Author's Note: the praise I got for the first chapter was wonderful! Please, please keep it up-it inspires me to update more quickly.
Snape Apparated into an alleyway off of one of the main streets in Beverly, Massachusetts. An unease he hadn't expected clenched his stomach and he paused, leaning against a grubby brick wall to calm his erratic heartbeat.
He looked decidedly Muggle in a pair of dark jeans, boots, and a white button-down shirt. When he braved Beverly's streets, he garnered no strange looks for which he was grateful. He discretely produced the slip of parchment on which he'd kept a paper trail of her trace and checked her address for perhaps the seventh time.
When he could not prolong the affair any longer, Snape found Cabot St. and turned down a divergent path. She lived in a beautiful town, but her home would win no awards. It was obvious that it was immaculate, but that's all you could say on its behalf. It was perhaps half the size of the entire Gryffindor common room and was wedged between two atrocities that dwarfed it. He had trouble determining whether the vehicle parked in front of it would even start any longer.
Upon seeing the manner in which she'd lived for four years now, his heart sank under the weight of immense guilt. This destitution was his fault. The brightest witch Hogwarts had seen in decades had been reduced to symbolic prostitution in America on account of his actions.
He swallowed hard.
Before he could bolt, he steeled himself and walked determinedly up the pathway. He rapped on the door three times, and with each he felt like he was damning himself.
This was cruel. This would torture her. She'd explicitly instructed him to let her wallow in her own fabricated death, and who was he to drag her out of it? He silently cursed Dumbledore for putting him in this position.
He was pulled out of his brooding, however, when the door was pulled open to reveal a smiling face he'd last seen begging for her life.
For a moment, he was staring at the frizzy-haired eleven-year-old with her hand perpetually stuck in the air. But when he shook his head, he noticed the physical changes that came with maturity and, certainly, a hard lifestyle.
Her trademarked bushy hair had calmed becomingly to smooth, light brown waves that hung nearly to her hips. Her skin was as porcelain and as clear as ever but her eyes, as pretty as he remembered, now held an added dose of trauma in their depths. She was clothed like any other Muggle and it allowed him to see just how thin she'd become. Her collarbone protruded too far and only a belt held up her jeans.
His observations were halted, however, when the perfunctory greeting she'd begun died in her throat. Her eyes widened, and he saw her blink several times as if trying to convince herself he was some hallucination.
"I assure you, Miss Granger," he murmured gently, "I am truly here and I mean you no harm."
She gulped visibly and pursed her lips, clutching the doorframe for support. "Professor," she whispered finally, "what…how did you find me?" She spoke with a surprisingly accurate American accent, and he marveled at how unnatural it was to hear it from her lips.
Snape hesitated. "There is much to discuss Miss Granger, but I daresay the doorway is not the place to do it. Might we—" he gestured towards the innards of her home, but then thought better of it. "If you are uncomfortable, of course, we can certainly go some place more public."
She glanced fearfully beyond his shoulder, and then seemed to come to some sort of decision. She plastered a smile on her face and shook her head. "No, no—how rude of me. Please, come in."
And she shut the door quickly in his wake.
xXx
Hermione sipped on her blessedly warm coffee as she mulled over the bills sprawled across her poor excuse for a dining table. They gave her the kind of headache only time would kill, but she'd pushed them off long enough already.
She sighed heavily when she realized she would definitely need to pick up the third job she'd been contemplating.
She strived not to feel bitter as she swept her hair away from her face. This was truly the bed she'd made entirely on her own. She didn't regret it either—she often thought she'd rather have actually died than have returned to the Wizarding World those four years ago, but it didn't change the fact that she never envisioned a life quite this difficult for herself.
The States had been kind to Hermione, that was true. She had friends here—not quite friends like the ones she'd abandoned, but friends she could go out with if the urge ever struck her, which wasn't often.
A sharp rap at her door pulled her out of her thoughts and she rolled her eyes. The bill collector was incessant, and she'd have to do a lot of sweet-talking to get out of it this time around.
She flipped her hair over her shoulders and pulled the door wide with an exaggeratedly cheerful smile plastered on before receiving a jolt deep in the pit of her stomach.
His lank black hair hung in curtains like she remembered. His nose was as hooked, as crooked, as ever. The only true differences were the Muggle clothing, which was admittedly disconcerting, and the noticeable addition of what seemed like chronic exhaustion. His cheeks were sallow, his pale and papery. If she hadn't been so unwittingly terrified, she might've inquired after his well-being.
As it were, she was strongly considering the option of from the man who was a pointed representation of the life she'd gone immense lengths to escape and she was forced to wonder if this was actually happening or if it was a new brand of nightmares.
His voice rang in her ears, the same baritone drawl she remembered from the Potions classroom, as he seemed to read her mind and assure her of the validity of his presence and she shook her head.
If he wanted her dead, she'd have been so already and she'd come to the decision the night she left him shivering on the floor of Number 12 Grimmauld Place that she would never again doubt his allegiance to the Order. He had saved her, after all—even if it did result in her feigned death anyway. Nothing was stopping him from playing into Lord Voldemort's hand that night—she could actually make a strong argument for the opposite notion—so she had no right to mistrust his intentions.
After steeling herself and pulling on every iota of courage she'd mastered in four years' time, she ushered him into her clean but pitiful home and shut the door in his wake.
He waited hesitantly not three feet within the home and it was clear he was uncomfortable in her presence. She'd sighed and reminded herself it wouldn't be so unless for the best of all reasons, but just feared what that reason would be.
She led him to the sofa and wandlessly vanished the bills she'd been mulling over. She turned to meet his incredulous stare.
"Wandless magic?" he murmured, dumbfounded. It was a feat he'd accomplished, but not after nearly a decade of undivided focus.
Hermione shrugged. "I snapped my wand that—well, that night—and did all I could to live as a Muggle. It was only after a year that my magic got restless and started utilizing itself in the most inconvenient places. Seeing as Ollivander's isn't right down the lane, I had a bit of work to do to control it." She sighed. "It's not perfect, but it's better than inadvertently obliterating whole aisles of the market."
She spoke very cavalierly of the world she fled but there was an embedded since of loss in her voice that even he had trouble picking up on. It was well-hidden, but it was there.
He sighed from where he sat as she seated herself lightly across from him. "I want you to know that I would not be here unless it was imperative, which I regret to tell you it has become."
Hermione furrowed her brow. "The war still isn't over?" At his raised eyebrow, she forged on. "It's not like they deliver the profit around here any. I only hoped that it had ended, and in our favor at that."
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "I assure you, Miss Granger, the war is far from over." He tossed an idea around in his mind before sighing. "My position in the war was, obviously, unveiled that night but it appears the Headmaster's protection extends farther than we ever knew. I have been untouchable since, but the war has been slow in progressing."
She scrunched up her face. "I guess I hold a fair bit of responsibility for that," she murmured. "If I hadn't dragged you out, you may've been able to save your ass. I was just so sure leaving you there was certain death."
Snape laughed at her use of the curse-word. "How undeniably American you've become, Miss Granger," he said lightly. He sobered quickly, though. "It is true that leaving me would've be sure death—you should hold no guilt over that. I can do more for the effort if I'm not in a box, and I suppose I have you to thank for that."
She found herself really uncomfortable accepting anything akin to praise from the man and merely ducked her head abashedly.
He smoothed out the wrinkles in his slacks. "The reason for my calling, Miss Granger," he said finally, "is that the Dark Lord has found a new puppet, so to speak."
He had hopped to reveal the truth to her in as easy a way as possible, but how does one tread lightly around this?
She furrowed her brow, but leaned in, intrigued.
Snape sighed, not reveling in his task. "It appears his perfected his control over Potter's mind and as such sees fit to manipulate the boy like a marionette doll. He nearly sawed off his own leg at the Dark Lord's suggestion—it took many wands to sedate him."
Hermione gasped, immediately seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. "Dear God," she murmured softly. "Poor…poor Harry."
Snape nodded. "It is rather gruesome. And it seems so far infallible. We've come to a standstill in his progress."
When he didn't continue, Hermione's eyes shot to his. She narrowed them. "So what brings you here then, Professor?" she said accusingly. "Surely you didn't come just to give me a progress report."
Snape nodded deeply. "It is the Headmaster's belief that Potter needs a blast from the past, so to speak."
She knew what he was going to say before he ever said it, but it didn't make the blow any easier.
"No," she whispered.
He spoke as though she hadn't. "He requests your return." He softened at her stricken expression. "Miss Granger, it may be the only way to save the Wizarding World—not to mention Potter's life. Its no secret that last means less to me than it does to you, but alas," he droned, "I should think you still care for the boy's well-being."
She narrowed her eyes angrily. "Of course I do," she seethed. "It's just that—" But before she could explain just what it was, she was halted by the sounds of footsteps trampling down the stairs.
Snape withdrew his wand and made to stand in front of her. "Are you expecting someone?" he whispered urgently.
She pushed his wand away gently. "There's no need for that," she murmured, but the unease didn't entirely leave her face. She rose from her seat and stepped around Snape just as the perpetrator reached the landing and launched itself into Hermione's arms.
She spun slowly, giving Snape ample time to investigate the bundle on her hip. No more than four years old, the girl had beautiful black ringlets that hung to her ribcage. Her eyes were beautiful replicas of Hermione's, as was her pretty, doll-like face. She was thin, small, even for a toddler but her eyes held wisdom perhaps beyond her years.
Hermione gauged his expression carefully but when it remained utterly blank, she sighed. "Professor Snape," she said slowly, "meet Violet. Your daughter."