Notes: I will be messing with timelines and lore. Probably classed as an AU but will loosely follow canon in a few places. I've read so much alternative HP media that I don't even know what canon is anymore, so if you're expecting the HP Universe rules, this might not be the fic for you.
To be upfront, my writing won't be grammatically or cohesively perfect due to vision and cognitive difficulties – there will be those silly mistakes that can take you out of reading (if you see one, I'll fix it as soon as I can). I'm trying to let go of things being 'perfect' and writing for the fun of it, so my works don't fester in my fanfic drafts folders.
*Trigger warnings will always be posted at the beginning of new chapters.*
Present Day
If Hermione ran, she was dead.
There was no escaping that gruesome fact. But somehow, knowing just made her want to run more. The knowledge seemed to ramp up the adrenaline coursing through her body. 'Run run run', it chanted, and she wanted to obey, wanted to listen to that survival instinct that had served her well for so many years. But whilst it might have helped her in the past, Hermione knew if she were to make a real break for it, she'd be dead before she even had chance to scream. Hidden, she had time to plot, time to think, time to get her heart rate back under control.
When she'd finally managed to escape the lower levels of the Manor, Hermione hadn't looked back. She figured they'd send someone after her; she just didn't know who.
From her vantage spot crouched under a dusty set of draws – thank god for Pureblood interior design, Hermione could see the silhouettes of three shadowy figures due to the slightly adjacent door. Three people, she thought, three unknown enemies. Their voices weren't clear enough to make out as they muttered amongst themselves, that was until one of them got tired of whispering.
"Come out, itty bitty Muddy. We just want to plaaay."
The tone grated on Hermione's nerves. She knew what 'play' meant. Play meant a slow certain death. Play meant hell. That Bellatrix even tried to lure her out amused some dark part of Hermione. Oh yes, one day she'd 'play' with the bitch, but on her terms. A day where she would be rested and ready, not after she'd been tortured for days, locked up and voiceless from screaming. Hermione knew that if her captors found her now, her limited reserves of wandless and wordless magic wouldn't be enough to escape. Had she attempted to break free initially, there was a chance she would have been magically fine – even though it would have been a suicide mission. After days of torture, not so much. She was weak, drained and running on empty.
"Find her," Bellatrix screeched, bored of stalking her prey. "Find her and bring her to me. The person who does will get a special reward …" she trailed off, licking her lips lasciviously. Mumbles of enthusiasm followed what any sane person would have seen as a threat.
Hermione held her breath, wondering if they'd open the door further or walk past it. If they opened the door wide, that was it. Game over. She could feel her face heat and her heart pound harder at the thought of being discovered. A detached part of her brain was surprised that Bellatrix and her motley crew hadn't been able to hear the pounding of her heart as that was the only thing Hermione could hear right now.
Voices started to fade as they all left, and though she heard their footsteps retreat from her hiding place, Hermione didn't move. It could be a ploy, she thought. They could know precisely where she'd hidden, and they were hoping to lure her out for the thrill of the chase. A chase she'd surely lose if they kept her as on edge and disorientated as they'd been doing since her time here. Had she known Malfoy Manor like the back of her hand, Hermione was confident that she'd never be found. However, this was - quite unsurprisingly, her first time in the Manor, and Hermione swore that it would be her last.
Deciding to wait a bit longer in her spot to be sure they'd left, Hermione couldn't help thinking back to the events that led to her capture. It had all come down to dumb luck in the end. The Death Eaters had gotten lucky when they went to retrieve the prophecy. Hermione hadn't.
After a series of poor decisions made by members of the DA – though she'd happily place all the blame on Dumbledore and Kreacher, they'd ended up fighting Death Eaters in rooms even Unspeakables got lost trying to find. Everyone but her was utterly unprepared for the Death Eater's brand of sadistic spells, especially after a year of nothing more than nonsense masked as DADA theory. The DA sessions had helped their basic fighting knowledge, but against experienced fighters, her friends were essentially sitting ducks. The first opportunity she had, she'd managed to squirrel away Ron, Neville, Luna and Ginny in a heavily awarded room, but Harry had refused to sit and wait. He'd wanted to fight. So did the others, but a quick confundus had them sitting tight and waiting for help.
Initially, Harry had fallen for Voldemort's mental trickery, and though he'd seen first-hand that Sirius wasn't being tortured in the Hall of Prophecies, the fact that the only thing close to 'adult' family he had was now fighting alongside Order members made him twitchy. Hermione had empathised with him – she knew what it was like to be side-lined, but at least she knew how to fight in these situations. Harry had a tendency to charge headfirst into danger then attempt to figure out what to do. She loved Harry dearly, but he really tested her patience in these types of scenarios. So, Harry had charged back into the fray, and as always, she had followed. As more Order members joined the fight, Hermione had started to relax. Help was here, and soon she'd be back at Hogwarts with a hot cup of tea and a good book.
She'd all but forced Harry to stay by her - threatening to knock him out if he strayed, and she'd focused all his energy on fighting a handful of masked Death Eaters. He'd followed her instructions perfectly until he caught sight of Sirius and Bellatrix battling it out in another room. Harry had lost focus, completely ignoring her yells and ran straight into the other room, somehow dodging countless curses and hexes to do nothing more than yell at his Godfather and catch the eye of Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry could have fired some spells whilst running, but Hermione's head was feeling a bit foggy, and she was still quite salty about the entire ordeal. As expected, Hermione had had no choice but to catch up to him, and that was the moment it had all gone downhill. There was no way to come back after that, though she was sure a certain someone would argue the contrary.
As she'd followed Harry into the room, Hermione's stomach had turned to lead. Sirius was being herded towards the glowing stone arch by his cousin, and in a moment she knew she'd be severely reprimanded for later, she'd made herself a big juicy target for Bellatrix by instigating a battle with her. She knew it had been a silly decision – they were far from being evenly matched, but Sirius was too important to their plans. Hermione was about 60% sure she'd get out of the situation alive, but she hadn't counted on Dolohov's curse. As she'd battled it out Bellatrix, Hermione had made the nearly fatal mistake of not following Bellatrix's other as it had signalled to Dolohov, and now she had to live with the consequences. Though, she mused, at least she was alive - 'for now,' her traitorous brain reminded her.
The bright purple curse had distracted all the occupants in the Veil Room. It had lit up the room in an eerie purple glow as the smell of ozone filled the air. In the split second it flew through the air the curse did not ask for attention. It demanded it. Everyone was powerless against its lure. Thinking back, Hermione mused that the raw power coming off the spell had been intoxicating, even to her. She'd never seen anything like it before.
The spell broke the moment the purple light had made contact with her body, and the fighting recommenced. It only took a moment, but it changed everything. She'd felt the curse penetrate her body, and searing pain fill her soul, but that wasn't what had damned her. To her utter shock, she'd felt her body fly towards the other side of the room, right into the arms of a cackling Bellatrix Lestrange as her writhing body burned. It had been a hot heat, and a deep, unrelenting pain turned all of her nerves into pokers. She'd been so far gone that it wasn't until she'd woken up in the Manor that she'd realised Dolohov's curse had cut her. A big diagonal gash from her left hip to her right shoulder.
Enraged that Hermione might die before she got her fun, Bellatrix had forced Dolohov to step in and 'fix the Mudblood but leave an ugly scar'. After she'd been patched up, Hermione hadn't been able to escape – her body was too weak from the sudden blood loss, but she was thankful her plan had somewhat worked. Bellatrix had been so caught up in having someone to torture that it had distracted her from her primary goal of the day: forcing Sirius Black through the Veil of Death.
It seemed that after a tense chaotic battle where she'd screamed at Harry to leave her – so he didn't get any funny ideas about charging at Bellatrix, Hermione had sealed her fate. She'd watched as Sirius and Remus dragged Harry out the door, and conscious that all her Order friends were watching, she tried to wriggle out of the vice-like grip Bellatrix had her in, but all it did was make her laugh and twist her delicate burning skin more.
Hermione hadn't checked her injuries since she'd woken up. She knew it would have been prudent to do so, but she feared if she started, she'd never be able to stop cataloguing them, so she carried on.
Her capture for Sirius's near-death was a small mercy where Harry was concerned. It wasn't like her to be ignorant. Hermione knew that Harry was crucial in the upcoming war, and to the masses, she was nothing but academic and occasional psychological help. So, she had acted as such. She was aware of where she stood in the eyes of the world or, more importantly, Albus Dumbledore, which was also why she knew that no one would be coming to save her. Especially not with Voldemort sitting below her very feet. Honestly, she was rather shocked he hadn't killed her yet.
Upon returning to Malfoy Manor, a trip she hardly remembered due to a game Scabior called 'torture the Mudblood', Voldemort had mocked her, tortured her, ripped into her mind, and the force of his intrusion had rendered her into blissful unconsciousness.
Hermione had awoken in a dark, damp cell to Greyback silently watching her. He'd nodded when she'd woken, pointed to the scraps of food on the floor and left. She'd puzzled after it for some time before giving in to the hunger she felt. From the fullness of her bladder to the pain in her stomach, Hermione knew she'd been out a while – minimum two days, and whilst they'd taken her wand, she had enough spells in her repertoire to check the food and drink for poisonings.
They were clean.
Even more curious, she thought. But knowing more important things were about to go down, and soon if the drawn look on Greyback's face, or rather muzzle, was anything to go by, she sipped at the water and ate as fast as her grumbling stomach would allow.
As she'd polished off the food and drink, Hermione had tentatively prodded her mental shields and sighed in relief when she'd found that Voldemort had only gotten past her first three levels of protection. All three were designed for precisely this scenario. The first was to trick people into thinking her shields were so flimsy it would take little more than a breeze to rip through them – they consisted of rudimentary Occlumency a schoolgirl could learn from a book, the second was where she kept all her inane thoughts that would give people a surplus of content, but nothing of quality. The third level was where Hermione kept any leading knowledge that others might deem valuable, but information she knew couldn't change any of her plans.
Naturally, she would have preferred it if Voldemort had only reached the second level of her defences. However, as she'd fought his mental intrusion, she'd calculated that if he'd only reached that and nothing else, he would have suspected her of hiding something. She was a member of the 'Golden Trio' after all. Thankfully, her other four levels were still intact, and if her brief check-up wasn't mistaken, Voldemort hadn't even touched them. It was always good when the enemy underestimated her.
Knowing her chance to get lost in the labyrinth house was drawing to a close, Hermione decided that if she could somehow get to the attic of Malfoy Manor, she'd be in with a chance of escape. What she'd do when she got to the attic, well, that was a plan for future Hermione. Since she'd been forced to do hours of reluctant research on homes like Malfoy Manor, she knew there was an access hatch to the attic in the Mistress' suite. For now, she needed a safe place to calm down so she could stop running off adrenaline and take stock of her injuries so she could check there was nothing that needed immediate attention and an unused and potentially unwarded attic sounded like the perfect place.
Unfolding her body from the cramped position under the chest of draws, Hermione knew it was now or never. Praying to whoever was listening, she kept her steps light and her limbs tight as she crossed over to the door. As she could hear no discernible sound coming from outside, and with a deep breath, she slipped out the door.
A few months earlier.
Hermione snuck into Snape's office without knocking and took a seat before her once fearsome teacher. She'd caught him just before the end of his weekly office hours, at a time she knew no one dared approach him, lest they end up in detention for 'poor time management'.
If anyone had seen her enter, they'd simply assume she hadn't learnt her lesson from the last time she'd done it, and Snape would make good on the promise he'd made her in front of the Great Hall the following day; detention every night he had office hours for a month. Snape had been able to justify it to Albus by saying it would 'teach her a lesson' and 'dissuade her from doing it in the future'.
It was one of their many emergency communication backup plans.
Checking her mental shields were solid, Hermione let her gaze rest on her Professor. He was tired, that much she could observe, but she'd been glad to see the tension that had been in his frame disappear when he'd recognise it was her that had walked through his door. He'd been expecting someone else, someone looking for a fight.
"What delights have brought you to my door today, Miss Granger?"
Hermione huffed in annoyance at his interruption as it brought her musings to a stop but got right to the point. She knew her attempts at subtlety wouldn't serve her well today; brashness would. "It seems that Harry refuses to learn from you anymore."
"And that surprises you?" he said with a sardonic smirk. Shuffling the marked papers into a neat pile, he started filing them into the appropriate class folders.
"No," she sighed. "Not at all. Harry didn't tell me what happened, but from the way he was acting earlier, I can guess."
Popping the cap on his ink, Snape chuckled at her. "Well, Miss Granger, if you think you know everything, why don't you tell me what happened? Or have you come to my office to fix a problem from Saint Potter without knowing the full story?"
It seemed Hermione hadn't been brash enough. Running a hand through her hair, she brandished her wand, activated their 'anti-Albus' wards and growled. "Snape, if we're going to play this game tonight, at least have the decency to offer me a drink. I know you have a bottle stashed somewhere here. I can see it's not been an easy day for you, but neither has it been an easy day for me."
Snape bristled at her tone, but after a beat scoffed, "Merlin woman, and be in with a chance for Minerva to chastise me if she saw you with a drink, certainly not! To my chambers, if you please."
With a flourish, Snape rose from his chair and made his way out of his student hours office, nipping in his classroom, he placed his files on his teaching desk and made towards the back of his classroom without looking back, knowing Hermione would follow. After admitting her through his wards for the umpteenth time that year, he took her winter cloak from her and hung it next to his. It all looked rather domestic, she observed.
Once they'd comfortably seated themselves on their respective ends of the sofa, each a tumbler of Firewhiskey in hand, she saw Snape relax a bit more as she felt his privacy wards surround them. Though his student hours office had some decent wards, their 'anti-Albus' failsafe hadn't been designed for long conversations, rather a quick exchange of necessary words as the room became fuzzy to anyone observing. It happened with enough random regularity that anyone being nosey would assume it was due to a lousy potion or mishandled ingredient related incident. After all, whilst Snape was a Potions Master with a private lab, his students were not - most days he had students practising potions in his classroom. Naturally, Hermione had made sure to discretely empty anyone from the room before making herself a nuisance in Snape's office. She'd never make that particular mistake again.
"Go on then. Guess away." His gaze turned on her, thoughtful. "If you're able to guess the exact reason, I'll help Longbottom next lesson. In my own way, of course. If you fail, you finally finish that stack of books you've been putting off reading," he finished, smirking. Snape always appreciated their little bets. They never bet on anything serious, but a bet between them was a bright spot in his usually dreary days.
Eyeing him over her drink, Hermione paused to consider the terms. She felt confident that she knew, but his terms had her doubting herself. There was a reason she'd been avoiding that stack of books. "You trust that I haven't already taken a quick peek?"
Snape pondered the probability of whether or not she had and decided that whilst he was confident Granger's talents were evolving, she'd never dare to test them on Potter. It was too risky. "You're not Slytherin enough."
"Maybe I'll surprise you," Hermione said, tilting her glass in his direction, both to strike their deal and acknowledge what was best left unsaid. After over three years for him and six for her, she was getting used to the Slytherin doublespeak.
Once they'd each taken their respective sips, Hermione could see Snape grow visibly impatient. Whilst he enjoyed her company, he'd mentioned having an early night the last time they spoke about his office hours. It was rare he had the chance to take time for himself, and she knew that had she not appeared tonight, he'd already be in bed. It was times like these that Hermione wondered if attempting to catch up on sleep was Snape taking time for himself or simply trying to survive. Heck, she thought to herself, was there even a difference anymore?
"Maybe you will," he finally snapped, "stop procrastinating."
Nodding, Hermione sipped her drink and contemplated how much she wanted to say. She had a vague notion of what Harry had seen from the way he'd ignored her tonight and went straight to write a letter, but she didn't want to add fuel to the fire if she could help it.
"Harry saw something of a sensitive nature regarding him in some way in your pensive when you left the room. You came back, you yelled, he yelled, and you kicked him out."
Snape conceded, tapping his glass against hers. A deal was a deal, after all. They lapsed into silence, both drinking from their glasses and thinking about how shitty their respective days had been. However, this wasn't a day where Snape seemed to be able to deal with the silence. After a few minutes of quiet, he muttered under his breath a few choice obscenities about the issue before finally grumbling at an audible level.
"He had no right."
"No," she agreed, knowing that had their roles been reversed and her pensive violated by a nosey teen, she'd have to pull on all her Occlumency skills. Even then, she knew there was a chance she'd still do something unseemly to them. "But he still needs to learn."
"You teach him," he grumbled. "He might actually listen to you."
"Not in the ways that would count." Hermione paused, considering her words. Well, she thought, she wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. "Doesn't Sirius know of the mind arts?"
Snape's eyes flashed dangerously, and it was then Hermione knew which set of memories Harry had seen. Knowing the man before her would shun any form of sympathy, she turned to gaze into the dancing fire. Though the dungeons were known for being bone numbingly cold, even in Summer, ever since they'd started meeting up, Snape had found a way to keep his chambers warm enough for her. It was something Hermione was effusively grateful for, especially since her seventeenth birthday. She'd woken up that morning craving warmth but figured it was something to do with her being a new adult witch - she'd seen Tonks do similar over the Summers she'd spent at Grimmauld.
"Yes," he snapped.
Hermione was beginning to get whiplash from his sudden mood changes. She'd known coming to see him tonight was risky but knew it would be worse if she didn't. After all, Snape needed to teach students tomorrow, not murder them on sight for breathing.
Over their shared years, they'd come to rely on each other, and he would have been there for her had she needed him. Heck, he had been there for her many times, so tempering his fire was the least she could do for both him and his students tomorrow.
Still, Hermione looked at him reproachfully, not appreciating his tone. "Good, then Harry will learn from Sirius, and I'll prod poke him to make sure he does. Ron won't be any help, but maybe Ginny can coax him to learn too."
With anger bubbling under his skin, Snape rose and started to pace like a caged animal. In some ways he was, Hermione reflected. A man of many masters, beholden to none and haunted by his past. A terrible mix just waiting to explode. "If he was told why-"
"Then he'd run headfirst into battle, by himself, and get himself killed," she interrupted, trying her best to keep her voice level.
Snape whipped around to face her, his face contorted in rage, "How can you of all people be so calm? I thought he was your friend!"
Rising to her feet, so they were on the same level, Hermione pulled up all her available shields to calm her anger and temptation to lash out at Snape's words. She knew he'd react badly, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. "Harry is my brother, actually," she said calmly, keeping her eyes trained on the crackling fire. "You know this. You also know that I have no intention of letting Harry die. So yes, he needs to learn – he has to learn, but he also needs to enjoy the time he has left as a kid if all of our plans fail."
Knowing not to relish in his anger further, Snape returned to the sofa, head in his hands and body hunched over. For such a controlled person, it was out of character for him to show such strong emotion in front of her.
"You seem to forget; he's not the only important person in this war," he whispered.
Blinking rapidly, Hermione glared at the trinkets above his fireplace. She refused to give in to the pull of temptation to turn and look at him, refused to suck in air at everything he'd just left unsaid. Instead, she glared at the ornament she'd brought him last year. Right now, that ornament mocked her.
When her emotions felt contained again, she returned her gaze to the fire and let it soothe her. They were both so very good at unmaking each other when they lashed out.
"No, Severus," she admitted quietly, hating their secret language full of half-truths, "he's not. However, Harry is the one with that damnable thing in his head. A thing that is slowly leeching the life out of him, and he doesn't even know it. But we do. Bloody Albus does. Even most teachers can sense it, even if they can't quite put their finger on what it is. To win, that thing needs to go, along with the rest of them, but only when the time is right. Then, and only then will there be a chance … for all of us."
Admitting defeat, she turned and looked at the man that had taken over her life. He'd approached her during her second year with an offer she simply couldn't refuse. Though they'd become close, they'd agreed to keep on a last name basis purely for ease of public address, but they both slipped from time to time. Knocking the rest of the Firewhiskey back, she swallowed a grimace at the burn and made her way over to him.
Crouching down beside him, Hermione placed a hand on his knee, "Severus, look at me." But, he wouldn't. Couldn't. He gripped his hair like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to his sanity. "Please."
At her whispered plea, his eyes looked directly into hers. Caramel eyes met obsidian and neither looked away. Nudging her mind with his, she let him relax at her presence before she gave him the mental equivalent of a hug. Both knew the stakes of anything overtly physical, anything that could break down the mental walls they both held taught. One slip could mean death for them both, depending on the whims of their Masters.
"Better?" she asked with a sad smile.
Hermione kept her eyes on his and saw his body finally release all the tension he was holding. She could see that whilst he'd relaxed slightly before, he'd finally let his guard down in her presence again. All that pent up anger from earlier had done him no favours tonight, Hermione noted, as she saw him wince from a particularly persistent set of muscle spasms. Had their meeting been less emotionally charged, she would have offered him a shoulder massage.
'Yes. I'm sorry.'
His face's usually severe lines softened as he finally transitioned from teacher to friend, Potions Master to confident. He wrapped up the apology in his version of a hug - a mental blanket formed from the softest fur, infused with enough warmth that Hermione found herself suddenly flushed from head to toe. It took everything she had to stop herself from sinking into the sensation. She loved their mental conversations, however brief they had to be.
Neither had yet to master mental conversations without the drawbacks, but there were times where words were too dangerous. They'd accidentally discovered the ability when Hermione had tried to covertly gain his attention in the Great Hall earlier this year. Her frantic mental 'MEET NOW MEET MEET' had almost physically bawled him over, but he'd recovered before anyone knew anything was amiss. He'd scraped his chair back, pretending Umbridge had gotten far too close for comfort again, and nodded her direction as he was righting himself. Later that night, they'd experimented and swapped theories on why they could exchange mental words and why they could only sustain a bit of conversation before mental exhaustion or a headache hit. Still, it had never been a focus of their research.
Deciding to do them both a favour, Snape looked away first and waved his hand. With both of their drinks full, Hermione decided that it was safer to put distance between them in the grand scheme of things and returned to her side of the sofa. Though she cocked an eyebrow at the drink he handed her. That was a very generous double.
"Trying to get me drunk, Professor?" she said, batting her eyelashes in an attempt at some much-needed levity.
Present Day
It would do her no good to reminisce, but Hermione longed to sink back into the warmth of familiar memories. It all seemed so simple back then. So easy. Train in secret. Hide their friendship. Spend more than a few years bending time to her will.
After all, what was hiding secrets from the great Albus Dumbledore when she'd only recently had Voldemort breakthrough three of her walls and was now running from a clinically insane sadistic bitch and her band of merry men?
It's cliché, but reviews and interaction encourage me to write and remove the temptation to include cliffhangers!