Previously: "Oh, you treat fears? How fascinating. Would a client of yours see nothing when they looked at a Boggart?"

Mercy chuckled. "No, they'd still see their greatest fear. They'd just be better equipped to banish it."


Chapter Twenty-Eight: Red Chrysanthemum

4 January 1988

Honestly, the fact that Eileen had been sorted into Slytherin was nothing short of astonishing. When she tried to sneak anywhere, she blundered around like a nervous Hufflepuff. Severus kept to the shadows as the Three Broomsticks came into view and Eileen ducked inside. He wasn't sure why he'd followed her, exactly, only that she'd practically broadcasted I AM UP TO SOMETHING as she'd slipped out of the castle. Finding out what that something was had seemed the thing to do.

Leaving his Disillusionment Charm in place, Severus waited for a group of patrons to open the door and crept in behind them. He was just in time to hear Eileen shout her destination into the fireplace before she whirled away in the green flames.

To her credit, Rosmerta hardly blinked as Severus tapped his wand to the top of his head and made himself fully visible once more. She simply raised an eyebrow, poured out a measure of firewhisky, and set the glass on the bar in front of him without a word. If only all pubs had such stellar service.

Sipping the drink gave him something to do while he let a few minutes pass before he followed Eileen. The fireplace on the other end spat him out into what looked like a cleaning supply cupboard. A sign on the door read: "Reminder: Muggles frequent this office. No magic beyond this point, please."

What on earth could Eileen be doing in the Muggle world? Going there had never served her well. After a quick transfiguration of his robes, Severus walked into the corridor. A few steps after turning left at a T-junction, he found a waiting room.

There was rather more wicker than he thought should ever be present in one place, and everything in the room was decorated in pastels. Even the fish in the giant tank had scales in shades of soft pink, white, and peach. A young receptionist smiled at Severus in greeting.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"No, thank you," he said. "I'm just waiting for my mother."

Severus chose the seafoam coloured chair that was closest to a door with a brass nameplate. Mercy Burbage? Charity's Squib cousin? Wasn't she a therapist or something of that sort?

Oh.

Even though it was none of his business—even though he should have walked straight out of there and floo'd back to the Three Broomsticks—he silently cast an eavesdropping charm.

"My biggest regret in all of it is my son," Eileen's voice murmured into his ear, and something in Severus went brittle and frozen. "He started taking care of me when he grew up, but I should have been the one taking care of him. I should have been able to protect him. I'm a witch. I should have been able to stand up to one worthless Muggle. I failed as a mother. We both know it, and I can never make it up to him."

Severus gritted his teeth. How did Eileen not know that he only hated one of his parents for the mess that had been his childhood? Why else would he have spent years answering her calls, promising protection and telling her to come stay with him?

"How do you know that your son shares your view of things?" a second, less familiar voice asked. "Can you read his mind?"

Eileen huffed out a weak laugh. "I couldn't even tell when he was lying about sneaking a biscuit from the kitchen when he was a child. No, I definitely can't read his mind. Gods, if I could, I'd need even more therapy. He has a serious girlfriend now, and there are some thoughts a mother just does not want to know about."

There were some thoughts a son did not want to know about, either. And some he had no right to. Cancelling the spell, Severus returned to the room with the fireplace and left Eileen alone.


9 January 1988

Charity had known almost the whole time. Hermione still couldn't get over it.

In hindsight, the signs were easier to spot. All of those questions at the pub in Cokeworth, all of Charity's talk of how she wished she could go back in time and save Gideon. And Hermione had stolen that chance from her. It had been unintentional, yes, but she couldn't help the twinge of guilt that shot through her.

The fact that Severus was in charge of getting the book to her past self led to all sorts of half-hopeful, half-desperate speculation. Had he used Polyjuice to don a Draco disguise, sneaking the book into her pocket himself? Why else would Draco Malfoy, no matter how reformed, place flowers next to the name of his blood traitor relative? And if Severus had pretended to be Draco that day at the memorial, had that been the only time he'd done so? Hermione tried to remember dancing with Draco: the feeling of his hand on her waist, his warm fingers clasped around hers. Had there been anything of Severus in that touch? Was that why Draco smirked like he knew all of her secrets?

Or maybe Severus had simply left the book in Eileen's care, along with instructions for its delivery. If Severus was alive in her time, why had he never sought her out? It had been three years since the end of the war.

Letting her eyes go unfocused, Hermione pictured her eighteen-year-old self: nursing too-recent war wounds, dating Ron, grieving her dead, trying to fill up the hollow spaces by revising for NEWTs. How would that Hermione have reacted if Professor Snape had risen from the dead and declared that she would one day go back in time and fall in love with him? She winced.

Perhaps Severus had stayed hidden in order to avoid doing anything that would prevent her from going back in time. Or maybe, after six years of teaching a hand-waving, insufferable know-it-all, he no longer wanted anything to do with her. Time would dull the memories of the year and a day they'd spent together. He had so many miles to go until the end of the war.

But he'd still given her the book. Somehow.

Trying (and failing) to swallow the lump in her throat, Hermione nestled her gifts for Severus into a fake, hollowed-out book: a couple of bezoars, a more recent blend of her Warming Vapour, Summoning Potions for Eileen and Fawkes, Pepper-Up, several vials of her antivenin, Blood Replenishing Potion, Felix Felicis, Wiggenweld Potion, Hiccoughing Solution, Wit-Sharpening Potion, and Murtlap Essence. A very thorough first aid kit. Flames had licked at her wrist when she'd thought of putting anything more than the most basic labels on each potion. If she'd had her way, she would have drawn giant red arrows pointing towards the antivenin, but it was not to be. That the Vow had permitted her to brew it and give it to Severus would have to be enough. She could only hope he'd drink the Felix Felicis when the time came, letting it direct his actions.

Binding one of Severus's hairs into the book, Hermione shut the cover and cast the locking charm she'd selected. There. Perfect. After hiding the book away in her desk, she toyed with the other vials of Warming Vapour. Declaring her love for him through a potion seemed fitting for the two of them—better than words.

"Hi, Professor," Percy said as he bounded into the classroom, a deck of cards already in his hand.

"Hello, Mr Weasley. Are you ready for me to reclaim my title?"

Around the end of November, they'd transfigured a Knut into a miniature trophy for their Exploding Snap games. Percy had remained undefeated since before Christmas, keeping the trophy in his possession.

Percy turned his nose up in the smug expression Hermione had come to think of as his Prefect look. "I'm ready for you to try."

The Prefect look upgraded to Head Boy when Percy was once again victorious. Hermione did not pout. Much.

It was funny, getting to know this younger version of Percy—the one who earned detentions by helping Oliver with ridiculous indoor Quidditch stunts. She never would have imagined the ever-cautious Percy of her school days doing such a thing.

When Defence Club started, the older kids decided they wanted to give the Patronus Charm another go. Only a few had managed it the previous time: Bill had produced a quetzal which had circled his grinning head several times, its wings spread wide. A seventh year Ravenclaw couple had cast matching red squirrels, prompting a chorus of awws from the more romantic students and retching noises from the class clowns.

Streams of white vapour poured from wands as young faces screwed up in concentration. Bill and the Ravenclaws helped out, advising the other students on how to choose their happy memory. Bright smiles heralded the appearance of several ghostly shapes: a swan, a pine marten, a wildcat. No one seemed more surprised than Tonks when a chameleon erupted from her wand. She was the youngest one in the group to successfully cast the spell.

"Wow," Hestia said. "That was brilliant, Tonks!"

"It certainly was," Hermione said. "Three points to Hufflepuff."

Tonks's cheeks turned almost as pink as her hair. "Thanks."

"How is everyone doing that?" Charlie asked. "I can't get more than a tiny light. Professor, can I watch you cast the spell again?"

With narrowed eyes, Charlie scrutinised every movement of Hermione's wand. He gasped along with Hermione when, instead of an otter, a large bat materialised.

Hermione did not look in Severus's direction, but she felt his gaze on her all the same. It brought a hot, prickling sensation to the back of her neck and a flutter rippling through her belly. Not exactly how she'd intended to reveal her feelings, but she should have anticipated it before she cast the charm.

"I think you were better off with the old one," Tonks said with a frown. "Err, sorry, Professor. No offence. I just really liked the otter, that's all."


A bat. Her Patronus was a bloody bat. Well, there was no mistaking the source of that change. Severus had almost laughed at the sight of it. Had they not been surrounded by irksome students, he likely would have. Just as well it had happened during Defence Club; Hermione might have thought he was laughing at her, rather than at the form her subconscious had chosen. A bat. Merlin.

Once the children left them alone with the echo of those silvery wings, Severus approached Hermione, his pulse thudding in his ears. She loved him. How the hell had that happened?

"That bat stole my thunder," she said with a rueful smile. "Here. Happy birthday."

Even for such a thick book, the leather-bound tome she placed in his hands was heavy. Under his touch, an embossed drawing of a sprig of heather appeared on the cover. It opened with a click to reveal a cache of potions.

"It can only be opened by you or someone who means you no harm," Hermione said. She moved as if straightening the already tidy contents, touching first the golden Felix Felicis, then one of the milky bottles of her antivenin before cringing away and rubbing her wrist. Hmm.

There were names on the bottles of Summoning Potion: Eileen and Fawkes. Ah, so that was why she'd needed one of the turkey's feathers. Severus was still engrossed in examining each potion when Hermione produced a box full of glowing vials from her desk.

"I decided that as long as I was making an updated version of my Warming Vapour for your little first aid kit there, I may as well create enough to see you through the next dozen or so winters," she said. "I never told you exactly how it works, did I? It's created with a specific person in mind; when they inhale the vapour, they experience whatever emotions the brewer feels towards them."

Uncorking one of the vials, Severus breathed in. It was still like bottled sunshine, wrapping him in her conjured warmth. Regret and respect were still present, but overshadowing both was the unmistakable, deep glow of love. A breath snagged in his throat.

"See?" Hermione said, shrugging one shoulder. "Like I said, the bat stole my thunder."

Severus drew his lips between his teeth, willing his voice to remain steady when he spoke. "You know what form my Patronus took, correct?"

"Yeah, and honestly, Severus, it's fine. I mean that. I'm not telling you how I feel in order to hear it back. I just wanted you to know. Plus, she was your best friend, and if I lost my—"

"Hermione. Pay attention. I said took. Past tense. It used to be a hind."

She took a step back, as if his words had frightened her—as if a shift in his Patronus was horrible, devastating news. "What is it now?" she whispered.

He raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum."

At the sight of the doe, Hermione clapped trembling fingers over her mouth. "Oh my god," she breathed, tears welling up in her eyes. "A doe? That's… It's for me?"

"Who else? I believe it was inspired by the herd of deer that watched our first flying lesson. It's far more flattering than a bat, you have to admit."

She let out a choked laugh. "Does Dumbledore know?"

"He does."

For some reason, this made the tears spill over. Severus thought he'd done something wrong until she threw herself into his arms, murmuring between salt-soaked kisses that she loved him.

"Oh!" a small voice said, making them jerk apart right as Severus reached for the clasp of her glamour-linked necklace. Percy Weasley stood in the doorway of the classroom, his eyes wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm sorry!"

"No, no, I'm sorry, Mr Weasley," Hermione said before Severus could decide how many points to deduct for his failure to knock. "We shouldn't have behaved so inappropriately in a classroom. What do you need?"

"Err, I just forgot my trophy, that's all." He scooped up a little copper cup from the edge of Hermione's desk, then tilted his head to one side. "Oh. That's why your Patronus is…" Apparently thinking better of voicing that particular thought, he clamped his lips shut, gave them a parting wave, and scurried away.


Notes: Credit for Tonks's Patronus being a chameleon goes to Vitellia. The wiki says that Tonks's pre-Remus Patronus was a jackrabbit, but I didn't think it fit her, so I decided to change it. The line "I think you were better off with the old one" is from HBP.

Thank you to Vitellia for not only helping with the Patronus issue, but also for beta reading. And thanks to all of you for all of the reviews, follows, and favourites. xx