June 2008
Manchester, England
Dark strands of hair fell into his face, sticking against his forehead, dampened with sweat. He was kneeling on one side in his bedroom, pushed between the wall and the metal bed frame, fingers prying relentlessly at a small wooden piece of the floor. His right leg stretched out at an odd angle to compensate for his lack of mobility—he knew he looked something like one of Hagrid's strange creatures, his thin arms and legs forced into all sorts of unnatural positions.
He was beginning to suspect that he'd been placed on Earth simply to ensure that the poorly designed plans of Gryffindors were successful. Fucking hell! The board he'd tried to set back in place a month earlier wasn't coming up easily. He huffed with annoyance, blowing lanky bits of hair out of his eyes, and ignoring the growing ache in his knee.
Thirty-something years ago, he grimaced at the thought of how creating a concealed compartment in the floor had seemed like a resourceful idea, perhaps even inventive for a ten-year-old boy who spent too much time alone. A hidden place all to his own appealed to him, the notion that some things could be entirely private. In effect, it was something of a small hole in the floor, dusty from disuse and a lack of routine cleaning charms, but since his arrest, it had been useful, a place to store ingredients and other loose ends that might bring about the unwanted attention of one of the two Aurors who are by turns stationed outside his front door. It was nearly beyond belief that the Ministry hadn't turned the place over better, but its officials had proven to be consisting lacking when it came to conducting searches, as evidenced by the Malfoys' past successes in safely hiding their own dark—and often illegal— objects. In any event, by this point, he was desperate to find a way out of this de facto prison.
He plucked out a small bottle of Polyjuice, enough for a single dose, swirling it around carefully as he watched the potion bubble inside. Mercifully, the Stasis Charm had held up—it was an old brew, but good enough to last for a few hours. He tucked the bottle away securely, reaching down further into the compartment to snatch up two other items he'd hidden there: his mother's wand –– 9 inches, dragon heartstring, yew –– and a red bag made of velvet, inside of which lay the Resurrection stone.
The clock struck a quarter to nine in the evening. He was running late, but he'd waited as long as possible for the Aurors' shift change, watching as the setting sun streamed into the bedroom and onto his desk, illuminating the thin layers of dust coating nearly every surface. Every evening at 8, Williamson was replaced with a young and very inexperienced Auror named Dawes, who had a habit of falling asleep in the chair near the front door. It had taken Snape a few days to figure out the routine: The shifts were taken twelve hours at a time, Dawes, who was no older than twenty-one, would arrive late, causing Williamson, who was forced to wait, to become so vexed in his hurry to leave that he often failed to tell Dawes to re-establish the security enchantments over Spinner's End that not only allowed unwanted visitors to break in but also made it possible for Severus to sneak out without detection. Dawes would remember to cast the charms, eventually, but it did little to convince Severus that Dawes was truly ready to be guarding society's most dangerous and Dark wizards. But if he were regarded as a dangerous wizard, why had the Ministry assigned two rather incompetent Aurors to guard him? Indeed, such lax measures would never have been taken with the likes of Rabastan Lestrange. And yet, partly to satisfy some petty grievances, the Ministry was prepared to put him to death, a source of consternation only because he had to somehow first rid himself of his final obligation: to take the Resurrection stone to Hogwarts.
He checked his watch. By now Hermione and her willing accomplices were most likely deep within the Forest, far away from anyone else who might see what they were up to or listen in on what they were saying. For that reason, he suspected that they had not thought to properly conceal their tent while within the imagined safety of Hogwarts' grounds.
He stared at the gleaming red stone in his hand, holding it up to the lamplight, a myriad of colors casting themselves across the drab walls of his bedroom. All of this over a bloody stone, he thought to himself. If I could kill you over again, Albus, I would. This was hyperbole, little more than empty threats, though made without any great feelings of remorse. Unlike Dumbledore, who seemed to relish in wielding power over others, Severus was never a man who like to hand down orders, and he disliked the singular responsibility that he now had: to return the Resurrection stone to the Forbidden Forest and complete the time loop where Hermione Granger was thrown out of this decade and into the last.
It sounded mad even when he repeated the plan over to himself in front of the mirror; several times, he had been convinced that his own memory of the year was a hallucination, a pleasant delusion that allowed him to believe he had a confidant, someone he could talk to at the threshold of his classroom in the early morning before anyone else was awake, a familiar face at the High Table who did not shrink away or regard him with suspicion. He'd had Minerva as his friend, of course, but Jean Ketteridge –– Hermione in disguise –– had been something else entirely.
He stood silently on the top landing of the stairs until Dawes begin snoring. He felt almost sorry for the boy, but no matter, Dawes was either arrogant or stupid, falling asleep in the home of the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore. Severus pulled the bottle of Polyjuice from his coat.
Dawes did not stir when Severus wandlessly cast the spell (another workaround to the Ministry's poor attempts to keep him confined) to push him deeper into sleep. Nor did he wake when Severus grasped a piece of his hair and yanked it hard, a single strand that sizzled when he dropped it into the uncorked bottle of Polyjuice.
After a few moments, there were two identical Aurors in the front hall of Spinner's End, one towering over the other. It had almost been too easy. He smiled to himself in the dark hall, perhaps he would write to the Deputy Head in charge of attending to public matters and file a complaint.
He landed in an alley behind the Three Broomsticks with a jolt, thankful that while he was out of practice, he'd not splinched himself. It seemed he still had some idea of how to implement "the three Ds of Apparition." It was late Friday evening, the last patrons of the pub were beginning to stumble out into the street on their way home, and they did not pay him any mind as he made for the Shrieking Shack, a feeling of familiarity enveloping him as walked alone in the dark as though he did not exist.
The narrow passage from the Shrieking Shack to the Whomping Willow had not been sealed, and he ran through it at a careful jog, not wanting to linger any longer than he had to, the smell of the damp ground and heavy air setting his teeth on edge. Every sound made him look over his shoulder with his mother's wand pointed, ready to throw a curse. He had not returned here, even in secret since the Final Battle. Only a complete lunatic would want to revisit a place where he'd nearly died twice.
It was his best guess that this batch of Polyjuice would last just under two hours. He knew he had to make haste, not knowing where precisely in the Forest Hermione had camped, and searching for them Disillusioned without wand light would use up much of his time.
He broke through the forest wall, jogging past Hagrid's darkened cabin, a wolf's howl in the distance quickening his pace. With the light of the moon shining through the trees, the shadows on the ground followed along behind him like stalking figures he couldn't shake.
HG
"All right, Harry, hand them over, it's my turn," Ron laughed cheerily across the camp fire, holding out his hand as Harry flung a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Jelly Beans in his direction.
The three of them sat around a blazing fire in folding chairs, a long day of searching for the Resurrection stone behind them. It had been gone better than they had hoped, but still no sign of the stone. Harry had even tried speaking in Parseltongue in the hopes that it would appear to him, though she hadn't the foggiest why he'd thought it'd help.
Ron popped a jelly bean into his mouth, his face twisting as he chewed. "Argh," he spat the mouthful onto the ground rather dramatically as she found herself laughing alongside him. "Mildew. Your turn, Hermione, go on!" He gave her a wide smile.
She and Ron were on good terms now, but their break-up a year ago had changed the dynamic between them forever. It wasn't completely his fault, though it wasn't completely hers either that everything had fallen apart, as it often does when two young people belatedly realize their respective visions of the future are antithetical to one another. He and the rest of the Weasleys would always be family to her, and they'd proved it, letting her stay at the Burrow for weeks on end after she'd come back from Australia an utter mess. But even that couldn't change the awkwardness between them as she and Ron tried to forget the secrets and the intimacy that they used to share every day. Ron was much happier now, less sulking and prone to mood swings like he had been with her. He'd started a correspondence with Padma before Christmas, and they had moved in together by the springtime. It was a surprising match, but a good one.
Hermione smiled back at Ron, watching him brush his too long fringe out of his eyes. "No, thanks," she said. "Impossible to follow that performance."
"Suit yourself," Ron said, summoning the bottle of Ogden's from the tent. He poured a generous helping into his and Harry's cups.
"You should take care with that," Hermione said, but shook her empty cup at him.
"We'd better, if we're going to get up at sunrise," Harry said. His glasses were smudged with dirt, his dark hair more tousled than ever. "We covered a lot of ground, but we're running short on time. The weekend will be up before we know it. I'd reckon we need to put in at least eight or more hours tomorrow, split the remaining portions on the map between ourselves, fan out in similar formation like we did today."
Ron groaned loudly from his seat, kicking off his shoes. "Can you explain exactly why we're doing this again? I mean, it isn't like ol' Snape wants our help anyway. You heard what Hermione said about him this morning," he said. "Besides, Seamus and I were supposed to go see the Cannons play this weekend. Good tickets, too. Cost a fortune and non-refundable. I was gutted when you phoned, Hermione. Padma's furious at me now for wasting my galleons. Bloody hell, I'll never hear the end of it."
"Professor Snape, Ronald," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're saving an innocent man from Azkaban, is that not enough for you? Professor Snape saved our lives countless times and we couldn't have defeated Voldemort without him. The truth is hard to prove when we're the only ones who know it. If we can find evidence that corroborates he was working on the orders of Dumbledore, whom the court acknowledges was the leader and primary strategist of the war effort against Voldemort, he could be freed."
"Why can't the portrait testify? It remembers everything. It'd save us a lot of trouble too, instead of having to track down the stone," Ron asked, frowning. "It could clear Snape of everything."
Harry shook his head, gulping down his own drink. "Impossible," he said. "Wizarding law says that portrait testimony can't be used as evidence in a trial when someone is facing capital punishment. Memories, on the other hand, because they're difficult to tamper with without leaving signs of interference arepermitted, though it's an arduous process to have them verified to say the least."
"You're starting to sound like Hermione," Ron said, looking pale. "Puts a bit of pressure on us, don't you think?"
The fire crackled loudly, and a soft wind began to blow through the trees overhead. It was a near perfect night, the stars barely visible through the thick forest canopy.
"Snape said something interesting today," Hermione said, setting down her glass. "He was in Dumbledore's office all night before the battle of the Tower, and the cabinet was undisturbed."
"How is it peculiar?" Harry said. "When we returned from the cave, Dumbledore told me to fetch Snape. It seemed like Dumbledore thought Snape might be waiting for him, maybe they were to meet."
Ron shook his head. "No, she's right," he said. "Doesn't make any sense. How could Snape be in the Headmaster's Office all night and be in his office in the dungeons for Hermione and Luna to see later? He Stupefied Flitwick outside his office too, remember?"
"Blimey, I completely forgot," Harry said, frowning. "But suppose he could have Flooed back down from Dumbledore's Office."
"Could be. We did only see him when he ran out, otherwise the door to the office was closed," she said. "I've been thinking of that year a lot lately, but I've been having trouble remembering."
Ron snorted. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Hermione. It was eleven years ago, and we did spend most of that night running for our lives."
"We've spent a lot of time doing that, haven't we," Harry said, the conversation drifting off.
For a moment, they stopped to listen to the low dulcet tones of a radio that floated out from inside the tent. Ron had turned the thing on out of habit, perhaps, like Hermione, affected by the nagging feeling that they already done this before.
"What if we don't find the memories?" Hermione asked quietly, resting her chin on her hand. "What if I've dragged all of us out here for nothing? How do we know the stone will work like this?"
Harry tilted his head back, looking up at the night sky with a tired expression of resignation. "I'm not sure, but it's our only chance to save Snape from the Dementor's Kiss," he said simply. "I trust you completely, you're the smartest person I know. You've not been wrong yet."
When she gave him a nervous look, he continued, "Using the stone is the easiest part. It's as simple as closing your eyes and making a wish." When the fire burned out, they went inside, quieter than before, all thinking the same thought: What if this didn't work?
She lay awake for what seemed like hours. The canvas ceiling of the tent flapped in the breeze, and she watched it intently as it moved in soft waves, reminding her of the ocean, of the blue expanse of Bondi beach in Australia . . . As usual, thoughts of home brought with them feelings of guilt, over what she had done to her parents, who could not remember her . . .
Fighting off despair and anxiety, she got up to pull on her shoes, careful not to disturb Harry and Ron, who were sleeping across the room. They were good to her, and each in his own way tried to understand her, but she was almost thirty, single, and childless; it was incomprehensible to them that she did not want a family, and that she was truly most content with being alone. Neither could really identify with how she felt, oblivious to what it was like to be a woman who remained wholly impervious to the supposed comforts offered by a domestic life. She had other things in her life, she wasn't a shut-in, but it felt as if she had to justify them all the same. Ginny had been better about being sensitive to her situation, but they had drifted apart as the years passed, having fewer things in common and less time to see one other.
The sound of leaves crunching outside the tent made her freeze in place, halfway to the opening of the tent. Mentally, she ran down the list of enchantments they'd done, all of them able to keep out only magical creatures, since they were within the safety of Hogwarts' grounds. It was summer holiday, the castle was empty of students and staff, there was no one out there except for them.
Pulling on her jacket, Hermione stepped through the tent's flap, wand lit. There was nothing to be afraid of, it was most likely an animal that had already moved on.
When she saw the red glow in the distance, she staggered forward, hesitant, but ready.
SS
He watched her from the safety of a large beech tree, Disillusioned and hidden in the shadows. She was dressed in a ridiculous matching pajama set, her Muggle boots pounding loudly the ground as she charged ahead, like an automobile that had been put into high gear. Had he been in a lighter mood, seeing her struggle through the wood looking like that might have been somewhat amusing. As it was, he worried that she would not be able to find her way back alone, as she forged ahead into the trees, slipping and sliding across the wet ground and fighting her way through the underbrush without any apparent sense of how far she'd ventured from the path toward the glowing Resurrection stone he'd suspended in midair.
When she finally reached the stone and, looking stunned with disbelief, slowly took it in her hand, a feeling of relief filled him as he crouched in the brush, silently giving praise to whatever gods above still heard his prayers. Knowing he was running out of time, he checked his watch once more, wanting to make sure she found her way back to the campsite soon, as it was nearing a full moon.
The years that had passed between them suddenly seemed like nothing as he watched her standing primly on a small hill covered with boggy moss, hair whipping wildly about, the knees of her pajamas stained with mud. He would live the last ten years in Spinner's End all over again to remember this moment forever, to forget the reasons why he was disguised as someone else.
His watch ticked on, but still she did not move. What was she waiting for? When she spoke, he jumped, fearful at first that she had heard him then remembering he was under a silencing charm.
"Dumbledore?" she called out, her back facing him.
Suddenly, a light as bright as the midday sun surrounded her, eclipsing her outline entirely with such blinding brilliance that he was forced to turn away.
She was gone when the darkness settled over the wood again, leaving him alone in the Forest, standing awkwardly with his mother's old wand clutched in his hand, aware of the increasingly visceral feeling that his body was not his own.
Author's Note: For those of you who expressed interest, I've posted a link to the Spotify playlist for this story on my tumblr (endless-superstition)! As always, thank you for reading.