the young woman opposite her. The Daily Prophet had been rife with speculation as to what would happen now that she had turned down Ron Weasley's proposal. Would she even stay in Britain? Could she show her face after breaking up with one of Witch Weekly's most eligible wizards? How dare she say no, given her colourful history with men – surely she should be grateful! Rita Skeeter had gone to town, and each word had driven Hermione further and further from any sort of sense. It was patently obvious to Minerva that Hermione was trying to hide.
"Well, since you're here, you can be useful," Minerva said, channelling her experience as Hermione's Head of House. The girl sat up straighter at the very tone of voice. "Irma is retiring at the end of the school year, and the library needs to be set in order before her replacement takes over. I'll have a house-elf clear some rooms for you to stay in." A warning note crept into her voice. "I don't expect the task to take longer than a few weeks, Miss Granger, and I will not have one of my Gryffindors hiding like this." Hermione's alarmed expression vanished when Minerva winked. "However, even lions need time to lick their wounds."
Hermione almost hugged the Headmistress. She settled for a relieved smile. "Yes," she agreed. "I won't monopolise your rooms, Minerva, and I will help Madam Pince with anything she needs. Thank you."
"Don't mention it." Minerva put her most intimidating stare on. "I mean that – I don't want the Prophet trying to break into Hogwarts for a comment, and I don't want any disruption to classes." She stared a moment longer. "Come along, Miss Granger. There's work to be done."
Hermione set her cup down, already feeling better than she had done. "Yes, Headmistress," she said, managing to hold her head a little higher as she was swept up in Minerva's wake.
Helping Irma Pince turned out to be exactly what Hermione needed. Most of it was sorting paperwork, updating book catalogues, and fixing whatever damage the students had managed to do when they should have been studying. It was mind-numbing, repetitive, and required her full attention lest she make a mistake, which meant less time to dwell on what had happened. Irma, to her credit, hadn't mentioned it, and Hermione knew she read the Prophet because the library didn't open until Irma had enjoyed a bagel and the morning papers.
Some of the students had tried asking her about it. That had been awkward, until one morning where Minerva had announced over breakfast that Madam Pince's temporary assistant would be granted the ability to remove points and assign detentions. Now they skirted her, whispering and spreading wild rumours, but never daring to approach.
Ron was silent. She had received owls from every other Weasley, Harry, Luna, Neville, her boss at the Ministry, and so many from the Prophet that Minerva had erected wards to stop them getting through; newspapers were currently being delivered by house-elves instead of by post. Everyone wanted to know what only Ron had the right to – why?
It was a question Hermione was avoiding having to answer, even to herself. Instead she pored over catalogues until late at night, editing entries and making a list of anything that could be updated.
After the sixth late night, Irma had unceremoniously deposited a heavy ring of keys on her desk.
"Some of us adhere to reasonable working hours, Miss Granger," she said. "If you insist on staying up half the night, then you can lock the library behind you." The library had been locked after hours since the great rebuilding after the Battle nearly eight years ago, ever since Harry had let slip how often they had been in the library unsupervised, and how easily they had gained access to the Restricted Section. Hermione had been left thoroughly impressed by the extensive vocabulary of her former teachers when it came to describing Gilderoy Lockhart.
She worked through the next list by her dying candlelight, a thick scroll of academic journals that had been requested over the years and, for some reason, never stopped – even when the corresponding classes had been. Professor Flitwick was consistently checking out journals on Magical Artifices, which had been subscribed to before the class was removed from the syllabus in 1907. Hermione smiled grimly as she made a note of this, in red ink, for Irma to see in the morning.
Her quill hovered over the list of Potions journals and she thought again of the portrait. Most of these hadn't been checked out since Professor Snape had died; it amused her to note that even when he had been Headmaster, the man had kept abreast of the latest developments in his field. Slughorn, too; he may have been a sycophant and played favourites to the extreme, but he knew his work. The professors who had followed after hadn't bothered with many of the more esoteric journals, sticking to the mainstream ones.
"A shame," she murmured, striking out the ones that were no longer being needed. Minerva had been keen on the subject of saving money, or rather not wasting it; she would be thrilled with how much should be added to the library's budget. Madam Pince hadn't commented, but there had been an approving gleam in her beady eye when Hermione had first raised the subject.
What time was it? Hermione glanced up at the dusty clock that stood in the corner of the Archives, a room she hadn't known existed while she was in school. It was a grandfather clock, in need of much care; the face had been cleaned enough to show that it was only a few minutes to midnight. No wonder she was feeling tired; that, and the house-elves had pointedly stopped bringing her coffee several hours ago. Normally Crookshanks could be counted on to sit on her work until she went to bed, but he had refused to leave the Burrow; the gnomes were too much fun to chase.
"Ohhhh!" Hermione buried her face in her hands when she realised she was back to thinking about Ron. "That's it," she muttered. "I'm done."
As if it could read her thoughts, the clock started to chime the hour. Hermione started to clear her parchments away, carefully capping the ink bottle and cleaning her quills, absently counting the strokes. When the clock struck twelve, she straightened up, stretching her back.
"Bed," she said, glancing at the empty desk with a half-smile.
Bong-ng-ng.
Hermione froze. She went back over the past few seconds in her head, counting the chimes.
Then again.
No matter how many times she counted, it didn't make sense. The clock had very definitely, most emphatically, struck thirteen. The hands pointed to twelve, silently scolding her for being here so late.
Must be broken, she thought, dismissing the oddity and turning to leave. Her hand was on the door when an icy blast came from nowhere, wrapping around her ankles and sending a shiver up her spine.
What was that?
Awake and alert now, Hermione spun on her heel, sharp eyes scanning the Archives by the dim light of her candle. The room was sealed to protect the records within from such harsh conditions, and there was no sign of any ghosts, or even Peeves – though Irma's wards would even have given the poltergeist pause for thought. Where, then, had the draft come from?
There? On the wall opposite the clock was a door she hadn't noticed before; one she was sure hadn't existed before. It was ajar and a few snowflakes floated through, melting on the floor before she could examine them. Hermione knelt and touched the cold, damp spots they left behind.
"Snow?" she murmured, glancing up at the door. "In May?" Stranger things had happened, yes, but the weather had been quite pleasant that evening. Even the Muggle meteorological reports, which were far more accurate than the rather woolly divination employed by wizards, had predicted a balmy May into a scorching June. Snow was not on the agenda.
Hermione's brow furrowed as she ran through possibilities in her mind. A student prank? That wasn't likely, not here, and this seemed rather elaborate for such a thing.
The Room of Requirement, then? Nobody had been able to access it since the reconstruction of the castle. No one even knew whether the Fiendfyre had been extinguished or whether it still raged, something that was a constant source of worry to the teachers who knew it was there. Much work had been done in the years since to relegate the Room to the status of urban legend. Still, it was at least plausible, unlike any of the other things her mind was coming up with.
There was only one way to find out, and she wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. Hermione raised her wand, a spell on her lips, and opened the mysterious door.
The spell was forgotten when she was met with a wall of cold air; any would-be attackers would have to wait whilst Hermione frantically cast Warming Charms about herself. A thick layer of snow lay on the ground, pristine until her footsteps created a meandering path. It couldn't be a prank, and was far too serene for the Room; it was a garden, a centre of serenity laid out in a courtyard. It was still Hogwarts, for Hermione could easily identify the Astronomy Tower, still lit up even at this hour.
Most of the foliage appeared to be evergreen, the dark greens blending into the night until lit by her Lumos. Here and there a tree could be seen bereft of leaves, stretching spindly branches up towards the heavens. The sky itself was crystal clear; Hermione could easily spot the North Star, the Big Dipper, Orion, Taurus…
Wait. She looked around again. The trees were mostly bare, but there were a few flowers; she dredged up her Herbology lessons – cyclamen, hellebore, a few early snowdrops; the air was icy and unforgiving, and the stars that twinkled above were not the same stars she had left behind.
"Winter!" she gasped, mind racing to review her Astronomy lessons, then panicking when it realised her initial assessment was correct. "It's winter," she whispered, then pinched herself to check she wasn't dreaming.
"That's an odd name." A small, sharp voice from behind her made her leap off the snow in fright. "What are you doing here, Winter?"
Hermione spun around so quickly that she whipped up a flurry of snow. Behind her, from nowhere – or so it seemed – a small boy had appeared. At first, she wondered if he was a ghost; he was certainly pale enough, with a light dusting of snow coating his black hair. Only the eyes left her certain he was real; they were so dark it was impossible to tell if they were brown or black, and they seemed to see right through her. He wore a Hogwarts uniform, but it was too big for him, rather like how Harry had first appeared in his cousin's hand-me-downs.
"What are you doing out of bed?" she challenged, mentally running through the faces she had seen over the past few days in case she could put a name to the face.
"I asked you first."
"You're a student. You shouldn't be out of bed."
There was something about the defiant way he looked at her that seemed familiar. "This is my garden," he said haughtily. "You shouldn't be in here without my permission."
That threw her. "Oh?"
"Yes." He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't very far. "I'm a prince, you know."
Hermione ran a critical eye over his too-skinny form and second-hand clothing. "A prince," she repeated.
His cheeks were tinged with pink, though whether from embarrassment or shame she couldn't tell. "Yes, a prince, and I rule here. Are you a ghost?"
"What? No!" Hermione looked down at herself; she, too, was now covered with snow, which clung obstinately to her dove-grey robes, chosen because they were as far from the Ministry's obnoxious peacock blue as possible. "I'm very real."
"So am I." He cast around for something else to say. "Well, Winter, would you like to be my subject?"
"I'm sorry?" She bit back a chuckle. This wasn't what she had expected. "Why do you call me that?"
"What?"
"Winter."
"I asked you what your name was," he explained patiently, as if addressing someone much younger or stupider than he, "and you said Winter. Twice," he added, as if this made a difference.
Hermione ran through the past few minutes in her mind and realised he must have spoken to her while she was still reeling from the realisation that the world had changed around her. She opened her mouth to correct him, then closed it again. He obviously hadn't recognised her, which meant he couldn't be a current student. Perhaps he was- not quite a ghost, per se, but a lost spirit, not really one or the other? Maybe she could help him.
"What's your name?" she asked, ignoring his earlier question.
He withdrew his hands from his pockets to fold them across his chest in an action that resonated within her. "You can call me Prince," he said, with as much regal authority as he could muster with his sleeves slipping down over his hands, "or, if you prefer, Your Highness."
"I see." Hermione curtseyed. "Then, Your Highness-" he smiled so briefly that if she'd blinked she would have missed it, "-would you care to show me around your kingdom?"
"Really?" The stubborn frown was replaced by eager hope. "You want to see everything?"
"Everything," she confirmed, holding out her hand.
He stared at it. "Princes do not hold hands," he said, nose in the air. "Come this way, Winter. You must follow behind me."
Hermione followed, smiling for the first time in days, a genuine smile as he started to point out what he thought of as interesting features – a hollow tree that he used to hide things; an old fountain that had never worked; the place where he had found a perfectly round pebble. In amongst these boyish features were mentioned good spots for finding mistletoe, a place where aconite grew, and a campfire that had been heavily used.
"Do you like Potions?" she asked after he paused for breath.
"Yes." The defences went back up; once again she may have been talking to a wall.
"I liked Potions when I was in school," she confided. "I brewed Polyjuice Potion in my second year."
"Really?" He gave her an appraising look, one that indicated she might not be as stupid as his initial assessment had led him to believe. "That's a good one."
"It was quite fun."
"I like to brew." He knelt, started to draw patterns in the snow. "Not many people do. They don't think it's real magic."
"Oh, it is." Hermione flopped to the ground next to the Prince and thought back to the first speech she had ever heard Professor Snape give. "My old Potions Professor described it as an art."
"He did?" Once again, the boy's face lit up. "My Potions teacher isn't very good."
"Mine was the best. Not very nice," she added, "but very good at what he did."
"Do you think he'd teach me?" the boy asked, lying back in the snow.
Hermione lay next to him. "I doubt it," she said softly, looking up at the winter sky. "He died eight years ago."
"Oh." The boy fell silent. "That's a pity."
"Yes," she agreed. They lay side by side for a while, enjoying the silence. At last it started to snow again, and Hermione sat up.
"I should probably go," she said. She still hadn't worked out what this place was, and it was probably coming up on two in the morning. If she didn't get some sleep now, she'd be fit for nothing the next day.
When she turned to glance at the prince, he was lying on his side, away from her.
"I thought you would," he said, back to his mulish self. "Everyone always does."
"Oh…" Hermione reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off. "I can try and come back," she said softly.
He half-turned, one eye watching her warily.
"I came through a magic door," she confided, determined to go back to the library and find a way to help this child. "I don't know if it will open again – Your Highness," she added with a chuckle that made the corners of his lips twitch, "but if it does, I will come back through and look for you."
The boy sat up, pushed his sleeves back up so that his hands were free, then held one of them out.
"Shake on it," he said.
Hermione was about to ask if he trusted her, then realised the truth when she saw the fear in his eyes – he wanted to trust her. He wanted her to keep her word. But the fear spoke of others who had broken promises, who had left him. Her heart went out to the boy and she clasped his cold hand gently.
"I promise," she said in a low voice, "the next time the door opens, I will come back through."
He held her stare for a long time, until she felt her eyes watering and had to blink.
"Good." He stood up, automatically extending his hand to help her up, even though she was so much taller than he was. Amused by this display of manners from the little prince, Hermione accepted his hand.
"Goodnight, Prince," she said, offering him another curtsey.
His smile lasted half a minute this time. "Goodnight, Winter."
Although he didn't move as she headed for the door, she felt his eyes on her until the trees hid her from view.
When she got back into the library, Hermione collapsed into her chair, buried her head in her arms, and cried. She cried for the fear and distrust in his eyes, for the shadow about him. He reminded her of Harry when they had first met – stubborn, not easily trusting, afraid – but worse, as if a cupboard under the stairs was the least of his worries. She suspected that was the case, but how to bring up the subject? He wasn't a current student, so there would be no teachers to speak to – she didn't even know what he was. All she knew was that the Restricted Section would be bound to have information on ghosts, lost souls, lingering spirits, and everything else she could think of. She had to help him.
Eventually it was the gentle ticking of the clock that soothed her nerves; she thought of nothing, just listened to the tick-tock and the swoosh of the pendulum until her tears eased and she felt calmer. Hermione glanced up at the clock face-
-and leapt up, heart racing again, swearing, because she knew she had spent over an hour in the garden, spent ages talking to the prince, but the minute hand was only just moving to one minute past midnight.
Hermione stared at the clock until it ticked over to two minutes past.
"Ah, Miss Granger!" She started at the voice, only to see the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore looking down at her from a landscape painting on the wall. "Still up, I see?"
"Professor," she greeted, relieved. "Yes, I was having trouble sleeping." She looked over to where the door had been – it was as if it had never been there. "Do you know anything about that clock, sir?"
"The clock?" Dumbledore strolled to the edge of the landscape, peering through his half-moon glasses at it. "I'm afraid it's been at Hogwarts for longer than I have, my dear. Quite an unusual design, isn't it?"
"It's ugly," Hermione said flatly, "and it needs cleaning."
"That's rather uncharitable of you, isn't it?" he asked mildly, taking off his glasses to clean them on a corner of his robe. "I've always quite liked clocks. They remind us that time always moves forward, and once the past has gone, it is gone. Time doesn't care for what has gone before, only the now, and what is to come." He smiled down at her, eyes twinkling. "Of course, it is not quite as remarkable as Molly Weasley's.
"No." Hermione looked away at the mention of the Weasleys. "If you'll excuse me, Professor. I really should be getting to bed." She stood up, making a show of stretching.
"You appear unsettled, Miss Granger." She met the twinkling blue eyes reluctantly. "Remember, my dear, that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."
The echo of his words to Harry so many years ago sent a shiver down her spine. "I'm not sure I need help," she whispered, looking away.
"Ah, Miss Granger. Do you believe you are the only lost soul in this castle?"
When she looked up, he had gone.
The next evening, as soon as Irma had retired for the night, Hermione set to work. She crept out into the library and soon returned with an armful of books purporting to divulge the secrets of Hogwarts. She had even, in a fit of madness, checked out Hogwarts, A History again, on the off-chance that she had missed mention of a magical garden every other time she had read it.
One thing had become clear in the light of day: Albus hadn't visited her by luck, or even by coincidence. He knew about the boy, and he knew she had found the garden. Every time she had conceived a reason to stop by Minerva's office today, he had been either asleep or conveniently away from his frame; she wasn't going to be getting any more hints from him.
The only thing left to do, then, was wait until midnight.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she found that her coffee was being replenished every time she left to return a book. The house-elves remained almost invisible, but she felt their silent approval. It was with gratitude that she sipped the hot liquid, with despair that she steadily worked her way through her research, finding nothing to indicate who the mysterious so-called prince had been. At last it was nearly midnight, and she had worked herself into a frenzy, afraid the door wouldn't open at all.
Bong.
The clock began to chime.
Hermione closed her eyes, holding her breath as she counted.
Two. Three. Four. Was that the pop of a house-elf disappearing? Seven. Eight. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, as if she was being watched; when she glanced at the painting, it was empty. Eleven. Twelve.
Thirteen.
She released her breath. Now that she was waiting for it, she could hear a slight creak, as if a door had drifted open in a breeze. It wasn't cold that greeted her this time; a gust of warm air played about her.
Hermione had to restrain herself, walking sedately, if a little shakily, to the door, when all she wanted to do was run. Would he be there again, the little prince? What would she see tonight? Would she gain more clues to the mystery of the courtyard?
Pausing only to peg the door open with her shoe, Hermione set out into the garden.
The garden had changed dramatically since the previous night. Gone was the snow that had carpeted the ground. Gone were the early crocuses, the eager January bulbs; in their place was a veritable rainbow of flowers, each closed now, though some nocturnal varieties still had their faces open to the sultry summer night. She identified the North Star easily, eyes scanning the heavens for other constellations. Most were similar to what adorned the May sky, their positions slightly different; it seemed to be almost the end of term.
"Amazing," she breathed, feet leading her out into the centre of the courtyard, mind racing a mile a minute. "It's like time travel." That led her mind down new routes, new possibilities for the mystery of the courtyard, more books to examine when she returned to the library.
But first, she had to find the child.
He wasn't where she had first encountered him; nor was he lurking in any of the hiding spots he had so proudly pointed out to her on his royal tour. In the end, it was the place where she had left him that Hermione found him again, lying on the grass where they had lain in the snow, discussing Potions and Professor Snape. She saw his robes and feet first; pausing as she approached, Hermione sank into a curtsey.
"Your Highness," she greeted, a teasing note in her voice.
The boy leapt up as if on fire, patting down his robes to rid himself of any grass that had clung to them. His wide eyes turned on her and a flash of surprise was quickly hidden, replaced by a surly expression.
"Winter?"
"Yes." It was easier than the alternative, she had decided.
"You didn't come back." His tone was defensive, hurt.
Hermione frowned. "The door only opened again tonight," she said, studying the boy carefully. He looked… older? Was that even possible, for spectres to age? But he most certainly had, whether it was possible or not. He was taller, almost to her shoulder already; his face was losing the slight roundness of youth; his hair was longer, although still lank and greasy. His robes fit a little better now, the Slytherin badge prominent. Her eyes landed on a fading bruise on his cheek.
"What happened?"
He looked away. "Nothing. Where were you?"
"Waiting for the door."
"I waited for you." He turned his back on her. "I've been here every night since."
Every night? Hermione couldn't hide her startled gasp as her earlier comment came back. Was this time travel? Had she somehow stepped into the past, or even the future? It would explain so much, and yet, more questions arose.
"I'm sorry." She reached out to touch his arm, only to have her hand shrugged off. "I really did wait, Prince."
"I'm not a prince any more." He looked back at her through a curtain of hair. "That was childish."
Hermione knelt, bringing herself down so that he was taller than she. "Then who are you now?" she asked gently.
"I don't know."
"Well, what do your friends call you?"
His silence was telling.
"I think I know what you are," he said at last. "I've been trying to work it out since last time."
She couldn't help but chuckle. "You have?" It amused her to think that while she had been trying to solve the mystery, he had been doing the same from a different point in time. "What conclusion have you reached?"
"You're dead." A chill ran down her spine. "You're some sort of ghost, or apparition."
"I'm not dead."
"You must be." He pointed. "How else do you explain that?"
When Hermione looked down, she felt her head spin, for the plants behind her were waving merrily through her torso. Her fingers brushed them gently; instead of feeling the soft petals, they passed straight through.
Her mouth was dry. "Maybe the garden doesn't really exist."
"I think you don't."
"We shook hands." Hermione held out her hand again. "If I'm a ghost, how could you do that?"
He lowered his gaze, his next words so quiet that she could barely hear them. "Maybe I'm a ghost, too."
"No." She was surprised at how firm her voice was. "You aren't a ghost, and neither am I." On instinct she knelt, wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could. He was so stiff that it was like he'd never been hugged before. Hermione didn't release him; she pressed her cheek against his, surprised at how warm it was, considering how pale his skin seemed. "See?" she whispered. "We're both real."
His arms slowly moved, not to push her away, as she feared, but instead to return her embrace.
"Yes." The word escaped him unwillingly. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to hold back her tears as she wondered what had happened in his short life to destroy his faith in people.
"I promise, I will come back whenever the door opens," she whispered. "I'll be here for you."
His head came to rest against hers and she felt a damp spot on her shoulder from his tears.
"Thank you, Winter."
"You are most welcome." She drew back, pretending not to see as he drew his grubby sleeve across his eyes. "What shall I call you, if you're not a prince any more?"
"Is your name really Winter?"
"No, it's not. But it's much nicer than my real name." She winked and drew a reluctant smile from him.
"Sev," he said at last. "My friend calls me Sev."
Friend. Hermione smiled-
-and then felt the blood drain from her cheeks as she realised who the scruffy little misfit opposite her was.
Severus Snape.
He was looking at her oddly. "What?" he asked, arms folded defensively.
"I think I prefer 'Prince'," she said with a forced laugh, trying to recover. "Okay, Sev. What would you like to do today?"
He eyed her suspiciously. "You don't have to go yet?"
Now that she knew who he was, it was easy to see the mannerisms of the adult Professor Snape already forming in this child. The distrust, the not-fitting-in, the intelligence. The glare.
"I think I can stay for a bit longer."
At last, Sev smiled. "Do you want to see my lab?"
Hermione beamed. "I would love to."
Curled up in bed, with Crookshanks – who had arrived through the Floo earlier that day, much to the consternation of the Headmistress – purring into her stomach, it was easy to believe it had all been a dream. Little Sev, as she had tried to think of him, had led her to a corner of the courtyard, mostly hidden from view, where he had set up a makeshift Potions laboratory. A fire had been carefully constructed and ringed off by pebbles; branches of the trees had been broken off and trimmed down to form a frame from which to suspend a cauldron; vials of ingredients were tucked in amongst the flower beds. It had been achingly beautiful, and surprisingly functional; she hadn't bothered hide her surprise when he showed her the potions he had brewed there. She had asked why he hadn't just Transfigured what was needed. The look he gave was the patented, Professor Snape, you are a dunderhead get out of my classroom look, so much so that she wondered why she hadn't made the connection before.
"You can't fix everything by waving a wand," he'd said scornfully, catapulting her back to her first ever Potions class and his cautioning against foolish wand-waving.
"It's wonderful," was all she had had to say to regain his interest.
Harry hadn't shared all of the memories given to him by Professor Snape, but he'd given both Ron and herself enough of a background for her to understand why, as a child, he was so jaded, and why he was so desperate for affection. He wasn't the easiest child to get along with, but Hermione found she had enjoyed escaping into the garden.
This time, when she had left, they hadn't shaken on it. He had simply nodded, already resigned to the fact that some time would pass before she came again. Based on what he had told her of his classes, some eighteen months had elapsed in the one day she had been away.
What would she find waiting for her, if she went back?
When she went back. It was too tempting not to. There was peace, no expectations; she wasn't Hermione Granger, heartbreaker (as the Prophet had taken to insinuating), nor was she a know-it-all, or a member of the Golden Trio. She was Winter – okay, so the name was cheesy, but it meant she could be herself without having to be, well… herself.
Besides, now she knew – or suspected – why Dumbledore had been twinkling at her. The other lost soul in the castle had to be Professor Snape. Perhaps it was even linked to the reason behind his portrait not waking.
Should she consult with the Headmistress? On the one hand, yes – she could be a valuable source of knowledge. She may even know what the courtyard was.
On the other… Hermione couldn't explain her reluctance to share the secret, but the thought of telling anyone else brought a pain to her chest, and, at her core, she was a Gryffindor. Had she been a Ravenclaw, it would have been easier to listen to her head, but she was bound to follow her instincts and always had been.
The only thing her head was doing at the moment was replaying the stark warnings she had been given by Professor McGonagall before being handed her Time-Turner, about the dangers of meddling with time. She would have to be careful not to step on any butterflies, proverbial or otherwise, otherwise who knew what would happen? Severus Snape had been instrumental in winning the war. The thought that she might risk all that… It was enough to give her nightmares.
"What do you think, Crooks?" she asked the slumbering cat, fingers idly stroking his belly. "What should I do?"
Crookshanks didn't so much as flick an ear in her direction, not when they both knew the question was redundant.
The next morning found her almost falling asleep into her cereal, for she had lain awake until it was nearly light, trying to remember everything Harry had ever said about Snape's memories, and her own knowledge about his life. She had even considered picking up Rita Skeeter's book – briefly – before quickly dismissing it as nonsense. Even the coffee wasn't enough to wake her up.
"Is everything okay, my dear?" Filius asked, jolting her into wakefulness momentarily.
"I'm fine," she answered, smothering a yawn. "I didn't sleep very well last night."
"Why not take the day off?" he suggested, patting her hand kindly. "Irma has told us how hard you've been working. Catch up on your rest; the books will still be there tomorrow."
"Thank you, Filius." She yawned again. "I might just do that." The thought of a long, hot bath and then bed was very appealing – and it did mean she would be able to stay up long enough to go back into the garden.
She was so tired that she didn't notice the owl making its way towards her until, with an excited squeal, Pig bounced off the side of her head and started flapping erratic circles around her, chattering away. Hermione stared at the owl with dread.
"What a happy little owl," Trelawney said dreamily from the far end of the table.
"Isn't that Mr Weasley's owl?" Minerva was far too interested. Hermione snatched Pig out of the air.
"Yes." She removed the letter, turning a blind eye as Pig stole Minerva's bacon rind. "It is. If you'll excuse me…?" Without waiting for an acknowledgement she left, clutching the letter tightly. It was typical that as she found a way to escape her worries, they found a way to come crashing back.
Back in her room, she tidied up, made her bed, and pottered about doing the most miniscule of tasks, all the while avoiding looking at the parchment that sat on her desk. When she ran out of things to do, she sat on the bed, staring into space until, with an offended mrrowr, Crookshanks brought the letter over to her.
"I know," she said, when the half-Kneazle turned his back on her. "I'm being a coward."
Crookshanks purred his agreement.
"And it's not fair on Ron."
She would have sworn the cat nodded.
"I'd better read it, then."
Crookshanks placed a paw on her knee, claws protruding enough to make his point. When she picked up the letter, he promptly removed it.
"You're such a pain," she said fondly, stroking Crookshanks before finally opening the letter. Two things fell out; a small piece of parchment, and another envelope. She picked up the parchment first.
Hermione,
I wish I knew what I'd done to upset you.
Harry tells me I should give you time, but you know me.
Don't read the other letter until you're ready to.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
Ron.
His name was smudged as her tears started to fall. She needed to talk to someone about this – and there was only one person she could think of.
It was autumn in the courtyard, the gardens a sea of red as the trees started to shed. Sev appeared about fifteen and he'd had a growth spurt, being almost the same height as her now. He had accepted her appearance with a nod; his makeshift laboratory had grown and she'd turned up in the middle of a tricky moment. Hermione watched him brew, marvelling at the deftness of his hands. It was no wonder he was a Potions Master.
"There." He turned down the flames. "I apologise, Winter. You came at the wrong time."
"No, I understand. Potions won't wait for anyone."
He nodded at her understanding. "You've been some time," he noted, looking her over critically, "but you haven't changed. Are you sure you're not a ghost?"
"Quite sure." She smiled. "You, on the other hand, have changed quite a lot. Why don't you tell me all about it?"
He shrugged. "There's nothing to tell." She was amused to note that he wasn't wearing his Slytherin robes; they had been discarded to reveal a tightly buttoned shirt and trousers, so much like his adult counterpart that it hurt.
"How long does the potion have?" she asked, choosing not to push him on the matter.
Sev looked over his shoulder. "It doesn't matter. Would you care to take a walk?" He extended his hand.
Hermione smiled, feeling the cloak of stress that had been about her all day slip from her shoulders as she accepted his hand. "I would love to, Sev."
He was extremely courteous for a fifteen year old, drawing her hand through his arm and escorting her around to show her the changes he had made to the courtyard; she noticed a small garden had been created for some rarer Potions ingredients and wondered where he had managed to obtain them from. One or two of them were Dark in nature, and it was a stark reminder that the boy who was pretending not to blush from a compliment would become a Death Eater.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did," she pointed out.
"No, something else." He looked at her and she met his eyes, at the same level as hers for the first time. "What are you doing here?"
"Visiting you, of course."
He looked flustered. "Not that – I mean, it's always lovely to see you, Winter – but you're not a student, nor are you staff. Why are you at Hogwarts?"
"I'm hiding." The words slipped out before she could stop them. His confusion disappeared, and his face became impassive, showing that he was listening without saying anything to disturb her train of thought.
"My boyfriend – maybe my ex, I don't really know any more – proposed." It was a relief to say the words to someone who didn't know them both, who wouldn't judge. "I thought it was what I wanted, but when he asked me, I panicked."
"Why?"
Hermione sighed. How best to explain without referencing the war, the one that hadn't even started for this young Severus yet?
"He and I – and another friend – went through some difficult times together. At one of the worst points, when we needed him the most, when I needed him…" She took a deep breath to fend off the panic that was stealing over her. "He left us both. When I needed him, he wasn't there, and it occurred to me that marriage is a lot of hard work. Marriages go through ups and downs. How could I be sure that he wouldn't leave me if life got too tough? I was afraid of being left again. And could you imagine if we had children? What if he left us all?" She shook her head. "I feel like I'm being silly, because in the end he came back, and stood by us, but in the back of my mind is a little voice saying that he did it once – what's to stop him leaving again?"
Sev hadn't said a word while she poured her heart out, gave voice to the fear that had crippled her and driven her to fleeing Ron and the Burrow. He passed her a handkerchief from his pocket and she dabbed at her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"Now you're being silly," he said, waiting for her to regain her composure. "You don't have to apologise."
"Thank you." She offered him the handkerchief but he waved her hand away.
"If it's affecting you this deeply, then it's obviously something you and he need to talk about." His voice was stiff, and she noticed he had withdrawn from her, putting some space between them. "The only wrong you are doing him is not trying to sort it out."
"I know you're right. I'm just afraid of what he'll say." Hermione grinned, wiping her eyes again. "Some Gryffindor, right?"
Sev chuckled bitterly. "You don't want to know my opinions of Gryffindors," he warned. "If you love him, and you want to marry him, then go and sort it out. Don't hide behind me."
Hermione was surprised at how angry he sounded, though he had tried to cover it up with another laugh. His posture radiated tension again, the relaxed Sev she had been enjoying speaking with gone.
"I don't know if I want to speak to him," she admitted in a whisper. "I enjoy coming here to see you, Sev. If I patch things up with him, I'll have to leave Hogwarts, and I won't be able to come here any more."
Sev turned away from her, not quickly enough to hide the pleased expression on his face. "Then choose," he said simply. "But, Winter?" He looked back and she was taken aback at the look in his eyes. "I would never leave you like that."
Hermione felt her knees give way and she hurried to a bench to sit. The look in his eyes was clear to her now; it must have been the same way he looked at Lily Evans, once upon a time; desire. That explained the blushes, the courteousness he had displayed. The sudden anger when he heard she had a boyfriend. Sev had a crush on her.
Oh, no. What was this going to do to the timeline? If he didn't have the love for Lily, how could he protect Harry? How could he do half of what he needed to do, to end the war? Why was it that a fifteen year old could look at her with the desires of someone much older, and set her heart racing?
"Sev…" She looked up at him. "I'm almost ten years older than you."
"Next time you come, I'll be older."
She hated herself for this. "What about Lily?"
The storm clouds gathered about him. "How do you know that name?"
"I just do. I know you love her, Sev." She thought back to Harry's words. "I know you always will."
"You know nothing."
"How can you hope to convince me, if you don't even believe that yourself?" Her words were gentle, coaxing. Sev looked away. "Besides," she added, "this is only the third time we've met, and last time you thought I was a ghost."
"I was just a stupid kid then," he muttered, scuffing his shoes in the ground and kicking up a small cloud of dust.
Hermione leapt at the change of subject. "What's the current theory?"
"It's not a theory. I know. I found it in a book."
The answer was so much like her own younger self that Hermione had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.
"Did you bring the book with you today?"
He shuffled his feet, then produced a slim volume from his pocket. Hermione held out her hand for it; this was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a tapping foot when he hesitated. When he finally handed it over, she was surprised at how heavy it was, for such a slim volume.
"I haven't seen this before," she murmured, running her fingers over the embossed title, Spirits of the Isles.
"A friend sent it to me."
She opened the cover, dropping the book when she read the neat name inscribed on the flyleaf.
"Lucius Malfoy."
"You know him?"
"He's a Death Eater." Hermione looked up to see Sev glaring at her.
"He's my friend."
"That doesn't stop him being one." She rose to meet his glare with one of her own. "Don't you know what they are?" A voice in the back of her mind was screaming at her to stop, not to mess with history, but she couldn't stop. "They're evil, Sev."
"Now you even sound like Lily. Just because people say he's a Death Eater doesn't mean he is one, and even if he is, it doesn't mean he can't be my friend. I know Lucius Malfoy and he is not evil."
Hermione pulled her sleeve down over her scars. "Don't be so naïve, Sev. You know what they do."
Sev snatched the book back. "Don't you have a fiancé to let down? Go tell him how to live his life, instead of insulting my friends."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"You're interfering!" His arm slashed through the air in front of him. "You're just like everyone else, telling me what to do, what to think! Just like Lily! 'Oh, don't fight with James, Sev, he doesn't mean it.' You don't know anything!"
Hermione was perilously close to tears. "Fine." She stood, gathered her robes tightly around her. "Go ahead and ruin your life, Sev. Just don't expect me to stick around and watch you do it."
As she marched away from him, she heard him stifle a sob. Her resolve didn't weaken until she was back in the library, her back pressed to the wall where the door had been; she reached in her pocket for a tissue, found his handkerchief, and burst into tears.
When Hermione awoke, she was in her own bed, with no memory of how she'd gotten there.
"Good morning, Miss Granger."
She rolled over to see Dumbledore lurking in the painting of the Lake District that adorned the wall beside the bed.
"Professor?" She sat up, rubbed her eyes. "Did you-?"
"You looked distinctly uncomfortable in the library," he said with a genial smile. "I requested the assistance of the house-elves, lest Irma find you there."
"Oh." She remembered the events of the night before and unfolded her hand to find Sev's handkerchief. "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome, Miss Granger."
"Do you know about the door?" she blurted out before he could leave. "The door into the courtyard?"
"I'm afraid I don't know much more than you do, my dear." He sighed, adjusted his glasses. "I haven't seen the door myself, you must understand. It has shown itself to you, for reasons of its own. I recall there was a courtyard adjoining what is currently the library, but that was many years ago. The castle has changed much since then."
"Time doesn't pass there," Hermione said, running a hand through her hair to put it in order. "At least, not for me – do you know about him?"
Dumbledore smiled down at her. "I do not know what has occurred on the other side of the door, my dear, but I have my suspicions. Severus and I spoke about it several times, although until these past few evenings I must admit I had not been able to discern who Winter was."
Hermione hugged her knees to her chest. "Will you tell me what happens?" she asked in a small voice.
"Have patience, my dear. Winter was a bright light in many of Severus' darkest days. You must not give up on him."
"Can I save him?"
"You cannot change what has already come to pass." As he moved to the edge of the frame to leave, Dumbledore paused. "I am so very sorry, Hermione."
Hermione buried her face in her pillow, crying all the more when she realised that Sev hadn't told her what his latest theory was. Crookshanks leapt up beside her, butting at her arm with his head until she relented and turned to cry into his soft fur instead.
"I won't go back, Crooks," she vowed, drying her eyes. "I can't. I can't get so involved, it's not healthy. Why put myself through all of that?" Her eyes alighted on the second envelope sent by Ron, still sitting on her desk. She had enough problems of her own to worry about, without getting too attached to someone she knew would die. It was time to write to Ron and Harry, time to move on with her life.
As she got dressed, she tried not to wonder why she had put Sev's handkerchief into her pocket.
Hermione flew through the corridors, feet pounding up stairs and along hallways, disturbing portraits from their slumber. She had tried to stay away, gone to bed for an early night, and lain awake watching the clock, wondering if the door would open without her. If Sev would be there. How old he would be. What she would miss.
At five minutes to midnight she had leapt from the bed, thrown on a dressing gown, not even bothered with slippers, and was running headlong through the corridors, trying to reach the Archives before the last strike. She felt a little like Cinderella, except instead of fleeing by midnight, she had to reach there.
The clock was chiming the hour as she fumbled with the door. It struck twelve just as she got inside; then thirteen – the door opened – Hermione raced through it – and fell over someone, tumbling them both to the ground. She lay on the grass, a strong arm supporting her, and looked up into Sev's startled eyes.
"Winter!"
"Sev," she managed to gasp out between breaths. "Sorry – almost missed it – ran all the way-" She closed her eyes, tried to recover from the exertion. "Sorry I landed on you," she added, opening her eyes with a grin.
Sev wasn't looking at her; his eyes were somewhere south of her face. Hermione glanced down; her dressing gown was loose, revealing her nightie and not much else. She scrambled out of Sev's grasp, clutching her robes together, aware of how her face was glowing.
"I'm sorry!" she said, fumbling to tie the belt. "I was in bed, and I didn't have time to dress-" Her words were cut off when Sev leaned over and kissed her. At first she was too startled to protest; then, as he deepened the kiss, she felt her eyes flutter closed. Sev's arm came back around her, one planted on the ground to support them; the other holding her tightly. This wasn't anything like kissing Ron, it was more intense, more passionate, more-
-Ron.
She broke the kiss, pulling away as much as she could, which wasn't much; Sev was holding her flush against his chest, close enough that she could feel how much he wanted her.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said gently. "I have a boyfriend."
"I know." Sev's voice was deeper, the voice she remembered from her Potions lessons; he looked almost eighteen now. Time was moving quickly for him. "I'm not sorry, Winter. At least now I know what it would be like to kiss you." He helped her to her feet, eyes raking over her before he turned away, allowing her privacy to tighten her dressing gown.
"You've wondered?" she asked.
"Every night." He was taller than her now, and held himself with the poise she would expect of his future self. "I must apologise for the last time we spoke, Winter. I was... unsure whether you would return."
Hermione wrapped her arms around herself. "So was I."
"Why did you?"
She found it hard to meet his gaze. "I don't know."
"You still haven't aged a day." He was staring at her so intently that the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. "You look as beautiful as the first time I saw you."
"Thank you," she whispered. "You've grown, Sev."
"Yes." He looked out over the courtyard. "I'll be sitting my NEWTs in a few weeks, and then I'll be leaving here." Sev looked back at her. "This could be the last chance we have to see each other."
"You don't think you'd ever come back here?"
He tensed. "No." That one word held so much weight; Hermione thought back to what he would have gone through by now. The Shack. By now, he would have made his mind up to join Voldemort.
"What will you do?"
Sev didn't meet her eyes. "Study Potions."
"With who?"
"Does it matter?"
Yes. More than it should. "Not really. I was just curious."
"What about you?" He started to walk; Hermione fell into step beside him. "With your fiancé?"
"I haven't yet decided." She didn't refuse as he took her hand. It was hard to imagine how this young man could have turned into her grumpy old Potions professor. He was, when he tried to be, charming, courteous, passionate. She wondered why Lily had never seen it.
"You could stay here." He was looking up at the sky as he spoke. Hermione looked too, tracing the summer constellations. Harry had written to say that he and Ginny were expecting; she wondered what star sign the baby would be.
"I can't."
"Just one night, then." Sev stopped, clasped her other hand. "Here, with me. It's all I ask, Winter."
He was so earnest, so desperate, and yet…
"Your Patronus is a doe, isn't it?"
His expression was answer enough.
"I can't replace Lily in your heart, Sev. You love her. I know that you always will. I won't be a substitute for her."
"No, you will not. You may be right about… how I feel, but it does not change how I feel for you."
Hermione saw truth in his eyes, mingled with hope, fear…
She saw Ron, looking at her with hurt as she shook her head, backed away, Apparated…
Sev, kissing her with such passion that it curled her toes and set butterflies in her stomach…
"One night," she heard herself say. "That's all I can promise."
He pulled her close, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "That's more than enough," he whispered, laying her down in the long grass.
Hermione awoke on the floor of the Archive, half-covered with her dressing gown, cold, and alone.