Part ii
Chapter Twenty-nine- Hope
It is still dark when Maxima wakes heading, still clad in a plaid trousers and cream jumper, directly to Severus' lab. She's not quite sure what draws her here, day after day. Perhaps it is the guilt, he had given his life so that she may retain hers, or perhaps she still hopes to find some sort of answer in the journals that lay hidden in a false floorboard. Or perhaps there is something about the chill in the lab and reminds her of simpler times, one where she brewed a Polyjuice potion in the girls lavatory, there too it was cold.
"Journal.
The girl comes to me again. For practice. With those two friends of hers and her past defense teachers it is no wonder she cannot tell her arse from her wand"
She reads, both scowling and smiling at the inscribed words of her late professor. His writing is neat, scrawled perfectly as if he had taken great pains to learn pristine penmanship. Perhaps he had, it seemed like the thing Slytherins would pride themselves in. In reading the journal entries, she at first had desperately read all she could find, hoping for some solution, some time-traveling potion he had hidden in his journals. After weeks of reading, she was quite sure there was no thing, only the internal musings of Professor Snape. Maxima still read the entries, settled in the slight comfort that his words brought. That is until he began to of write about her. Not her, of the present moment, but of Maxima Potter, the first of her name.
"She has her eyes now. The mutt couldn't even stop that from happening. The first time I saw them, searing blue I had to occlude just to ensure that I didn't apologize to her. In this time, she is not my friend, and I must act as such. I'm not supposed to know the horror of that night. She may never know that it was my potion that preserved her sight. That is my burden to bare. Even if it kills me. I must preserve the timeline, everything must occur as it has happened, and always will happen. I will die. She will live. There is nothing more to do than to hope. Hope she will do better this time.
Is it strange that I wish for Maxima of my past to deal with the Hermione of her past. Even like this, she is so aggravating, the need to be right, to know everything. Time feels so muddled and disjointed, only she can fix the mess he made. Dumbledore who thieved her from her mother- Doretha Potter."
Maxima runs her thumb across her mothers name, it is not the first time she had heard it, but it is the first confirmation she has of their connection. Dorthea Potter she mouths the name, wondering what would reunite them, and what she would sacrifice to go home. She laughs at the thought, Merlin could take it all, she had little left to give.
She reads over the words; I will die and she will live. Her stomach plunges. He knew, the bastard, he knew he would die, and he did it anyways. She's not sure if that is honor and nobility or stupidity. She wishes to talk to him. To ask him why, she had questions and his answers may very well have died with him.
Her eye sting with moisture, he had given Sirius the potion to save her sight. He may have very well have saved her life. Her throat constricts slightly and she wishes she had known, had been able to thank her. His words about the future ring through her head. Perhaps it was not over, not yet, even knowing of his death he seemed convinced of her future travels.
Noises echo from the kitchen drawing her out of her thoughts. At the sound Maxima cannot help but tighten her grip on her wand. Her jaw tightens and her breath comes out in short bursts. It is just Sirius she chants He's drunk. He's clumsy when he's drunk she chants in her mind, trying to dissuade her heart that flaps against her ribs like a caged bird. He wont harm me. I'm safe she whispers, again and again until the word doesn't feel as much like a lie. Safe. Safe. Safe.
She's not sure it works, but eventually her heart slows down. She gazes at the staircase, knowing that she a few movements away she could go ask Sirius the questions pressing down on her shoulders. She doesn't move because he is drunk, bitter and grieving. He is a dog without his pack, and she knows he does not have the answers she seeks.
After that night, she hadn't spoken much, not to him not at all. Even Kreatcher seemed scarce, only appearing to replace the linens and towels and to collect the laundry. He always put fresh flowers on her bedside table, and although she had not asked nor spoken to the elf, she was grateful to behold at least this sure presence of life beyond 12 Grimmauld place.