Chapter Text
May 2, 1999
She sat on the end of the stone bench, the bright sun shining down on her as it made miniature spots of sweat bead at the base of her scalp. Harry sat on her left; Ginny perched next to him with Ronald on her other side. It was the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and the inaugural opening of the War Memorial. Dressed in black formal robes, holding the rolled parchment of the speech she’d been forced to give that morning in her hands, Hermione wanted nothing more for the social circus to be over and for her to do what this day was truly meant for: grieve.
The affair had been long and tedious, but finally the crowds were dismissed with a crescendo of a speech from the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Hermione remained at her seat, thankful for the Aurors that prevented the throng of wizards and witches from approaching the ‘special guests’ of the event. Standing in a dais gave her the perfect vantage point, and she scanned the faces of those gathered, her chest filled with both hope and trepidation. Each time she was interrupted to say hello to someone, a spike of anger crawled up her throat. Shaking hands without looking at the owners, Hermione trawled the sea of faces, looking for one person in particular.
The congregation of people dwindled down to a handful, and she sat heavily, trying her best to conceal the disappointment. It was a long shot, and she knew it, but if he was going to show up anywhere, it would be here, where he could blend in and go unnoticed.
“Come on Hermione, let’s go get some dinner.” Harry broke her through her thoughts, sitting next to her on the bench.
She shook her head and unbidden tears crowded the corner of her eyes. Hastily, she rubbed them away, swallowing back frustration that had shape-shifted from the hope she had cultivated in her gut.
“What are you going to do, then?” he asked, his hand resting on her knee reassuringly.
“Wait a little longer,” Hermione told him calmly. “There is still a chance.”
“They read the will yesterday.” Harry stated knowingly, his head leaned down to catch her eyes.
Her mouth thinned as she nodded. “He left me his books—me of all people, he left everything he’s ever written.”
“I heard.” Harry looked away from her toward the marble wall that was lined with plaques for the fallen of the war. They sat in a relative quiet, just the two of them, as everyone else who remained seemed to give the two heroes a wide berth. Harry’s hand squeezed her knee, and he glanced back at her. “What are you going to do with it all? His writing, I mean?”
Hermione rose her eyebrow, tilting her head at him as if he had just asked the most absurd question she’d ever heard. “Read it all, of course, search for whatever it is he left there for me to find.”
Harry nodded, and she watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed back nervously. “Do you still really believe he is alive?”
“I do Harry,” Hermione confessed, “in my gut, I know Snape is out there somewhere.”
Another knowing nod was his response, and he stood, sliding his hand back through his messy black hair. “I know better than to try to stop you, but know that I’ll be worrying about you, and I’ll check up on you, alright?”
A warm appreciation for Harry’s understanding chased the smallest of smiles onto her lips. “I’ll expect you for tea on the weekends. Go on, I’m sure Ginny wants to be home, and you look like you’ve not slept well.”
It was an honest observation; she knew him well enough to tell the signs of fatigue likely long before anyone else. They’d both been through hell together, and he was looking as if he’d done a quick tour of the place before coming here. The slightest hint of bags under his eyes, the strained way he smiled all day, and his slower movements told her that he’d rested nearly as much as she had.
And she hadn’t rested well since—she couldn’t exactly remember.
“Auror training has been intense. That and planning for the wedding, not much time for sleep,” he explained, waving his hand at someone who was behind her.
Hermione stood back up then, shoving his shoulder slightly. “Then stop worrying about me and go home.”
His green eyes studied her for a moment, and she was sure he was going to continue to try to convince her to leave. His mouth moved as if he were going to speak, and she pleaded with her eyes for him to understand that her position. If he could not understand, Hermione hoped that he’d at least respect it enough to give her the space she desired.
A deep sigh erupted from Harry as he reflexively rubbed the shoulder she’d shoved, shifting on his feet as if to test his footing.
“Bye, Hermione, don’t sit out here all night.” Harry embraced her, holding her to him so tightly that she found it hard to breathe for a moment. It was as if he expected she too would disappear into the ether without a trace.
Returning the hug for a moment longer, she parted from him, giving him an encouraging smile. “I won't.”
Hermione watched him leave, as well as watching everyone else leave, until she was the last person sitting at the memorial. The sun set, painting orange shadows over the stonework. She waited until the waning full moon cast every surface aglow with a magic all its own. With a huff, she rose to her feet, moving toward the plinth that held a beautifully carved bust. Her fingers touched the golden plaque, and she frowned.
“I know you are out there somewhere,” she whispered, the sound seeming like thunder in the stillness of the night. “I promise I am going to find out where and make sure you’re alright.”
She drew a line under the name with her index finger.
‘In Honour of
Severus Tobias Snape,
without the diligence and hard work of this one man,
all would have been lost.
May he be remembered for his contributions to the war.
January 9th, 1960 - May 2nd, 1998 ’
Sighing, she turned away from the moon-illuminated statue and apparated to her flat on Lyttelton Road that had been incidentally located not far from where she had grown up. When she arrived, she noticed the pile of parcels sitting on and around her desk. The Ministry had sent her inheritance while she was away and it sat on her carpeted floor beckoning her to dive into it.
Hermione, never in her wildest dreams, imagined that she’d be in possession of the collected works and writings of Severus Snape. Whatever reason he’d bequeathed them to her in the event of his death, she was going to find it out.
Hermione put the kettle on, she would need it for the amount of reading she was going to do that night.
For a man who had been so guarded in person, Snape had been prolific in his writing. Journals, research papers, tomes with annotations and corrections littered most of the surfaces of Hermione’s small flat. For months she’d been invested in reading everything that had been left to her, no matter how insignificant it may have looked at first glance.
Hermione was certain somewhere in the depths of these notes, the journals and theories, was the answer to the questions that burned within her.
He’d left behind no family, no friends to speak of, nothing but these volumes of writing, which he then left to her. Why would he have done that if he had not hidden something amongst the formulas if he’d not left a bread crumb trail for her to follow and uncover some hidden truth?
Was it possible that he was still alive? If not, where had his body gone? She had to know, and if he was still alive, she had to find him. It became an all-encompassing endeavour, to unearth the secrets anchored in the ink under her nose.
September 1st, 1999
Fingers diligently untied the string around the waxed paper that had been folded around the book in her hand. Snape had taken great care to ensure that it was not damaged, the warding spells were palpable under her fingertips. Hermione was getting toward the end of his collection, and while she had learned so much about the man and his work, she’d still not found what she was looking for.
Above giving up hope, she had already consulted with an archivist to help her perhaps see what she was missing. It would be a few months before they could offer her aid, and there was still much being done to rebuild and strengthen the wizarding world. Historians and librarians all around the commonwealth were hard at work recording it.
She held in her hands a thick leatherbound book, the pages gilded in shiny gold leaf. It felt heavier than it should, and she inspected it carefully, running her wand over it for some manner of curse or spell. It glowed under her wand, but the charms on the tome were unknown to her. It passed all other inspection. So with care she opened the book. It smelt of something familiar — a blend of damp stone and crushed green herbs. A touch of excitement thrilled through her, perhaps this was it, what she’d been seeking.
The first page was blank. So was the second. Her fingers flipped through the pages, each blank one sinking the hope of discovery farther and farther down into her gut. She nearly wept from frustration to find that there was not a single bit of writing in the book. Reaching for her revealer, she tested it on a few pages to find nothing hidden there either. Flipping through the pages once more, she went to set it aside when a folded piece of parchment fell into her lap.
Unfolding it, her jaw went slack as she read the now familiar spiky script. She held in her hand a letter addressed to her.
Granger,
If you are reading this, then you have been given all that I hold in the highest regard, this book being the most valuable. I have found this journal particularly useful in one of the hardest points of my life. It has magic that is unlike anything I have ever encountered before. It is my desire that you utilize it to ensure that everything that must be done is. To claim it, simply write upon it’s pages your name, the date and that which vexes you. You will understand, once you do. One might suppose it is a diary of sorts, but a very powerful one. Let it fall into no one else’s hands.
S.S.
Reading over the letter again, Hermione lifted the book in her hand, glancing between them. This blank journal was the most valuable part of his collection. Rising from her sofa she moved to her desk, shuffling away a pile of invitations and letters that she’d yet to answer. Opening to the first page, she deftly uncorked her ink with the other hand. Dipping her quill into the inky blackness, she touched it to the page, writing as he had instructed.
‘My name is Hermione Granger, it is September 1st, 1999 and that which vexes me is that I cannot find the reason why Professor Snape would give me this journal. I have so much I wish I could say to him, to apologize for. For not believing in him, for letting my better judgement be coloured against that which was right in front of me. I regret every time that I doubted him and now I have no idea where he is, and I have to find him. Can you help me?’
The ink sunk into the page, drying far quicker than it should have, and she felt the magical resonance of some spell under her hands. She held her breath for a moment. Her eyes fluttered around her flat, the room illuminated against the darkness of night by an electric lamp that flickered ever so slightly. The surrounding air seemed unnaturally still.
Suddenly, spiky familiar handwriting began to cross the page with quick strokes.
‘GRANGER?!
How did you breach the wards into my office, and what is this rubbish you are espousing at me? If you are located on Hogwarts grounds, you will be handed over to the proper authorities. Also, the year is 1997, you imbecile. I would expect ‘the brightest witch of her age’ to keep a calendar whilst she is rushing across the countryside.’
Her heart clenched and a sudden fear climbed into her throat. She’d seen something like this before, or rather she’d been a victim to it. Stepping back, nearly knocking her chair over in the process, Hermione considered the fact that perhaps Snape had done something unthinkable and created for himself a way to remain alive — that he created a Horcrux. She flicked her wand over the journal, his writing still clear as day as she did every identifying magic she knew on it. The magical signature was unknown to her, and she considered carefully how she wanted to proceed.
Her desire to understand the journal's power and its connection to Snape overrode her cautionary stance. Plucking the quill up from where she dropped it, she dipped it in the ink once more.
‘Professor Snape, is this a Horcrux? Is that why you’ve given it to me? And I can assure you, I know the year well. I have been living in it for the last nine months, and it is most assuredly 1999.’
Setting the quill down, she stood looking down on her desk with apprehension. In the long moments, Hermione wracked her brain for any mention of any kind of magic like this. Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough information. It could be a Horcrux, or some kind of instilled memory that he modified from a Pensieve, or something wholly new and unknown to the wizarding world. It was not as if he didn’t already create spells of his own, what was a magical item in the face of that. Her thoughts were interrupted by more of the peaked writing.
‘I have given you nothing, fool girl. If you are trying to insist that you are writing to me from the future, you will have to find someone else to test this gag upon. I wrongly assumed you were above the idiotic and daft attempts as subterfuge attempted by your peers, my mistake. The date is clearly September 1st, 1997, the first day of term, which you would know if you had elected to return to your studies, rather than throw your lot in with Potter.’
This was impossible. There was no possible way she was talking to Severus Snape in the past. It didn’t work that way, time didn’t work that way. As someone who had a time turner and used it for the better part of a year, Hermione was well acquainted with the rules of time and time travel.
She tapped her fingers against her chin for a moment, and she picked up the letter that had come with the journal.
It has a magic unlike anything I have ever encountered before...
Hermione sucked in a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. She was faced with two options, to close the journal and rewrap it, to hand it over to the ministry in the morning as a potential Horcrux, or to investigate it further. She’d be putting herself at risk, but she finally had in her possession the thing that Snape had meant for her to have. Maybe this journal was the key to unlocking where he’d ended up.
“In for a penny, in for a pound.” She sighed, pulling her chair back to her desk and taking a seat.
A realization hit her as her bottom hit the seat. This was before the Battle, in the thick of the war, when people were dying. Was this bigger than her quest to find him. Was this a way to right the wrongs that had happened?
Sliding the quill over the bottom of her lip, she considered her next response carefully.
‘If you are really in 1997, and it is September, then you are the Headmaster, and everything that I know to have happened hasn’t yet. Did you give this to me to change it? Is there some way I can convince you that I truly am in 1999?’
The reply came back faster, starting just as her quill left the page.
‘Everyone who reads the Prophet knows I am the Headmaster, it is no secret. I have no inclination to believe you, but for the sake of curiosity, say I suspend belief here and indulge in your madness that you are in the future. If that is the case, why would I have given you anything? Unless the Dark Lord specified that you should have it, I hardly know a reason you should have anything of mine.’
Hermione’s breathing quickened, her eyes flicking back and forth as she tried to think of a way to convince the journal that she was telling the truth. The actual Snape would not believe her simply saying it, she knew that. He’d only believe it if she could remove all doubts of duplicity. After a few long moments, she came to realize that she’d have to tell him some truths that no one else but him would know at the time.
‘Professor Snape, I am not sure how telling you this will affect the future. Witches and wizards who mess with time can create grave problems, but I know how to prove to you I am telling the truth.
I know where your true loyalties lie, and I know things you’ve shared with no one else before, at least not yet. Merlin forgive me for this. I would never use your own memories against you if I didn’t have to. You gave us these memories, Professor.
You didn’t murder Dumbledore because you are a loyal Death Eater. You did it because Dumbledore asked you to because the curse from the Horcrux on the Gaunt Ring was killing him. You’d been able to stop it, but only temporarily. You did it to protect Draco’s soul from the stain of the Killing Curse because you’d given his mother an Unbreakable Vow. And you did it because you swore allegiance to Dumbledore when Tom Riddle did not spare Lily Potter.
If that does not convince you, then this will. You gave Albus an oath to protect Harry after his parents died, and you made him swear that no one must know. Albus gives you his word that he will never reveal the best of you. And when you found out, years later that Harry was a Horcrux and had to die at the right time, you compared him being raised like a pig for slaughter. Dumbledore accused you of caring for Harry to which you replied that it was not for him and cast your doe Patronus. Everything you’ve done since she died has been to honour Lily Potter’s memory. Do you believe me now?’
Her gut twisted at the words she left on the page, knowing that if this was a memory or an echo of Snape, it would likely wound him. But, it was something that no one else knew, and she hung her hope on the fact it would convince the journal. Her clock on the wall ticked the seconds out painfully slow as she waited, watching the page for some change. Precisely when she’d given up hope of a response, ink began to spill across the page.
‘What have you and Potter done? What manner of spell have you put on this journal?’
It did not admit to her being accurate, but it did not deny her either. With haste, she responded, her penmanship growing tight with the speed of her hand.
‘Nothing. The journal came to me with a note from you. And I told you, you shared your memories with us.’
The reply came immediately, and it devolved into a conversation rather than letter writing.
‘So, I did not personally give you this journal, and yet, you trusted it to be from me?’
Hermione bit her lip, unwilling to tell the journal that the world considered him dead. ‘You did personally give it to me, in a way.’
‘Granger, I cannot believe I am saying this, but is this happening? Are you really in the future?’
Hermione tried to think back to where she was two years prior on this day. That year had been a blur, but after careful consideration she realized there was another way to prove herself. ‘I suppose I am, but this means you are in the past. It’s September 1st for you as well, but two years earlier, correct?’
‘It is now the 2nd, as it is far into the morning, it will be breakfast in a few short hours.’
‘I can prove to you another way that I am in the future. Watch the Prophet. You will note there is no way that 1997 me was writing to you at this hour.’ Two years ago she, Harry, and Ron were sneaking into the Ministry of Magic, having Polyjuiced as employees.
‘And then what Granger?’
Only one idea came to her mind at the question. ‘If you, believe me, write back.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Her heart tightened as she realized if that was the case, nothing could be changed.
Her hand paused over the parchment, her fingers brushing against the surface as one would against the skin of a living being. She closed her eyes, steeling her nerves, before putting the quill to the ink and back to the page.
‘Then everything that has happened in my timeline stays the same.’