Two
"An involuntary return to the point of departure is, without doubt, the most disturbing of all journeys."
—Iain Sinclair
17th March 1988
Hermione is 31
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters is practically empty. It's odd to stand here without crowds and crowds of Hogwarts students teeming around in a shroud of engine steam, hauling trunks and waving wands and saying goodbye to their parents.
I was always surprised to learn that the Hogwarts Express travelled the roundtrip between London and Hogsmeade once a day. I'd always thought that most people would Floo or Apparate. But I'm here, aren't I, longing for the calming metallic click of the train against the tracks, the familiar scenery speeding by. Looking a the train, now, I can see that there's another reason for the trip: there are only two passenger carriages attached to the engine… a long row of cargo carriages stretches out behind them, already covered and ready to go. I suppose that it's the easiest way to transport bulk magical goods to the shops and the school without having to resort to Shrinking things.
I buy a one-way ticket to Hogsmeade, and I slip into an empty compartment, watching the steam drift past the window. People stroll up and down the platform in sedate fashion. It's a good time for the wizarding world… the quiet before the second storm, and people go about their business with no idea that Voldemort is alive (although not so well) in Albania right now.
Sometimes I imagine what would happen if I were to, say, track down Scabbers and wring his ratty neck or slip some poison into Bertha Jorkins' tea or maybe travel to Azkaban and murder Barty Crouch, Junior in his sleep. And then because I'm usually in a self-gratuitous mood during those imaginings, I wonder how satisfying it would feel to track Dolores Umbridge down and Crucio her until she bled out of her ears.
But that sort of thing is strictly against the rules. Taboo. Rule 1: Don't do anything to change history.
Pity.
The door of my compartment slides open, and I'm suddenly faced with Rule 2: Don't talk to or contact anybody whom you know.
It's Severus Snape. His black, oily hair obscures half of his face, and he's gazing down at me with a twist of annoyance pulling his lips into a thin line. He looks healthier than I ever remembered him; his cheekbones aren't sharp enough to look like they're straining to cut through his skin, now.
He's so young! Even younger than I am, I mentally calculate.
"The other compartments are full of snivelling children… Do you mind?" he asks, making it sound like I'm a barely-acceptable second alternative.
I should get up and leave. I should go straight to the loo and Travel home. I shouldn't sit here and gape at him like I've seen a ghost. But in a strange and obscure way, I am seeing a ghost.
"No," I manage to say with a tight smile. "It's fine."
He sits down opposite me, pretends I'm not there and opens the Daily Prophet, leaving me with shaking hands and a galloping heart as the train lurches to movement beneath us, vibrating under the soles of my boots.
He's supposed to be at Hogwarts mid-week. That's why I chose a Thursday morning to Travel to… because I wouldn't be faced with people whom I'd known long, long ago. I'm lost in my dismay as the train pulls out of King's Cross station.
Because don't think I've never wanted to Travel to speak to people who were lost in the Battle. I'm just not allowed.
Once, after I'd spent an afternoon at Harry's house playing with Teddy, I had the urge to Travel to see Tonks and Remus, to tell them to live, maybe even to leave a cryptic note in their home that would tell them to stay the hell away from the Battle of Hogwarts so that they could live to see their tiny, clever son.
This man sitting opposite me now has always been a big temptation because I've always been curious to know what happened to him.
Because he is the biggest mystery of them all.
3rd May 1998
Hermione was 18
I was exhausted the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts. Exhausted but exultant.
We'd won! Voldmort was dead and Harry was alive. And I was in love with Ron and we were together at last!
Exultant but sad.
So many people whom I'd loved or respected were dead. Fred. Tonks. Remus. Colin. Little, tiny, annoying Colin. And Snape.
He gave his life to help Harry defeat Voldemort. The ultimate sacrifice. How could that sort of thing not make you feel awed to have known a man like that? Oh, he had hidden it well, and oh, how wrong we had all been about him!
I gazed at the long line of corpses, lying cold and still on the floor. Ron was just about holding me up I was so tired, and my head was resting on his shoulder. His arms were wrapped tightly around me, and I felt safe for the first time in months and months.
"We have to go and fetch Snape's body," I whispered.
"Yes," Harry said gravely. I could see the respect and gratitude in his filthy, tired face.
But when we arrived at the Shrieking Shack, his body was gone. A huge, dark pool of blood was all that had remained to prove that we had not imagined his gory and bloody death.
"Maybe he's alive," Harry whispered with so much hope in his voice that it made my heart ache.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "He lost too much blood; the snake severed his carteroid artery, I think."
Harry trembled with indignation and rage next to me, and Ron stood, gaping at the spot where we'd seen Snape die.
"I'll find who took him," Harry vowed. "And I'll make sure he gets a proper burial."
But we never found his body. We never laid him to rest.
Where did you disappear to after you died?
That's what I want to ask him. But this Severus Snape wouldn't know—he's never even met Harry Potter or Hermione Granger. Not yet.
I should get up and leave, I tell myself again. But I'm frozen in my seat, staring at his long fingers curled around the edge of the newspaper; the way the hem of his robe has lifted slightly to reveal the toes of dragon hide boots. I smile. When I was a first-year at Hogwarts, Snape was… terrifying and so intimidating. After the incident in the bathroom with the troll, when Harry and Ron started being friendly rather than avoiding me, they'd told me their theory about how they thought Snape didn't have feet… how they thought he floated instead. It's ironic that they were right, in a fashion; Snape did know how to fly, in the end. I sigh softly. I miss Harry and Ron. Sometimes I wish that I could tell them what I really do; that I'm not doing 'secret Charms research' for a private magical company. I'd love to take them on one of my trips. Over the years I've come to realise that adventure and Travel is very lonely when you've got nobody to share it with.
Snape shifts in his seat, and then folds the paper in half, then in half again. He starts to pat at his robes distractedly and then he scowls. It's an expression I remember so well, but instead of being scared or dropping my head to avoid being pierced with his sharp tongue, I revel in its familiarity. I cannot tear myself away. He's so alive, now; I can feel the annoyance in his magic aura. It grows stronger and stronger until he snaps his head up at gazes at me with those deep, black eyes. For a thrill of a moment, I feel like I am twelve again.
"Do you have a pen that I may borrow, please?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, still in student mode and eager to please the most difficult teacher of them all. I hand him my favourite pen, but as he inclines his head to examine the brushed-steel surface, I realise I have made a mistake. Rule 3: Never carry anything with you from the future that has not been invented yet or could give a clue to your identity.
Shit. That pen was a gift from my mother (Every woman needs a proper pen when they start working, darling), and it has my initials engraved on it—HJG—in an elegant and flowing script.
"Thank you…" He raises his dark eyebrows in question.
"Hope," I lie, hoping his Legilimency is quiescent at the moment.
Hope, Faith and Charity. My own little joke. If anybody ever asks me my name when I'm Travelling, then I'm a martyred virgin saint.
"Hope," he says with nod. His voice caresses the word in a low, smooth stroke, and I suddenly feel a jolt of sadness that there is no hope for him. The coming years will be so hard for him: Harry Potter will arrive at Hogwarts; Voldemort will rise again; he'll kill the man who gave him grace and a second chance; he'll die to save us all.
I clench my teeth together, hard, but I still can't stop the tears that well in my eyes and blur my vision. Scotland is rushing past, now. I know this journey by heart—each curve of the track, each hill that we will pass.
He's busy doing the crossword puzzle, now. He's frowning so hard that his brows draw together and shadow his eyes. He taps my pen against his lips. And I cannot tear my eyes away. I can understand Julia's warnings, now. Before now, I've stood on the edge of history and simply watched it flow past like a river. But I know this man's past, and his future. I'm immersed. I'm no longer an objective observer. I'm drowning in a rising tide of emotion.
When he snarls angrily, I jump, drawn from my overwhelming freefall. He tosses the newspaper aside and hands me my pen. It's warm from his fingers, like a part of him has leeched into the metal. I caress my thumb over my engraved initials. "Thank you…" I trail off, leaving a vacuum of question in the air for him to fill. I know his name; it's carved deeply into my past, but I want him to say it.
"Severus," he says after a short pause.
I smile at him, and gratitude fills my heart: that he's allowed this small, personal detail to slip between us; that he holds such honour and bravery in his heart; that he's so fiercely loyal that he's going to die for a woman he loved his whole life. A sudden, irrational stab of jealousy lances through my chest, and I realise that I hate Lily Potter with all my heart. Nobody has ever loved me with such passion. And then I remember that passion can also mean 'intense suffering', and I know that in Severus Snape's case, this is absolutely true.
I stare out of the window for the rest of the journey, mindlessly watching the hills fly by, trying not to reflect on how my life has flown by, too. Eventually, the sound of the train shudders to a slower click-clack as we approach Hogsmeade station, and before it's come to a complete stop he's on his feet and sliding the compartment door open.
"Hope."
I lift my head to say goodbye, but he's already gone.
"Severus," I murmur. He's left his Daily Prophet on the seat, and when I pick it up and tuck it into my bag, I break Rule 5: Never bring anything back with you.
But I figure it's a fair enough trade this time. After all… I seem to have lost my heart somewhere along the train journey.