CHAPTER ONE
Crack. Crack. Crack. So much pain, so much red; it's everywhere, from my head to my hands and the marble floor where I lay crumpled in a heap. The halls...the halls are, normal. No this is wrong, it used to be right but now it's wrong, so wrong. My head, MY BLOODY HEAD! How can you feel everything but still feel so numb? I don't understand I can't mov-UGH LET ME MOVE. I must be dreaming, it can't be you, your dead; you were kind, manipulative and now you're dead so let me escape my mind. Stop speaking my ears won't listen, can't listen for all the BLOOD. PLEASE. Let you read my eyes as I plead with you wholeheartedly without words. No. Now I'm definitely dreaming. Or I could be dead? Where in Merlin's name am-THE PAIN someone make it stop please! He's reaching out for me, move now for god's sake MOVE! At last, I clutch his robes, his eyes lose their soft gleam of kindness and I croak.
"Not him. Please." And as I turn to the man we all knew to be so great, the last thing I see is his infamous glare before I'm suffocated by the darkness and I see no more.
—12 years later—
Despite the rubble, ash, and the underlying stench of blood and death that lingered along the rest of the grounds, Severus Snape's quarters seemed to smell relatively normal. It was almost as if there had never been a war; and that loss and sleepless nights had never met the old headmaster's rooms. Hermione wondered if she should even think of him with such a title: Headmaster. No matter what he'd done the Gryffindor would remember him as the sour Potions Professor who skulked in the dungeons, cutting himself off from anyone and everyone in sight. Hermione ran her hands through her hair and sighed. She took brief comfort in the nearest chair, before realising how many great minds had sat where she had...Professor Snape, Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster Dippet and many others that Hermione could recount from the list that Hogwarts: A History had she didn't deserve to sit on the chair, the young woman rose again, dusting off whatever imprint she may have left on the furniture.
Hermione was about to ask herself why she was even in Severus Snape's quarters, putting some of his lesser important belongings in boxes that would be stored away or thrown, well the answer was simple. Neither Ron nor Harry were to be trusted, and no matter what Snape had done for them all, she knew the two boys didn't have the respect or maturity to go through his things without letting the odd comment break through the barrier of mind to mouth. There were other students of course, other adults too – but Hermione knew it was best to do it for her old potions professor. The girl wouldn't pass judgement, even months after the war; she was too tired to do so.
After the battle, Harry wanted to help reconstruct the castle straight away, rebuild for the damage he thought he'd caused. Of course, Hermione noted, Harry would instantly put the blame on himself, as if it was he who ordered the Death Eaters to destroy the grounds of Hogwarts. He was eager, and while she appreciated it, Professor McGonagall told him no. The castle, and everyone else, needed time to breathe – and to heal. Of course she was right, Minerva always was, and Hogwarts, along with its student body, had slowly begun to mourn and repair. Hermione hadn't changed that much, the angles of her body were still sharp from lack of food, and her complexion had paled from such an unhealthy lifestyle with very little sleep. Resting night after night in a tent had done her back no favours, and sometimes she found that she preferred a hard, cold surface – to the comforts of a plush, warm bed. It made sense...sometimes, when Hermione thought about it but she didn't like to think. Or to sleep. Sleeping meant nightmares, and nightmares usually came in the form of death, blood and blank eyes staring as she grazed against death, narrowly escaping. Her punishment for such a thing meant she had to watch many people die night after night, as if seeing them perish in the battle wasn't haunting enough. After attending funeral after funeral Hermione found herself wearing black on a daily basis, her feet sore from the heels she suffered through as she listened to how many short lives had come to such a bitter end. How they had left fighting for their cause, and that we would remember them all. Hermione's eyes would always narrow, because it was a lie. Eventually people would go on with their lives, and when all the students from the battle perished, those people wouldn't be remembered anymore. In years to come some student would see Lavender Brown's name on a plaque in the courtyard and wonder who she was, and that she can't have been that great if she didn't make the history books. But Lavender, like so many others, was great! Hermione wanted to make it her mission to give those people, some mere children, recognition.
Almost a year later and Hermione still thought of those people often. She had categorised each of them in her mind, recalled everything she could about the ones she knew, and insisted on investigating those she didn't. Her brain became a library of the deceased, with an individual eulogy she had planned attached to every single one. She wanted to change memories too. Why should Severus Snape's war efforts be defined by a woman he loved? Not just any woman either, a woman with hair like fire and eyes that sparkled like her son's – Lily Potter. Severus Snape was never known to anyone as an emotional man, he had always been so very private. Instead of what the former spy deserved, he was given fortnightly articles about his good natured soul and that he was the closest thing to Gryffindor a slytherin had ever seen. Hermione took that as an insult. Not just to the professor's house, but also to her own. Even after so many years Hogwarts rivalry still thrived and divided a castle that was already broken. Personally, Hermione didn't want Severus Snape anywhere near the Gryffindor house. He was too calculative, sly and cunning. He did not go out of his way openly caring and defending everyone to the end. He was not a bad person, Hermione knew that, but he had certainly done some very bad things.
Hermione broke from her mental monologue to look at what she'd already put away, the list included a lot of black robes that were laced with the scent of herbs, potions and smoke. Did the old potions professor smoke? Her question was answered several pockets later when she found a stash of cigarettes once tucked away, then scattered across the floor in a moment of clumsiness. His bad habits and plain clothing were neatly packed away into a box. Following those were the books Hermione already owned, she planned on borrowing the ones she'd never read- there were certainly a few. It wasn't stealing, he wasn't alive to reclaim them, and she planned on giving them to Professor McGonagall once she'd done. Hermione Granger would never rob a dead man, not even of his books.
Moving along to the draws by his desk, Hermione found herself staring back at a picture of a woman with limp hair that matched his own, similar attire, but a smaller nose. She also wore a smile, as did the little boy looking up at her. The Gryffindor choked back a sob, knowing she was looking upon the Professor and his mother. He couldn't have been any older than four in the photograph, as he wrapped his arms around her middle, and she bent down for him to reach. It was strange, to look back at the monotone photo, and see her own professor...small. Even more peculiar that he wore a grin. She'd seen him smirk in delight whenever slytherin won a game of quidditch or if he ever had the fortune in giving Harry a detention. In his younger, fresher face Severus held no trace of a smirk but rather brief, genuine happiness. The young woman wondered who had taken the photo, and even more importantly...what she was going to do with it. Hermione could not throw the memento away. It had meant something to someone once, and it was historical. The only proof that Severus Snape could smile! The Gryffindor decided to keep it in her bag that was laced with an undetectable extension charm. Given that the spell was cast in a time of war, no law was being broken, and Hermione felt no need to bring it to the attention of the government. She counted it as the only other good thing that had come from her year of fighting. Besides Voldemort's demise, of course. Underneath the photo were vials of dreamless sleep, a few calming draughts and other concoctions that he'd undoubtedly created himself. Every part of her longed to know what they were, the mysterious liquids of black, cobalt and silver, so she carried them with her – knowing she could sit and analyse them later.
Hermione opened the next draw, though her attention lay elsewhere as her stomach growled in defiance. She knew it was time to find the two boys and grab her food, but she was determined to clean out the Professor's drawers before she left for dinner. Returning to the task at hand, Hermione's eyes dropped to the object before her. A very plain, black, simple book. It didn't appear to be anything special – but the Gryffindor knew Slytherins were famous for their subtlety. It was no doubt a book of connections, details of Voldemort's meetings or something possibly more interesting of much larger value. Did Hermione want to read it? Truthfully a small part of her did. Her eyes begged to look over every word three times over, memorising all of the professor's thoughts and information that could be held. The more sensible part of Miss Granger knew that it was rude to read through someone's notes, and instead wanted to dispose of it in case any journalist or nosy student came into contact with such an object. With that in mind Hermione snatched the book from its original resting place, battling her inner desires to immerse herself in whatever lay inside.
"No Granger. For god's sake get a hold of yourself!" She said aloud, in the hope that some of it would sink in. Instead before she knew it her hand delicately turned the cover, the paper presenting her with – nothing. Every page was blank. It was at this point that Hermione decided it was best to give up, and so she made to leave. The castle seemed to have other ideas. The door slammed shut behind her.
Hermione spun on her heel. With the last dregs of death eater scum on the run and the wards of the castle down, anyone could be inside – and they may not want her...to leave. She firmly gripped her wand that had been inside her back pocket, but found that there was no one in the room ready to attack; it was what she was holding that Hermione had to worry about.
The old book she had in her hand began to glow and shake violently, vaguely similar to a portkey. Where was it sending her? Was she going to end up in Malfoy Manor? Or would she find herself overpowered in a Death Eater's hideout? Either way Hermione doubted she'd find herself safely whisked off to The Three Broomsticks with a pint of butterbeer waiting for her by the bar. She found herself almost imitating the book, a tint of gold seemed to radiate from her skin, almost lighting up the room. Mere seconds passed, and Hermione Granger left the room with a deafening crack, one that ripped through the entire castle and eventually, time itself.
12 years earlier
Severus Snape had been stuck in the Headmaster's office for almost an hour, and in that time he'd thought of twelve different deaths which would be less painful than the discussion that was currently underway. The dark lord had been gone for five years, the trials were over, so why the Headmaster thought it was still relevant and that Severus had to find out all he could, the slytherin couldn't understand it.
"Headmaster I shall speak to Lucius about what we discussed now may we-" Severus began, but was interrupted by a large crack and a blood curdling scream. The two didn't even speak; they rushed from their chairs to outside the headmaster's office to see where the noise was coming from. There were only four people in the entire school, Severus, the Headmaster, Hagrid, and Argus Filch with his newest pet Mrs Norris. Severus was fairly certain that the half giant nor squib could scream at such a pitch, so it had to be someone else. Who? He had no idea.
Just outside the office, both Albus and the potions professor were met with a ghastly slight. The girl seemed to be drenched in her own blood; the crimson had begun to seep through her clothing in such a short space of time. No one could apparate to Hogwarts, not even in the summer, so the girl's entrance was quite the mystery. Severus wondered why Albus hadn't sent off a patronus to Poppy immediately so that she could heal the girl. He was wasting very valuable time! Instead, the old man leaned forward to the girl whose eyes seemed to be the only active part of her body, as they crazily darted between the two men before her. As he leaned in the woman almost sprung to life, her blood soaked nails gripped the headmaster's robes and she croaked,
"Not him. Please." And not once did she take her eyes off of Severus, until she slipped away – hopefully unconscious, as the only other alternative – was death.