Chapter Text
Four months, three weeks and almost one day ago, it had finally ended. But then again, it hadn’t. Hermione had always prided herself on her planning, her foresight in preparing for every eventuality that she, Harry and Ron would face. But she had never planned for what would happen once Voldemort had been defeated. Decisions she had made during the war, which had seemed rational and sensible at the time, now seemed wildly haphazard. They had been the decisions of someone who never expected to live more than another year. Certainly not the decisions of an eighteen-year-old who now had her whole life ahead of her.
Everything she owned or could lay some type of ownership claim to now fit inside a small beaded bag. Her parents had sold their house and business in England and now lived in Australia. They were happy—as far as she could find out from her internet searches—and had opened a new dental practice. That was good. They were safe. But that had left her completely and utterly on her own. Which wasn’t an issue really, lots of people struck out on their own at her age. And many weren’t lucky enough to have a place to stay. She had Harry to thank for that. One of the poky rooms in Grimmauld Place was hers “as long as she needed it” apparentIy.
In actuality, she had barely any money and no real idea of where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. The dress she wore to the Yule ball lay on the bed in front of her. A few small adjustments meant she could still wear it, although she wasn’t quite sure she even wanted to. Was she even the same girl as the one who turned on the dance floor with Viktor? The one who’d shivered when he’d whispered in her ear that she was the smartest girl he’d ever met? That feeling of being seen and still valued had done something to her body that had her feeling as though she was melting away in the middle of all those people. Was she still valued? Still seen? Perhaps she was.
There was a knock on the door.
“Hermione? Are you ready? We have to go soon.” Harry’s voice was slightly muffled by the thick wooden door.
“Nearly ready!” she lied.
It took a few moments to step into the dress and fasten it at the back. She pulled her curls into a close approximation of a chignon and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked pale, still a bit on the malnourished side and had dark circles under her eyes. But she looked a hell of a lot better then she had two months, three days and almost a week ago. She clipped a small red and gold poppy pin onto the right strap of the dress. There was nowhere else to put it really. Putting it on her bodice just seemed to scream “look at my tits” which wasn’t really the look she was after.
“Not bad, dearie,” said the mirror cheerfully. “Too bad about the Muggle blood, though.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. Stupid racist Black house.
She slipped on her shoes, hidden under the dress, thankfully, as they were an admittedly unstable transfigured pair of grubby Converse sneakers, and grabbed her bag on the way out.
Harry was sitting at the kitchen table in his dress robes. He sported his matching scarlet and gold poppy pin and dark, sunken eyes. What a pair they were; dressed as something different, just like her sneakers,
“You look nice,” he said.
“So do you,” she replied.
He smiled slightly. “I’m not sure I’m up for this,” he admitted.
“Me neither,” said Hermione. “But Kingsley hinted very strongly that we’d be receiving a commendation. A commendation that includes a tidy little war pension. And to be brutally honest, I bloody need it.”
“I know,” Harry said. He fidgeted slightly. “What’s mine is yours, Hermione.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” said Hermione, “but it really isn’t. And I don’t want it to be.”
“Right,” Harry agreed.
“We both heard him. It’s contingent on us showing up. No public appearance, no galleons,” said Hermione. “So let’s get there, make our public appearance and get our bloody money.”
Harry laughed. “I didn’t know you were so mercenary!”
She managed a coquettish eyelash flutter. “Didn’t you? And here I was thinking you knew me.”
His smile widened at her comment, almost like past-Harry.
“Maybe I just focus on your good points,” he suggested.
“Excuse you!” said a scandalised Hermione. “That is my good point!”
He shrugged, which was Harry code for ‘I know I’m right but don’t have the energy to argue with you’. This was fair enough for Hermione, who didn’t particularly feel like arguing either. She was tired and felt she had always been tired.
The normally convoluted entry to the Ministry had been thankfully shortcut this evening, and two invitations sat on the table. Portkeys. The latent spell was set to activate at six o’clock.
“I suppose we’d better touch them,” said Harry glumly.
“In exactly four minutes,” said Hermione.
“It’ll be good to see Ron again,” said Harry.
“Yes,” said Hermione. “It will.”
The Weasleys were still recovering from the loss of Fred. George had sunk into depression after the funeral but had emerged from his sadness quicker than his siblings. He had re-opened Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and was being assisted by his mother. Hermione had thought that was strange until she had visited the shop once, just to say hello. As soon as she walked in the door she was reminded of Fred. The shelves were still stocked with items that certainly were entirely unsuitable for children, and at the very least morally dubious in the hands of consenting adults. Molly had been buzzing from shelf to shelf, filling orders and shouting at George. Fred was a silent, yet very real presence.
Ron had taken the loss very hard. He had struggled with the residual feelings the horcrux had stirred within him. He’d never truly believed Harry that there had been nothing between him and Hermione, and in the end, it had begun to drive a wedge between them. They were slowly building back what they had held as friends, but Hermione sometimes felt for every brick she put back, some crumbled under her touch.
The invitations jittered on the tabletop. She shared a wry glance with Harry.
“Come on then,” she said. “Let’s get it over with.”
They both reached for the portkeys at the same time and were pulled into a large room where an officious-looking wizard was marking off a scroll.
“Potter, Granger. Yes. In you go then,” he said briskly, waving the quill in the direction of a door.
They walked into the atrium, which was richly decorated in sombre colours. On the walls, smiling faces flickered back and forth. Tonks. Remus. Moody. Colin. There were many faces Hermione was ashamed to admit she didn’t recognise, even though she’d probably gone to school with them.
Hermione felt a strange pull in the room, drawing her towards the empty tables. Harry, in front of her, made his way to a table which was situated in the centre of the room, closest to the currently empty podium. That didn’t bode well. Ron was already there, tapping his knee nervously.
“Hi,” Hermione said.
Ron looked up and smiled slightly. “Hi,” he said.
Harry walked behind Ron and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Ron grasped it briefly. Hermione looked at the table. A small sign that read ‘Harry Potter’ in neat, gold lettering suggested he had led them to the right place. It had been too easy. There was obviously a small compulsion spell directing people to the right table and location.
“I can’t see my name!” said Hermione in confusion. Then, feeling the pull of the spell she stepped backwards.
“Oh, I’m at this table,” she said.
“Sod that,” said Harry. He plucked the card with her name on it and moved it to an empty place on the table he and Ron were seated at. Hermione grinned at him. Rules were always up for bending when Harry was around.
“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said. She pulled the chair back and sat down.
They sat in silence for a while. Hermione had just about gathered enough courage to try and start a conversation when she heard a disgusted sniff to her left. She looked up.
Professor Snape met her eyes with undisguised hostility.
Hermione immediately averted her eyes down at the table and caught a glimpse of the card marking the place next to her.
Severus Snape.
Oh fuck.
She tried to draw on the same courage she had relied on so often over the past year. That whisper of resilience gave her enough to raise her head again and attempt a hesitant smile.
“Hello,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, but the outright loathing in his countenance reduced somewhat.
“Evening,” he said. He pulled out his chair and sank down into it next to her. Before Hermione could say anything, he reached out a black-garbed arm and tapped a finger on the empty glass in front of him. It immediately filled with a red liquid that Hermione assumed was wine. Hermione, Harry and Ron all watched on in silence as Professor Snape lifted the glass and downed it in two swallows. He put the glass down and tapped it again.
Hermione wondered if they were pre-spelled to fill with wine, or whether it was linked to the desires of the person assigned to that seat. Curiosity got the better of her and she tentatively tapped her own glass. It filled with the same red liquid.
Well that answered that question.
Professor Snape was holding his second glass but was watching her tapping performance intently. Unsure of what to do, Hermione reached forward and picked up the glass. Ignoring Harry’s raised eyebrows, she took a sip of the wine. It was apparently the right move as Professor Snape’s lips twitched slightly and he looked away from her and towards the podium.
With his head turned, she took the opportunity to sneak a small glance at Professor Snape. She hadn’t seen him since the Nagini incident in the shack. He’d clearly got himself out of there, no one was quite sure how, and had been located days later by Minerva. Again, no one knew the details of that either; it was all very mysterious.
Harry had given the vial of Snape’s memories to Minerva to return them, and Hermione assumed she had done so. The Prophet had extensively covered Professor Snape’s motivations during the war and had managed to track down a few classmates who were both still alive and willing to talk about the relationship between Harry’s mum and the Professor. Harry himself had sent an owl to Professor Snape that he hadn’t let Hermione vet.
Well. Read. She’d offered to read it.
Harry was the one who had got all snarky and said she was trying to vet it. He’d never received a reply. It was still all quite awkward.
She wondered if Snape’s performance at school had all been an act, or even if part of it had. She’d even wondered if, like her other Professors, he’d gone back to grade the NEWTS of those who hadn’t completed their seventh year.
As she was thinking this his gaze moved back onto her. She froze, caught looking at him, and she felt her face and neck grow very hot. How mortifying. She felt herself sinking slightly down in her chair under his scrutiny and was grateful for the welcome arrival of Kingsley on stage. Apparently, she was potentially alone in her feelings of gratitude as she saw Professor Snape’s lip curl up in a sneer as Kingsley’s booming voice rang out across the room, welcoming them to the evening’s event.
It was the first type of event like this Hermione had attended, and it only took the first hour of it to make her realise she’d be attending one every year until the Ministry said otherwise and that they would likely be as boring and self-congratulatory as the one she was currently sitting through.
According to the Ministry, they did far more to win the war and defeat Voldemort than Hermione had previously guessed. She, on one hand, had largely experienced the Ministry as complicit in Voldemort’s rise and grab for power, but according to the eight speeches she’d already sat through, that was not the case. They’d been one of the most forthright supporters of the resistance effort. According to the Ministry, that was.
Hermione snuck a few covert glances at her other table companions: Harry, Ron, Neville (who had turned up twenty minutes late), and Professor Snape. All of them appeared to be slightly nauseated by what they were hearing, except Professor Snape, who merely looked amused. Although Hermione pondered, as the man in question tapped his glass again, he could just be drunk.
Eventually Kingsley stopped talking, cleared his throat and announced that they would now be handing out commendations. Hermione sat up straighter. This was what she had been waiting for. But alas, it was not. Twenty minutes more of introductions and the simultaneously ostentatious and conspicuously unemotional lauding of the fallen immediately followed. She shrunk down again.
Finally Kingsley began to present the commendations, beginning with the Order of Merlin Second Class, awarded for achievement and endeavour beyond the ordinary. Hermione watched as wizards and witches alike walked to the stage to collect their purple ribbons. Ginny, George, and Luna were among the group. There was Lavender in a beautiful rose-coloured robe, perfect waves in her hair. Hermione regretted her own childish gown. Lavender and the others were joined by almost all of the Hogwarts staff, and then finally, Kingsley paused. Hermione began to clap, anticipating the next class.
Apppause filled the room and Hermione stared across the table, meeting Harry’s eyes. He looked confused.
“Hermione!” Ron hissed in a whisper. “That’s you!”
She sat there. Still confused. Ron gave her a nudge with his foot under the table.
“Congratulations,” said Professor Snape sardonically. She shot him a look but he was staring at the stage, sipping his wine and appearing unimpressed with everything.
Later, Hermione would hardly remember collecting her ribbon from Kingsley, but she did remember the quick press of Ginny’s hand in hers, and the agonising wait on the stage until she could return to her seat. She felt disconnected and discombobulated. As if from a distance, she watched herself smile and clap loudly for Ron and Harry and Neville as they collected their First Class ribbons. She even tittered along with the crowd when Ron blanched a little at the green colour of the award. Professor Snape was the last to walk to the stage and stood quite still while the ribbon was pinned on his black robes. He didn’t even acknowledge the applause.
After the presentations were finalised the tables insisted on moving themselves, forcing guests to stand as they scampered back on their thin wooden legs. The music began and Hermione realised the excitable furniture had been making way for a dance floor.
She wasn’t in the mood for dancing. She was furious.
“I’m going to find Kingsley,” she said.
“I don’t know Hermione,” said Harry. “Is that a good idea? You seem really angry.”
“I am angry,” she said.
“Perhaps take a bit of time to calm down first,” said Neville soothingly.
“Fuck off Neville,” snapped Hermione.
A laugh behind her quickly turned into a cough and she spun around crossly to find Professor Snape taking in their entire exchange. He shrugged and walked away from them. Hermione watched his tall, thin figure weave through dancing couples until she lost sight of him.
“Ah, Harry! Will I see you all on the dance floor?” Kingsley’s warm voice rang out.
Hermione drew an angry breath and was only halted by the hesitant touch on her lower back by Ron. She tried to calm herself slightly.
“May I ask why I was awarded Second Class?” asked Hermione (in what she tried to convince herself was a measured tone).
“You are very welcome,” beamed Kingsley. “First Muggleborn to receive an Order of Merlin commendation! And this year is the first that witches were included in the award ceremony. We’re moving forward.”
Hermione could feel the anger inside her like a smouldering ember. “The first year?” she managed to say.
“Indeed. No need to thank us,” said Kingsley. “You all deserve it. Now enjoy the rest of the night.”
With a broad grin he moved away into the throng of dancers.
“What a fucking knob,” said Hermione.
“Do you want to dance?” asked Neville.
“I do not,” said Hermione.
“I know that tone,” said Ron. “I’d leave her alone if I were you.”
“Do you want to talk?” asked Harry.
“I do not,” repeated Hermione, angry tears pricking behind her eyes.
She needed to go somewhere where she could collect herself. She had a ribbon pinned on her dress that only entitled her to a quarter of the pension she’d been hoping for. Her carefully built future was teetering in front of her, precarious and fading fast.
Before the boys could attempt to stop her, she dashed forward across the dance floor, slipping past people and making for the doors that opened onto the balcony.
Hermione opened the double glass doors with a more forceful shove than was entirely necessary. The balcony looked out onto a beautiful forest that stretched out as an endless carpet of green tree tops almost to the horizon. The light from the full moon above was reflected on the glossy surface of a small lake nestled amongst the green.
It was an exquisite vista, and should have brought on a sense of wonder in any person who stood on that balcony, taking in the serenity of the surroundings. Any person except Hermione, who could not bring herself to accept the fake beauty presented to her. She knew that the balcony in actuality looked out into a back alley of central London, and right now behind the magical facade some drunk idiot was probably pissing up against the grimy bricks.
Typical, she raged to herself. Typical fucking Ministry. Everything is all lovely and magical and oh look isn’t that beautiful? when behind it, reality stunk of urine and stale vomit.
Typical.
She rubbed her eyes and swore in her head. This wasn’t quite as cathartic as she’d hoped so she swore out loud as well.
“Fucking bastards!” Hermione fumed.
That gave her spirits a slight improvement.
“Fuckity fuck fuck fuck,” she shouted into the peaceful night sky.
The shouting helped tremendously. She already felt better.
There was a slight cough from behind and Hermione froze.
“You seem to be in the middle of something,” said a low voice in an exceedingly dry tone. “Is it at all possible to move this something somewhere else?”
Hermione turned around to see Professor Snape slouching in a wrought iron chair and smoking a cigarette. She was still high on anger and burning with the scorching flame of Being Hard Done By, so the sight of his black robes and familiar cold expression didn’t instil her with the normal amount of intimidatory fear that it had inside the ballroom.
“Oh. Am I bothering you?” she snapped.
He took a long pull on the cigarette and eyed her through half-lidded eyes. “Was I too subtle? I thought the underlying message was quite clear.”
“It was. Perhaps I don’t take hints well,” said Hermione. “Perhaps I hang around too long where I’m not wanted as a matter of course.”
Professor Snape looked away from her. “Insight is a wonderful thing, Miss Granger,” he said.
She snorted. “Great,” she said a tad viciously. She snuck another look back at him, but he was still looking away into the distance, the cigarette dangling from his thin lips. She felt an overwhelming urge to prick his calm facade. To share some of the anger and hurt she was feeling.
“They’ll kill you, you know,” she said. His eyes flicked back to her. “The cigarettes,” she clarified.
He took another measured drag. “I certainly hope so,” he said.
It was such an unexpected response that she laughed. He quirked an eyebrow.
“I don’t really want you dead,” she said apologetically. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“You’d be the only person in this building that doesn’t,” said Professor Snape.
“That’s not true!” she said.
He shrugged. “I stopped caring about what they thought a long time ago,” he said.
“I wish I had,” Hermione admitted. “I don’t want to care either.”
“It’s easier than you think,” said Professor Snape. “I’m doing it right now with little to no effort on my part.”
Hermione wasn’t entirely sure she believed that statement, despite the nonchalant tone of his voice and the bored expression on his face. The hand not flicking ash from the cigarette was strong-smelling of alcohol.
If he noticed the direction of her gaze he showed no sign of it, instead lifting the glass to his lips and draining the contents. It was full again by the time he had placed it back on the table. He cocked his head to one side as he drew back on the cigarette that was once more in his mouth.
“You look shorter,” he said.
Hermione looked down. She peeked a toe out from under her dress.
Ah.
The classic low heels had returned to their former grubby sneaker goodness.
“My transfiguration didn’t hold,” she admitted. “Maybe I messed up the wand movement.”
“Are they old shoes?” Professor Snape asked idly.
She nodded.
“Older ones tend to be more inclined to return to their former shape,” said Professor Snape. He crossed his legs out onto the chair in front of him. Hermione could see the polished black patent leather shoes he had been wearing earlier were now very scuffed boots with deep creases from years of wear.
“Why is that?” Hermione asked.
Professor Snape closed his eyes at her question. “I am no longer employed at Hogwarts, and therefore no longer contractually obliged to respond to your incessant questioning,” he said.
Hermione felt her face grow hot with mortification. She wasn’t quite sure how she forgot he was a complete arsehole, but somehow during this strange interaction, she had. Thankfully he had reminded her by reverting to type and saying something that made her feel both stupid and annoying.
“Oh right,” she said. “You left.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Professor Snape said. Although, Hermione realised, he wasn’t a Professor anymore.
“What’s the other way?” Hermione asked, immediately forgetting he had just snapped at her for asking questions.
“My particular services are no longer required,” he said, still with his eyes closed. “And therefore I am surplus to requirements.”
“Ah,” said Hermione. She got the impression he wasn’t just talking about Hogwarts anymore.
There was a moment of silence between them.
“Why did you bother showing up then?” she finally asked.
He took another sip of his drink, which to her amazement and slight alarm, emptied half the glass.
“The money,” he said.
She huffed a bit. “Me too,” she said. “I don’t have any. And now I’ve got much less than I expected I would.”
He opened his eyes. “Indeed,” he said. “And yet still you expected it. How trusting of you.”
“Sod trust,” she said, finally losing her temper with him. “I fucking earned it. Every bloody Knut of it. Now I’m stuffed. I gave up everything and now I’m stuffed.”
“You are now a member of an exclusive club of two,” said Snape with a nasty smirk on his face. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “Benefits include regrets and recriminations.”
She rolled her eyes and was surprised to hear a low, rumbling laugh from him in response.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now whatever you want,” said Snape. “I’m going to sit on this balcony until I figure I’ve been here long enough to collect my due. Then, I’ll go.”
Hermione frowned. “I want to leave too. Not just the Ministry. Everything. But I don’t even know if that’s possible.”
Snape blew out a long cloud of smoke with a pained sigh. “You’ve never struck me as someone who follows the rules, Miss Granger,” he said. “Why start now?”
Hermione felt a little jot of surprise.
He was right.
Wasn’t that how she’d decided to make the Polyjuice potion? Create her beaded bag? Taken her parents' memories? Come to think of it, everything she’d done since the day the tawny owl tapped on her kitchen window with an envelope clutched in its talons?
“Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s a good point.”
“Rumour is I have them sometimes,” Professor Snape said. “You seem in better spirits. Perhaps this can be the end of our discussion?” he added hopefully.
“You know, you could just leave,” said Hermione. “You’ve probably been here two hours or so.”
“That’s more than enough,” said Snape. He stood up abruptly.
“You’re not Apparating are you?” Hermione asked with a tone of alarm. “Are you sure that’s wise?” She stole a glance at the glass of whiskey.
“Probably not,” Professor Snape said. She watched with concern as he turned on the spot—somewhat unsteadily—and was gone.
Hermione stood on the balcony for a while after he vanished. She was still angry, but she also felt a sense of calm resolution.
She knew what she was going to do.