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The Sins of Our Fathers
·
Chapter Two
·
"Time is the longest distance between two places."
Tennessee Wiliams
·
"Hermione—Hermione? HERMIONE. JEAN. GRANGER!"
The girl in question jerked, lifting her head slightly to blink towards the door of her bedroom in surprise. Her mother, Jean, was standing in the threshold, wearing that pinched expression that she did when Hermione was doing something untoward.
Strangely enough, in her mother's eyes, squirreling away in her room surrounded in piles of books was less unsavory than had she snuck over to the next door neighbors' for the rambunctious party they'd held all through the night. It didn't seem to bother Jean that, as children, the same siblings who had thrown the party had teased her relentlessly. Of course, that was as much of a sore subject for her mother as it was for her. But it was better to let bygones be bygones, in Jean's eyes, for the sake of socializing her socially inept daughter.
"Hey, Mum," she attempted to sound cheerful.
"Don't 'Hey, Mum' me, young lady," the woman said stiffly, "Have you accomplished anything today—besides the inhalation of the written word?"
Hermione did not have the energy to fight her mother today. She hardly had the energy to leave her room, let alone deal with her mother's constant pushing of her—it had been relentless since she had arrived home two weeks prior. Much to her mother's chagrin, her daughter had not arrived happy and boasting of tales about her adventures after months of schooling, but had slugged through the door with heavy shoulders and a melancholy that was unpalatable to the socialite female Dr. Granger.
It had been such a joy for Jean when Hermione had returned home from school that first summer with various stories about her adventures with Ron and Harry—finally, finally she'd been able to tell her mum about her friends—and even more so comforting when the pattern repeated for two years after. And Hermione knew why Jean had always wanted it for her. Friends were truly… magical. They dulled aches she had never known she had, filling in the holes that her lonely childhood had left gaping and raw, and soothing a sadness that was often stifling for intelligent young women.
But as she had grown older, she had come to realize that friendships and loyalty were accompanied by responsibilities that were rather crippling, too. Because of Harry, she'd given up perhaps one of her only chances at true love. Because of him, she was silently dealing with the guilt of Cedric's death, crumbling beneath a mountain of guilt for not having done anything to stop it. Because of him, her best friend, the pattern could only continue—she would protect him to her death, and as much as she was willing, that frightened her.
Still, she could never blame him, but she knew of no other way to deal with it except to escape—to books. If only her mother could understand that… but to tell her the truth was likely to make Jean tighten her hold on her daughter, and it was already rather suffocating.
"Look at this mess!" Jean gestured towards the books. They were the only misplaced objects in the room. Everything else was neat and tidy and alphabetized. The books, however, were strewn about Hermione in stacks and piles. Some were opened on the floor and others were lying face down to keep their place on the table.
The ones sitting in front of her, on her pillow, were both open. The smaller was placed inside the larger and she was trying to read them both, to compare the differing opinions of the two authors more closely. Both were devoted to the subject of Occlumency: an art which she had become, desperately, fascinated with.
She blamed Viktor. The very thought of him made tears prick.
But at least she wasn't thinking about Dumbledore, and the fact that her very relationship with magic was being threatened.
"I'm fairly certain your grades will not suffer if you take five minutes to tidy, or an hour to shower," her mother said, crossing her arms, "Or—God forbid—brush your hair, put on clothes, eat—"
"I'm dressed—"
"Not properly, no, and no amount of clothes could make up for whatever is going on top of your head right now," the dentist said, gesturing to her neat, polished appearance, despite it having been hidden beneath a lab coat for most of the day, "Your father and I are entertaining guests tonight, or have you forgotten?"
Hermione hadn't forgotten—she'd been hoping to avoid the ordeal. She didn't think she could bear her mother's crippling praise of her to her friends tonight. There were several other things she'd rather deal with: a Hungarian horntail, or maybe another bout of Professor Snape's legilimency.
Perhaps not that.
She'd had a headache for two days—both from crying over Cedric, and also (if the second nose bleed was an indication) her resistance against his mind magic. She knew that it was not the spell that caused her pain, but her rather… unpolished method of counterattacking it. As the many books that now lined her floor had told her, she had gone about it all the wrong way. But she'd accomplished what many could not without a mentor and for that she was grateful.
The next time Snape tried something, he would not be so successful, and she would not be so stupid. Or so she could hope.
Or was that against the rules, too? If she learned Occlumency, would Dumbledore wipe her memory? Could one prevent their memory from being tampered with in the first place?
"You can't bury your face in books forever, Hermione!"
She began to pick up books from the floor, much to her daughter's protest. Although it didn't look like it, Hermione was in the middle of some intense research. The girl sat up slightly, and reached out, carefully grabbing a few. The Monster Book of Monsters rattled on its shelf nearby, causing her mother to frown—deeply.
"I'm going out tonight, anyway," Hermione said almost gruffly, rolling off the bed to poke the book hard in its spine. It squirmed, but grew still.
Her mother continued to tidy, eyes avoiding the moving inanimate objects, ranting as she paced, "Considering you have nothing better to do with your time, you will be dressed and ready, whether or not—oh. Oh, are you? With who?"
Jean stopped grasping for anything with a binding with an owlish blink. Her daughter shook her head.
"I'm going in the city to meet a friend," Hermione lied, scooping up some of the books to walk over to the mirror to pretend to care about her appearance. She did wince—her hair was a right mess.
It wouldn't matter, though. The truth was she was going to stuff her backpack full of books and find a nice spot outside, perhaps a few blocks down, where no one would bother her—her mother would never be the wiser, if she lied smoothly enough.
"What friends?"
It was spoken with such surprise, Hermione blanched, "Just… friends from school—we're going to see a film, or get some dinner. Both."
Not friends in the neighborhood, who were likely her mother's spies.
"That sounds very nice... Ron or Harry?"
She didn't like the tone of her mother's suggestion, as if she couldn't have any other friends. Neville was her friend, although he was more wizard than Ron even was. Ginny was her friend.
They're not normal friends, though,and she knew that was always an issue with her mum.
"Neither," Hermione said, wanting vainly to impress her mother in some other way, "Harry's relatives would never let him meet me in London and Ron lives too far—in Devon, remember?"
"Oh, in Devon, that's right—but can't they… erm—teleport?"
"Apparate? Sure, but Ron's dad works late, usually, and his mum's got her hands full with the house—she wouldn't like letting him run around the city on his own, either. She's very protective."
"Well, I trust you, Hermione," her mother said, although Hermione could detect a hint of wariness to her voice, "Will you call me when you get where you and…"
"Dean," she lied, instinctively.
Her mother's eyes shot to her hairline—a boy —"Have you told your father about this… Dean?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and whined slightly, "Mum!"
Unfortunately, he had already heard. A male voice called out from the corridor, "Is he the one you've been mooning over then?"
Both women went completely still, surprised at the sound of Hogarth's voice. He popped his head over his wife's shoulder, giving his daughter a stern look that she knew he only half-meant. The young witch met his eyes—they were kind, warm… not as piercing or expectant as her mother's. Proud, even, if a little worried. He was far more understanding than her mum.
"No… that was a different boy," she admitted softly, vulnerably. She couldn't lie to him as easily.
Jean made a soft sound of surprise, "A different…?"
The way she sounded excited about Hermione's jumping from boy to boy made her slightly sick.
"Good," Hogarth said sternly, "I was worried I'd have to hurt someone tonight. New boy will be picking you up, won't he? I'd like to meet him, you know, besides—tell him what's what."
"Dad," she whined, pleading with him with her eyes.
"Oh, leave her alone, Hogarth," his wife said, although Hermione could tell she was enjoying this dialogue. She'd longed for the days when Hermione would bloom… and, it seemed, those days were nigh.
"It's a father's right to throw around his expectations and some mild to mildly-severe threats where it concerns his daughter's heart."
"Cut it out, Hogarth. We both know you're no brute," his wife glared at him, good-naturedly, "You couldn't frighten a field mouse."
Hogarth wasn't exactly masculine, although his jaw was square and he was quite handsome. He was more bookish and reserved, rather than boisterous and brawny. Hermione preferred him that way. So did Jean.
"Pish-Posh," he waved away, flexing a muscle playfully, "I can figure out some way to scare the poor chap, can't I? I'm resourceful enough. Scrawny, but resourceful—creativity is far more lethal than capability for violence, they say."
"Hmph," Jean glared, "You say does not mean they say."
"Well, I say—"
She gave Hermione an apologetic expression, "He's got an itching for a speech, I'd wager. Good luck, my darling—better him than me, am I right? You always were a Daddy's Girl."
Hermione made a dry laugh at Jean making fun of herself, to which her mother's expression became disturbed. She chose to ignore it and disappeared to go prepare for the dinner party.
Hogarth slowly approached his daughter, bushy-haired, lost in a sea of books. He carefully cleared way so he could sit beside her, and laid a hand on her shoulder to squeeze it gently. She managed to gaze at him for a minute, before tears began to well and she turned away from him to brood, glaring down at her book and its blissful pages.
"There's no Dean is there, My Own?"
"There is a Dean," she said to the pages of her books—books which had no feelings or expectations or worries. She could disappear in them. She needed to disappear in them. Just a little longer. She just need a little more time to heal… and to think.
And then she could face everyone else.
"But not in London, I suspect."
"I think he lives in London, but I don't remember, honestly," Hermione said.
Hogarth sighed, "You shouldn't lie to her."
"I know."
"What's done is done," he admitted, "She'll be suspicious if you don't go."
"That was the point."
"Hermione—I stand with your mother on this. I trust you to make good, informed decisions and I won't hover around waiting for you to please me by making the right choices. You have a good head on your shoulders, but you also have a good heart and that can make things ruddy confusing, especially at your age. If someone can't see you for what you are and love you, then—"
"Dad," she interrupted, knowing it was only going to make her feel worse, "It's not… It's not like that. It's me. I'm the one who broke it off."
"Oh," he said, "Did he hurt you?"
"No! It's not… he just—he's Bulgarian."
Hogarth's face twisted, "Is that a colloquialism?"
"No. He's literally Bulgarian."
"Ah, and that's… er, bad?"
Hermione ruffled the comfortable cotton pants she was wearing, "Remember, I wrote you about the international competition?"
"Those owls don't take well to your mother and me, you know that. We got the gist of it, I think."
Hermione frowned. She did know. It was very difficult to communicate with her parents. Sometimes it was a blessing… other times, it was a curse.
"Well, he was one of the visiting students. We went to the ball together—the one over Christmas— and dated after, sort of."
"Sort of?"
Hermione blushed slightly and she noticed her father looked slightly away. He did not chastise her, merely… looked away.
"Anyway, it just didn't work out, with the distance… for me, at least. He asked me to visit for the summer and I declined, because I knew—"
"Oh," Hogarth said, "Oh, so he's…"
"In Bulgaria," Hermione said morosely, "It's… over."
Because of Dumbledore. And that's what made her so bloody melancholy. Not Viktor, not even really herself—but Dumbledore.
It was as if her entire view of the world had been shattered with the revelation that he was not, indeed, as pure as he might let on.
"There's plenty more blokes to woo with your beauty and brilliance, Hermione—although I'd much prefer you were a spinster for the rest of your life, I can't expect every one of them to be blind and stupid."
"Are you sure?" Hermione blew her hair out of her face, "Mum would much prefer the opposite, you know. She wants everyone to notice me."
"Well, your mum is an odd duck, isn't she?"
She couldn't help but smile. Her mum was an odd one. As much as she irritated Hermione, the witch knew her mother had good intentions—she just wanted Hermione to have the life she hadn't had, to refrain from making the same mistakes. She'd been so devoted to her studies, to her work, that she'd missed out on adventures she'd never thought she had wanted for herself, that she had lost loved ones whom she hadn't given enough love. It was her wish that Hermione be less inclined.
Unfortunately, she was her mother's daughter. She sobbed a little, surprising herself.
Her dad didn't flinch away, only pulled her hair away from her face and untangle a few of the curls as he did so, "In ten years, when you are a super fantastic, erm, witch, with a career and a life that you want, you probably won't even remember this Bulgarian, Hermione… is he worth all this punishment you're putting yourself through?"
Hermione sniffled slightly, "Maybe."
"Okay, well, then… if he is, then do you think he would want you to feel like this? Would he want you to waste your days clouded in misery and old books?"
She could feel her guts twist. Gods, how she wanted to just… spill everything to him. Her dad would understand. He would—he really would. But he would keep her from doing what was right, out of a need to protect her. As much as he had taught her to be good and kind and just, he loved her too much.
If only he were a wizard, too, it might have been easier. But he was a Muggle, and she wouldn't change that for the world, even if it meant he couldn't understand why she did what she did. She only hoped it didn't get so bad where one day she would have to worry about him, too.
He would never understand why she would choose magic over anything else, even her own life, perhaps.
"Probably not—the misery part at least."
"Then chin up, darling," her father said cheerfully, leaning down to do so manually, "As your mother would say: you'll get lost in that hair of yours if you hide behind it all day… if you aren't already lost in a book, that is."
Hermione rolled her eyes, smoothing her hair self-consciously.
"Go on, get ready—pick up your books before she has a stroke," he urged gently, "I'll keep your mum away from the garden. Just around the fence, like old times?"
Hermione laughed. She'd often escaped there as a child, after failing to go off and make friends like Jean had desperately wanted her to. The same rude children who were now teenagers offering her invitations to house parties had excluded her to that shady corner for many years. Her father knew of it and had fetched her, sometimes crying, from it many times.
Her mother did not know of it—she always seemed to miss it when Hermione went running off to escape her suffocating need to involve her in as many activities as was possible. Looking back, Hermione had probably shielded herself with magic to hide from her. When it came down to it, however, her father could always find her—magic or not. At least there was someone who could see her, still. But if her father knew why she was truly hiding, could he forgive her?
He stood and headed to the threshold, but stopped to say, "I love you, My Own."
It was so mundane, so normal, that she couldn't help but sag with relief.
"Oh, Dad," she muttered, before shoving the book off her lap and running towards him, throwing her arms around him, "I love you, too!"
If she was ever given the chance to explain, she thought he might just forgive her.
·
"We need a firmer hand on the girl, Severus. You will be that firm hand."
The potions master hissed. Inwardly, he was growing tired of his outrageous commands and wanted to hex the old fool out the window, "You want her protected? Give her to someone else—anyone else."
"Protection is the exact opposite of what she needs," the headmaster muttered, "I need to protect the others from her, Severus."
Severus rolled his eyes, "What danger could Granger possible be?"
Gods above him, this was going to be the most hellish summer of his life. And he would make that damnable girl pay for it, too… or would have, if Albus wasn't being a complete fool.
"You underestimate her. She doesn't need a confidante, she needs a handler—someone who will make sure she does what is expected of her. You are the only one I can trust to master her, Severus."
He spoke of her as if she were an unbroken horse, rather than a child under his care; as if he were a despot and she she were conspiring to overthrow him, "Do you know what the dark lord will do to her if they find out she's been meddling with time? Now you want to put her under me? You've practically signed her up for a life of torture, or, Merlin forbidding, a life on the run."
"Miss Granger isn't a runner, hence why she wears the turner. Besides, she is a target already, whether by my design or Tom's."
The potions master rubbed his face with his hands, glaring out towards the window rather than at the headmaster. Once upon a time, he might have called this man a friend. The minute Harry Potter stepped through the entrance of Hogwarts, however, the wizard had grown more and more tedious, "What will it be, Severus? Will you handle her, or Obliviate her?"
"Obliviate?"
"Either she continues her service to Harry, or you will wipe her memory—clean. No magic. No Hogwarts."
"Merlin—fuck, is that necessary? I hardly think—"
"This discussion is trivial, Severus. I cannot afford to explain to you why, nor should it be necessary."
"She is a child, Albus."
They both knew it to be a lie, but it was the only way he could hope to ignite the headmaster's dying conscience.
"Be that as it may, Miss Granger's devotion is at a crossroads and without her, this war will end very badly. She will no longer do what I say without questioning it: I need you to convince her that I am trustworthy once more."
"And how, pray tell, am I to do that?"
"Must you make me spell it out for you, Severus?" the headmaster said, "You're an intelligent wizard. Figure it out."
"Merlin—she's a girl, Albus! What could she possibly do to deserve this scrutiny?"
"She is more than what she seems," the headmaster told her, "Why must you always question me?"
"Don't I have a right to know why I am to take advantage of a seemingly innocent, if annoying young woman?"
"Orchestrating Tom's demise is a burden I wish I could share with you, believe me, but it is one that I bear alone for many reasons, least of all your precarious position in his circle. You must trust me, Severus. We need her on our side, or she will ruin us all."
"Headmaster—"
"I am not in the mood to argue with you, Severus."
"But Albus, surely you understand my hesitation."
"You will retrieve Miss Granger and bring her to Grimmauld Place, where she will stay for the summer and where you will make certain she is doing as she should be: watching over Harry. What about that should cause you hesitation?"
Severus gritted his teeth. What sort of thing did he think Granger was plotting in her Muggle home? While the headmaster might be suspicious enough to think the girl was contriving against him, already, he could see her for what she truly was: a young girl with emotions and hopes and… desires.
If only I could permanently delete the memory of her desires, he sighed. Krum's naked body was still vivid in his mind's eye...
He shuddered in mild disgust.
Perhaps that was why Albus thought she was dangerous: she was a human being, instead of a blank slate, as he was. The stubborn witch was not so easily moved along the chessboard by the headmaster's calculating fingers. And the wizard had resorted to threatening her. Now, he was turning to Severus for help, as if that would sway the girl... honestly, sometimes he wondered about the man.
Although he had hoped she would be a blind Gryffindor, bound by duty, she was proving headstrong, or so the headmaster claimed. The young witch might not have gone against his word and turned back, but the notion that she had wanted to was enough for Albus to worry about her intentions and her role in the future.
What bothered Severus, however, was why did her involvement matter so much?
Severus was silent as he contemplated. He had endured too many instances of this wizard pilfering through his memories to protect Lily. In the end, it had served her no justice, nor him. Just so, he had been in his head long enough to know just how to piss him off, and how to silence him: holding his past crimes against him was his favorite, along with scrounging up reasons to bring up Lily in conversation, and tasking him with her rescuing son at every turn.
Albus grew impatient.
"Would you prefer I offered her to Black, instead?"
Merlin's fucking beard. She wasn't a toy to be tossed between men!
While he was certain he could sway her without taking advantage of her, he did not think Black was capable of doing the same.
"That won't be necessary."
The blue eyes narrowed, "Good. She will be your responsibility from now on. Is that clear?"
"Crystalline," the dark wizard uttered, drawling it out like a curse.
"Do be courteous, of course. There's no need for her parents to be alarmed."
Severus was of a different countenance: her parents had every right to be alarmed. But he could do nothing, however, to warn them—at least not outright. He could only hope they would be wary of him and demand that he stay away from their daughter.
With a grim expression, he left the headmaster's office, the slip of parchment bearing the address of the Order safe house tucked in his pocket. He would have to stop by Spinner's to retrieve some old Muggle clothes.
Not an hour later, he rolled his eyes at the large brownstone that was the Granger residence. She was, of course, from a well to do family, as had been evident in her choice of clothing and manner of speech when she arrived at the school. While it was not as glamorous as the manor of the Malfoys, it was far finer than anything he had ever lived in.
Barely containing his sneer, he knocked and waited.
When the door opened, the woman who answered it—wearing pearls in her ears and a proper, primly cut dress— blanched almost visibly. The similarities to her daughter were lost on her. Mrs. Granger's hair was fairer, far from wild, sleek and easily tamed into a French twist. Her coloring was nowhere near comparable to Hermione's, and she wore her posture stiffer and straighter and was inches taller, "Hello?"
She covered up her displeasure at his appearance with a polite smile. Severus was accustomed to wariness when others faced him and was not bothered by it.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening," he said coolly, "My name is Severus Snape. I am a professor at Hogwarts School of—"
"Oh," she said, realization dawning, "Oh."
"I was hoping to speak with you."
"Is Hermione in trouble, then?"
Her brow furrowed and she seemed to sigh—it surprised him, actually. Did Granger often get in trouble while at home, as often as she did at school? Perhaps Potter wasn't the sole instigator, after all.
"No," he lied coolly, "But I must insist that I do speak with you both urgently."
Her eyes glared into his, "I'm sorry, Mr. Snape—Hermione is not here."
"No?"
The woman frowned, "No, she's in the city. Perhaps another time?"
He felt a smile tug at his lips. He had cast the spell to find the witch when he had arrived, to make certain his trip was not in vain and also to make sure he had not been followed by any unsavory characters, Order or Death Eater. The young witch was in a near proximity—just outside the bounds of the house where she lived. Without even using magic, he could tell her mother wasn't lying. She truly thought her daughter was far off. But when he looked into her eyes, however, and, thus, into her mind… there was a dullness in her memory: a fog. Someone had tampered with it: a very, very long time ago.
Interesting.
"I'm willing to wait."
"I don't—"
"Jean," a man appeared, square-jawed. He was not very tall, nor was he short—about the same height as his wife. His hair was combed and cropped, and he wore nice trousers and a jumper over a button-down. His glasses were designer. Despite his posh exterior, Severus did not immediately dislike him. Unlike his wife, his face did not reveal any passing judgement, or any emotion at all, really. He could see that Hermione did not take after her father, either, except in demeanor: he was more relaxed than his wife, with an easy gait that was not unlike the girl's. His blue eyes were steady and Severus met them, he was struck with how alike they were to his daughter's: not in shape or color, but the soul of them, "Who is this, then?"
"Professor…"
She floundered.
"Snape," he corrected, "Severus Snape, of Hogwarts School."
"One of Hermione's teachers, then? Well, come in, Professor, come in," he said, gently pulling his wife from the threshold to invite him in, "Would you care for some dinner?"
"That won't be necessary," Severus replied. The idea of eating dinner with Granger's Muggle parents seemed far too domesticated for his tastes.
"We have guests," the woman suddenly said, remembering—saying almost as if it were a warning. As if he would hex them when he saw them, "What if they see him?"
He smirked when her husband rolled his eyes, "It's good thing he's not wearing a pointed hat and robes then, isn't it?"
"But—Hogarth—we've been planning this dinner for weeks!"
Hogarth?
His name was worse than some wizarding ones, Severus noted with amusement.
"Oh, they were boring company anyway," the male Granger said, before meeting Severus gaze and gesturing towards the kitchen, "Will this be a casual or a formal affair, my friend?"
"Semi-formal," the professor answered, understanding the gist of his question: was he here for something minor or major? "I would advise your guests not be present for this conversation, considering..."
"Of course, of course," Hogarth admitted, glancing at his watch, "It won't take long to send them off. Coffee or tea while you wait?"
"Coffee would be… acceptable," the potions master admitted. Hogarth prepared the pot swiftly, silently, and Severus waited patiently in the kitchen for it to finish while the Grangers explained to their guests that there was a dental emergency that they needed to take care of. Dinner was off. Too-da-loo.
His eyes trailed along the decorative curtains, the place mats on the kitchenette table, and the neat rows of ceramic figures that lined the garden window, before he removed his jacket, wondering when Miss Granger would make her bushy-haired appearance known.
·
While Professor Snape lounged in the kitchen, Hermione sighed contentedly. From her spot, she was hidden beneath a shade of leaves that shielded her from the dry heat of summer. The sunlight, darkly red as it drifted lower in the sky, allowed for just enough light to filter through that she could reading comfortably. All around her was the smell of dying grass, pungent but not quite so soothing as it was when it was full and green. It was a ghost of the smell which had so fueled her childhood.
For a moment, she sought out the memory, and it allowed her to forget who she was, why she was there, why she was hiding from her own thoughts. Viktor could not plague her here. Although he would forever be remembered in the Hogwarts library, this place… this place was hers and hers alone.
For nearly an hour, she hid beneath the shade of a tree that drooped over the edge of her parent's property. Then—then… she felt strangely, as if the wind blew heavier, or the sun shined darker. Her hair stood on end. Her fingers itched. If she hadn't known better, she might have said the time turner around her neck grew warm.
She stood up without pause, dropping her book as she did so, and grabbed her wand. She ran, as fast as she could, to the house, knowing…
At the sight of Professor Snape standing, sipping from a mug, the spell on her lips died. She skidded to a stop, nearly toppling over in her haste. Her fingers held her wand steady, however, trained right at his crooked, beak of a nose, and she was glad that her parents' guests were nowhere to be found. She had half a mind to hex him anyway... he deserved it, out of anyone she knew. But no spell left her lips.
As she leaned offensively towards him, wavering between action and stunned silence, her mother sent her a seething look over her shoulder, but it was not one of contempt or irritation, but of worry. She'd been washing the plates that they had, from the looks of it, been unable to use. Jean's worry deepened and she hesitated at the sight of the wand in her daughter's hand. Her husband instinctively stepped forward, words of discouragement on his lips.
Hermione refused to look at him and felt her face tightening into a scowl that could rival the potions master's, "What are you doing here?"
Snape spared a greeting in the form of quirking one dark, thick brow. It was disturbing how comfortably he wore Muggle clothing: a crisp white shirt (honestly, it was actually rather yellowed, but seemed blazingly white as she had never seen him wear anything but black) that hugged a body far too thin to be healthy, tucked into belted trousers made of fine, if worn, dark gray linen. It was too hot for a jacket, it seemed, as his was removed and draped over the back of a dining room chair—casually. How long had he been here, that he had made himself comfortable?
And what exactly was he doing here, anyway?
"Granger," he greeted, nodding towards her wand calmly. He wasn't afraid of her.
Scrawny, arrogant bastard!
"Snape," she snipped, dropping his title, as she never had before. Ron and Harry would be so angry they missed it.
As if sensing the sentiment of disobedience, his face turned slightly murderous.
"Hermione," her father began to say, his eyes trained on the wand in her hand to the darkening expression of their guest. He grew quiet when her eyes flew frantically to his, willing him to let her handle it. This was her world, not his.
For the first time, she thought he might be scared to see her wield it—and she wondered if she would be wrong about his forgiveness. In the end, could he ever understand her, ever understand why she was who she was, and why she hid that person from him?
"I have been sent by the headmaster to collect you," Snape hissed through clenched teeth, obviously irritated by her dallying, "It is his… wish that you board at a safe house this summer."
"Why should I trust that's the truth?"
"You shouldn't," the man said with a sneer, "But you have little choice in the matter, now, do you?"
Hermione was no longer at Hogwarts. This was her house, her domain—and he was risking her wrath by alerting her parents to what was going on. She wasn't exactly helping in that matter, but if she had to fight him to protect them she would, "How do I know it is really you, then?"
He glanced towards her father, who was watching them with an expression of apprehension, although maintaining a calm demeanor, "In your first year, I believe I gave you the worst grade of your life—an Acceptable."
Hermione glared at him, fucking git. Not so long ago, she'd wanted to be kind to him—well, that was before he'd taken liberties with her mind and now was teasing her. She kept his gaze, half-daring him to enter her thoughts, although she knew he would not dare, not again.
She did not lower her wand, "Anyone at Hogwarts could have known that story. I appealed to the headmaster for weeks to overturn that grade! It's practically a matter of public record."
"To no avail, if I recall correctly. It mars your record still."
"I deserved an Outstanding for that potion!"
She lifted her wand higher, a warning.
"That remains to be seen..." his eyes burned holes into the wall above her head when she did not relent, "For Merlin's—fine. In your third year, I saved you and your rotten friends from a flea-ridden werewolf by the name of Remus sodding Lupin. Is that proficient proof for you, impetuous girl?"
Jean dropped the plate and it shattered into the sink, "A flea-ridden what?"
"Oh, now, you've done it!" Hermione hissed towards him, finally dropping her wand, although she narrowly refrained from hexing him blind.
"WEREWOLF? A WEREWOLF, HERMIONE!"
Her mother lifted her hands to her mouth, swallowing a shrill shriek of horror.
"Mrs. Granger—" Her professor began to say, his expression smoothing into a blank, placid one of mild politeness. He hoped to find reason with her parents…
Hermione smirked at his very false assumption and for his foolish, foolish mistake. Her mother hated it when people called her 'Mrs.', even when they could not have known the difference.
"DOCTOR. DOCTOR Granger," her mother bellowed at Snape, who looked slightly startled—perhaps the first time she had ever seen such an expression on his face—her mother softened slightly, for propriety's sake more than anything else, "I am a doctor, no thanks to you and several thanks to myself for enduring numerous years of mind-numbing post-secondary education to earn the damn title!"
"The apple doesn't fall very far, does it?" Snape muttered.
If he was a less observant man, her father would have laughed. But Hogarth was looking at his daughter as if he had never seen her before.
Jean seemed torn between yelling at Snape and pretending she hadn't seen him. Instead, she spun on her daughter, "Werewolves? WEREWOLVES? You never said anything about werewolves, Hermione! At school?"
Feeling rebellious, Hermione muttered, "I never said anything about vampires or dragons, either—"
Jean Granger paled slightly at the mention of dragons: she was deathly afraid of reptiles—the idea that somewhere, out there, a dragon was flying around would have be unnerving for her. Hogarth grimaced when she floundered for words, struck with fear, and Hermione looked away, knowing that was a mistake she would regret later.
Her father had known about werewolves, because he'd been paying attention that first day, that day when McGonagall had told her what she was. It had taken her mother two years to get accustomed to the idea of her daughter being a witch—it would take centuries for her to accept werewolves as fact, too.
And a million more for her to not think about dragons every time she left the house.
Suddenly remembering, her mother scanned the surrounding area, "Where's Dean? Aren't you supposed to be in London for the night?—no wands in the kitchen, young lady—Why are your pants covered in dirt? Please don't tell me you went on a date looking like that!"
Hermione felt her face flush when her professor's eyes crept over towards her, his face being drawn into a smug expression that made her want to hex him.
"Mum—"
"What is going on, Hermione?"
The witch looked to her father, for his never-ending stream of support, but his face was stonier than Professor Snape's. She glanced to the potions master—vainly, as he was perfectly content to let her struggle. When she kept looking at him, she made a pointed look with her face, drawing his dark eyes to hers.
His sharp, angular features contorted, before his eyes grew far more magnetizing. His entrance into her mind was fluid, gentle even.
Help me, she pleaded.
Help yourself.
Her temples itched when he spoke into her mind and she wrinkled her nose at him. The sneer he wore in response was primeval, and she cursed his greasy head for being so difficult and unhelpful.
"Mum, Dad…" she began to say, unsure of where to start, "I don't know what to say, really."
"It's always best to start with the truth, isn't it?" Her father said.
She felt a stab of guilt when his eyes drew away from her coldly.
Her mother wrung her hands, "Professor Snape says you're in danger."
Hermione flashed him a furious glare. He seemed unremoved by it and merely plucked invisible lint from his cuff.
She lowered her voice and tried to sound calm, "I… perhaps. I admit, there's some things I haven't told you about—"
Jean interrupted, sensing this was going to be a long conversation, "Shall we sit?"
Hermione shrugged, "You might need to—I, Mum… it's not that I haven't tried—"
"More coffee?" Her mother was avoiding the conversation, despite having cornered her into it. She spoke towards Severus, as if she hadn't just screeched at him, brown eyes full of worry. Hogarth, beside her, stared out the window, brooding.
The potions master declined with a terse shake of his head.
"Mum," she said, a slight whine.
Jean grabbed her husband's arm and tugged him towards the table, foregoing the tea she'd been preparing altogether and replacing it with coffee. He shrugged her off, crossing his arms to watch his daughter with a blank expression, choosing to stand behind his sitting wife rather than take a seat himself.
"It's nothing to worry about, really," Hermione lied, as smoothly as she could, "But, er, I've agreed to help Harry this summer—"
"Harry? Help him with what?"
Professor Snape seemed uncomfortable, then, and he slunk towards the entryway, pulling his wand from a hiding place she could not discern—perhaps his sleeve. Hermione watched him warily, and tried to find the words, and wove a tale she thought they would accept.
When he cast a protective spell, she felt her gut clench slightly. She hadn't thought about her parents needing protection. What if her being there, with them, was dangerous?
Had her actions put them at risk?
"It all started with Harry, when he was a baby…"
She ignored Snape's snort from the dining room and continued.
·
"Dean Thomas, Miss Granger? That's a rather sudden change of heart, isn't it?"
Hermione jumped at the sound of Professor Snape's voice, instinctively reaching for her wand.
When she turned to him, she bowed her head. Her face was still sort of puffy and red from crying—she'd argued with her parents for nearly two hours before they had agreed to let her go off with Professor Snape. He'd hardly been any help in convincing them to feel comfortable with it. The looming man (when he felt it pertinent to be present) merely kept repeating that Dumbledore required her and so he would bring her to the 'safe house', quickly if she could manage it.
The half-truths Hermione had told had nearly undone at the word 'safe-house'—and again when her mother had inquired to what the man was doing with his wand. He had answered that he was warding the perimeter against wizards, to which both Jean and Hermione had begun to cry.
It was almost as if Snape wanted her parents to make this difficult for her. She could only assume he was punishing her for being friends with Harry, or for setting him on fire, or perhaps for stealing from his stores in second year. Maybe, maybe he was just so miserable he enjoyed making his students' lives hell.
How could you ever possibly imagine being nice to him?
She ignored his pestering question, shoving an armful of her underclothes into the trunk when she realized they were still in her arms. Feeling her cheeks pink at the thought that he had even seen them at all, she shoved a bunch of jumpers on top of them for good measure. In the distance, she could hear her parents talking heatedly, still arguing about letting her go.
"You can't possibly be fighting this, Hogarth! They can protect her!"
"Protect her? They're the ones who got her in this mess!"
"It's not their fault—"
"A school for wizards—how could we have been so stupid to let her go—"
"You were the one who wanted it for her—"
"Don't you dare! We both knew she was different from the moment she was born! To deny this of her would have been…"
"Worse? Nothing can be worse than this! Our baby… oh, Hogarth. We can't do anything to help her, can we? What else can we do, but let her go?"
Their voices died and Hermione knew they had come to a consensus. They were accepting what they needed to: that she needed to join the others.
Surprisingly, her father wanted her to stay—her mother wanted her to leave. How could the tables have turned so quickly?
The potions master sneered at her, "He was a suitor even Trelawney could not have wished upon you. Then again… no amount of Divination could ever predict you would be fool enough to fall for that oaf of a Bulgarian, either."
Oaf? Oaf? Viktor was more of a man than Snape could ever be!
"My personal life is none of your business, Professor."
"On the contrary: your love life has been front page news for weeks, at least until Potter stole the spotlight from you. It's everyone's business." He continued to prod at her injured pride, "And everyone's dying to know, Granger: is it Potter or Krum that's stolen your heart? If I didn't have firsthand knowledge, I would be asking myself the same question..."
How could I ever want to be nice to him?
At her silence, he clucked his tongue, "How disappointed Skeeter will be to know it's Dean Nobody Thomas, instead. Mr. Krum will be heartbroken, I'm sure. Well, more heartbroken than he already is."
"Oh, shut UP, will you?"
Hermione did not want to talk about Viktor Krum with Snape—Snape, who had all but plucked every single one of the memories of her limited sexual experience from her mind. She didn't need him to stir up the emotions she hadn't been able to swallow for two weeks, plus the time she'd spent turning.
"Touchy subject, Miss Granger? Tsk, tsk. I never took you for such a tactile learner, but I digress."
"How dare you!" She threw up her hands, "First, you—you rifle through my memories like pages of a book, then you shove them in my face like, like—"
"You invited me in, girl," he reminded her, making it a point to step into her bedroom as he did so, although his nose pinched up at the books she had begun to organize in stacks around her trunk.
"You had no right to take all of—"
"Contrary to popular belief, it is not so easy to break from someone's mind when they've literally pulled you into it—especially not when they keep you there against your will out of sheer need to prove a bloody point," he snapped at her, "Trust me, Granger, it was not a pleasant experience for either of us. I advise you to consider that fact the next time you proposition someone in such a way."
She glared at him, but felt like a fool: had she truly done it to herself? She didn't know whether to trust his word or spit on it.
Eventually, his smirk deepened into a scowl, "Not that it matters, but I've omitted what I can. Consider yourself fortunate in my graciously preserving your… modesty, if you could call it as such."
"You omitted… but you would need someone to—"
"The headmaster was happy to oblige me."
Hermione stopped shuffling through her clothes, and turned. The headmaster had… her face melted into one of mortification, before she promptly burst into tears.
Would she ever be free of his meddling?
Snape allowed her a moment to cry into her hands, only, before she heard him sniff indignantly, "Fucking hell."
She lifted her face from her hands, her sob turning into a sour frown. He stood stiffly in the center of her room, looking out of place even with his Muggle trousers and shirt and jacket. The look on his face was remorseless, cold and unfeeling, except for a gritting, irritated mouth and rolling eyes.
"Pull yourself together, Granger—I don't have all summer for these endless hormonal roller-coasters of yours. At this rate you'll have three before you make it down the stairs."
She choked down the next wail at that and spat, "You're a bastard."
"I never claimed otherwise, but it might behoove you to know that in the literal sense I am not, indeed, a bastard," he admitted, although his face seemed solemn when he said so, "And I am still your professor, Granger."
"Oh, my apologies. You're a bastard—figuratively speaking, of course, sir. How rude of me not to specify!"
He let out a barking, bitter laugh which startled her slightly. She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to reign in the emotions that had escaped her in his presence for what seemed like the umpteenth time in three hours. The sound of his chortle echoed in her brain, puncturing her temple in that way his mind had when he'd pilfered through it.
What a mess you've made, Hermione—a right mess.
She tried to gather the rest of her things, but must have been too slow for the potions master's liking. With a wave of wand, the rest of her belongings began to pile in her trunk, shrinking as they did so. When it was all finished—far quicker than she could have ever managed without magic—Hermione stood in her room, looking around at all of her stuffed animals (few that there were), the books of her childhood (far more than any other child she had known) and the bright yellow bedspread and matching curtains that she had chosen when she was twelve years old. The tears dried on her cheek as she did so, feeling quite unable to leave it just yet.
The room was still rather full, even with all of her magical belongings gone. Many of her books, novels, were left behind, as well as the artifacts of a younger, more innocent girl. There were science kits, unopened, stacked in her closet, a trunk full of dress-up clothes (even she was prone to such things as a young girl), and a drawer on which sat a novelty lamp in the shape of a moon, filled with crystalline beads in all sorts of colors.
For the first time, she realized that this was the room of a little girl… a little girl she hardly recognized anymore: who preferred bright yellow to soft, subtle blue; whose favorite book was Les Miserables rather than Hogwarts: A History; who would have given anything for a friend, rather than risk everything to protect one. Who had thought life would be wondrous rather than… messy.
Rubbing the salty tears from her cheeks, knowing that she could only move forward (unless she used the time turner) she bid the room, and her innocence, goodbye.
In her haste and silent anger, she did not see the potions master look into the room wearing a small, weary frown, nor did she see him touch a hesitant fingertip to the worn cover of a book, Unclouding the Mind, where she had tossed in on the wingback chair beside her door after arriving..
He shrunk and pocketed the book and took his time in following after her.
·
Hogarth traced his hands over his wife's shoulders, trying to quell the shaking that the events had caused her to suffer from. She was not an emotional woman, Jean, but where it concerned their daughter, she could feel very deeply, too deeply, to the point of mania. Her need for perfection, for clarity and logic, warred with her desire to protect her daughter, her desire for her happiness and wellness, and it did her body no good in the process.
She wanted the best for her, just as he did, but was not so certain how to achieve that as he was. The most logical thing to do would be to keep her with them, always, but that was not a healthy thing to offer a child. A growing girl needed independence.
Jean wanted her daughter to be well-raised, but above all, she wanted her safe. And what hope could they have to protect her from wizards who wanted her and her friends dead?
While he knew she thought going with this man, this Professor Snape, would benefit Hermione, Hogarth was more attune to his instincts than she was. He did not think this was good for his daughter—not after seeing her lift her wand against him. The dentist had seen the anger on her face when she looked at him, the twisting frown that he had never seen worn on her delicate, sunny features in all his life. This was not the daughter he remembered, young, happy, and innocent, but a young woman who was prepared to… well, hex the man who claimed to be her teacher. No, she was a witch who would delve into a fight, even with her father's eyes upon him, if it meant there was danger that threatened him.
Jean believed her fibs—she thought that Harry was in danger because of his being famous in their world and that because Hermione was his friend that she wanted to be there for him during a trying time. Hogarth, however, knew his daughter better. Just like he had known that she was lying about Dean Thomas, he knew she was keeping things from them. She was careful to fret them with truths, but he knew them as what they were. Professor Snape said nothing to deter her, but his explanation had been far more resounding in validity than hers.
She'd told them so many lies, that he knew. How many more had she fed them in the past? How many would she spare them in the future?
"Hermione," he said when she appeared, looking determined. He tried to sound reasonable, but his voice betrayed him. It was harsher than he wanted it to be. He was displeased and he wanted her to know it. She should be disappointed in herself, for letting this get this far without their help. For not trusting them. For not trusting him.
Gone were the bright eyes of hope and excitement from the girl whose greatest dreams were coming true. In their place was a deep, careworn gaze, full of knowledge that she should not yet have, burdened by duty, and they fell when they met his, guiltily looking to her feet like a child.
"I'm sorry this is so sudden—I didn't realize," she began to say. They had agreed to let her go, but he was still reluctant. She was preparing for another fight.
"It's alright," Jean managed, "Harry needs you. We understand that this is for the best, for your safety."
His daughter's eyes flitted to the floor and he knew she was thinking: No, you don't understand. You don't and you can't.
Would they ever understand her world? How much of it was different—or the same—as theirs?
She seemed willing to leave knowing he was angry with her and nodded. She set her shoulders, preparing to turn, "I have to go."
Knowing his daughter, she would do this with or without his permission. The world that had swayed her away from them had its hooks in her, and by the expression of her pallid professor, she doubted they would let her out of their reach for very long.
She knew it, too. This was more than just a Bulgarian. His daughter had never been one for wantonness, for yearning and moping over base things like relationships—how could he not have seen it—that she was no longer a child, but a woman, who could see the world for what it was? She was still so young, young enough that she would need time to adjust to the change… but not so young that she would fight against it, as another teenager might have.
Wanting nothing more than to pull her close and shield her from the world, he found his voice and said, "No hug good-bye for your old dad?"
Those eyes of hers, golden and liquid, lifted to his and he could see relief sag her shoulders. No matter what she did, he would always be proud of her. For some unknown reason, he knew he should feel proud of her even then, proud that she was his: for whatever she was doing, she was doing it for the right reasons. It didn't make him think she was any safer, but it made him glad that he could raise a decent human being, who would do what was right rather than what was easy.
She fell into his arms, much like she had as a child, falling until she stumbled and he could and would catch her, as he always had. With steady hands, he lifted her close, burying his face in her bushy, unkempt hair and breathing in the scent of her. His daughter smelt like grass and books and, briefly, he remembered the smell of her when she was only a handful of limbs and a tender, precious skull with tufts of brown hair. She'd been soft and new, so terribly vulnerable.
Her limbs were stronger, she was taller and broader, but she was still his baby girl. A father's love was never easy—never—and it could not be forgotten from the moment they held such a package in their arms and knew, knew they were the ones who had helped created a life. It was their job to make certain that life was protected and respected, and loved.
As he clung to the memory of their daughter, Jean's arms looped around him so that her fingers grabbed at Hermione's shirt, adding scents of jasmine and mint to the grass and parchment. For a second, they were a unit, a family—and even though they would be parted, they could not be taken from each other. Not really.
When he lifted his face from Hermione's hair, his eyes locked with the obsidian black of the tall, unhandsome man across from him. Perhaps that was unkind of him to think, considering his downtrodden looks were the products of poor hygiene… mostly. The large, crooked nose was irremovable from his face, but given a good head-washing and a wealthy amount of dental work, the man could be striking, if not warm-bloodedly fair.
Just standing there, he looked out of place. His clothes were normal—Muggle, Hogarth corrected—but underneath them he was skin and muscle and magic. His form was tall, slender, lending him an advantage of being underestimated, considering he was more bone than flesh. Of course, he seemed uncomfortable when he entered, obviously intruding on a tender moment, and his features twisted into a disapproving frown.
If one truly looked, beyond the instinctual reactions, there was something dangerous about him—some sort of power that Hogarth doubted he would ever understand. If that sort of man was there to protect his daughter, then he should have felt uneasy, but there was more to the dark figure in the threshold than others would see at first glance: dignity, he imagined, despite his outward appearance, and integrity, although it would hide beneath biting words and seething glares. While he had feigned irritation with Hermione, he could tell by his movements and his posture that he was prepared to protect her from harm, to deflect danger from her.
Just by the way his eyes trailed over every inch of their house, inspecting it for weakness, while weaving magic into the structure, Hogarth knew this Snape was honor-bound to protect her. Whether it was on orders from the headmaster—whom he seemed to serve in more of a capacity than a mere employee—or because he cared, Hogarth was unsure. But he did not question it, knowing that Hermione would be safe wandering into the depths of hell, so long as this dark wizard was escorting her.
When dark eyes kept to his, he silently asked the man to protect his daughter, to keep her from harm—to use his darkness as a weapon of something lighter, and kinder, with a purpose that could spare Hogarth and his wife great heartaches. The man's face was stony, unmoving, but when he dropped his gaze he gave the barest of nods in agreement.
It was only then that Hogarth could release his daughter, and hope that it would be enough to keep her whole for a little while longer.
"Be good, Hermione. I love you."
She nodded, "I love you, too, Dad."
And then she was gone and his heart was all the heavier without her.