When she awoke, she did so slowly. Perhaps because of the potion still in her system, perhaps because she hazily recalled the events leading up until she drifted off. Either way, she kept her eyes closed, and as unobtrusively as possible, gave a slight tug to each of her limbs with her eyes still closed.
Unfortunately, it was just as she feared in her hazy awakening. Her hands were tied, over her head. While keeping the outward appearance of sleep, her mind rapidly forced itself to recall the events leading up to that moment.
SNAPE. He wasn't dead. She had been so elated, so full of gladness at his not having passed on, even after she and the boys had thought they witnessed him die in that dirty boathouse. She remembered now…..it was a month since they defeated the Dark Lord, watched him die in a battle that would become the biggest legend the Wizarding world would ever tell.
They mourned the losses, too high for a battle that featured students rather than soldiers, and too much for Hermione to take all at once. Her depression seemed to get greater the more Celebratory parties she was forced to attend— Wizard designers, anxious for her to wear their creations for every public event she was expected to attend as a member of the "Golden Trio", people shouting questions and adoration at her every time she left the comfort of Gimmauld Place.
The boys, they threw themselves into Auror training, avoiding all but the most necessary of public appearances. But when they did, they had Ginny and Lavender at their sides, in public show of support and love. Hermione though, did her best to fake the smiles and graciously accept accolades. She KNEW she had done her part, and done it well, keeping the boys alive and regretting nothing. Nothing, that is, except her one huge regret of leaving their professor there on the floor of that dirty shack. It haunted her.
It paralyzed her day to day activities. She only left Grimmauld Place when necessary, usually glamoring herself to resemble a nondescript muggle just to get groceries, or when cabin fever became too much. At night, she tossed and turned, dreaming of her professor's last moments, finding a thousand ways to save him in her dreams. She had no idea WHY she kept dreaming of him, of saving him, of finding a way to beat the clock and split herself in two- one part racing away with the boys to finish the war as it had actually happened, the other part kneeling on that dusty floor, taking Snapes head in her hands and forcing potion after potion down his throat while the boys raced off to find their destiny.
It had all been in vein, so it seemed. Until last night. She had just been coming home from a night out with Pavarti, which still seemed strange, although Pavarti had been the one to reach out to her. After 7 years of what could barely be considered friendship, the Gryffendor Patel twin had floo called her weeks ago, asking for a meeting at a muggle coffee shop. Intrigued, Hermione had met her and the two had fallen into an easy shared friendship based on mutual experience, loss and desperately seeking another friendly face in the tumult that had become Post-war wizarding world.
As she arrived home, more than just tipsy, but not quite drunk from a night out in the muggle world (where The Daily Prophet wouldn't find them commiserating in their shared drowning of sorrows and recollections of friends now gone), she started a bit at the outskirts of her wards. She remembered thinking to herself 'that's strange, I almost ALWAYS put up my best wards when stepping out.' It was odd- her flat still had wards up, but they, for lack of a better word, tasted strange to her. Smelt funny? Well, her head was fuzzy. Mai Tai's tasted good, but did nothing for her sense of magic. Her logic took over, and she rationalized that nothing could breech her wards! They were keyed to her magical signature. She was just being a silly drunken witch. So she unwarded her door and walked inside.
The first thing she noticed upon entering her flat was the smell of patchouli and spice. 'Odd', she thought. 'That smells like my dreams- I haven't smelt that since…'. And as she shrugged off her cute red trench and kicked off her shoes, she thought hard about the last time she had smelled—
'Oh, my God' was the thought she had as a vivid recollection of the last time she had smelled that particular combination of spices hit her all at once. 'The shrieking shack' she thought, then snapped her head up to see a ghost sitting at her table, drinking tea from one of her cups. The bright blonde head sitting next to him, smirking at her was too much for her to compute. Her jaw dropped, and she squeaked out, "Severus? But you're d-d-dead? Malfoy? What?" And then she gave into the exhaustion and alcohol and everything went black.
