Hermione Granger: Clean Cotton and Pumpkin Juice

Hermione Granger

Severus Snape, Death Eater and minister to Voldemort, stood with one hand disappearing inside a sepia-toned poster and one held out to her.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Hermione quietly tapped a rhythm on her bag, setting a distraction that would be delayed for some minutes. Then she took his hand.

His grip was gentle, leading more than pulling. He stepped one foot into the poster and ducked his head in. A sketched version of him appeared in front of the row of shops, his robes contoured in shades of brown, shadows stippled under his eyes. He tilted his head inquisitively, the hatch marks of his hair swaying.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged in headfirst. Her skin tingled as she passed through the paper to the other side. Ink lines bent and jumped, wriggling into the rough outlines of the landscape. The spaces in between brightened, swelling with the full spectrum of colors. Clouds popped from faded beige to periwinkle and white, and the brick walls of the shops bloomed russet.

It was later in the afternoon there. The warm rays of the descending sun skimmed over the rooftops and struck a brick wall, reflecting welcome heat onto her wind-chilled face. Fresh bread wafted from a bakery. A ghostly reversed image of the poster overlapped the other side of the street, the crisscrossing fold seams showing slivers of the real world. The crisp autumn air blew faintly through them.

Her clothes and hands were slightly translucent, made from uneven pigment spread between inked borders. "It's like a watercolor."

"A combination of portrait magic and wizarding space. I know a specialist in the field." Snape was in color now, too, although it was difficult to tell. Hints of ochre and blue shadowed his face and the hem of his robe bled into the dark asphalt of the street. "This image has more depth, so we can move beyond the confines of the displayed picture." He led her to a shop with windows tinted blue-green and an old-fashioned striped barber's pole near the door.

The blue-green windows inside the shop dimmed the bright sun, and a clean smell of mint pervaded the entrance hall. While the outside resembled a turn of the century street, the interior was modern. Slim lamps framed posters of smiling models showing off their pearly whites. She nodded, understanding the barber's pole now. "Barbers used to perform dentistry, back in the day. Although that was actually—"

She stopped, recognition rushing over her like a warm wave. This wasn't just any dentist's office. She moved through the waiting room to the front desk, peering past it into the nearest examination room. For a moment, she expected to see her father sitting on a stool, peering into a patient's mouth, humming to himself. But the waiting and examination rooms stood silent and empty. She sighed. "I used to come here when grammar school let out. This is where I—"

"—received your invitation to Hogwarts. So you've said." Snape moved into the examination room, peering into the corners as though checking for rats.

Her parents had been startled but proud. Dad had patted her on the back, sure that she could master this new magical world. "Don't suppose we'll be much help with your schoolwork," he said, his moustache crinkling up at the corners. "I'll miss our sessions at the kitchen table."

Mum tapped her fingers against her lips. "Exercises, perhaps? You could try spell-casting on us. Turn us into frogs. Or goats!" She and her father had broken into peals of laughter.

Snape stood in the middle of the tidy waiting room, a foreign image superimposed on a cherished photograph. He gestured to the examination room. "No changes since the last time we met. I've checked for attempts at entry. Such efforts are unlikely, since I keep the space well-guarded, but caution is imperative in our circumstances."

She swallowed a few times until she was sure her voice wouldn't sound tight. "Whose idea was this? Recreating this place?"

Another head tilt. "Yours, of course. You gave me the details and removed any inconsistencies."

It did make it clear that she had a hand in it. "A portable meeting room is certainly convenient." It also meant that they may have met far more times than she'd realized. He could lure her in with Crookshanks or some other false image, gather any information he wanted, and obliviate her afterwards. A chill ran down her back.

"You agreed to the memory removal," Snape said, as if reading her mind. "Although you'll have to take my word on that."

Dumbledore once told her he only knew of a handful of skilled occlumens and legilimens: himself, Voldemort, and Severus Snape. What if Snape pulled whatever information he wished from her mind, and claimed she'd shared it freely? It was an insidious way to make her trust him as a confidante while meddling with her memories.

She searched her mind for a passage from a book, something to give her a sense of solidity. "Fisher's Compendium states that obliviate can have a detrimental effect on the mind." But it wasn't imagined scenes of Snape obliviating her that filled her thoughts. It was her mum and dad, quietly finishing up dinner as she removed herself from their lives.

"You have to be careful." The words stuck in her throat. Her mum and dad had stared blankly as they lost their memories of her. It had been a complex variant of the spell for a sixteen-year-old, but she'd read thoroughly and practiced. There was supposed to be a moment of confusion, before obliviate took effect. But not too long. Fisher's said four to twelve seconds. After eight, she closed the door behind her. They'd still been staring. She shook her head, blinking. "Why would I want to meet here?"

Snape was silent, the dark pigment of his robes running to the edges in sharp borders against the white and baby-blue room. "I am precise in my use of obliviate. As are you, Miss Granger."

She nodded, unwilling to meet his gaze.

"Have you ever known me to give you an unwarranted compliment?"

Despite herself, she smiled. "Not even a warranted one."

"Then rest assured that my assessment of your skills is accurate, wrung out of me like blood from a stone." He settled onto the dentist's stool and drummed his fingers on the counter. "Obliviation is necessary. If you were captured—"

"I know." Hermione pulled her hoodie tighter around her. "I've been in a prison camp. I was lucky they didn't ask any questions."

His drumming fingers stopped. "A girl who memorizes books without understanding. An over-inflated sense of importance to the point of delusion."

Her face grew hot. "Another assessment of my skills?"

Snape shook his head. "My comments to the official responsible for prisoner assignments. He decided to transfer you to a low-security facility. The one you escaped from."

She nodded, although the movement was stiff. "Oh. Thank you."

"I mentioned it before, and you found it amusing. It reminded you of comments I used to write on your essays, annoyed at every personal deficiency." He shifted on his stool, and the wheels creaked. His eyes creased slightly, the pale skin at the corners darkening into lines of warm grey. "Different circumstances."

It left her off-balance, him referencing conversations she couldn't remember. Like she had some doppelgänger joking with Snape, while she trudged on, unawares.

If only she could remember their previous meetings. Dumbledore had wanted her to learn occlumency, although they hadn't the time for it when he was alive. She wished she'd found the time afterwards. An order had gone out to train more Death Eaters for legilimency to use in interrogations. Books on occlumency, already rare, had become highly restricted. She was lucky to have one book on the subject.

"There may be alternatives to obliviate. Katya Virmov writes about legilimency in her Wills and Minds Anthology, Volume 7. She mentions occlumency—"

"Does she."

Hermione paused. "I wondered how I found that book. I could never quite remember."

"No doubt you assumed you stole it from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library before it was damaged."

She felt mildly offended. "I don't steal books. Usually. Unless I really need them."

He brushed that away. "Any success in shielding your thoughts?"

"Something may have been lost in translation, and it's difficult to find time for practice in a war." She sank into a chair. "I haven't made much progress."

"It took me years. And I was in the unique position of practicing daily." He straightened. "No matter. Our current system is sufficient."

She couldn't get the question out of her head. "How often do we meet? Do you usually creep up on me unawares and pull me through a soap advert?"

He pressed his lips together in a single brushstroke of pale ochre. "Hardly. We've little need to meet with our messaging system, although I wish I could've reached you before your base was attacked." He looked away. "The delay was unavoidable."

And there was the meat of it. Was it unavoidable? Or had he been leading them by the nose, letting Death Eaters pick them off until there was almost nothing left?

"I've made inquiries about new prisoners," he continued. "I was able to divert some to the prison camp in Belfast, although they will be in maximum security. Black and Lupin are the sort that get sent straight to Azkaban. There was nothing I could do."

She knew those facts from Molly, but not whether he really tried to help the prisoners. She searched his face, hoping for some sign. Snape wouldn't shed a tear over Lupin and Black, and it was entirely possible he wanted them in Azkaban. But Black was still seen as the leader of the resistance, and werewolves were sent to the most secure prison available. There was no way to know the truth.

But his comment about her imprisonment in Camp Portach stuck with her. She'd never been able to determine why she'd been assigned to a lower-security area. They could've underestimated her role in the war. But Snape planting the suggestion that she was harmless made more sense. How strange, to think of him facilitating her escape while she took his favorite former student hostage.

"Speaking of captured prisoners," she said, "have you had any word of Draco Malfoy?"

Snape frowned. "His parents sent him to private training in Spain. You captured him?"

"Briefly." She pushed a dental polisher across the tray with her finger, wondering about the magic that made the brushstrokes of white and grey shift with the changing angles of reflected light. But she was only distracting herself from giving the bad news. "He escaped with the invisibility cloak."

His brows drew together in a scowl, and for a second, she expected him to follow that up with twenty points from Gryffindor for improper safeguarding of an invisibility cloak. But he only nodded and stared at the scenic posters decorating the ceiling for reclining patients. One featured the Eiffel Tower in chestnut browns against a blue sky. In another, the Palacio de Cristal in Madrid sparkled in abstract strokes of grey and green. "Where was he captured?"

"Cornwall." She glanced at the Palacio de Cristal. "You think he was lying about Spain?"

"I received the information from his father. I haven't seen Draco in quite some time."

"How long? Can you recall?"

"That's the question," Snape muttered. "We kept in touch while he was working at the Ministry under Umbridge. Then she left to become warden at Camp Portach."

She remembered Umbridge saying that Draco had suggested she transfer to Portach. "Is that a promotion? To go from a position in the Ministry to a camp warden?"

"Hardly. Rumor had it that Umbridge finally annoyed the wrong person and was shunted off. Draco got dragged along by bad luck."

"Umbridge said he requested the transfer. Was there someone important at the prison to help his career?"

Snape shook his head. "Even if there were—requesting a position at a prison camp in the middle of a bog? Draco? He wouldn't voluntarily step foot there even if it were brimming with promotions. Perhaps Umbridge was lying."

"There's something else." She told him about their recent capture of Draco and his slashed-through Dark Mark.

Snape went still, only the rapid movement of his eyes showing that he was thinking. "He was exiled? I should've known about this."

"I imagine the Malfoy family didn't want the news to get out."

He let out a harsh breath. "Regardless of their wishes, the Dark Lord would've informed me. Either the secrecy gives some advantage to him, or he no longer trusts me with such information."

His face remained expressionless, but the way he said it gave her chills. "You think he knows? About you?"

"If he did—if he even suspected—I would be dead. But he enjoys playing favorites, and graces his most loyal with his company and knowledge. There are some secrets, however, that he shares with no one."

"And you think Draco's exile is one of them."

Snape made an abortive movement, neither a shake nor a nod. "It doesn't make sense. Death Eaters have been removed before. While the Dark Lord despises disloyalty, he enjoys the spectacle of making an example of one of us. Slashing through the Mark is symbolic, as no Death Eater who's exiled lives much longer after that. But the extinguishing of the Mark's magic is, from what I've witnessed, extraordinarily painful." The warm highlights of his face cooled and darkened and his eyes grew distant, thin lines lengthening between his brows.

Hermione had no inclination to ask for details. "When was the last time you saw Draco in the throne room? Were there any signs?"

Snape rubbed his temple. "Unfortunately, several memories of that location are not as clear as I'd like. How did he look when you saw him? Was he fearful? Confused?"

"Both, I suppose." Mostly he'd seemed shifty, but then he'd always seemed shifty. "Can you look into it? See what's happened to the invisibility cloak?"

Snape nodded. "Where did you last see him?" His eyes glimmered. "So to speak."

"Diagon Alley, when the base was attacked. I had to stop chasing him to get back to the base. Not that it did any good." She rested her head against the wall of cabinets, staring at the posters of exotic places and fingering Sirius's watch. She had to at least ask. "You're sure nothing can be done for Sirius and Remus? Sirius spent so much time in Azkaban already, and he hasn't yet recovered from that." She fell silent, unsure how much to share. Sirius would hate her for disclosing his struggles, especially to someone as indifferent as Snape.

But Snape leaned forwards intently. "Black. You told me he voluntarily stepped down from leadership. But you didn't mention specifics. He'd been difficult? Violent?"

She shook her head. She'd seen Sirius wake from his nightmares, screaming, cursing anyone who came near, and worse. But he wasn't dangerous, not the way Snape was implying. "I didn't think you'd be concerned for his welfare."

Snape's eyes turned flinty. "Merely curious. Azkaban. The confinement changed him. Unhinged him, perhaps."

"I didn't know him before Azkaban."

"Years of imprisonment and isolation." Snape glanced away. "Do you think he would've improved with time?"

It was an odd choice of topic for Snape. Was this a continuation of a conversation they'd had before? "It's not as though we could send him to a medi-wizard for his mental health. We learnt how to…" She hesitated to say we learnt how to rein him in, although they often did. She could still remember his wild eyes at the house, ready to fight until his last breath. He fought in combat better than most, and it was easy to chalk it up to Gryffindor bravery. She should've paid more attention to what drove him.

Snape nodded, as if he knew what she didn't say. "What about other prisoners? You liberated some in your attack on Azkaban."

"That was years ago. And you don't need me to tell you the conditions there. What is it? Are you searching for a prisoner?"

"I'm gathering information on a prisoner's chances of recovery." His eyes had gone distant again, but this time he grew taut, tendons angled sharply in his neck. "In the Ministry dungeons…" He grimaced. "It doesn't matter. You wouldn't remember him."

"If you're not willing to tell me anything, there's not much point in meeting."

"My folly." He fell into silence, dark blue-grey lines narrowing between his brows.

She wanted to help Sirius, and Ginny, and all the others trapped in a terrible place they couldn't escape. They should have a chance at recovery and happiness. "Sirius didn't like to talk about it. But some of the other prisoners did. They had to remind themselves it was in the past, that they'd escaped, and yet they felt like they were still there."

"Trapped." Snape let out a long breath. "Yes."

"Many of them want to move forward, but they can't." In some ways, she felt the same. Trapped in a cycle of battles and horcrux searches.

"There must be some way to make progress."

If there was a way through, she hadn't found it. All she found were impossible choices. Time for horcruxes or time for battles. Give up her friends or give up the Phoenix. "Most of my friends are prisoners. They can't truly heal until they have some control over their lives."

His shoulders slumped. "Yes."

It was almost as if he were making the choice for her—agreeing that her friends needed a chance to be free. But she wavered, still searching for another option. "Is there anything we can do to free them? Or find others sympathetic to the cause? We'll take any help we can get right now."

"I suspect many are sympathetic, but they wouldn't risk any sign of support right now. As far as the Dark Lord is concerned, the resistance is defeated. He'll quash the smallest sign of opposition now, to solidify his rule. He wants to commemorate his victory with something symbolic, memorable, and violent."

That chilled her. "What's he planning?"

Snape shook his head. "Whatever it is, it'll demonstrate his power in a way that can't be disputed."

Hermione had only seen Voldemort once—not in a newspaper photo or a pensieve memory, but in the flesh. It was during their attack on Azkaban. Dumbledore had led him off, away from the rest of the resistance, to protect them from his wrath. But Dumbledore wasn't perfect, and Voldemort had struck him down.

It was as if Dumbledore had known, that day, that it was going to end. "Come, sit by the fire with me," he'd said, indicating the cozy cottage he'd conjured up in the middle of their temporary base at an abandoned factory. She'd left the shadowy machines and echoing space behind and entered a well-furnished sitting room with a crackling fireplace. All very comforting, but the strain was visible on his face.

He'd never quite recovered from their visit to the crystal cave and the potion that he'd insisted she feed to him. Ever since, the sparkle had gone out of his eyes, and his words of comfort had gone hollow. Even his purple robes seemed to have faded to a duller grey, his tassel hat now crumpled and hanging over one ear.

But that evening, before they left for their attack, he sat her down and held her hands warmly. "It's time I tell you everything you need to know."

The words sounded ominous, and she shook her head. "I've a good feeling about this attack. We're going to free a lot of people who'll make the resistance stronger. And Harry might be there."

A bit of his old energy suffused his face, and he stared at her in wonder. "Harry. Oh, dear. That brings back memories." And then he closed his eyes, near tears. "He's alive."

"I—I'd like to think so," she said hesitantly. It had already been over three years since they'd seen him go into that Triwizard maze and waited for him to come back out. The Phoenix had sent them hopeful news initially, but in the last few months, that news had dried up. The Phoenix never mentioned Harry now, just like other prisoners whose names dropped from his messages. Some deaths he confirmed, others simply disappeared from existence, no one ever knowing exactly what happened to them. But she couldn't give up on Harry, and Azkaban was a likely place for him.

Dumbledore gripped her hands tightly. "Hermione, listen to me. He's alive, and I know you'll find him. But you mustn't talk to anyone about him. I suspect it's the only way to protect him at the moment. And there's something else." Slowly, by the crackling fire, he'd given her information that had horrified her, that she hadn't wanted to hear. It had been so strange, sitting comfortably in an overstuffed chair, his gentle voice telling her such things.

In the end, they'd both been wrong. Harry hadn't been at Azkaban, as far as they could gather from the prisoners they'd rescued. And Harry hadn't been alive, as Dumbledore had insisted. It meant that many of the things he'd told her no longer mattered. She wished they'd spent that last day together enjoying each other's company, instead of discussing horcruxes and impossible choices.

His mission—or perhaps choosing her to carry out that mission—had also been a miscalculation. Even if she ever found and destroyed all the other horcruxes, that still left Voldemort. He ensconced himself in his throne room, surrounded by the Dark Guard and Death Eaters. She didn't see any possible way to reach him, let alone defeat him.

Snape was shaking his head. "Too many mistakes," he murmured.

"You think I don't know that?" she said bitterly. "I can see what a mess I've made of things."

He seemed to startle out of his thoughts. "I was thinking of my own mistakes."

She knew of one mistake, at least. "Not telling us about the attack in time."

His mouth tightened. "And other things. I've split my energies between three duties, and I haven't done any of them as well as needed."

Three? She took a guess. "A spy, a Death Eater, and a minister?"

The inky line of his lashes dipped low, obscuring his eyes. "I fear I've employed the wrong strategies, and the damage can't be undone."

She traced her finger around the little paper cup in the tray. Her mother and father used to chat with the receptionist as she filed the equipment requests and invoices in crisp manila folders. Resources and money, all so neatly organized. Appointments kept in a spiral-bound book, where her parents could see exactly how the day would unfold. "Strategies have to be made in the moment, sometimes. They can't always be—"

Her bag took that moment to erupt. The opening burst wide and devil's snare snaked out, flinging a hat, several books, and a chocolate frog across the room. It smashed into the exam chair and sent the tray flying to the ceiling. She jolted up, heart thumping, even though she'd been the one to set the distraction. Snape was already standing, directing his wand at the devil's snare.

"Sorry, sorry!" She scrambled for her belongings, making certain to get behind Snape and out of his range of view. She flicked her wand at the door, opening it, and sent the chocolate frog jumping through the gap. "I'll get it!"

Dashing out, she swooped down and seized the frog by its leg, then ducked into the supply room. The frog bounced jerkily in her hand, mouth opening and closing in silent croaks. Freezing the frog, she set it on a shelf. She only had a moment before Snape tamed the devil's snare and started looking for her.

Searching for a clear memory of Snape, she took a vial from her pocket and placed the tip of her wand to her temple. Perhaps the moment he'd mentioned Kew Gardens. No, that was too embarrassing. In the examination room then, when he'd talked about struggling to balance his spy duties. Or saying that he'd worked to make things easier for her to escape from the prison camp. Those memories were quite clear.

Biting her lip, she lowered her wand and stared at the empty vial. She couldn't remember all the times they'd met and all the conversations they'd had, but she believed him. She needed him. And he'd tried. She knew very well that you can try your best and still fail.

She put the vial away and stared at the neatly stacked boxes of supplies, catching sight of a forest-green door at the back. She hadn't thought about that door in years.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she yelped, spinning, wand raised.

Snape spread his arms, wand to the side. "I've subdued the devil's snare and bound it inside your bag. Why on earth do you carry it?"

"It can be a handy weapon. When it behaves."

"It rarely behaves." He studied the room. "You insisted on recreating this area when I constructed the space. I couldn't imagine any use for dental supplies in our meetings."

"I suspect I was feeling nostalgic." She approached the green door and rested her palm on the painted wood. "I used to come here when I was little. My parents kept an electric torch here so I could curl up under the shelves and read my books. I liked the smell of clean cotton." She opened the door. Stripes of sun-yellow shelves held stacks of dental towels, gauze, and linens. The space below the shelves was still there, too, barely measuring more than two cubic feet. It had been her special place.

Snape let out a breath. "Children and their hiding spots."

"The world can be a scary place." Angry neighborhood dogs and mean boys on the playground. If she'd only known what awaited her.

"No spot I ever found was good enough," Snape murmured. "I learnt to hide in plain sight."

She didn't attempt to crawl into her hiding spot. She'd grown too much to ever fit in there again. "Shall we get back to work?" Taking one last look, she closed the door.

Snape had put the examination room in order. Even the little paper cup was back in its tray. Hermione dropped the frozen frog into her bag as they settled in their seats. "I'm sorry," she said again.

His eyes were sharp, watching her. "So many apologies for a bit of disarray. I'm certain you know the difference between a temporary inconvenience and damage that is irreversible." His gaze held a question.

She wasn't the only one in the room who was too clever. He had years of experience as a spy and years before that in a classroom where no misdeed went unobserved. She should've guessed that he'd see the distraction for what it was. But she wasn't a student anymore. She raised her chin, locking eyes with him.

No scowl, and none of the irritation she'd so often encountered from him at Hogwarts. He didn't say anything—no accusations or even a demand that she turn out her pockets.

It was worse than all the harsh words he'd said to her over the years. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she pulled out the empty vial.

His shoulders relaxed a fraction as he leaned back.

She rolled the vial between her fingers. "I've tried this before?"

"No. But I failed you. My usefulness is limited when you no longer have the numbers to act on my reports. You need more people, and there's only so much work I can do on prisoners without catching the Dark Lord's eye. I may be more valuable for my identity than for my information."

She tapped her nail against the vial. "But you still came?"

"I've devoted half my life to this cause. I don't give up easily. And we've had many conversations, Miss Granger. I knew it was a possibility, but I…" A small, wry smile flickered. "I had faith."

Half his life. Half her life, too, if she counted from the moment she befriended Harry. Comrades in arms. "I wish I could remember what we talked about."

"You have your notes."

Snape was always a bit stiff, but this was the most comfortable she'd ever seen him. Sitting in a muggle dentist's office, chatting with her about betrayal. How many hours had it taken before he'd found that faith? How many of their chats before she'd laughed at something he said? "It's not the same."

"I know. But I need those memories more than you do. It's more difficult for me to trust another."

And she did, she realized. She trusted him. She heard voices in the back of her head that sounded like Ron and Millicent, telling her that he'd staged it all for her benefit, fabricating a connection that wasn't there.

But it was there. She couldn't put memories to it, but she believed it. Ron sometimes joked that she was a Ravenclaw, always looking to books for the answer. She replied that she also had Gryffindor determination in spades. But determination had only gotten her so far. What she needed now was bravery. Not found in battle, but the kind found in a leap of faith.

She gathered herself before taking the plunge, ignoring the advice the portrait had given her. "I need your help."

"More information?"

"Eventually, yes. But right now, it's information I need to give you." She couldn't help lowering her voice, leaning forwards as if someone might overhear. "Have you heard of a horcrux?"

He blinked at her for a moment. "I've come across the term once or twice. It's rarely mentioned, even in books steeped in the dark arts." His mouth parted as he gazed past her, his eyes widening. "It's a path to immortality." He seized her arm. "Then it's possible to end it? The Dark Lord cannot return again if this horcrux is destroyed?"

"It's possible," she said slowly. "But it's not so simple. There's more than one."

He seemed to come back to himself, slumping in his seat with a rasping laugh. "Of course there is." He glanced at her. "Forgive my outburst. It's been a long time since I've experienced hopefulness. I'm not used to it."

She told him what she knew, and what she'd accomplished in her hunt so far. It didn't take long. Snape was well-versed in both the Dark Arts and Voldemort's nature. By the end, he was finishing her sentences.

"This is all educated guesswork," she concluded. But if we're certain we've gotten all the others, the final horcrux to be destroyed should be—"

"Nagini." Snape nodded to himself. "Dumbledore said I should watch for a moment when the Dark Lord protected the snake fervently. But what I was to do when such a thing occurred…" He shook his head. "It was difficult to communicate near the end, after the school closed. The accelerating war forced me to stay at the Dark Lord's side. Either the headmaster never sent me further instructions,"—a flash of anger—"or I don't remember them."

She doubted Snape would forget such a thing, no matter how long ago those conversations happened. "You never talk with the portrait?"

He stared at her before clenching his jaw. "It survived."

Dumbledore hadn't told Snape about the secret room under the headmaster's office. "Maybe if I told the portrait you're the Phoenix—"

"He knows. At least, the living headmaster did. Who do you think told me to contact you? But he didn't like keeping all his eggs in one basket, as he liked to say. I'm surprised he told you as much as he did."

"He needed to tell someone."

Snape glanced at her sharply. "And the horcruxes? He told you to tell me?"

She shook her head. "That was my decision."

His iron expression broke for a moment, and he nodded. "I'll take your secrets to my grave."

"It's me I'm more worried about. If I get captured, it's over." She shook her head, biting her lip. "They'll eventually get the information out of my head."

"You've avoided recapture with your skill in subterfuge."

"Another skill I hope you've correctly assessed. I've certainly improved, at any rate." She tried giving him a friendly smile. "It's been a long time since the days when we frantically grabbed your supplies at Hogwarts. The three of us had a tendency for unnecessary flailing."

Snape sighed and gazed at a poster of a windmill in a field of flowers. "I knew you stole those supplies."

She huffed. "Professor—"

"No doubt you were delighted with yourselves, but I was in short supply of ingredients for weeks, thanks to your harebrained…" His breath quickened as he bolted upright. "The three of us. You said the three of us. Who were the others?"

She raised her eyebrows. "It's a little late to hand out detentions."

"Miss Granger." Snape leaned forward, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath. "Names."

She angled away. "I'm sure you've guessed. Ron and Harry. Although, to be honest, it was really my—"

"Potter." Snape stared at her, hard enough to penetrate the back of her skull. "You haven't mentioned him in years."

She shook her head, her throat tight. "I couldn't. We did at the start, but your messages never had an answer. Just pursuing possible courses of action. And then you stopped writing anything at all about him. I knew what that meant. Another prisoner who disappears one night. It's happened enough times before, and since. Ron thinks there's a chance he's still alive, and we used to have rows about it. All the things we should've done."

She gazed into her manufactured hallway which led to the manufactured waiting room. She could've manufactured people coming in. Liz and Sherry, the dental hygienists, their voices warm behind their masks. Marla, the receptionist with honey-colored hair. Her parents, talking between appointments, knees touching. People she might never see again. Maybe there was a reason she left it vacant. "We can't talk about Harry."

She looked back at Snape, and caught a flash of something in his face, like he'd been the one caught stealing ingredients. And all his strange words snapped into place. Prisoner. Ministry dungeons. Potter. He knew. No more silences while they waited for news. No more pursuing possible courses of action. He could tell her what happened to Harry.

"Miss Granger," Snape said.

"Don't." She held up a hand. She was shaking, but her voice was hard. "Not another theory, not another lead. Only if you're absolutely certain."

"I'm certain."

She took a breath. She wanted to run away to her old hiding place in the supply closet, where it was warm and safe and smelled like clean cotton. "Tell me."

"He's alive."

Something tore open inside her. She was going to split apart at the seams, every little piece flung in different directions.

Snape stood and approached her hesitantly.

"I'm all right." She gripped the armrest. Harry. It was too much to believe. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pull on her hair until it hurt. What was it Snape had said a moment ago? Too much hope, and she wasn't used to it. "You're sure it's him? Is he all right? Why didn't you bring him with you?"

He said nothing.

She remembered the prisoners from Azkaban. Pale, with protruding ribs and sunken eyes. One woman had been completely gone, staring into the distance as if she couldn't see them at all. And she'd only been imprisoned for a few months. Harry had been missing for over six years. "How bad is he?"

"Alive and recovering. But deeply wounded. Angry."

She tried to imagine Harry as one of those sunken-eyed prisoners. But she could only see him as he had been, a grinning fourth-year. Even when he was angry, it was a flashing anger, gone in hours or minutes. The prisoners had anger deep in their bones, settling into the angles of their shoulders. "It's to be expected, isn't it? He was a prisoner."

"And I'm a Death Eater." He sat, pressing his fingers against his temple. A few quick rubs, and his hands settled back into a steepled clasp. "I've considered removing some of his memories." He glanced at her. "Certain memories of me."

Some part of her had known, of course. Harry wouldn't have been like other prisoners who were thrown in cells to await execution. Voldemort celebrated his biggest victories with cruelty and violence. Torture. But the Phoenix had never confirmed any of her fearful questions about what was happening to Harry in those early years.

And Voldemort would've expected his Death Eaters to join him. The surface of her skin went numb, like she'd retreated from her body by the barest fraction of a millimeter. She rubbed her hands together until spots of color broke out, and stared at the blotches of red. "Memories of what you did to him."

His fingers remained steepled at a perfect right angle. Soft pinks in sharp lines. He didn't say anything.

There wasn't anything to say. What use were accusations and apologies? "Would that help him? Or simply make things easier for you?"

"Making things easier would allow me to help him. I could steer him to the correct course of action, and use my authority to bring him in line. It worked when I was a professor." He glanced at her, his head tilting with a slight shrug. "Sometimes."

Old memories of their adventures flooded her. "He was never one for the correct course of action. He liked to go his own way." Warmth surged as she corrected herself. "He likes to, I mean."

"He's determined to make things difficult." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "But you're correct. I'm trying to make things easier. And an obliviation spell would require delicate casting in close proximity, which is a challenging endeavor. His mind suffered many attacks. There is damage. And something else. Something inside him has changed."

She thought of Ron and his mum, and how their freckled faces settled into grim tiredness so easily now. Even Snape. Still intimidating in his black robes and scowling expression, but his face had collected more worry lines. And there were moments when his shoulders sagged in a posture he'd never shown in the classroom. He looked like Mordag's weather-beaten crow, flown long past his endurance. "We've all changed."

"It's something more. In his magic."

She frowned. "A curse affecting his abilities? We've seen cases of that."

"No." He glared at her, and she had a flash of the old anxiety she'd felt at Hogwarts when she'd gotten an answer wrong.

But Snape was glaring at something she couldn't see, gaze fixed on the empty space between them. His eyes softened as he deflated. "I don't know what it is. He rarely casts spells within my sight. And his communication is limited, on the rare occasions he wants to communicate at all. Whatever secrets he holds, I've barely scratched the surface."

"If the only reason you're communicating with him is to pry out his secrets, you're not going to get far. He was tight-lipped when you were his professor. He only shared his secrets with his friends. He'll never—" She stopped awkwardly.

"No need to spare my feelings. I'm not under any delusion that he'll ever consider me a friend. Friendship is a particularly unpracticed skill in my repertoire, and he's better off if I don't try. I'd be happy merely to convince him I'm not trying to murder him. I thought if I expanded his boundaries, gave him some independence, then we might get out of this prisoner-warden dynamic we've fallen into."

"So he'll trust you enough to give you his secrets." She couldn't keep the reproving tone out of her voice.

The dark lines of his brows descended. "I'm not trying to use him. His injuries need healed, and he's not… himself. His years in that cell have caused agoraphobia and hoarding behaviors. Every time I try to assist him, it only reveals more problems. There must be some way to help him."

He still seemed to be asking her, as if she was supposed to have the answer. But it wasn't like a teacher asking a student. There was something softer in his voice.

"The Great Goblin Rebellion has accounts from medi-wizards who treated prisoners of war. They write about physical and mental changes. The footnotes are quite extensive. Have you consulted any reliable references?"

The lines of his mouth tilted upwards and a hint of blue-green light reached his eyes. "I am doing so now."

She felt herself flush. "I haven't had nearly enough experience with treating prisoners."

"I don't need to know about prisoners. I need to know about Potter." His hands tightened for an instant. "I need to know how to reach him."

"But I didn't even think he was alive." I gave up on him. It was the horrible truth. Ron hadn't lost faith, but she had. Snape was looking to her as if she could give some deep insight into Harry, but she hadn't believed he could survive. "I don't think I can."

The light faded from his eyes. He waved his hand. "No matter. It's not your problem to solve."

She was at a loss. She couldn't think what she would've said to Snape if he were attempting to befriend Harry at Hogwarts, let alone now. "He could come with us. We're moving every few nights right now, but we could find a meeting place."

He sighed. "An offer I'll gladly accept, once everyone is on secure footing."

She squeezed her hands together. He was right, of course. They were on the run with no time for anyone's needs. If Harry were with them, the next attack might end with him captured again and injured even further. Snape could focus on his healing, even if his bedside manner likely left something to be desired. He had access to potions, a safe place, and information on the enemy.

What could she offer Harry? I'm sorry I gave you up for dead, but I was busy leading a failing rebellion. Try to keep up while we run for our lives. She scolded herself for her gloominess and tried to think of something that would help. Something she would say to Harry, if he were here now. "We tried to be there for each other." She smiled. "To be Gryffindors. Honest. Loyal."

He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Honesty and loyalty. Another set of ingredients I have in short supply."

She gazed at him somberly. "I think you're selling yourself short."

He pulled a face at that. "The immediate priority is the horcruxes. I have access to most of the Ministry. Any locations I should investigate?"

Hermione reviewed the possibilities, although it was only the barest speculation. She felt as if she were hearing herself from a distance as her mind swirled with memories. The troll. Their adventures with polyjuice. The three of them under the invisibility cloak. Harry's cherished heirloom that she'd lost. Her voice shook, but Snape listened carefully, his dark eyes absorbing it all.

At the end, she pulled out her notebook and wrote what she needed to know. No mention of Snape by name, or even hints that might lead her to correctly guess his identity. The next steps for each of them were filled with question marks. This was new ground for them both, but it felt like progress. When she got to their conversation about Harry, her pen hovered, wobbling as her fingers shook. She wanted so badly to write the words. Harry is alive. Harry is with the Phoenix. But it was too dangerous. She swallowed, putting the pen away, the words unwritten.

Snape stood, gesturing towards the exit.

He's going back to Harry. Harry, who's alive. She felt like she should've said more, helped more. "He hates being cooped up, or feeling useless, and he likes quidditch." What team did he support? Was it the Chudley Cannons? "Oh! And pumpkin juice is his favorite drink."

"Ah, yes. I'll end our mutual antagonism with pumpkin juice."

Her hands fluttered, and she couldn't get them to land anywhere. She wanted Harry to be there, to give him a hug and tell him it would be all right. Her arms stretched out, as if they could conjure Harry on the spot. But the only other person there was Snape, already focused on resetting his detection spells.

She dropped her hands to her sides as they left the office. "I should've found a way for him to avoid the Triwizard Challenges. Or discovered the trap. I stayed awake so many nights wondering what I could've done to change things."

The sun was setting, warm rays escaping between the buildings. Cracks of golden light hovered, showing the Brigadoon alley. Snape watched a moving shadow as someone outside passed by. "I'm familiar with the feeling."

She swallowed. "You'll tell me again? You'll tell me, and we'll see Harry? We'll have tea and talk, and I'll get all blubbery, and Harry will get that uncomfortable look he gets whenever I get blubbery. You'll tell me again, won't you? When the war is over."

Snape turned then, the light from the sinking sun casting half his face into shadow. His eyes disappeared into the darkened hollows of his face. "Yes. When the war is over." The way he said it had a lyrical rhythm, as if he'd said it many times before.

She blinked hard. "All right. I'm ready."

Snape held his wand like a conductor's baton: poised with the anticipation of movement. "Miss Granger. I will try. With Potter."

He sounded so earnest. Like a first-year getting ready to cast wingardium leviosa. She had difficulty seeing him in the gathering gloom, but she smiled. "You can call me Hermione, Professor."

"Hermione." He said it with such warmth that she wished she'd asked him sooner.

It reminded her of Dumbledore for a moment, gently speaking in the darkness, hours before he was gone. Hermione, there's something you need to know about Harry. Useless information, she'd thought, when it became clear that Harry had been killed.

But he wasn't. He was alive. And so was the horcrux inside him. Her mouth fell open. All their discussion of horcruxes, and she hadn't told him about Harry, and that impossible choice. "Professor—"

But the wand had already swooped and a quiet voice said, "obliviate."

Her words faded away as darkness descended.