"Granger, what are we doing here?" Snape asked sourly. The wind off the Channel was what his mother had always called a lazy wind — the kind that went straight through you instead of bothering to go around. The gravelly beach was deserted, even Muggles having better sense than to expose themselves to the weather at this time of year. The few people on the promenade were hunched, hurrying figures, clearly only here on their way to urgent business elsewhere.
And Hermione Granger, the wind already whipping strands of unruly hair loose from her messy coiffure, cheeks and nose pink with cold, who had no earthly reason to be here and even less to have insisted he accompany her.
In Muggle garb, no less. He looked down at himself. At least his boots were his own, dragonhide and imbued with enough charms to let him kick a Flesh-Eating Slug in the mouth. And at least the rest was black. That is all that can be said for it. He turned the collar of his long black coat up for a little more protection against the gale and glared at Granger.
"I think it's rather beautiful, at this time of year," she said, apparently oblivious to what he was sure was one of his very best scowls. "Are you hungry?"
"No," Snape said icily.
"I am. Fish and chips?"
"Given the house elves can prepare any dish you desire to far higher standards than any Muggle establishment, this entire excursion is —"
"Fish and chips only tastes right if you eat them by the sea," Granger said, and blithely headed off in the direction of a small shop.
Snape stayed where he was. Cold as the beach-front might be, it was an infinitely preferable location than the interior of some shop crowded with Muggles. Staring at the waves rushing white-capped to the shore, he considered simply Apparating back to Hogwarts. Clearly, this has nothing to do with the Quidditch Key. The Invisibility Cloak was safely stowed in an inside pocket of his coat. A few moments to find an unobserved corner, a short walk from the main gates to his own quarters, and he could be once more warm and comfortably dressed. He could take the afternoon to consider how he was going to deal with the probability one of Granger's Troublesome Trio would likely be knocking on his door in the next few days. Granger herself might wonder where he'd gone, but it would serve her right to spend her free afternoon hunting for him in Muggle … where-ever this was.
"Want some?" the woman herself said cheerfully from behind him. Snape turned, and was confronted by a bundle of newspaper. Granger ripped it open and the unmistakable scent of battered, deep-fried fish and potatoes wafted out. She picked out a chip and ate it. "Have one."
"Thank you, no," he said disdainfully.
"Oh, go on. This is the best chippy in Brighton. I've tried them all, so I know."
Snape raised his eyebrows. "You spend your time assessing the culinary delights of Brighton?"
She offered him the bundle again. "Have a chip, and I'll tell you."
It wasn't that he was curious, of course, about the way Granger chose to spend her limited free time. No, it was simply that it was his duty, as the former Potions Professor, to make sure that his successor was in all ways fit to teach the students of Hogwarts.
Severus Snape took a chip.
It was unreasonably hot, given the almost-arctic wind whipping around them both. Steeling himself for the discomfort, not to mention the indignity, he ate it. The exterior was crisp, but not crunchy — the potato inside hot and fluffy. He chewed and swallowed, surprised to find that Granger had been right — it certainly was superior to anything along the same lines produced in the Hogwarts kitchens.
He took another. "Brighton."
Hermione nodded. "There's something I do here. Usually once a month or so, sometimes more often. I was hoping you'd come with me, this time."
Snape regarded her with narrowed eyes. "What sort of something?"
She laughed. "Not riding the carousel, or anything like that. You'll see when we get there. Please. Professor?"
He sighed. "Granger, I have indulged this ridiculous excursion against my better judgement. The longer we linger here, the more likely it is that some stray witch or wizard will see me —"
"You know very well that I could tell when you cast a Disguising charm the moment we arrived."
He glared at her. "And you know very well they're not infallible, and work far better on owls than humans."
Granger shrugged. "If someone from our world sees you, all they'll say to themselves is, 'how odd, that Muggle looks a lot like Severus Snape. Must be a cousin or something'."
"And, oh, how strange, he's walking around in company with Hermione Granger," Snape sneered. "Why, I most certainly shouldn't put two and two together."
"Then we'd better get on, hadn't we?" Granger said. "Just in case there's some other witch or wizard in Muggle Brighton today."
Snape hunched his shoulders against the wind. "Granger, I will accompany you on the condition that this is absolutely the last time you drag me half-way across the country to freeze solid beside the seaside."
"Deal," Granger said cheerfully, and led the way across the street. They walked a short distance away from the water, until Granger stopped in front of a door marked East Brighton Community Centre. "It's in here," she said, and opened it.
Snape followed her inside, glad at least to be out of the wind. Granger headed down an unlit set of stairs to the left of the door, bundling up her fish and chips as she did so. Snape followed — and then stopped dead as the sound of voices reached him, echoing up the stairs. "What is this, Granger?"
She turned to look up at him, face a dim blur. "I meet some people here. I usually come once a month or so, but they meet every week. Don't worry, they won't recognise you. They're all Muggles."
Snape stared at her. "Recognise me? Am I to understand that you expect me to meet these Muggles?"
She nodded. "That's why we're here."
He drew himself up. "That may be why you are here, Granger. I am here under false pretences."
"Oh, come on." She went so far as to take his arm and tug him down the stairs. "It's an hour, and then it'll be over."
Short of physically dragging himself free, which would cause an undoubted ruckus in the earshot of an unknown number of Muggles, Snape had no option but to follow her.
At the very last possible second before pulling him through the door at the bottom of the stairs, Granger whispered, "I'm Helen here. You should think of a Muggle-friendly name, too."
A Muggle-friendly name …? His name had been perfectly adequate in childhood, thank you very much, when he'd been forced to interact with Muggles on a daily basis. Including my father. And if Hermione wasn't a Muggle name, how by Merlin's beard had her definitely Muggle parents come up with it? And what did Muggles think was an appropriate name, anyway?
He didn't have any more time to think about it, because Hermione tightened her grip on his arm, opened the door, and dragged him into the room.
"I hope we're not late," she said cheerfully.
Strangers. Snape's stomach twisted. There was suddenly not enough oxygen in the air, and he felt his heart labouring to compensate. Everything in the room was vividly clear and very precise, as if someone had just cast a Lumos Maxima. The details assembled themselves in his mind without a second's conscious effort. Seven people, two female, Muggle clothes, no wands. All seated. In a circle — a ritual? Are there Muggle rituals? Average age, late twenties, two outliers closer to forty. Two with facial scars, one missing a leg — a Muggle prosthesis, is that even possible?
It had been a long time since Snape had experienced this sense of hyper-alertness, these physical symptoms of the bowel-churning terror his disciplined mind rigidly repressed. Five years, in fact.
None of these people are Death Eaters. None of them are even wizards or witches, according to Granger.
Yet still, he found himself cataloguing every exit to the room — two — gauging how far away the nearest of them was, shifting his weight subtly to the balls of his feet, fingering his wand through the sleeve of his Muggle coat.
"Welcome," one of the older men said. "I'm Mark."
"Anne," the woman on his left said, the one with hair so fair it was almost white and the mottled white scar of an old burn spreading up her neck and over her jawline.
The others followed suit. The man with the metal of his artificial leg showing between the cuff of his trousers and his shoe was Evan; the woman with her hair in a crown of elaborate braids was Claudia. The remaining three men were Jeremy, who raised a hand in greeting that was so stiff and immobile it could only be another prosthetic; Walsh, who had similar scars to Anne but spreading down from beneath his woollen hat and closing one eye; and the other man close to Snape's own age, Hassan.
None of them offered last names, or any other information. Good. If that was the norm for them, the few moments it would take for Snape to extricate himself from Granger's lunatic escapade would be easy to navigate. "My name is Sebastian," he said, and then, smoothly, "but I can't stay."
"But —" Granger said.
Mark spoke over her. "That's fine. You'll know when you're ready, and we'll be here."
Ready? Who are these people?
And what is the Hogwarts Potions Professor doing with them?
"I may have a few moments," Snape conceded coldly.
Mark smiled. "Then grab a chair."
With Granger, Snape picked up a chair from the side of the room and carried it, inefficiently by hand, to the circle. Claudia and Jeremy shuffled their chairs aside to make room for them.
Snape sat down, crossed his legs and folded his arms, and regarded the assembly with narrowed eyes.
"Right, let's begin," Mark said. Everyone bowed their heads. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change, the courage to change the things I can — and the wisdom to know the difference." Snape gave Granger an incredulous look, but her head was bowed with the others. Religion? Muggle religion? He ran through what he knew about the topic, which was largely limited to the instances of greatest persecution of those believed to be witches or wizards. Don't they usually assemble in large and impressive buildings?
Is this some kind of off-shoot? What do they call them, cults?
"Who'd like to start?" Mark said.
There was a short silence, and then Hassan said, "A kid on the bus called me Al-Qaeda scum the other day." It took Snape a moment to place the word. Oh, yes, the Muggle war. Minerva's second-hand copies of The Prophet occasionally mentioned it. "I wanted to punch him. No, I wanted to tell him what I'd done, I wanted to make him ashamed of himself. But I can't, can I? If it gets back to the wrong people, that's putting a bullseye on my back — and my kid's. So I just got off at the next stop, him yelling out that I was a coward Paki bastard the whole time."
"You have to walk away," Claudia said, in a richly musical voice that reminded Snape of Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Like I do, when someone tells me I should go back where I came from."
"It's not the same, though, is it?" Hassan said. "You can tell them you've served. Wave your medals in their faces."
"I know," Claudia said. "I just meant — it sucks and you did what you had to do. You have a lot of guts, Hassan, and you show it every day."
Snape cleared his throat, and when they glanced at him, met Hassan's gaze.
It was ridiculously easy to skim the surface of a Muggle's mind. Anger, shame, pride … a dusty field, a bearded man …
And then, shockingly familiar — fierce urgency, the need to remember every detail … the constant gnawing terror of discovery … face schooled to interest and agreement while nerves screamed revulsion and disgust …
Snape blinked, and broke the contact. A spy. He was a spy in an enemy's camp.
He looked around the room. Missing limbs … burns … mostly young … wave your medals in their faces … There was no need to sample anyone else's thoughts to confirm his suspicion, but Snape made eye contact with Anne — thirst, fear, goddamn it this pack is heavy, go go go — and then Evan — falling out of the sky, wind dragging at clothes, limbs, face and then a jerk at shoulders and waist and the noise and the wind is gone and there's silence and floating —
He turned to look at Granger, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. Veterans. Not of our War, but of a war, nonetheless.
"Helen?" Mark said. "We haven't seen you for a while. How have you been?"
"Good," Granger said. She smiled. "Genuinely, I'm not just saying that. I started a new job, and there's a lot of overtime, that's why I haven't been coming."
"Still get those dreams you talked about?" Claudia asked.
Granger shrugged. "Not as much. I had … you know, I've never talked about it here, but I had an old injury. I just kind of lived with it, you know?"
"Sister, I know," Jeremy said, waving at her with his artificial hand to general laughter.
"So someone — a friend — pushed me to see if there was something that could be done, and there was, and I got it done. It was hard … I mean, I made myself think of it like it was the colour of my hair, or something. Just one more insignificant thing about myself. And I had to think about it again, and about … what happened. But my friends helped me through it, and now, it's really so much better, and I'm glad I did it. I can really leave it in the past, not just pretend to."
"Half your luck," Jeremy said.
"Sorry," Granger said, with a smile. "I know that's sort of … it was just, you know, a scar, really."
"Helen, relax," Jeremy said. He reached across Snape to pat her knee, with his prosthesis. "I'm glad for you. I'm glad you're doing better. You look a lot better, these days." He grinned. "You guys, remember when we first saw her? All hair and eyes and ready to run from the room or throw down if anyone raised their voice?"
"I remember when I first saw you, Jerry," Anne said. "I asked you to give me a hand with a chair and you shaped up to me."
More laughter, from Jeremy as well. "We've all come a long way."
"Now we have another newbie," Evan said. "Welcome, Seb."
"Sebastian served in the same —" Granger said quickly.
"He can speak for himself," Mike said firmly. "If he wants. And if he doesn't want, that's fine."
Granger blushed dull red, and fell silent.
Snape suppressed a smile. I knew there was a reason I stayed.
I might have lost the ability to intimidate Granger, but clearly there are some who still retain it.
Perhaps I can learn this one's secret.
"I'm not sure what I can say," he said smoothly. "There are … considerations." Considerations like the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. "But I suspect Hassan's experience … is not unfamiliar." Right down to being despised by those you strove to save, in fact.
"You've signed the official secrets act too, haven't you?" Hassan asked.
"Something like," Snape said, although he had no idea what the official secrets act was. "So if you'll excuse me, I'd rather not say anything more."
"Helen's always very mysterious too," Claudia said.
Snape sniffed disdainfully. I should hope so. Does she realise how close to the wind she's sailing with this charade? Does she think her friendship with Potter will protect her from the consequences, if she lets something slip?
"How long have you been back?" Hassan asked. "About fifteen minutes, from the look of you when you walked in here." That earned him stares from the rest of the group, and he shrugged. "There's a reason they don't rely on the Royal Marines to spot double agents, Evan. But I know the look of a man identifying all possible exits."
"I find strangers … disconcerting," Snape admitted. Not an admission. A strategic statement.
"We're not strangers," Anne said. "We're comrades-at-arms you haven't met yet."
"I don't know the protocol here," Snape said. "But if it's allowed — what brought you here?"
"It's not," Anne said. "Allowed. Like last names. But I'm here because my squaddie stepped on an I.E.D. and turned me into crispy fried Lance Corporal and himself into red mist." She paused. "I saw the outline under the dirt before he put his foot down. I didn't get the words out fast enough."
"I never got hurt," Claudia said. "I walked through the war like I had a charmed life. I have no scars. No proof."
"I was the idiot who stepped on the I.E.D," Evan said. "Lost my leg — three guys lost their lives."
"And you, Seb?" Jeremy asked. "Why are you here?"
"Helen tricked me," Snape said, so dryly the Sahara would have died of jealousy.
"Why do you think she did that?" Mike asked.
"Because she's an interfering busybody." Snape sneered, with a sidelong glance at Granger.
"I am an interfering busybody," Granger said. "As well as an insufferable know-it-all. But coming here, helped me. A lot." She paused. "We've all been through things that our friends, our families, can't really understand, no matter how much they want to, unless they've been through them themselves. I was lucky to come through most of what happened to me with people who can understand, but there were some things that they didn't share. That I didn't think anyone shared." There were nods around the room from the others. "And I did trick you into coming here, so guilty-as-charged on that one, but I could just see your face if I suggested you find someone to talk about what … what happened to you, what you went through." She glanced at him, and gave a flicker of a smile. "Sort of like that, actually."
Snape glared at her. You have no idea what I went through. And thank Merlin for it, for hadn't that been the entire point? That children like Granger wouldn't grow to adulthood in a world where it was even possible for them to know just how bad things could be? "As you very well know," he said acidly, "it's impossible for me talk about any of it." Especially here, to these Muggles. He rose to his feet. "If you'll all excuse me, I'm needed elsewhere."
He was in a cold fury as he stalked up the stairs and out into the street. Talk about what happened? As if burdening another soul with the knowledge that sears mine would serve any purpose other than to multiply misery. He bared his teeth at the thought and a Muggle woman hurrying past flinched away from him.
Yesterday, sheltering with her beneath the Invisibility Cloak as the three miscreant students discovered the corridor, he'd been foolish enough, sentimental enough, to entertain feelings of collegiality towards her. The cold grey light of a winter's day in Brighton showed that for the illusion it was. How could he be colleagues with someone who understood so very little of who he was, of what he'd done?
"Please wait." That was Granger, hurrying after him.
Snape lengthened his stride, searching for somewhere to Disapparate. He could hear Granger trotting after him. The next moment she grabbed his arm.
He swung around, glaring down at her, and for once it seemed to make an impact on her. She shrank back a little. "I wanted to help —"
A silent Muffliato and he could speak freely. "And what, pray tell, was that little charade supposed to achieve?" he snarled. "Enlighten me as to the fact that Muggles suffer injuries too? Thank you, Professor Granger, for that illuminating piece of obviousness. It might have escaped your shaky grasp of logic, but you can be assured I was well aware of —"
"Not all injuries are of the body." Her voice shook a little, but she didn't back away any further. "Mine weren't."
"You were cursed, you absolute dunderhead. Of course your injuries were physical — just magical."
Granger shook her head. "Not all of them. Not the worst of them. Not seeing my friends die. Not thinking Harry had died. Not —" She hesitated. "Not seeing you die, as you know, because you saw my Boggart. Or knowing that Sirius died because I wasn't persuasive enough to convince Harry it was a trap."
"And your little group of Muggle friends immediately made it all better," Snape sneered.
She flushed a dull red. "Not all better, and not all that quickly, either. But it helped. A lot. I was a mess, if you must know, after the War. I was terrified to sleep, because of the dreams. I was scared of people, open spaces, small spaces. Any loud noise and my wand was in my hand. I got frightened for no reason at all, or angry. I went to see someone, a therapist, and she suggested a group like this one — and it helped. Those people in there, they saw people they cared about die, as well. They know what it's like to walk down an ordinary street and expect someone to attack you out of nowhere because that's been what the world is like for too long. They know what it's like to have people's lives depend on what you do, and to never be sure you're doing it right."
"Are you finished?" Snape asked. "May I expect you to unhand me now?"
"Please consider coming back," she said, not releasing his arm. "If any of that sounds familiar, please consider coming back."
"It does not," he said coldly. "I assure you, very little frightens me, outside of the fortunately deceased Lord Voldemort. And when I get angry, Professor Granger, as I am now, it is for very good reason. Such as being tricked, and misled, and outright lied to by someone I should be able to trust."
"Do you have nightmares?" she demanded. Snape opened his mouth to deny any such thing, but he was perhaps too slow, or perhaps Granger's Legilimency was more proficient than she admitted. "You do, don't you? I've seen you duel, Professor, and I know that you walked into that room and went on a hair-trigger just because there were people there you didn't know. Don't you want to stop feeling —"
"Feeling what?" He wrenched his arm from her grasp and took a step forward until he could glare directly down at her. "Do tell me, Professor Granger, what it is that you are so certain I feel. Betrayed? Hoodwinked? Irritated beyond all measure?"
She gulped. "I'm sorry. I was trying to help."
"The only help I have sought from you and your gaggle of Gryffindors is to break this thrice-damned curse!"
"That's what I'm trying to do!"
"Don't be absurd," he snapped. "Your little Muggle cult couldn't possibly —"
"It's not a cult, it's a support group, and you said it yourself a moment ago, magical injuries like curses have emotional effects."
"That is not remotely what I said."
"But I think it's true," Granger said eagerly. "I've been researching —" Of course she has. "And I think the curse is feeding on you. It's mixed with Blood Magic, it must be, because it's being cast through a Mark that is also a tattoo, of a type. And Blood Magic …"
"Is old magic," Snape said reluctantly, following her train of thought to its conclusion. "Unreliable, unpredictable, and deeply entwined with the soul." Like Lily's pure love, able to protect her son long after her own death as long as a drop of his blood remained alive.
"The curse isn't being cast by someone who hates you for betraying Voldemort, is it? It's being cast by someone who hates you for what you did when you were pretending to be his follower. And it's having an effect on you." He raised his eyebrows disdainfully, but Granger shook her head. "No, Severus, don't deny it. You said it yourself, when we were talking about Patience Monkshod. You said she deserved her revenge. You have to fight it. You have to fight what it's doing to you, the way I wish I'd known to fight what Bellatrix's curse was doing to me."
"The fact that you were able to conceal it as long as you did demonstrates that you did fight it, to some effect."
Granger frowned. "How did you know?"
Snape shrugged. "The Granger of my classroom wouldn't have been ashamed of her battle scars."
"Well, the Severus Snape of mine wouldn't have lain down and died without a fight."
"You have no idea who the man who taught you was, Professor Granger." Or what he was capable of.
"Bollocks," she said robustly. "I know he survived years of lying to the most powerful Dark Wizard and accomplished Legilimens in Britain. That demonstrates a certain determination to stay alive, to me."
Snape sighed. "Granger …"
"If I'm right, this buys more time, doesn't it? It might even weaken the curse enough for you to break it. And if I'm wrong, what have you got to lose?"
"Apart from my limited and precious hours of life?" he asked sourly. "Apart from my freedom, if I'm seen by someone from our world?"
"There's a spot at the back of the building you can Apparate directly in," Granger said. "I'll show you next time."
He raised his eyebrows. "And why not today?"
She smiled. "I thought you might enjoy the fish and chips."
He narrowed his eyes. Her theory about the curse was plausible, if only just, but he was certain she was not being entirely honest with him.
Well, he could bide his time. Hermione Granger might have many admirable qualities, or some, at least, but skill at deceit was certainly not one of them.
.
.
.
Author's Note: Disguising Spells are mentioned as existing in canon, and as a way of avoiding owl post, but there's no word on how they work, so I made it up.
Will Snape come back? And how will the Muggles cope if he does?