DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I am not J.K. (R.)

Thanks very much to excessivelyperky for beta-ing this work, adding depth to the characters, and generally expanding my perception of the HP universe. Much love to you!

Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll

"Because there is a B in both and an N in neither"--Aldous Huxley

Chapter 2

The next day, Hermione regained her composure and managed to go downstairs so she could use the floo.

"Hullo, mate, stop bothering me and Ginny and go after your significant other!" Harry poked at Ron in a jocular manner, observing her descent down the stairs.

Ron was only too eager to please. His eyes lit up like a hous elf who had been called to serve as he lazily budged up to meet her.

"Morning, 'Mione," he said, a nervous edge coming to his voice, and Hermione noticed with chagrin that his ears were already flushing red—as they had every time he talked to her since the Battle of Hogwarts. She flashed him a tired but courageous smile.

"Good morning to you too, Ronald, Harry, Ginny," she said, carelessly diverting attention from what could easily become a tête-à-tête. Ignoring Ron's miffed expression, she took a few careful steps towards the kitchen. "I'll be going to Hogwarts to pick up my potions. Someone let Molly know I won't be gone too long."

"We will, Hermione," Ginny said drowsily, from where her head was buried in Harry's chest.

As she left Ron standing there, obviously with words on his tongue, Hermione had the distinct impression that her days of reclusiveness had taken a toll on her relationship with the boys.

You need to have it out with Ron, she told herself firmly, once you're back and feeling tops.

As she thought about that, she stepped into the floo, muttering aloud, "Hogwarts Infirmary."

Three seconds later, she emerged on the immaculate threshold of the Hospital Wing and brushed the soot off of the worn jeans and loose cardigan she wore in favor of robes. She was not surprised to see no one around at the moment, so headed towards the direction of Madame Pomfrey's office.

"But Poppy! I love him!"

This shrill exclamation made Hermione nearly jump out of her skin. It took her a moment to recognize the voice of Madame Pince, the librarian, particularly because the blatant declaration of love was followed by a heavy series of sobs.

"Oh, Irma, Irma, it's going to be all right, don't fret, please? He wouldn't have said such things, if he knew the truth."

At least Healer Pomfrey was there. Hermione quickly decided that it would be better that she announced her presence to those inside the office; she had no intentions of listening to the rather surprising lamentations of the Hogwarts librarian. Hermione felt that she had enough on her plate without adding extra drama.

"Madame Pomfrey?" she called, and was rewarded by the quick action of the nurse.

"Why, gracious, Irma, it's nearly eight. Give me a moment, love, and let me take care of Miss Granger, all right? Come in, Miss Granger!"

Hermione entered the office somewhat stiffly, not knowing how Madame Pince would react to her entrance. "Good morning to you both," she said, slightly formal in tone.

Pomfrey smiled warmly and inclined her head, but Pince refused to even look at the young woman. Turning her chair, Madame Pomfrey rose and went to her potions shelves to retrieve what Hermione needed, while Madame Pince put down her teacup and an unfolded letter on Pomfrey's desk.

"All right," Pince sniffed, continuing their conversation, "I'm sorry about this. I should just be happy he's alive, shouldn't I?"

"There's a practical Ravenclaw," Madame Pomfrey approved, still rummaging. "And how are you this morning, Miss Granger?"

Somewhat petulant, Hermione grimaced. "If it's all the same to you, I'm feeling rather shoddy." Her own thoughts were still on her frustrations with Ron, and she was in too much in emotional and physical pain to bother with niceties. "Sorry," she added as Madame Pince's critical (albeit a bit wet) eyes came upon her.

"Well," Pince said, sharply rising, her voice a bit tight, "I daresay I need to get a hobby. He's right about that, you know."

This was obviously a continuation of their previous conversation. Hermione wondered as to whom this 'he' was. Someone they thought had died, it was evident, but beyond the fact that he had told Madame Pince to get herself something to do outside of the library, she had nothing to work with.

"Perhaps, Irma," Madame Pomfrey said, in a dismissive tone that she seemed to have borrowed from McGonagall.

Madame Pince fidgeted, looking at Hermione. "Poppy," she said, carefully, "Would you…would you deal with the reply? I don't think my dignity could bear it."

"Certainly, just leave it on the desk," Pomfrey replied, and then hinted more strongly, "I'll talk to you later, Irma."

The librarian bowed her head. "Of course. Thank you, Poppy, and I'll see you at dinner."

With that, she shuffled out of the office, her dainty library slippers noiseless on the infirmary's tiled floor.

"Don't mind Irma, Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey said with a sigh, as she selected bottles from her cabinets, unfazed. "She's had a bit of a shock, and you've always been a little bit of a thorn in her side."

"Oh," Hermione replied, not too nonplussed. It had always aggravated her that one of the few authority figures who disliked her at Hogwarts was the librarian of all people, but she was unsurprised at Pince's reserved and rather rude actions. Ah, well, I don't care much any more. I'm not coming back to study at Hogwarts again, just for N.E.W.T.s and that's it.

The healer and the student shared a brief silence while Pomfrey went through Hermione's prescriptions, checking bottles and concentrations against what she was ordered to take.

"Have you been out of the antidepressant, too?" she asked Hermione pointedly. "Your last refill was in June of last year, and I doubt that you've managed to make the supply stretch, even though I got you enough to last six months, what with you hiding heaven knows where."

Sitting down in Pince's abandoned chair, Hermione sadly lamented her case. She had been on antidepressant potions, on and off, for some time since the return of Voldemort. She had a lot of fears in general—of not being good enough in her classes, of not being liked because she was Muggle-born, of being uglier than all the other girls, of losing the only boy who fancied her at all—but when she learned that her life was threatened by some pure-blooded maniac, she had an explosive anxiety attack in front of McGonagall, who suggested her case to Pomfrey. With the help of the medications, and reserving her tears to when she was completely alone, she managed to keep her composure in front of the boys so that she could be a grounded pillar for them even if she could not for herself.

The medication really did help her keep her worst fears and such bottled, but when she went off the stuff abruptly, all the emotion swelled to the surface, and she had to have a good long cry. She had run out of the last drop sometime when in hiding in the Forest of Dean with Harry, and had her big out-flux of emotion then, but she was painfully aware that doing without the medication for months had been a detriment to her stability.

"Yes, I suppose I have been," she remarked, in a comment meant to be sarcastic at first, but she toned the bitterness down just a little with the rational realization that Pomfrey did not deserve such treatment.

The healer was pointedly objective in her tone when she asked, "Do you still need it?"

Hermione sighed. "I think so. I've not been very…stable emotionally, and I…I did something really very foolish last week that I think was because I wasn't in control of myself."

"What was that?" Pomfrey sounded concerned, but not upset. It was hard to get the phlegmatic Hufflepuff ruffled.

Feeling her throat constrict, Hermione swallowed. "I kissed a boy I'm not in love with."

"Oh, piffle. That's nothing."

"Not when it's a Weasley boy. Then it's practically an engagement."

Pomfrey's big brown eyes settled on Hermione. "You poor dear," she said softly. "You want me to have a word with Molly?"

"Oh!" It would be nice to get that cleared up so easily, Hermione thought, but then she realized that she would probably lose Ron's respect if she didn't tell him herself. "Well, I hadn't considered how to tackle that problem, exactly," she said, feeling immature and timid. "You see, I haven't told Ron yet that I don't …fancy him."

"Well, once you've told him, if you have any trouble with Molly, let me have a word with her. I've a way with mothers, you know, particularly the kind that treats their boys like they were girls. For gracious' sake!" she added, clearly commenting on the Weasley boys' upbringing. "I've had Miss Ginevra up here for contraception potions lor' knows how many times, and yet I've never heard once of a Weasley boy shagging the daylights out of some girl in a broom closet. For crying out loud. Pansies, all of 'em."

She went back to checking potions, and Hermione watched, feeling sick to her stomach as she realized that Ginny was by no means the blooming virgin she put on airs about around Harry, and she felt a little bit betrayed at the information. Her nausea was further worsened by the fact that the basket intended for her was becoming more and more full.

"Are there other manifestations of your emotions, however? I trust your assessment that you don't feel stable, emotionally, particularly so soon after your experience with the Cruciatus curse, but I must have further details to write in your report."

Hermione shrugged, feeling like a sinner at confessional. "My temper is worse than it's ever been, and I can't say I've ever had the best of tempers before. I've spent most of the last week in seclusion because since the Final Battle I can't stop lashing out at everyone."

Pomfrey bit her lip, obviously thinking about something else when she absently asked, "Were you told to stay away from everyone at The Burrow or was it your choice?"

"Oh, my choice, of course," Hermione assured her, feeling bitter about the fact that her friends had left her so alone, "but nobody seemed to care. And it made me sad." Her throat was tighter, and Hermione closed her eyes to hide her imminent tears.

"Anything else?"

Hermione bit her tongue. "I've…had bad dreams. About the Battle."

"Is it just the blood and gore, or do you see your memories?"

"Oh, memories," whispered Hermione, clenching her fists and twisting the hem of her robe in one hand.

"You can tell me about them, if you like," Pomfrey said. Hermione heard the healer sitting down at her desk to sort through the bottles.

Swish thump. Swish thump. Hermione heard bottles being placed on the desk, her sense of hearing accentuated with the darkness of her closed eyes.

"I see Bellatrix Black doing…what she did to me, I guess. I see people I know and love, dying all around me. Fred. Professor Lupin. Tonks. They look at me and I feel like I could have done something to help them. They're accusing me. Every night, accusing me, telling me how much I've failed them. And my parents."

Her tears were flowing down her face, and she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder to wipe them away, not opening her eyes still.

"I see my parents more often than others, which is strange considering how little I've seen of them since I came to the world of magic. Just summers. But they look so disappointed. And I hate the fact that they're so disappointed in me."

"Mhm." Pomfrey sounded neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. Sensing that she could go on with confidence, Hermione continued.

"But then I see…I see Professor Snape attacked by Nagini. He doesn't even look at me. He just raises his wand hand, then drops it, and Nagini attacks him, and he falls to the ground, and his blood spurts everywhere, all over my shoes. Sometimes Nagini is wearing glasses, and then little Scabbers comes out of nowhere and starts biting Snape too, and then I decide to yank out his jugular vein with my teeth like I was some sort of werewolf. And then…"

She breathed deeply. Pomfrey, from what she could tell via her hearing, was sitting stock still.

"…then, always, I look at my hands, and they're covered with blood. His blood. I know it's his blood, even when I haven't even touched him in the dream. And sometimes, when he's clearly dead, suddenly I hear Ron cursing—as though he were there—and then Professor Snape rises again like an inferi, and he floats towards me, and…strangles me."

"What do you think it all means?" Pomfrey's voice was soft, as though lamenting that one so young should have to dream of such things.

"I'm no bloody good at divination, but it occurs to me that I'm combining memories of the last time I was in the Shrieking Shack with Professor Snape and Harry—when we knocked out the Professor because we thought he was the enemy, and then when we saw him die."

At this, Hermione lost all sense of reason. In a rambling manner, she began to mutter, "I as good as killed him. All I did was stand there, and I didn't help him, and he just died. I don't even remember if I screamed when it really happened or not, or if I tried to scream and nothing came out, but it's very clear that I'm the one who never tried, and just let him bleed to death there on the floor. I can't bear…it."

Her composure thoroughly demolished, and she settled back into the chair, which (being magically enchanted) hugged her close like a mother would do, as she sobbed. Pomfrey remained silent in the duration, not moving, not saying anything.

A few minutes later, Hermione disentangled herself from the chair's arms and opened her eyes. Pomfrey had put a bottle in front of her, with a teaspoon, and she looked very concerned.

"You might as well take two tablespoons of the Mental Frost Melter, along with a few licks of rock salt for good measure," Pomfrey suggested kindly. "I'll supply you with Dreamless Sleep, of course, for a duration of two months."

With a nod, Hermione complied, removing the wax from the antidepressant bottle and pouring some for herself in the medication spoon. The warm, Christmasy taste slid down her throat, lifting her spirits as quickly as a Yule log could light a cold dark room. Hermione felt immediately less sad, and smiled.

"On that note, while I'm giving you orders," Pomfrey added weightily, "You might want to tell Professor Snape thanks-a-lot for all of these medications you're taking. Not like many others ever showed him an ounce of gratitude," she added rather petulantly under her breath.

Hermione nodded, frowning. "How do you suggest I do that?" she asked.

"Just take a look at that letter that Irma left."

She had been eyeing it since she had come in the door. Hermione, given permission by Pomfrey, saw no need to protest that it was Madame Pince's letter.

This is what it read.

Madame Pince:

I trust that the contents of this letter may be shocking to you. I beg of you, please control yourself. It would never do for this information to be broadcast to the populace on account of your lack of tact. Too often I hear your banshee's voice shrieking at hapless students for dropping books, even down in my dungeons.

However, since I know that you are a librarian with a real passion for your trade, you might prove useful to me. In the event of a Final Battle held at Hogwarts, I am fairly certain that you, of all people, will avoid death. You're not stupid enough to leap into battle like a bloody Gryffindor, you're not going to get killed by tending the wounded like a Hufflepuff, and you're certainly not going to choose the wrong side with the majority of Slytherins. If you do any of these, I assure you that you are a fool, but that is far from the point of this letter. I do not think you will be listed when the death tolls are taken, mostly because the only thing you give a damn about is your books. I think I'm safe to say that all YOU will do in the event of a great fight is barricade yourself in the library, armed but only dangerous to those who threaten your sacred tomes. I believe your chances of survival are the highest of any adult in the school, and that's why I'm sending this to you.

If I have not succeeded in insulting you yet, then I wish to call your attention to today's date (and by that I mean the date you are reading this). It is most likely seven days after the Battle at Hogwarts (which I know to be inevitable) has taken place, and it is probably assumed that I am dead, even though my body has not been found. This, as you may presume by the receipt of this letter, is WRONG, providence allowing (God forgive my arrogance).

Some time ago, I discovered an enchantment that, at the death of the victim, is capable of sending the soul to a past period in history to start a new life. You probably have not heard of it, as it is rather obscure, but it is known informally as the Romulus/Julius Enchantment, or formally as the 'Ego peragro vicis in meus somes' spell. (Shortened: Peragro Vicis.) Don't ask what I was searching for when I found it. I made some modifications that allowed me to manipulate the spell by translating its magic into a potion, and to better estimate my time of arrival.

So, if the fates are treating me right, if I'm due another chance to play on the world's stage, then I'm currently in 1848. While I am missing and presumed dead to your time, I have been resurrected in the past. You will find details about me if I do anything interesting; my adopted name is to be Severus Alighieri Dawkins

I have two requests for you upon your receipt of this, and then I ask no more. First, I would like an account—from you or another reputable source, NOT the Daily Prophet—of the Final Battle. Not detailed, but I should like to know who died, and who won, and what that fool boy Harry Potter said and did (since he was certain to steal the show before he died) and particularly how my reputation stands.

In case it stands badly, I must decree this: YES I have been Dumbledore's spy for half my life, and once I changed sides I never crossed that particular line again. Why did I do so? If you don't already know, then say so in your account of the battle. I might—or might not—choose to enlighten you.

Second, there is a small bag with coins in my rooms (not in the dungeons, but in the Headmaster's Quarters). If the rooms have not been ransacked for whatever reason, it shall come to you if you say the password 'Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped.' (1) I need not remind you what lore THAT preludes, Pince. Just mind to have your hand up to catch the bag, lest you get a nasty blow to the face. What will you do with these, the letter and the bag, to convey them to me? A small antique wooden writing desk, about two and a half feet long and one and a half feet wide, and about eight inches tall at its highest point is also in my room. It has no legs; it is meant to be taken, I am told, to write with while traveling in a carriage. (Not that I have any experience in testing its efficiency. Loyd at Borgin and Burke's claims it will work well, however.) It is currently likely sitting on the steamer chest in my closet. If it is not on top, it is likely inside the chest. I do have another writing desk that is very plain, and made of teak; that is NOT the desk in question. The writing desk that I speak of has some floral decoration carved in its surface. There is a twin of this writing desk that I have access to in 1848. I have spelled the one in your time to be able to transfer items that you put in it to my copy in my time. If, for some reason you cannot find the desk, or it is burnt or otherwise destroyed, then I suppose I shall know simply by the fact that nothing materializes in my copy within the week. That is your time allowance, Pince. One week from the day you receive this letter to accomplish this task, and then you will be rid of me. A bag of gold and a letter of information; that is my final request of your time.

I suppose you may be wondering, if I anticipated my own death in the battle, then why did I simply not make some potions to prevent it? Simply stated: I don't have a single bloody thing to look forward to in this world. Surviving my death in your time would suit no purpose. I hardly think that people will look kindly at a Death Eater who survives the war (if we win), reformed, spy, or otherwise. If I were Lucius Malfoy—rich, in love, with a family—I might well bear it.

But I have endured no small number of hardships in this world. My parents were far from perfect—my mother was a stupid woman who married my Muggle father without a care beyond her own lust, abandoning the Princes, which could have been MY family if they had not disenherited her for it—my father was a boor who hated how she deceived him and cared only for his own hide and daily pint—though, of the two, I suppose I hate my mother the most. My personal history besides has been rather tragic, though I doubt you're interested and I honestly don't want to waste my time telling you. In any case, I'm fairly certain that Azkaban awaits me, or else the life of a pariah who ought to be in Azkaban, if I had survived in your time. I could have chosen to live to run away, in the perfect Slytherin fashion, but I doubt that a life in hiding would be far from peaceful.

Contrary to popular opinion, I want to pursue a quiet, normal life. That's all I ask. That's also another reason why I chose you, Pince, to help me. You prefer the company of stacks of books to the company of people. I prefer my cauldrons, but it amounts to the same thing. I suspect that you can understand my plight.

I beg of you, don't tell the world about this. Let people puzzle over my missing corpse as long as they care; I'm sure it won't be long before the issue is unceremoniously dropped. If you must tell someone—and I suspect, you being a woman, you'll be unable to keep your mouth shut—tell Poppy Pomfrey. (She's likely the only person who ever gave a damn for me at this ruddy school.) No one else. Particularly not Harry Potter.

If I don't take the items 24 hours after you put them in the desk, then don't worry that you did something wrong. The Peragro Vicis probably did not work, in that case, and I'm probably really dead. It was rather experimental, after all.

Thanks in advance.

Severus T. Snape

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

That's why they never found his body. He had left our time entirely.

Of course, while she digested the epistle, she remembered her guilt and her dreams, and felt an enormous amount of relief. So he's not really dead. I didn't do anything wrong. Neglecting him was what he wanted. Oh my goodness.

The next thought that struck Hermione was the fact that Snape's middle name began with the letter T, of all things. I would have wagered on an S, she mused, but then she realized that Pomfrey had violated Snape's trust in allowing her to read the letter.

Still, her overall impression was that Snape was uncommonly kind in his letter. There were a few barbs, but not nearly so many as usually affected his speech, and not nearly so sharp as usual. After all, she supposed he was asking a favor. So what was Pince crying about? He wasn't nearly so abrasive in the letter as in life…

It was clear to her nagging conscience, however, that the letter revealed how he had no desire to live beyond the Battle. Leaving him to die without raising a finger probably confirmed his opinion that it was no use to even try to live.

"I trust you will have fewer dreams about Professor Snape, now," Pomfrey said with a sad smile, and Hermione understood why Pomfrey had let her read it. She managed a smile in return.

"I think so," Hermione said. Then curiosity became her dominant emotion. It was refreshing, for the first time in a week, to be able to be interested in something external. "Have you heard of this enchantment before?"

Pomfrey replied in the negative. "No indeed. It's one of the most extraordinary things I've ever heard. I've had men come back to life, but never like this. I only pray that it worked. He did deserve a second shot at life, if there ever was a man who deserved it. Now," she added, "I think it would be of some medical benefit to you to be the one to reply to Severus' letter. You're overridden with survivor's guilt, of a sort, and it would help you to end your nightmares to have some contact with him. You can tell him that, in case he balks—he's got plenty of experience with nightmares, and he'll understand. Besides," she muttered wistfully, "Pince dropped the task on me, and I don't have any time to be writing news reports for time-traveling men."

"Of course I'll do it!" Hermione exclaimed, her heart immediately less heavy.

"Need I remind you that it was his express wish to keep this matter confidential?" Pomfrey's tone indicated that she was suspicious of her patient's apparent lightness, which might later lead inadvertently to flippancy. "As his past caregiver—until he went to the past, that is—I still have much concern for his welfare. I think it would be beneficial to him to talk to you, just as much as it would benefit you to talk to him. I think I'll enclose a snippet to that affect, actually. He won't dare object if it's by my orders."

"Can't mention it to anyone," Hermione reiterated.

"Except myself and Irma."

Awkward as she thought of Madame Pince's But Poppy! I love him!, Hermione frowned.

Misinterpreting the gesture, Poppy added, "She may have forsaken her interest for now, but believe me, that soul's too curious for her own good. She'll be hounding you soon enough, once I let on to her about what leaving letters about can lead to."

"All right," Hermione said, resigned to the task of dealing with the unctuous librarian.

So saying, she finished the medical proceedings with Pomfrey, signed out her potions, and took her basket with her to the Headmaster's Quarters.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

(1) Dickens, The Final Battle, Part the First.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .