Title: Mr. Smith's Mysterious Box
Series: Spinner's End (Second)
Author: Sare Liz
Ship: HG/SS
Rating: PG
Word Count: 6,857
Warning: Some angst.
Continuity: HBP compliant, and inspired by events in DH. A sequel to the short piece "The Last Letter" which would definitely be helpful to read before you embark on this one. I'm calling this series "Spinner's End"
Disclaimer: JKR is the mother, she's got the rights. We just knock on her door and ask if her fictive children can come out to play. They'll be home by dinner, we promise.
Author's Note: I thought I was done writing angst. No more angst for Sarey. And then, I realize that life doesn't quite work like that. And so, I was glad that I had a perfectly lovely situation that was conducive to angst, and, as I so enjoy, the resolution of it.
Where are you?
Are you safe? Are you well? Do you need anything?
Please respond.
If someone has found this letter, and this wooden box, please – it belonged to a friend of mine. If you could just please jot down whatever you know about its previous owner and put the note in the box, securing the lid, I would be forever grateful. Don't worry about how I'll know – it's like magic.
Where are you?
Please – please, my dear, my love, please respond.
It's been a year since you gave up your memories. The Ministry fed us a line about corpses of some wizards who'd meddled in the Dark Arts too deeply, and that they simply disintegrate into nothingness, but I count at least seven ways you might have walked away.
And the box wasn't among your belongings. I asked the portrait of Headmaster Dumbledore. He said you'd kept it on your desk for the longest time, but two weeks before you'd left you took to keeping it on your person, shrunk.
He told me that you checked it, daily.
I'm so sorry. I never wrote because I thought, that is I imagined you didn't wish a response, though I was determined to hope where you seemingly refused to.
Did you hope, after all?
Where are you?
I can't do this without knowing, Severus. I don't care what they've said – you are a good man. I know it, Harry knows it, Albus knew it all along, and now the whole Wizarding World knows it. And they accept it. You've received the Order of Merlin, First Class, posthumously. But surely you must know that. Harry accepted it on your behalf – Minerva wanted to, but I convinced Harry he ought to do it, and then I convinced Harry that I ought to keep it.
Please, I'm begging you. Please respond.
Even if you don't want anything to do with me, with us. That's fine – I understand. I won't say anything. You know I can keep your secrets, Occlumens though I am not. But please, please, if you are alive, if you can possibly put quill to parchment or pen to paper, please just write that you live still. Write that you do not wish to return.
It's understandable that you would not wish to return. It is, I understand that now, though I do recall a time when you expressed the wish that our children would have my temperament, and my nose. Still, the war changed many things, many people. I can only imagine how you must have had to harden your heart, my love. If what you truly desire is to be away, I will respect it, but please, please just tell me. It's the not knowing that is killing me.
Dear Madam,
I confess that I write this letter somewhat reluctantly. I am not entirely certain what to expect of putting it in the box and closing the latch, but I shall do as you advise.
I do not know who the prior owner of this box is. I see that there are two letters, perhaps initials, carved into the top, "SS" but I do not know for certain what this might indicate.
But perhaps if I recounted the tale of the past few days it might make things clear for both of us.
Three days ago I woke to find myself in the hospital. I have no recollection of coming here. That is, perhaps, the crux of the matter. I have no recollection of anything.
The nurses have been kind. They have taken much time to recount to me what they knew of my condition when I arrived, exactly one year, five months and seven days ago. They tell me that I matched no description of any person declared missing, and that no one responded to the customary announcements made periodically by the hospital staff.
Two days ago I was given what belongings of mine remained – apparently my clothes, along with several odds and ends were stolen sometime early in my stay here, after which the remainder of my belongings were put in a more secure location.
This box, which was not originally reported among my belongings, was discovered after the theft – it was odd to think that a thief might leave something in return, though apparently he took a similar, but smaller box. No one could open it, however they tried. And I had no other identification.
I do have a tattoo, however, which I suppose you may know about. I'll refrain from describing it just now, however. It is not the most pleasant picture.
Among my belongings was also the most intricately carved stick of wood you could imagine and it feels very familiar, somehow, in a way nothing else does. I don't know why I tell you this, but since nothing else seems familiar, I thought I might, just on the off chance that perhaps I am this S.S. – but I warn you, Madam. Do not get your hopes up. For all I know, I may not be, and this box has been left by someone who was otherwise a thief.
They call me Mr. Smith, here. Though they call most men who have amnesia this, they find it particularly appropriate in my case, considering the box, which they see as a sign.
They see it now as even more of a sign, since I can somehow open it though they still cannot.
Your letters were very distressing though somewhat confusing. I am very sorry for your loss. I hope that, whatever happens to me, you may find the person you are looking for.
With all sincerity,
Mr. Smith
Sir,
I dare not call you Mr. Smith, for I distinctly feel that that is not your name. Though, like you, I do not wish to raise your hopes falsely.
Though, if indeed the somewhat repulsive and slightly greenish tattoo on the inside of your left forearm sports the outline of a hideous skull with a snake issuing forth from the mouth to form a figure eight, you may in fact be the man I seek.
Please, I do not wish to write more when I could visit with you face to face. Please give me the name of your hospital, and your room and I shall come and visit you forthwith.
Best wishes for your recovery,
Hermione Granger
Headmistress McGonagall,
I think that I have found Severus Snape, alive, in a muggle hospital where he has most likely been since the war ended. It is a rather long story that I would like to relate to you in full, but in person. Might I visit with you as soon as may be?
All the best,
Hermione Granger
Miss Granger,
You most certainly may. This letter is a portkey, and the activation word to be used at anytime is 'Snarky Git'. And please, do call me,
Minerva
Mr. Smith sat in the chair by his bed. Physical therapy had been grueling this morning and there would be another session this afternoon. He was due to be transferred out of the Long Term Care ward and into Transitional Care, but there weren't any beds free just at the moment. He didn't have a strong opinion either way, but the nurses and aides were kind to him here, kinder and friendlier than he would have expected. It was the sort of kindliness bred of familiarity, though most of that familiarity was built up while he'd been unconscious for the last 17 months.
Mr. Smith sat in his chair, a light blanket tucked in around him, and he wondered about many things. The kindness of the hospital staff, the softness of the blanket, the peace he felt, even though the psychologist told him that experiencing high levels of stress, anxiety and even depression were normal for people in his condition – Mr. Smith wondered about all of these things. He traced a finger along the grotesque tattoo on his arm, wondering what on earth had possessed him to ever think such an image desirable. Perhaps it had been one of the follies of his youth. Mr. Smith wondered about Ms. Hermione Granger, the woman with the beautiful name who sounded so desperate, who somehow was communicating with him via a magical box that delivered mail (and somehow, he knew mail to be associated with red columns and owls, though he wasn't certain why). She was the woman who described his tattoo down to a T, who called him Severus. What an odd name – who would name their child Severus? But then, he couldn't remember that either, and suddenly Mr. Smith knew what the psychologist had been trying to convey. But Ms. Hermione Granger and not the psychologist was the one who wanted to know where he was, if he was safe, if he needed anything. She was the one who called him, "my love," and she mentioned a great number of other people, of other places, different occurrences.
She even mentioned memories. He had given up his memories? Certainly that must have been metaphoric, as no one could give up memories. But then, mail wasn't supposed to be delivered via magic boxes, he was almost certain of it – so certain he'd decided to keep this from the obliging staff of the hospital. But perhaps if he had given up his memories, could they be returned from him? Or was that the 'magical thinking' that the psychologist had told him to avoid?
So many questions. So many things to consider. And it seemed that the answer to so many of Mr. Smith's questions lay in one quarter: Ms. Hermione Granger.
He fingered the letters she'd written, wondering in what order they ought to have been read. He'd read them over many, many times since he'd woken. Each time he tried to recall something that might be helpful or pertinent, but it really was like reading the correspondence of a stranger.
Only the piece of wood, that ornately carved stick that apparently belonged to him, it was only that one thing that felt familiar. Not even his face in the mirror seemed to be his. Certainly not the body full of scar tissue – he despaired of finding out how that might have happened.
He fingered the letters she'd written. The paper had such a rich texture, like something of a different time, and the pen strokes were so delicate, so beautiful.
He picked up his own pen and the paper that the nurses had given him when he asked and quickly wrote a note, not even thinking, or at least trying not to think. It was hard to imagine, really, what remembering might be like. He was afraid to try it, and he was afraid to stay the way he was. Ms. Hermione Granger might be a lifeline to him if she could help him remember. Alternately, he, Mr. Smith, might prove a nightmare to her, if he couldn't.
Providing, of course, that he was this Severus person, which also didn't seem right, but either way it was something he'd never know, written letter or not, unless he actually folded it up and put it in the box.
So he did. Closing the lid softly, he closed the latch with a soft metallic click. Mr. Smith ran his fingertips over the carved initials – for that is what he considered them, now – over the highly stylized grooves in the beautiful dark wood.
He wondered how long it might take for this Ms. Granger to arrive, how far away she might be. It was possible she was here in London, but perhaps not. She might be very far away, indeed. It might take days.
Mr. Smith settled himself into the idea of another week or so of the hospital's uninterrupted routine, including the physical therapy he so enjoyed, and wondered if one of the nurses might consent to bring him a book of some sort. He would ask them, the next time they came by.
Minerva had just called for more tea, many more biscuits, and Mme. Pomfrey to come and join them in her office. Hermione hadn't really known what to expect, but she certainly had hoped that the Headmistress would take this news well, and possibly offer aid.
It was hard to explain how she'd come into possession of the box, as it necessitated a much longer story of why Severus felt the need to give her a box that delivered letters and other small items in the first place. Which led to a story about their slightly secret friendship in her sixth year when he'd taken up the post for Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Minerva had started scowling at that point and didn't let up until Hermione assured her, offering to prove the veracity of her statement with a charm, that nothing untoward had happened – there had been no romance and no intimacy of any sort. They'd been friends.
When Hermione blushed, however, the game was up.
It was at that point that she felt compelled to admit that she'd had something of a crush on him the entire time, and wondered if he might have felt the same, or something similar. Minerva pursed her lips and Hermione could tell that there were several levels on which the Headmistress did not approve, but the older woman was silent and allowed her to continue uninterrupted.
Hermione's eyes shone with unshed tears as she described what it felt like when she'd heard the news about the Headmaster from Harry – what Severus had done, and that though she checked the box daily after that, and all through the summer, there had been nothing. She was forced at that point to reevaluate their friendship and all that she'd known he'd done for them while they'd been at school. And yet, she admitted, she couldn't help but to think that there was something very, very large that they were all missing. She just had no idea what it might have been, and with no one to bounce her ideas off of, they soon went stale. Hermione had shelved them for the more important matter of the hour – finding and destroying the horcruxes, all the while making sure Harry stayed alive.
Hermione blushed again when she admitted that during that time Ron had been a great comfort to her, and that at times she let it go a bit too far than she actually wanted. It felt strange at the time, but crushes fade away, she'd reasoned, though this one wasn't seeming to do so. She thought that perhaps it might be wise to attempt to simply redirect her affections, though that had even less success.
And then, she explained, she opened the box one day and there actually was a letter.
The conversation continued and when Mme. Pomfrey arrived just in time to take the last ginger biscuit, Hermione was sharing Severus' letter that had arrived only that morning.
"Well, was it an Obliviate or amnesia?" Mme. Pomfrey demanded. "One's incurable, the other's a snap."
"We don't know yet," said Hermione.
"And we do have a great deal of his memories, you know, the ones he gave Potter during the war," Minerva added.
"No, no, that would do more harm than good," the nurse responded. "If he has been obliviated, then those are the only memories he'll ever get back. Do you really want him to have only those to dwell on? People have gone insane from less."
"But will you come?" Hermione asked. "Will both of you come with me?"
"You know exactly where he is?" Minerva asked.
"Well, not yet, but I feel certain he'll tell me in the response to my last letter."
"And when was that, Miss Granger?" Mme. Pomfrey asked, reminding Hermione that the woman had a gift to make every question and every statement sound imperious.
"Well, I wrote back to him this morning, directly after wrote to me."
"If he's in a muggle hospital with amnesia, how did he use an owl?" asked the nurse.
"Long story," muttered Hermione.
"Poppy," Minerva said, drawing up. "There are no serious cases in your wing at the present time – will you prepare your kit with whatever remedy you have on hand?"
"If it's just amnesia, I'll be able to tell rather quickly, and I've got just the thing. We keep it for serious concussions in Quidditch – should do the trick."
Hermione had been keeping herself all the while from compulsively checking the box, like she had in those first few days after the Headmaster died, but with the conversation suddenly turned to the prospect of his next letter, she couldn't resist anymore. And upon opening the box she saw the pale green piece of paper. She didn't even realize that she gasped.
Dropping the box to her lap, she read the short note, then reread it. Hermione looked up into the face of her old mentor, but she couldn't read the emotions she saw there.
"He's at London Clinic, Southwark. Long term care ward. Bed 7."
Mme. Pomfrey was already on her feet, heading for the staircase. "I'll be ready in 15 minutes," she said, heading away rapidly.
Minerva was on her feet and walking around the desk, heading for a side chamber as she called, "meet us at the front gate. And don't forget – muggle clothing."
She stopped in at the nurse's station and introduced herself, asking for directions to Bed 7.
"You're here for Mr. Smith? That's wonderful – do you know him, do you know who he is?"
"We think we might," Hermione said softly.
"But we'd like to find out," muttered Mme. Pomfrey.
The nurse's aide didn't seem to hear or didn't seem to care about the snide remark. "We normally allow only two visitors at a time, but why don't you go right in. Oh, he'll be so happy!"
"Not if he is who we think he is," grumbled the Hogwarts nurse before she was swatted by Minerva.
Hermione led the party down the hall and paused just outside the partially closed door. The two women behind her were silent.
She knocked softly on the door and pushed it open.
"Severus?" she called out in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
She took three steps into the room, and seeing an empty bed, turned to leave in confusion, only to find a figure sitting in the chair, unseen by a sightline from the doorway.
Hermione's heart dropped into her stomach. The pale, gaunt figure with long black hair and a full, though well trimmed beard, swaddled in a soft white blanket was unmistakably Severus Snape.
"Severus," she breathed out in happiness, oblivious of the twin gasps behind her. A moment later, he spoke.
"I believe you have me at a disadvantage, Miss. I neither know you, nor myself, it would seem." His voice was soft and somewhat weak, but unmistakable.
"Forgive me," she said with a smile. It felt like her heart was soaring across the skyline of London. "I'm Hermione Granger. And you, sir, are Severus Snape. Here with me is Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey," she said, indicating the other women. She walked over to him, wishing to greet him, but not quite knowing how to go about it. The choice was soon taken from her.
"Severus, it's so wonderful to see you, dear boy," Minerva said, coming forward and leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.
"Yes, it is good to see you," Mme. Pomfrey added, "but you'll not be getting any kisses from me."
Hermione watched as Severus grinned and raised a bemused eyebrow.
"Good Lord," the nurse muttered so all could hear, "he's smiling; he has lost his mind."
A little thrill ran through Hermione's spine when it was to her that Severus's head snapped with a question in his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be smiling?"
"I think you have a lovely smile, and you should smile exactly as often as you wish to."
"Yes, yes, yes," the instigator said dismissively. "But how are you feeling?"
"Weak from lack of movement. I cannot, for instance, remove myself from this chair without help. And of course, I can't remember anything, but other than that I am well, thank you."
"I'll be the judge of that," Mme. Pomfrey said, and whipped out her wand. She pointed it at the door and shut it gently and locked it, before turning it on him.
"How did you do that? What are you doing? What is that thing?" The rising panic in his voice was clear.
Hermione sat on the edge of his bed and reached out to take his hand in hers. His fingers tightened reflexively, then loosened. His eyes bounced back between her own and the tip of the nurse's wand.
"Severus," Hermione began softly, "if you don't start recalling immediately, and if Mme. Pomfrey can't help right away, I'll explain everything. But we must give her a bit of space to see what she can do for you. Please – I know you don't remember, but trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you."
They were all silent as the nurse muttered to herself, reading a magic none of them quite understood. Finally she put her wand away. Hermione continued to hold Severus's hand.
"Well, it's good news on several fronts. Best and easiest first: other than the memory loss, muscle atrophy and heart strength, there have been no damaging side-effects that I can tell. The muscle atrophy and heart strength are easily mended, though it'll take a solid fortnight. There's a cream to be applied twice a day and a potion that can be brewed within the next three days, though the treatment ought to begin together. Wouldn't do for you to collapse because your muscles could take you farther than your heart could support you. But in 18 days you should be right as rain."
"And his memory, Poppy?" asked Minerva.
"Yes. Well, the good news is that his was a natural memory loss, which I can cure." At this point she faced her patient and spoke plainly. "But it will be ugly, believe you me. You, sir, are going to go through a month of confusing hell, because I can bring your memory back, but not sequentially, nor in any kind of way that might make sense to you. Once every four days he'll need the Mnemosine Infusion, but it's my estimate that it will take a full month for it all to come back."
Severus cleared his throat before he spoke. "The doctors here said that the memory comes back naturally, most of the time."
"This won't interfere with that," Mme. Pomfrey said, her arms crossed over her chest and her face displaying a distinct lack of trust for any opinion of a muggle doctor.
"Well, then. Only thing that's left is to get you out of here," said Minerva decisively.
"Confundus?" asked the nurse.
"I thought we might manufacture a transfer order, nice and neat, and we'll just take him, wheelchair and all. With a Simulacrus, of course."
"Now wait just a moment," said Severus, speaking up quickly. "This has all happened rather fast. I should like a moment to myself, if you don't mind."
"Of course," Hermione said softly, taking her hand from his warmth. She glared at the two older women, but Minerva at least had already softened her determined gaze into something more compassionate. "We'll come back in one half hour."
"Wait," he replied, before she could even get up from her perch on the bed. "If you would be so kind to stay, Ms. Granger. I would like a word."
"Of course," she said again.
She watched him as they waited for the door to close behind them. On instinct, Hermione withdrew her wand and warded the door against the witches only, but not the muggles, making sure to ward against sound. She turned her attention to him, only to find something similar to the scowl she knew so well. Only, just at the moment he didn't look angry – but he certainly looked something.
His words came out stilted and solitary, as if each were its own sentence. "Please – tell – me – what – is going on?"
Hermione had been preparing for this moment since she received his letter this morning.
"You, sir, are a wizard. I am a witch. We, along with an entire community of people, were able, from birth, to manipulate and control a force of the universe unaccounted for by physics or other natural sciences. For lack of a better way to describe it, we call it magic. Our community functions as a hidden society within the United Kingdom, and similar ones exist throughout the world. Those unable to manipulate magic do not know we exist.
"The two of us met at your workplace. You are a professor at the finest wizarding school in Britain. Until recently, I was a student. Your student."
She watched his brow furrow as he undoubtedly put a certain two and two together, but she marched on.
"With the exception of the last year, for the previous thirty or so, all has not been well in our world. While the political strife and wars of those without magic do not necessarily concern our communities, we have our own problems, our own politics, and our own wars. We recently won one. You, sir, figured in prominently. Next to two other figures, a man who might have been considered a general, had this been a military endeavor, and a boy, one of my best mates, who was something of a secret weapon, you were the most important person who helped us win the war. Without you sir, we never would have. You were a double agent. Severus, you were a spy, and you were very, very good at what you did – everything you did."
Hermione took a deep breath.
"And with the war's end, we had thought you dead."
"I'm not dead," he said absently.
She smiled a little smile. "Yes, I can see that." Then her smile evaporated. "But you see, I saw you die, along with two of my companions. You were attacked in such a way that would have killed most people, though clearly it did not kill you. You are a Potions Master, and given your natural gift at self-preservation, I never did believe that you hadn't made some preparation for the situation that ended up occurring. And when we couldn't find your body, later…"
"You kept looking for me."
"Yes."
"The letters."
"Yes."
"For seventeen months."
"And ten days."
"I teach?" he asked, jumping to the next subject, but not seeming to notice.
Hermione snorted with a grin, but remembered that he wouldn't get the joke. "Yes. For just under twenty years, I believe. Most of the time you taught Potions, but three years ago you taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. Two years ago you were Headmaster, and though I wasn't there I'm not sure you wanted the post. Minerva has been Headmistress since the war ended."
"How old am I?" Severus asked in disbelief.
"Not as old as you might feel."
"How old are you?" he asked with dawning horror.
"Not as old as you might wish," she replied sadly.
He looked like he wanted to say something and Hermione could well imagine what it was going to be. She gave him the time he needed to sort it out, though, biting her tongue and stifling the urge to prompt him.
"Many points of your letters were confusing. However, it is clear to me that you care about my wellbeing."
"Yes, I do." She had butterflies in her stomach. She was such a different person then she had been when she'd had the crush on him, only a few years ago. She'd dated someone else. She'd killed people. She'd saved people. Eventually, she'd even taken her NEWTS and graduated. She was in Auror training with the boys, though she wasn't sure whether or not it was worth it – the Auror department was a mess.
She was such a different person, and yet, she still felt something for him. But what?
And he was certainly a different person, though perhaps not for long. Who would he be once he was himself again? Who would he be in the month he wasn't himself? Would she even have an opportunity to find out, or would their paths be as divergent as they had been since he left the school at the end of her sixth year?
Her wondering took only a heartbeat, and then she was pulled out of her thoughts and back into the conversation that he was continuing.
"It seems from the tone of some of the letters that your care might run even more deeply than that."
"Your perception is not wrong, Severus." She sighed and thought about the letter she had from him, the letter from three years ago. It was in her pocket – she brought it along with his other letter from this morning.
Suddenly she was so antsy that she couldn't just sit. Hermione took to her feet and started to pace in the contained area of his private room.
"We struck up a rather unlikely friendship that year you got the DADA job. It was my sixth year. I was sixteen. You were in your late thirties." She turned in her pacing to look up at him, and catching his somewhat horrified countenance she steeled herself and continued on.
"You don't even understand the half of it. To all outward appearance you were a Dark Wizard – meaning you dabbled in things that ought not be dabbled in, and of course you did, but for good reason. And, too, you were seen as blatantly supporting the Dark Lord. It was known everywhere – even in the school. Especially in the school. And in a sense it was true. You were his right hand, Severus. Of course, he never realized that you had betrayed him years before.
"Meanwhile I was best friends with the boy who was prophesied to be his downfall. I was clearly on the side of light and you were erroneously but necessarily marked for the side of darkness. We couldn't be seen to mix – if anyone had discovered your partiality towards me it would have been a far greater crisis than had we ever become intimate."
"Then," he said slowly, as she paused. "We have never, as you say, been intimate?"
She half-smiled, feeling rueful. "I had a crush on you." She laughed at herself. "I had it bad. But," she said, looking back at him, "you were my professor. As much as I might daydream, I did understand the difference between dreams and reality. We were only ever friends and I never suspected anything on your part, until I received a letter from you the next year. I have it with me for you to read. Perhaps it will help your memory."
"Perhaps," he agreed quietly.
She paused, with her hand on the letter to add a bit of explanation. "But it may help you to understand that I wasn't attending school that year. I was elsewhere, doing something that needed to be done so we could win the war. You had become Headmaster, but not under favorable circumstances. It seemed to all that the Dark forces had taken over the school, though I understand you did your best to keep the children safe."
She watched as he twitched his head at that and looked away, but when nothing else came, she continued on.
"You were forever trying to keep us safe. We hardly ever knew it, and we were never grateful." She pulled out his letter with great care, feeling all over again the texture of the parchment, remembering the mixture of relief and anxiety that she'd felt when she'd first touched it, though now the intensity of those feelings was just a shadow of what it had been.
Hermione handed it over and watched as his eyes moved slowly across the page. She watched his brows knit together slowly. She watched as his chest began to visibly move up and down, and with greater speed. She could hear the parchment crinkle between his fingers as his grip tightened.
And then he gasped, and doubled over in his chair.
He'd been drinking. It wasn't something he regularly indulged in. He couldn't afford to have any of his senses dulled, not ever, but just this once he had poured himself a drink before he realized what he was doing. And worse, he left the bottle out on his desk.
He'd been thinking of her.
That idiot Gryffindor, Longbottom, had been caught out in class again. His strength of will was admirable, but if the boy only had slightly more finesse he'd be much more useful, and he'd probably last longer. He'd been in that silly, yet incredibly useful secret class Potter had taught two years ago – DA. He'd grown. He'd be good in the eventual fight, if the boy wasn't tortured to death first by one of his professors whom Severus had a difficult time keeping muzzled.
He remembered the days, not so long ago, only two years ago, back before he could admit even to himself that she wasn't a total waste of space, he remembered how she used to help to keep Longbottom from blowing himself up in class. He would take off points, and wish her to keep silent – how would the boy learn if he couldn't learn from his mistakes? But there were times, two in particular, that the mistake would have been deadly, and he'd been grateful.
Not that he told her, he thought as he filled the glass again and took another drink.
He never seemed to tell her anything of import.
He should have told her – not everything about Dumbledore, he wasn't that foolish or maudlin or plain stupid, but he should have warned her that something outside of his control was going to occur.
He should have trained her in Occlumency. She could have learned it in a snap. Then he could have told her more – she would never have had to doubt. He might never have lost her friendship. He might never have lost the opportunity to see if there could have been more in a few years when she was out and settled in the world, if some other boy hadn't turned her head in the meantime.
It had been such an odd time. Albus was dying and there was nothing he could do. There was a much larger plan that he wasn't in on– he knew it, he wasn't stupid – but the Headmaster didn't trust him that far. Draco refused to trust him, as well. Narcissa and the Dark Lord were the only ones who did trust him, though the latter's whims were getting deadlier as time wore on. And yet, and yet… He'd escaped the teaching of Potions. It was a small mercy, but a viable one. While he loved creating potions, teaching it to idiotic children who only wanted to blow themselves up in his classroom wasn't his idea of time well spent. And then there was the unexpected friendship of Miss Hermione Granger.
He took another drink.
Miss Hermione Granger. He'd wondered at the time what that moronic Quidditch boy had seen in her. How foolish he'd been. Miss Granger: the purveyor of stimulating conversation, challenging questions, and thoughtful silences. Miss Granger, whose timid smile stirred an ember into a fire, whose full grin lit up the dark of night. Miss Granger, whose company he'd kept far too often, and not nearly often enough. Miss Granger, with whom he'd known happiness again, and perhaps for the first time.
It was something he'd dearly like to recapture.
He snorted, and took another drink as the slow and familiar despair took over. Even if he were on his guard at all times, he wasn't going to make it out of this war intact. He was either going to die – in battle, or on a whim of the Dark Lord – or he was going to get kissed by a Dementor after the fact. His best-case scenario was the hope of rotting in Azkaban with his soul still intact until a somewhat natural death, possibly of boredom and misery, took him. Even with the memories he hoped to share with Lily's boy, he held no true hope of anything like a normal life. Not that he had a normal life now. In fact, Severus wasn't sure he'd know normal if it jumped up and bit him in the arse.
Here's to you, Albus, he toasted the portrait with his newly refilled drink, letting out a snort just before throwing it back.
Dead, soulless, or imprisoned for life. Those were his options once these things came to their inevitable conclusion. Where exactly in there had he expected to court Miss Granger's affections?
Court her. Was a bloody ridiculous notion. Court her – he couldn't even protect her. He couldn't even protect Mr. Longbottom, much less a student not present. She was likely safer out among those roving muggle-born catchers than here at school.
Severus contemplated that nightmare for just a moment and felt what remained of his heart shred. He had a momentary fantasy of having to smuggle her out of the castle, help set up a new identity for, to get her the hell out of the country, because if she stayed it would mean her life.
He shuddered and looked at the beautiful wooden box on his desk that bore his initials and some rather strong security charms of a questionable nature.
No. He wouldn't. It was a terrible idea. There was a reason he hadn't written her at all up until the present moment, and he wasn't going to write in the present moment, either.
Severus finished what whiskey was in the glass and poured some more, studiously ignoring that the level on the bottle was steadily depleting.
Severus remembered the moment – the long series of moments – with crystal clarity. He remembered how disgustingly drunken he'd become, so drunken as to write such an indiscrete letter and not even charm it for immolation. And he remembered the deep pain.
The pain of killing Albus, the pain of lying all the time, the pain of remaining servile to someone who wasn't even human anymore and had been utterly mad since they'd met, the pain of knowing he couldn't fully protect the children and that so many of them would be scarred for life, if they made it through the war, the pain was all present before him, even now, even sitting in the hospital chair.
The pain of deceiving Minerva and Lucius, each of whom he had considered a friend, the pain of keeping silent, always silent, ever silent – silent watching Voldemort's atrocities, silent watching his compatriots atrocities, silent as Albus refused his aide or his advice, silent in the face of accusation for things that he had in fact done… The cumulative pain of the deception and silence was incredible. How had been able to bear it?
The pain was overwhelming.
He opened his eyes, only to find it hard to see through the tears the moment before they fell. He was grateful that no one was here, but—
"Miss Granger," he called, his voice softer and weaker than he'd ever remembered, though that wasn't a huge span of time at the moment.
He felt a strong hand at his front, and another at his side help him to sit back up. He would never have been able to do it himself.
He looked away then, unable to stem the flow of tears and feeling slightly ridiculous for it. If he couldn't bear up through remembering this, how was he going to survive anything else? He'd lived through it, after all.
He'd lived through it, and they'd given him an Order of Merlin, and First Class, at that. That probably meant they weren't going to be calling the Dementors forthwith. And that meant…
"He's dead?" he asked softly, turning so he could just see her out of the corner of his eye.
"Tom Riddle?" she asked softly, having removed her hands from his person just a moment before.
"Who?" he asked, looking at her full now, confused.
"Voldemort. The Dark Lord," she added.
How many names did the man have, he wondered as he nodded.
"Yes. He's dead. Well and truly gone this time."
With her words a tightness in his chest was released and if he could have slumped back anymore in his chair, he would have.
It was over. It was over, and it turned out that he had a future after all.
The End.
