DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I am not J.K. (R.)
Thanks very much to excessivelyperky for beta-ing! Fantastic job!
Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing
"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll
"In the same way that Readin', 'Ritin', and 'Rithmetic' arrrrre."—Living history actor in Prescott AZ.
Chapter 4
After Severus finally closed his eyes to the world of his birth, he waited some time—how long he could not estimate—until he heard something like the call of a bird.
Opening his eyes, he found himself in the protective shelter of a field of barley; the golden stalks waved in the wind, tickled his limp body, and apparently hid him from the view of anyone who might be nearby. He could see the sky from where he lay, and it was mostly clear, with the occasional shredded-coconut cloud. Certainly, he could tell that wherever he was, it was not the Shrieking Shack, Hogwarts, or Spinner's End. He could not help but be relieved at this.
His clothes were tight, scratchy, and suffocating with heat, but none of these was unusual. It occurred to him that he was thankful to be dressed in his ordinary manner; at least he was not in some primitive garb or worse, naked. Somehow, he always supposed that since Adam and Eve were originally bare in the Garden of Eden, when they were immune to evil, everybody in heaven would be similarly unclothed. At least, if this is heaven, I get to retain my modesty.
He felt that his muscles might ossify if he remained still much longer, and moved a tender hand from the warm earth beneath him. First, he brushed back his hair; second, he drew a few wispy stalks of barley away from his face; and third, he touched his neck.
He had no idea what to expect after Nagini's attack, and the hideous gash that ran from under his jaw to nearly his breastbone did not disappoint. However, what he did not expect was the feeling that the wound was closed, knitted together, and indeed already healed. Neither was the collar of his shirt soaked with blood. The scar tissue was all that remained of the fatal attack.
"Can I speak?" he asked suddenly, being rhetorical of course. The question was unnecessary, but the words themselves were. It relieved him immensely to hear his silken voice unbroken by his injury, albeit a bit dry with thirst.
Further questions surfaced to his mind, and to answer them he made an effort to rise. Surprised, he noted that the ache in his back, to which he awoke every morning previously (existent since the day of the stupid Golden Trio's successful disarmament of him in the Shrieking Shack) was gone. He realized, as he sat up, that he felt better than he had in weeks. If it were not for feeling very hungry and thirsty, and if the palms of his hands had not picked up any of the dirt beneath them, he would have presumed he was in heaven.
As it was, it occurred to him that his potion might—just possibly—have worked.
It took only the least amount of effort, once he was sitting up, to stand. He did this cautiously, seeing that he had no wish to be seen at present. Years of reconnaissance work had taught him that forewarned was forearmed in unfamiliar places. Absently, he brushed off his trousers, deciding that the place pleasantly reminded him of the painting of Reaper by Van Gogh.
An apple tree startled him, as it was the only thing in the field taller than Severus himself. Lured by the promise of nourishment, he warily wandered towards it.
It could still be hell, you old codger, he warned himself. The tree could bear fruit that will not quench my hunger and thirst, but instead increase them endlessly. Or the fruit might be inaccessible to me—I might try and try to reach an apple and it bounces away, luring me into the boughs of the tree, which, in memory of the Whomping Willow, have wills of their own and strangle me. Or the tree might be a mirage and not even exist, thereby ensuring that my eternal purgatory is to forever chase it.
All three of these notions were quickly dispelled as he plucked an apple off the branch of the very-real tree, which knocked a few more at his feet as the branch snapped to position. He partook of them, and felt satisfied. They tasted like ordinary apples, no more and no less.
Perhaps I am to play the role of the serpent to Adam and Eve? he wondered mercilessly, not willing to confront the idea that Fate had granted him a second chance. Will I turn to a snake, as a fittingly symbolic chastisement for my Slytherin ways, twine myself in the tree and, unbid, speak the words of Satan to the next naked woman who ambles along near?
He waited for perhaps an hour, barely daring to hope he was wrong. Of course, as he sat beneath the tree, examining apples and musing on Newton, his mind produced innumerable other scenarios concerning how this place could contain punishment for his sins. Some of his ideas ranged on fantastic; he even deigned to consider the role of harmless black ants as potential instruments of torment, but they maintained their distance and their trail to the anthill never deviated.
Apathetic, but still interested in testing their steadfastness, Severus bit into an apple and left it near them. They responded like normal ants—when they sensed the natural sugars of the apple calling, a number climbed on it to investigate, paying no attention to the human in their midst.
Maybe I don't even exist; maybe I'm a shade, he worried, Or worse—a poltergeist!
At this terrifying thought, he rose to his knees and put his finger smack in the middle of their trail, squishing two hapless soldiers. Irreverently, never shirking their duties, the remainder of the ants simply went around his appendage.
He withdrew before they had to make any major detours on his behalf. I do exist, apparently, in a human form.
With a sigh he lowered his head, letting his hair drape across his face like an opera-house curtain, but he was inspired to see where their trail led.
If I'm truly in purgatory, he thought savagely, it'll be Lily's corpse that they're taking, piecemeal, back to their miniature subterranean dungeons.
The trail's end was not far, and he discovered the source of the insects' interest to be quite ordinary: the body of a dead crow.
Silent, Severus stood and mourned the bird, which he respected for its cunning and ambition, even if it had the faults of avarice and of thievery.
It's almost symbolic, he thought, the first true optimism entering his mind, like Fate is trying to tell me that my worst side is dead, that I've come to the end of an era, that I'm free to finally be an honest man.
The idea that he was not to be a victim of the Gods' wrath finally began to sink into his mind. He unbent his head with an unspoken prayer of thanksgiving on his lips, straightening his shoulders and standing with prideful decorum. I'm fairly intact, given all that's happened to me.
It was just his luck that the moment his self-confidence peaked, he saw the most bittersweet reminder of his past life—Hogwarts Castle, nestled in the immense girth of the Forbidden Forest.
At first, he cursed. Can I never get away from the place? he whinged. Gods! Am I to be condemned to join some league headed by one crazy wizard against another, all over again? Beastly fate! Such would be a purgatory in itself!
It was only after he sank to the ground in desperation that he realized that he was actually at the undeveloped location of the future Shrieking Shack.
Oh. I never directed the spell to transport me anywhere. I suppose it automatically brought me to the scene of my death.
The idea was a comforting explanation, and he gave the castle a scornful look.
I'll only go there if necessary, he decided, Now, I need to get to Diagon Alley. Is it too much to hope that my wand survived the trip?
It had; it was stuck in his left sleeve like always, and he wondered why he hadn't thought to touch it yet. In a whisper, he cast a brief Patronus, and he found his doe appeared the same as in his previous life.
Knowing it was absurd to find so much comfort in a stupid animal, he felt the cool surface of her skin under his fingertips and began to feel like he really was alive and not in some pre-nightmarish dream.
Standing again, he cast his gaze in the direction of Hogwarts, searching for any evidence of Hogsmeade. He saw none, but he found what appeared to be a small footpath leading out of the barley field, and followed it.
He quickly settled into a comfortable pace, and strolled for about five solitary minutes before he found that the path led into a patch of forest. Undaunted—for since when was he like Ichabod Crane, scared of every noise in a dark place?—he entered, feeling the warmth leave his sun-heated skin as he stepped into the arbor.
His confidence was misplaced. The trees became thicker as he walked, and the atmosphere became more dank and dark. Snape eventually realized that he had lost the path.
The bitterest of laughs rose from his throat. He had thought himself another Dante—and so soon after his reincarnation, he was unfathomably lost in a dark wood!
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.
mi ritrovai per una sela oscura,
che la diritta via era smarrita.
This he recited with a little tune to the words—for he could not remember the Italian otherwise—and then he sighed.
At one point midway on our path in life,
I came around and found myself now searching
Through a dark wood, the right way blurred and lost.
He seated himself on a boulder, intending not to move. Instead, he cast his Patronus and let her dance around, running to and fro in a blissfully agile attempt to find the path.
If only I had Sirius Black on a leash, he mused, at least he could sniff out the trail.
He decided to have his Patronus lead once he found the path again, because she would be better able to keep to it as a woodland animal.
I wonder if I ought to call her Virgila after this, he considered, but only, of course, if she succeeds at leading me out of this place.
There was little doubt in his mind that she would, since she had been of invaluable use to him in numerous other situations. Her best work had been finding Harry Potter and leading him to the Sword of Gryffindor earlier that year.
Further considering the story of Dante and his own life, he wondered whether or not fate had made Lily's Patronus a doe from her symbolic future of leading Severus out of the figurative Dark Wood of the Death Eaters's Allegiance, but he supposed that would be too far a stretch. James Potter was a stag, and she was his soul-mate, he determined, grim, Of course she would be a doe. And, like the sentimental wretch that I am, I copied her.
He snorted at his next thought. Perhaps that means that Potter and I had romantic capability?
It was at this point that he heard a vociferous screech.
"Eaaay, 'oo goes there?"
He nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning to determine the source of the voice.
"Up 'ere, yo' arse!"
A cheeky youth grinned at him from a nearby tree. Taking refuge in the fact that the child was probably just eight or nine and just staking his territory, Snape did no more than scowl at the boy.
"Eaaay naow, don' be a bloomin' ninny. Wotcher doin', goin' down thuh 'Ogwarts path? Yoo gonna go see yer Billy?"
Snape took a deep breath and decided to take the boy somewhat into his confidence. "Actually," he primly pronounced, "I was headed towards Hogsmeade."
"Eauwh. Ohl roiy'. Kem on, then, thads this'a way."
The boy skipped on ahead, and motioned for Snape to 'kem on, nauwh', and the Potions Master obliged.
"Serry fer callin' ye'an arse, guv'nor, I don' mean nuthin by it," the child began to prattle. "But, seein' as you was takin a lie-down in that 'ere field, I gotter do me job. I gotter knows 'oo takes a penn'orth through iyt. 'Tds me uncle's field, though lor' knows 'ee ain't born an' raised a farmer."
Snape was inclined to reply something along the lines of I won't be plagued by guttersnipes, so leave off your incomprehensible rambling! Instead, however, he decided the most reasonable tactic would be to ignore the boy.
Moments later, they were back in the field, and Snape saw another path he had missed leading in the opposite direction. With a nod of thanks to the boy, he headed towards it.
"Lor' luv a duck, ain't 'ee a quiet 'un? Here now, guv'nor," the urchin said as Snape remained unresponsive, "Y'ain't got such thing as er teapot lid to spare, would'er?"
"If you mean to beg, shouldn't you find a better place to go about it than an old field?" Snape scathingly remarked, not bothering to look at the child.
"Oi, guv, I done my time in London, 's good as any man, guv'nor," the presumptuous child said, wearing a smile too wise for his age. "Me mum got real up-set like, though, when I touch'd fer a few Kilkenny. Thads why I'm 'ere, to tell ye the truth." The boy lost his brimming pride and hid it under a mound of natural chestnut curls. "Me mum don' want'er deal with the likes o' me no more," he added, rather under his breath.
Taking pity on the boy, who vaguely reminded Severus of himself as a child, he gingerly patted the child's shoulder.
"If you could spare an hour or so, I could perhaps . . . dredge up something," Snape suggested, glad for any company willingly lent in the strange new world he had entered. "Where do you live, boy?"
"Down in 'Ogsmeade, and a right dump it is too! Though," the resentment in the boy's voice softened, "I'd say fer it, at least ye get the students o' 'Ogwarts ter come down of a Saturday mornin' fer a bit. They're right fun."
For the sake of conversation, Severus asked, "When are you getting your wand, boy?"
"Me name's Bill, if ye don' mind, guvn'or" the boy insisted, smiling radiantly. "An' I don' get me wand till me Uncle say sao. Like as not, when I'll ask agin, I'll ged a sure wollop."
"Does your uncle treat you well?" asked Snape, though only marginally concerned about Bill's welfare.
"Oi, that he does, sir, 'cept when there's sump'n I forgot. Eeay, now," he changed the subject, "Where'ye from? Yoo git a voice that's real queer-like."
Shrugging off-handedly, Snape shook his head. "Not from around here; that's all you need to know. Now," he proposed, "Do you want to come to Diagon Alley with me?"
The boy's eyes widened.
"Would I evur!"
"Do you have anybody to tell if you leave?" Snape suspected the answer would be no.
"Nawh," the boy confirmed, "Are we gonna Disapparate?" he asked, incredulous at his good fortune.
"Indeed," Snape replied, taking the boy's arm gently.
Why am I doing this? he asked of himself, but he just shook his head and Disapparated.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
As soon as they arrived in Diagon Alley, which was, as a main thoroughfare, not much different than in Severus' time, Snape started to ask his companion various questions as they headed towards Knockturn Alley.
"Tell me, what year is this?"
The boy seemed to take the question as a challenge to his intelligence, and he gaily replied in Cockney rhyming slang, "A thing for th'eight."
"And the date?"
"Suckin'de 'ay."
May 2, 1848, Snape ascertained, feeling lighter of heart as he heard the words. Then I really did succeed.
He did not have the time to ruminate on this realization, because the boy peppered him with questions, as thoroughly as if he planned to devour the sour wizard.
"Whads yer name?"
"Dawkins."
"Aowh. Not related perchancy ter Ber' Dawkins, him as teaches skewl at Bruckle Abbey?"
"Not at all."
"Good! 'Cuz I herd them things 'bout ol' Dawkins. Real tiger, 'e was."
Not interested in hearing about teachers and their bad reputations, after having had one for so long, Snape just shook his head in disappointment at youth. They don't get much better the farther back you go.
Knockturn Alley was a true surprise to Severus, who found that the place was much cleaner and more open than it was in his old world. That was saying a lot, considering that he was journeying through urban Victorian England!
It was a simple manner to find Borgin and Burke's, which was actually a respectable-looking pawnshop in these days, and an even simpler matter to find the writing-desk in question.
However, it was empty.
Of course it would be, Snape reasoned, Pince isn't getting my letter for a week.
He did have enough money on him to buy the desk, though it wasn't cheap. At least the old near-sighted proprietor couldn't tell that the faces of his Galleons were from the late 1900s. With the change, he took the boy to buy a bag of sweets from a darling little shop nearby.
The future was strangely uncertain for him, but, as he watched the commonplace hustle and bustle around the Alley, he could not help but feel that, somehow, he would manage.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
Sometime in the future, Hermione Granger wrote the following note and put it in the writing desk.
Dear Professor Snape,
First, I beg pardon that Madam Pince is not the one replying to your letter. She adamantly refused to do it and passed the task on to Madam Pomfrey who, for reasons I'll further explain, passed the task on to me. She wished for me to convey that this letter was a mandate on her part, a sort or prescription on her part, because she has responsibility for my psychological and physical health.
But I very much want to get to my main point, and I'm sure you don't especially want to suffer through hearing about my problems. Mostly, I wish to ask for whatever pity and forgiveness you can possibly spare for me, the foolish girl who didn't so much as raise a finger when you lay there dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I know now that it would have been an interference with your ultimate plan to get away—I have read your previous letter and know of the Perago Vicis—but that does not remedy the atrocity of my inactivity.
I ought to have done something. I don't want to go into how many different things I have considered in retrospect; it makes me bitter to think of them. A week after the battle—in which We Won, by the way!—I'm still berating myself for my unpardonable sin of passivity.
Could you ever please forgive me? I don't want to sound like I'm whinging, but it would make me feel ever so much better.
In any case, I don't want to offend your eyes with my guilt, not after everything you've done for us; you don't deserve it. Madam Pomfrey says that you, of all people, deserve a second chance. Knowing more about you, I can't say I disagree.
I don't know how much of the Battle you want to hear about, so basically here's a summary. As we left you in the Shack, Voldemort announced, in his most intimidating Sonorous, that Harry ought to go and surrender in one hour, or face a siege. Taking your memories, Harry went and viewed them immediately, and then realized what you had long realized—that he had been raised to die, since that was the only way to defeat Voldemort. So, with unparalleled Gryffindor courage, he confronted Voldemort. They dueled, and Harry lost consciousness, and Voldemort assumed him to be dead because Narcissa Malfoy examined him and lied to Voldemort, thereby saving Harry's life, which I found quite extraordinary.
After that, Voldemort brought Harry's 'corpse' to us, and we all thought we were lost. It was horrible to see Hagrid in tears like he was, but we all were crying.
Then, suddenly, Harry leaped up and showed us a miracle—he lived! Apparently, dueling with Voldemort resulted in only the death of the piece of Voldemort's soul that was IN HARRY. Harry himself was intact.
They fought, and we fought with him, and the Battle was incredible. You'll be aggrieved to hear that Neville (Longbottom) actually made his house proud, slicing off the head of that disgusting creature, Nagini. I think he would have preferred to be the one to kill Bellatrix Lestrange, but Molly Weasley took care of that.
We had some casualties on our side, numbering in total near fifty, but the ones I know of specifically are Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Tonks Lupin, Argus Filch (I don't know what on earth possessed him to come out with his flammable cleaning products and start squirting folks in the eyes, but it earned him a grave), Colin Creevy, Grody Boot, Busby Heron, and Laura Fielding. I don't presume I know better than to give you the total of who went to Azkaban and who died from Voldemort's side, because, for all I know, they were your friends. The Malfoys went unscathed, and actually I think Draco turned in the midst of Battle. The Lestranges are dead, fighting fanatically to the end. Voldemort is obviously dead, for good this time. Vincent Crabbe is dead, too. I don't know the names of the others.
In total, the sides were fairly even, since of course Voldemort had the aid of Imperiused wizards and Acromantulas along with you Death Eaters, but we had a lot of magical creatures from the Forbidden Forest ourselves. Centaurs, house-elves, Thestrals, Hagrid's half-brother Grawp, Buckbeak, etc. were all on our side.
In the end, Harry defeated Voldemort, the remainder of the Death Eaters were captured, and now we're trying to put the castle—and our lives—back together. The reconstruction is fairly extensive, and Harry and Ron spend a lot of time here at Hogwarts working. I would too, if I weren't confined to a sedentary recovery period. (I had a bad bout with Bellatrix Lestrange in Malfoy Manor not long ago. Maybe you heard about it? I'm so glad she's dead.)
Oh, and your name has been cleared entirely, at least in our eyes and the eyes of Hogwarts. I know there's a temporary hold on clearing it officially with the Ministry, because Shacklebolt wants to wait until there's more stable political climate (he says he wants to hold it until people are done grieving, which is rubbish in my opinion), but Harry's devoted himself to the task and intends to do it as soon as possible. Though, I hate to say, I don't know if it will really happen, if Kingsley's got more than the reason he's telling us behind his reluctance.
We think you the noblest of men. Harry wishes that he had a chance to really know you (I will NOT tell him where you are, never fear! Your secret is between myself, Madam Pince, and Madam Pomfrey, solely!), and I personally feel the same way. I don't know that you would have been that much nicer to us or anything—but at least now you don't have to suffer through the kind of life you've lived for so long.
As you might infer, I found the writing desk, and I found your money. Your rooms were not ransacked. Here are your galleons, as requested.
Please, please, please forgive my behavior in your last moments. I can't express it any more plainly, really I can't. I hate myself intensely.
Your humiliated former student,
Hermione Jean Granger
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .