"Last Will"- SS/HG fic- post HBP!- Prologue, final version
Title: Last Will
Author:Clannadlvr
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None for now, possible SS/HG.
Summary: Those who knew of the prophecy thought that the final battle would result in the death of either the Dark Lord or the Boy Who Lived. But when the smoke clears and the outcome of the duel is revealed, Hermione Granger must deal with her guilt and the task that now weighs upon her: finding out the truth about Severus Snape.
Rating: B (AKA, Mature for violence and sexual themes, but not "Adult")
Spoilers: Everything HP THROUGH the HALF BLOOD PRINCE. Spoilers will abound, so do not read this if you have yet to read the HBP.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is exclusively the domain of JK Rowling, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. This is purely for entertainment purposes and no money is being made.
A/N: A huge thanks to tthjinni for the beta, as well as LariLee on Ashwinder for the canon pointers!
I'm still looking for an HP specific canon and content beta on this, so let me know if you'd be interested!
***
Prologue:
Harry Potter was dead.
The world had been saved.
The irony of the situation didn’t fail to slip through the cracks in her grief and into her hatefully still functioning mind. Voldemort had been vanquished, as the prophecy had foretold, but not in the way they’d all assumed. Ah, yes, even the “brightest witch” of the new generation had taken the deadly poetry at face value. “And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.” It was Harry or Voldemort, simple as could be.
Of course, hindsight was clear and sickeningly vulgar in its revelations. Years of Muggle math came roaring back to her along with flashes of broken bodies and a bloodied battlefield. If a=b and b=c, then a must = c. But if that initial supposition of the postulate was incorrect, that a and b could be reflexive, equality in reverse, then the whole equation fell apart.
Like it had on the grounds of Hogwarts just a few hours before.
Now she could see how the entire proof rested on an initial faulty conjecture. Just because one killed the other, that didn’t preclude that both of them could die. “Neither can live while the other survives” didn’t mean that “Either would survive while the other died.” It all seemed so obvious now: a=b, but b doesn’t =a.
Even now as she lay in the infirmary at Hogwarts, pink skin replacing charred patches and Crucio-induced shakes making her quiver like a first year Potions student, Hermione Granger couldn’t believe she’d been so blind. That she’d plotted the problem so incorrectly that Harry’s…that what had happened had not made it into her list of probabilities.
It was a first year’s mistake, really. Shockingly obvious in its simple complexity. Voldemort’s Horcruxes had allowed for the twist to the theorem she hadn’t anticipated, but should have. She reviewed their approach and found herself mocked by the many times where she should have understood. Searching out the Horcruxes, basing their investigations on the assumption that they were looking for four objects in which Voldemort had placed sections of himself…the whole process seemed warped in the light of their…no, her misconceptions.
The cup…the snake…something of Ravenclaw’s. Each of them had been found and destroyed during that arduous year since Professor Dumbledore’s death. But that last Horcrux had proved to be elusive. They’d tested everything from Godric’s sword to the very grounds of Hogwarts. Little had they known, little had she realized, that “something of Gryffindor’s” had been right under their noses the entire time.
It had been Harry Potter himself.
Predictably enough, it had been she, Hermione Granger, who finally recognized this long obvious answer and she who drew Harry away from the battlefield and told him, without thinking through to the implications. She who excitedly informed him of her discovery, taking his clearing eyes and resigned expression as a sign of renewed vigor in this quest to end Voldemort’s deadly thrall over the Wizarding world. Rewriting equations in her head, high on her discovery, she ignored the obvious. Again.
It was only as Harry walked calmly toward the dark wizard and raised his wand to perform this killing curse, but shouted “Expelliarmus” instead, that she finally realized what Harry himself had concluded not moments before.
To kill Voldemort, all the Horcruxes had to be destroyed. Including Harry himself.
It was like running through maple syrup, she’d think later, as she rushed toward Harry, shoving her way through dueling Death Eaters and Aurors, barely registering the flashes and explosions that surrounded her. She slipped, her feet skidding through mud and blood, bringing her to her knees. Stumbling, running, as mindless terror clawed its way up her throat till she screamed, willing her voice to reach him. To stop him before it was too late.
Harry!! No! Don’t!! You don’t understand…
Harry turned his face toward her slightly, his eyes locked with hers and it was as if the battlefield had grown silent. The sulfurous fumes of Unforgivables and the cries of pain and fury faded in that one moment of connection.
She would never know afterward if it had been through his extreme talent with Legilimency that he had broken through her mental walls or whether their communication was simply a product of being so close for so long. Still, she heard Harry’s calm words, his answer, loud and clear.
I do.
That was it. There was no time for parting admonitions or last minute confidences beyond two simple words. Aiming his wand at his own temple and Voldemort’s at the evil wizard, Harry screamed the words “Avada Kedavra.” Twin beams of brilliant green energy erupted in opposite directions, slicing like jagged lightning.
The power of the blasts stunned her, dropping her once more to her knees. Waves of hate and love rolled over her, equal in power, and she wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once.
And when the smoke cleared, she could see them like two vandalized gravestones in a misty graveyard. Broken. Unmoving.
The shouts and hexes of the Death Eaters and Aurors around her who continued to fight pinged hollowly against the rushing sound in her head. Fighting off panic and nausea, she stumbled toward the prone bodies, collapsing at Harry’s side, telling herself all the while that she could save him. He wasn’t dead yet. She was the brightest witch of her generation. There wasn’t any problem that she couldn’t solve.
There couldn’t have been a worse time for her to find out that her reputation was, and had always been, a lie of convenience and ego.
Because not only had she failed Harry, she ruminated in the stark present as she struggled slightly against the course cotton of the hospital bed, but she’d failed Ron as well. Though her mending skin protested the movement, she couldn’t help but shift so that third member of their little group came into view. Ron lay rigid in his hospital bed, his skin against the red of his hair so shocking white that she couldn’t tell where the linens ended and he began. Madam Pomfrey had been quick to praise her for hauling the second youngest Weasley off the battlefield and bringing him to the attention of the mediwitches as soon as she had.
But it hadn’t been soon enough. His comatose state was baffling and, though she knew Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t say it in front of her, most probably permanent.
Two failures in one day, she thought numbly as she sank back into the cocoon of bed sheets- that had to be some sort of record for her. She knew it was callous and cruel, but she just couldn’t come to really think of them as “deaths.” Because if she did, she’d have to follow through to the inevitable outcome- that one friend was indeed gone, and another, who had been a friend and maybe something more, may well be on his way.
She was done with math, done with figuring and postulating. Finished with being the brightest witch. So she drifted in a haze of pain potions, free of outcomes and concrete results. Her disgusting status of a hero gave her that small mercy. She avoided the questions of the Ministry men as well as she could and even refused to open up to McGonagall when she’d arrived in the infirmary, weary from the battle. But even she, the savior imposter of Wizard kind, couldn’t refuse when her headmistress placed the envelope in her hands.
Still, she told herself that it didn’t exist, that the vellum-like paper didn’t feel crisp against her singed palms. That the script, which addressed the missive to her name, wasn’t achingly familiar. But at the same time, she couldn’t seem to put it on the end table next to her bed or to throw it in the dustbin. So she simply ignored it. Pretended it wasn’t there. Ignoring reality and certainty seemed as good a choice as any.
For hours, she allowed herself to exist in limbo, a place where her friends were merely unaccounted for and there was no need to read any final messages from them. Because they couldn’t be final. It simply wasn’t possible. The state was almost blissful as she lay cushioned by potions and ethers that numbed her thoughts as well as her body. She could very well stay here forever, reveling in oblivion. Drifting…floating…mired in mist…
Then, with the shrillness of breaking glass, her cocoon was shattered by the piercing wails of Mrs. Weasley over the unresponsive body of her youngest son.
Before she could re-erect the walls to keep out the results of her failures, carefully laying each brick of ignorance and avoidance, reality came crashing over her. The waves of remorse and guilt ebbed and flowed with such vehemence that the tears she kept at bay now rushed out in the riptide. Buried theories and postulates broke through to the surface, the answer on the other side of the thin mist was unavoidable: Harry was dead. Ron was gone. And it was all her fault.
The waking world gave way once more, but this time her only cushion from the truth was the salty sheen of tears that obscured her vision.
Time spun out as her body emptied itself of her carefully constructed buffers and prevarications. Vaguely, on the edges of her grief and disgust, she heard Mrs. Weasley’s tremulous voice and felt her shaking hands, their halfhearted attempts to soothe her barely registering. Then the headmistress…then Madam Pomfrey…till they all left her alone to attend the living, breathing students who had survived the fray.
For as sure as she was now that Ron was lost and Harry dead, Hermione knew she had also been a casualty of that final battle. She almost expected to see that bright light that was supposed to await the dead at the end of the tunnel, but was relieved when the way before her proved to be dark and desolate. She welcomed the black, eerie nothingness as exhaustion coaxed her into its dark arms and she began to slide toward oblivion when she felt it. Something coarse against her battle-worn skin pulling her back. She tried to fight it, but enough of her old, living self seemed to still be around. Curious. Self-assured. Confident. Delusional. Murderous.
Both annoyed and chastened by the reminder of waking life, Hermione opened her eyes and slowly uncurled herself from the fetal position brought on by her sobs. Her vision came back into focus and her gaze landed on the last thing she wanted to see.
The note from Harry.
His handwriting, that small glimpse of it, was an expertly hurled hex, slicing through to her heart. Killing her. She felt it bleed her justly…she longed to give it a twist. To let it rip through her with pain and heat. To punish her. To flay her. To end her.
So she ripped open the envelope and began to read.
Dear Hermione,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. (Wow, that’s sounds like something out of one of those angsty movies you tried to make Ron watch to introduce him to the “wonders of cinema.” He never could quite figure out how all those people were shrunk small enough to fit into the “telly-thingy.”) Well, I hope it’s not too dramatic, but just in case our brilliant plan didn’t work out and we didn’t find that last Horcrux in time…I wanted to let you know that I don’t think the prophecy is the end of things. Just because Voldemort bested me, that doesn’t mean that you and Ron can’t best him. The two of you have always been the very best part of me, so I know that you will beat him. And you don’t have to be the bloody “Boy Who Lived” to do it.
I’ve left a Last Will and Testament in Professor McGonagall’s hands, so when the dust has settled and the Wizarding world is safe again, she’ll read it to you. But before that time, I’ve asked her to give you this letter. It’s really more important than giving you my collection of school books or Ron my brooms. This might seem a bit selfish for me to do, but rather than give something to you, I want you to give something to me.
Your word.
There are two very important things I need for you to do for me. The first concerns Professor Snape. Yes, the greasy git actually made it into my dying thoughts, can you believe it? But do me a favor and just hear me out, all right? For some time now, I’ve suspected that Snape never really joined up with Voldemort again like we thought he had. Yes, he did kill Professor Dumbledore…and I’ll be honest when I say that nothing will erase that act for me. But what I’ve learned…what I’ve come to realize is that he never abandoned the cause. The man wasn’t perfect, Hermione, and I won’t pretend to say that I like him in any way. But after what I’ve found out these last few weeks…I can respect many of the things he’s done. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about this, but I’ve only just now figured it out myself. I’m not brilliant like you, so I don’t have a stack of notes or theories that I can give you as proof, but I can give you some names. Bill Weasley, Tonks, Draco Malfoy…I’ve attached a few others at the bottom of this letter. Please, talk to them. They’ll tell you what they know.
Once you know that, once you know the truth…well, that’s where the promise comes in. If Snape doesn’t survive the last battle, promise me that you’ll take what you find and have it published so that all the Wizarding world knows who Severus Snape truly was. I’ve spent most of my life being called a hero when most of the time I was just someone pushed into this fight because of a prophecy and a scar. After this war, hopefully everyone will know of how much you and Ron and The Order and all the others have done to save our world. But that story will be incomplete without the truth of the man we all thought to be a traitor. So if Snape has lost his life in the battle, tell the world the real story.
But…if he hasn’t died, I need you to talk to him. To find out whether he wants the world to know what he’s done. If there’s one thing we know about Snape it’s that he has a lot of pride and he might not take too kindly to being made a hero. Promise me that you’ll find him, that you’ll talk to him, and that you’ll convince him to let the truth out. If he doesn’t want that, I’ll understand, but at least someone will know the truth. I’ll never forgive him for killing Professor Dumbledore, Hermione, no matter how much I understand it now, and neither will most of the wizarding world, but I think the man at least deserves a shot at a life. Which leads me to my next promise…
The second task I hope will be easier for you to do. I know you, Hermione, and for all that talk about my misplaced sense of guilt and responsibility, I know that you, being a Gryffindor, suffer the same fate. You’ll blame yourself for not being smart enough, not being quick enough to save me from the Dark Lord. But the thing is we always knew there was going to be a chance that this would happen. That I’d fail or die in the process of trying to live up to my wretched birthright. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing you could have done to save me. I need you to understand that. I know it may be hard at first, but you and Ron both need to remind each other that you did more for me than anyone has a right to expect of his best mates.
So what’s the second promise? That you’ll live your life. That after Voldemort is dead, you’ll forget about me and move on. You know, get your advanced degree, go become the best at Runes or Arithmancy or whatever you choose. And for Merlin’s sake, give yourself a life and marry some lucky guy and let him put you first. I know you’ve done that for me so many times over the years it’s seemed like I haven’t noticed, but I have. (And if you and this mystery husband have redheaded babies, so much the better. I’m not saying it has to be Ron, you know, ‘cause there are more than a few Weasleys out there…)
Please, Hermione, wherever I am, I hope I can see you. I hope I’m behind the veil with my Mum and Dad and Sirius and Professor Dumbledore and all the people I’ve lost in my life, looking out on all the people who still get to live in the world and make it better. I know that you and Ron can make that happen.
I’m sorry that I have to leave you. I’m sorry that I never got to tell you how much I loved finding a sister and a brother the day I got onto that Hogwarts train. And I’m sorry that I’ll miss out on all the events of your life, that I won’t be there to share them. But just know that wherever I am, I’ll be watching. And I’ll be proud.
Please, promise me you’ll do what I ask, Hermione.
Love,
Harry
The Boy Who Got To Live
Her sobs started anew, her fingers clutching that last link to her infuriatingly heroic friend and crushing it as if she could make the letter become part of her skin. All at once, she was devastated by Harry dying, furious at Ron for leaving her alone to deal with the fallout, and completely overwhelmed by the tasks ahead of her.
Live? Forget about Harry? Not feel guilty for his death? No, those were things she couldn’t promise, as much as she’d like to try. Because the truth was, there was something she could have done to stop Harry’s death. In fact, she’d caused it. And that could never be forgiven.
She whispered softly, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could hear her. “I’m sorry, Harry…I just can’t…”
But, she reflected, maybe there was something she could do. Maybe she was too cowardly…no, that second promise Harry had asked of her was too impossible. But the first…maybe there was something she could do to show him how sorry she was. How wrong she had been. And maybe, just maybe, he’d see her from beyond the veil and be able to forgive her just a little bit.
Still…Severus Snape? The foul, odious, and yes, greasy git, who had ended the life of Hogwarts’ beloved headmaster? It didn’t make sense for Harry to want her to try to exonerate him in the eyes of the public. Why…
No. Postulating and theorizing was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Her bloody quest to be the smartest, the cleverest, the intellectual hero, had gotten her friends killed.
Hermione Granger may not have been as smart as she once thought she had been, but she still wasn’t dumb enough to make the same mistake twice.
She would follow Harry’s directive, work out the truth about Severus Snape without asking so many damn questions about the hows and the whys. She wouldn’t try to outsmart, she wouldn’t try to outthink.
She would do the job and pray that somehow, someday, Harry could forgive her.
“Professor McGonagall,” she called out, her voice scratchy from screams and tears. The new headmistress seemed surprised, but seemed to quickly mask that expression so it turned to one of concern.
“Miss Granger, are you ready to talk about the battle? I know it is hard…”
Hermione cut off her words, letting her hand become a vice on McGonagall’s arm. “Profes…Severus Snape. He was in the last battle, correct?”
McGonagall’s expression darkened. “Yes. That foul traitor was on the field.” She paused then, but one look at Hermione’s expression seemed to make biting words tumble from her lined and furrowed lips. “From what I’ve been told, he seemed to fight against the Death Eaters in the end, but no doubt it was a ruse on his part to shift with the turning tide as young Mr. Potter brought Voldemort to his death.”
Hermione forced herself to ignore the mention of Harry. “And then? What happened to him?”
“Why, I don’t know, Miss Granger. His body was not discovered on the field and no trace of him has yet to be found.” Hermione watched the headmistress’ expression turn from weary to speculative. “May I ask why you want to know so much about a traitor?”
Anxiety balled low in her gut, but she found it remarkably easy to lie to the woman who had been her mentor. Perhaps becoming a murderer made the lesser sins even easier to execute. “Oh, no reason. I was just curious as to who had been with the Dark Lord at the end,” Hermione said as blithely as she could, given the circumstances. “I think I’m rather tired now and would like to rest. I’ll answer the Ministry’s questions when I awake.”
And with that she shut her eyes, but even as the infirmary was fading from sight and Hermione Granger seemed to be welcoming a hard earned rest, her mind was whirring with possibilities. And promises.
Severus Snape was alive and still considered a traitor.
Perhaps for once she could find the truth among the miscalculations and lies.
***
* note- The “=” sign in meteorology means “thin mist”
***
Author:Clannadlvr
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None for now, possible SS/HG.
Summary: Those who knew of the prophecy thought that the final battle would result in the death of either the Dark Lord or the Boy Who Lived. But when the smoke clears and the outcome of the duel is revealed, Hermione Granger must deal with her guilt and the task that now weighs upon her: finding out the truth about Severus Snape.
Rating: B (AKA, Mature for violence and sexual themes, but not "Adult")
Spoilers: Everything HP THROUGH the HALF BLOOD PRINCE. Spoilers will abound, so do not read this if you have yet to read the HBP.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is exclusively the domain of JK Rowling, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. This is purely for entertainment purposes and no money is being made.
A/N: A huge thanks to tthjinni for the beta, as well as LariLee on Ashwinder for the canon pointers!
I'm still looking for an HP specific canon and content beta on this, so let me know if you'd be interested!
***
Prologue:
Harry Potter was dead.
The world had been saved.
The irony of the situation didn’t fail to slip through the cracks in her grief and into her hatefully still functioning mind. Voldemort had been vanquished, as the prophecy had foretold, but not in the way they’d all assumed. Ah, yes, even the “brightest witch” of the new generation had taken the deadly poetry at face value. “And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.” It was Harry or Voldemort, simple as could be.
Of course, hindsight was clear and sickeningly vulgar in its revelations. Years of Muggle math came roaring back to her along with flashes of broken bodies and a bloodied battlefield. If a=b and b=c, then a must = c. But if that initial supposition of the postulate was incorrect, that a and b could be reflexive, equality in reverse, then the whole equation fell apart.
Like it had on the grounds of Hogwarts just a few hours before.
Now she could see how the entire proof rested on an initial faulty conjecture. Just because one killed the other, that didn’t preclude that both of them could die. “Neither can live while the other survives” didn’t mean that “Either would survive while the other died.” It all seemed so obvious now: a=b, but b doesn’t =a.
Even now as she lay in the infirmary at Hogwarts, pink skin replacing charred patches and Crucio-induced shakes making her quiver like a first year Potions student, Hermione Granger couldn’t believe she’d been so blind. That she’d plotted the problem so incorrectly that Harry’s…that what had happened had not made it into her list of probabilities.
It was a first year’s mistake, really. Shockingly obvious in its simple complexity. Voldemort’s Horcruxes had allowed for the twist to the theorem she hadn’t anticipated, but should have. She reviewed their approach and found herself mocked by the many times where she should have understood. Searching out the Horcruxes, basing their investigations on the assumption that they were looking for four objects in which Voldemort had placed sections of himself…the whole process seemed warped in the light of their…no, her misconceptions.
The cup…the snake…something of Ravenclaw’s. Each of them had been found and destroyed during that arduous year since Professor Dumbledore’s death. But that last Horcrux had proved to be elusive. They’d tested everything from Godric’s sword to the very grounds of Hogwarts. Little had they known, little had she realized, that “something of Gryffindor’s” had been right under their noses the entire time.
It had been Harry Potter himself.
Predictably enough, it had been she, Hermione Granger, who finally recognized this long obvious answer and she who drew Harry away from the battlefield and told him, without thinking through to the implications. She who excitedly informed him of her discovery, taking his clearing eyes and resigned expression as a sign of renewed vigor in this quest to end Voldemort’s deadly thrall over the Wizarding world. Rewriting equations in her head, high on her discovery, she ignored the obvious. Again.
It was only as Harry walked calmly toward the dark wizard and raised his wand to perform this killing curse, but shouted “Expelliarmus” instead, that she finally realized what Harry himself had concluded not moments before.
To kill Voldemort, all the Horcruxes had to be destroyed. Including Harry himself.
It was like running through maple syrup, she’d think later, as she rushed toward Harry, shoving her way through dueling Death Eaters and Aurors, barely registering the flashes and explosions that surrounded her. She slipped, her feet skidding through mud and blood, bringing her to her knees. Stumbling, running, as mindless terror clawed its way up her throat till she screamed, willing her voice to reach him. To stop him before it was too late.
Harry!! No! Don’t!! You don’t understand…
Harry turned his face toward her slightly, his eyes locked with hers and it was as if the battlefield had grown silent. The sulfurous fumes of Unforgivables and the cries of pain and fury faded in that one moment of connection.
She would never know afterward if it had been through his extreme talent with Legilimency that he had broken through her mental walls or whether their communication was simply a product of being so close for so long. Still, she heard Harry’s calm words, his answer, loud and clear.
I do.
That was it. There was no time for parting admonitions or last minute confidences beyond two simple words. Aiming his wand at his own temple and Voldemort’s at the evil wizard, Harry screamed the words “Avada Kedavra.” Twin beams of brilliant green energy erupted in opposite directions, slicing like jagged lightning.
The power of the blasts stunned her, dropping her once more to her knees. Waves of hate and love rolled over her, equal in power, and she wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once.
And when the smoke cleared, she could see them like two vandalized gravestones in a misty graveyard. Broken. Unmoving.
The shouts and hexes of the Death Eaters and Aurors around her who continued to fight pinged hollowly against the rushing sound in her head. Fighting off panic and nausea, she stumbled toward the prone bodies, collapsing at Harry’s side, telling herself all the while that she could save him. He wasn’t dead yet. She was the brightest witch of her generation. There wasn’t any problem that she couldn’t solve.
There couldn’t have been a worse time for her to find out that her reputation was, and had always been, a lie of convenience and ego.
Because not only had she failed Harry, she ruminated in the stark present as she struggled slightly against the course cotton of the hospital bed, but she’d failed Ron as well. Though her mending skin protested the movement, she couldn’t help but shift so that third member of their little group came into view. Ron lay rigid in his hospital bed, his skin against the red of his hair so shocking white that she couldn’t tell where the linens ended and he began. Madam Pomfrey had been quick to praise her for hauling the second youngest Weasley off the battlefield and bringing him to the attention of the mediwitches as soon as she had.
But it hadn’t been soon enough. His comatose state was baffling and, though she knew Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t say it in front of her, most probably permanent.
Two failures in one day, she thought numbly as she sank back into the cocoon of bed sheets- that had to be some sort of record for her. She knew it was callous and cruel, but she just couldn’t come to really think of them as “deaths.” Because if she did, she’d have to follow through to the inevitable outcome- that one friend was indeed gone, and another, who had been a friend and maybe something more, may well be on his way.
She was done with math, done with figuring and postulating. Finished with being the brightest witch. So she drifted in a haze of pain potions, free of outcomes and concrete results. Her disgusting status of a hero gave her that small mercy. She avoided the questions of the Ministry men as well as she could and even refused to open up to McGonagall when she’d arrived in the infirmary, weary from the battle. But even she, the savior imposter of Wizard kind, couldn’t refuse when her headmistress placed the envelope in her hands.
Still, she told herself that it didn’t exist, that the vellum-like paper didn’t feel crisp against her singed palms. That the script, which addressed the missive to her name, wasn’t achingly familiar. But at the same time, she couldn’t seem to put it on the end table next to her bed or to throw it in the dustbin. So she simply ignored it. Pretended it wasn’t there. Ignoring reality and certainty seemed as good a choice as any.
For hours, she allowed herself to exist in limbo, a place where her friends were merely unaccounted for and there was no need to read any final messages from them. Because they couldn’t be final. It simply wasn’t possible. The state was almost blissful as she lay cushioned by potions and ethers that numbed her thoughts as well as her body. She could very well stay here forever, reveling in oblivion. Drifting…floating…mired in mist…
Then, with the shrillness of breaking glass, her cocoon was shattered by the piercing wails of Mrs. Weasley over the unresponsive body of her youngest son.
Before she could re-erect the walls to keep out the results of her failures, carefully laying each brick of ignorance and avoidance, reality came crashing over her. The waves of remorse and guilt ebbed and flowed with such vehemence that the tears she kept at bay now rushed out in the riptide. Buried theories and postulates broke through to the surface, the answer on the other side of the thin mist was unavoidable: Harry was dead. Ron was gone. And it was all her fault.
The waking world gave way once more, but this time her only cushion from the truth was the salty sheen of tears that obscured her vision.
Time spun out as her body emptied itself of her carefully constructed buffers and prevarications. Vaguely, on the edges of her grief and disgust, she heard Mrs. Weasley’s tremulous voice and felt her shaking hands, their halfhearted attempts to soothe her barely registering. Then the headmistress…then Madam Pomfrey…till they all left her alone to attend the living, breathing students who had survived the fray.
For as sure as she was now that Ron was lost and Harry dead, Hermione knew she had also been a casualty of that final battle. She almost expected to see that bright light that was supposed to await the dead at the end of the tunnel, but was relieved when the way before her proved to be dark and desolate. She welcomed the black, eerie nothingness as exhaustion coaxed her into its dark arms and she began to slide toward oblivion when she felt it. Something coarse against her battle-worn skin pulling her back. She tried to fight it, but enough of her old, living self seemed to still be around. Curious. Self-assured. Confident. Delusional. Murderous.
Both annoyed and chastened by the reminder of waking life, Hermione opened her eyes and slowly uncurled herself from the fetal position brought on by her sobs. Her vision came back into focus and her gaze landed on the last thing she wanted to see.
The note from Harry.
His handwriting, that small glimpse of it, was an expertly hurled hex, slicing through to her heart. Killing her. She felt it bleed her justly…she longed to give it a twist. To let it rip through her with pain and heat. To punish her. To flay her. To end her.
So she ripped open the envelope and began to read.
Dear Hermione,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. (Wow, that’s sounds like something out of one of those angsty movies you tried to make Ron watch to introduce him to the “wonders of cinema.” He never could quite figure out how all those people were shrunk small enough to fit into the “telly-thingy.”) Well, I hope it’s not too dramatic, but just in case our brilliant plan didn’t work out and we didn’t find that last Horcrux in time…I wanted to let you know that I don’t think the prophecy is the end of things. Just because Voldemort bested me, that doesn’t mean that you and Ron can’t best him. The two of you have always been the very best part of me, so I know that you will beat him. And you don’t have to be the bloody “Boy Who Lived” to do it.
I’ve left a Last Will and Testament in Professor McGonagall’s hands, so when the dust has settled and the Wizarding world is safe again, she’ll read it to you. But before that time, I’ve asked her to give you this letter. It’s really more important than giving you my collection of school books or Ron my brooms. This might seem a bit selfish for me to do, but rather than give something to you, I want you to give something to me.
Your word.
There are two very important things I need for you to do for me. The first concerns Professor Snape. Yes, the greasy git actually made it into my dying thoughts, can you believe it? But do me a favor and just hear me out, all right? For some time now, I’ve suspected that Snape never really joined up with Voldemort again like we thought he had. Yes, he did kill Professor Dumbledore…and I’ll be honest when I say that nothing will erase that act for me. But what I’ve learned…what I’ve come to realize is that he never abandoned the cause. The man wasn’t perfect, Hermione, and I won’t pretend to say that I like him in any way. But after what I’ve found out these last few weeks…I can respect many of the things he’s done. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about this, but I’ve only just now figured it out myself. I’m not brilliant like you, so I don’t have a stack of notes or theories that I can give you as proof, but I can give you some names. Bill Weasley, Tonks, Draco Malfoy…I’ve attached a few others at the bottom of this letter. Please, talk to them. They’ll tell you what they know.
Once you know that, once you know the truth…well, that’s where the promise comes in. If Snape doesn’t survive the last battle, promise me that you’ll take what you find and have it published so that all the Wizarding world knows who Severus Snape truly was. I’ve spent most of my life being called a hero when most of the time I was just someone pushed into this fight because of a prophecy and a scar. After this war, hopefully everyone will know of how much you and Ron and The Order and all the others have done to save our world. But that story will be incomplete without the truth of the man we all thought to be a traitor. So if Snape has lost his life in the battle, tell the world the real story.
But…if he hasn’t died, I need you to talk to him. To find out whether he wants the world to know what he’s done. If there’s one thing we know about Snape it’s that he has a lot of pride and he might not take too kindly to being made a hero. Promise me that you’ll find him, that you’ll talk to him, and that you’ll convince him to let the truth out. If he doesn’t want that, I’ll understand, but at least someone will know the truth. I’ll never forgive him for killing Professor Dumbledore, Hermione, no matter how much I understand it now, and neither will most of the wizarding world, but I think the man at least deserves a shot at a life. Which leads me to my next promise…
The second task I hope will be easier for you to do. I know you, Hermione, and for all that talk about my misplaced sense of guilt and responsibility, I know that you, being a Gryffindor, suffer the same fate. You’ll blame yourself for not being smart enough, not being quick enough to save me from the Dark Lord. But the thing is we always knew there was going to be a chance that this would happen. That I’d fail or die in the process of trying to live up to my wretched birthright. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing you could have done to save me. I need you to understand that. I know it may be hard at first, but you and Ron both need to remind each other that you did more for me than anyone has a right to expect of his best mates.
So what’s the second promise? That you’ll live your life. That after Voldemort is dead, you’ll forget about me and move on. You know, get your advanced degree, go become the best at Runes or Arithmancy or whatever you choose. And for Merlin’s sake, give yourself a life and marry some lucky guy and let him put you first. I know you’ve done that for me so many times over the years it’s seemed like I haven’t noticed, but I have. (And if you and this mystery husband have redheaded babies, so much the better. I’m not saying it has to be Ron, you know, ‘cause there are more than a few Weasleys out there…)
Please, Hermione, wherever I am, I hope I can see you. I hope I’m behind the veil with my Mum and Dad and Sirius and Professor Dumbledore and all the people I’ve lost in my life, looking out on all the people who still get to live in the world and make it better. I know that you and Ron can make that happen.
I’m sorry that I have to leave you. I’m sorry that I never got to tell you how much I loved finding a sister and a brother the day I got onto that Hogwarts train. And I’m sorry that I’ll miss out on all the events of your life, that I won’t be there to share them. But just know that wherever I am, I’ll be watching. And I’ll be proud.
Please, promise me you’ll do what I ask, Hermione.
Love,
Harry
The Boy Who Got To Live
Her sobs started anew, her fingers clutching that last link to her infuriatingly heroic friend and crushing it as if she could make the letter become part of her skin. All at once, she was devastated by Harry dying, furious at Ron for leaving her alone to deal with the fallout, and completely overwhelmed by the tasks ahead of her.
Live? Forget about Harry? Not feel guilty for his death? No, those were things she couldn’t promise, as much as she’d like to try. Because the truth was, there was something she could have done to stop Harry’s death. In fact, she’d caused it. And that could never be forgiven.
She whispered softly, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could hear her. “I’m sorry, Harry…I just can’t…”
But, she reflected, maybe there was something she could do. Maybe she was too cowardly…no, that second promise Harry had asked of her was too impossible. But the first…maybe there was something she could do to show him how sorry she was. How wrong she had been. And maybe, just maybe, he’d see her from beyond the veil and be able to forgive her just a little bit.
Still…Severus Snape? The foul, odious, and yes, greasy git, who had ended the life of Hogwarts’ beloved headmaster? It didn’t make sense for Harry to want her to try to exonerate him in the eyes of the public. Why…
No. Postulating and theorizing was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Her bloody quest to be the smartest, the cleverest, the intellectual hero, had gotten her friends killed.
Hermione Granger may not have been as smart as she once thought she had been, but she still wasn’t dumb enough to make the same mistake twice.
She would follow Harry’s directive, work out the truth about Severus Snape without asking so many damn questions about the hows and the whys. She wouldn’t try to outsmart, she wouldn’t try to outthink.
She would do the job and pray that somehow, someday, Harry could forgive her.
“Professor McGonagall,” she called out, her voice scratchy from screams and tears. The new headmistress seemed surprised, but seemed to quickly mask that expression so it turned to one of concern.
“Miss Granger, are you ready to talk about the battle? I know it is hard…”
Hermione cut off her words, letting her hand become a vice on McGonagall’s arm. “Profes…Severus Snape. He was in the last battle, correct?”
McGonagall’s expression darkened. “Yes. That foul traitor was on the field.” She paused then, but one look at Hermione’s expression seemed to make biting words tumble from her lined and furrowed lips. “From what I’ve been told, he seemed to fight against the Death Eaters in the end, but no doubt it was a ruse on his part to shift with the turning tide as young Mr. Potter brought Voldemort to his death.”
Hermione forced herself to ignore the mention of Harry. “And then? What happened to him?”
“Why, I don’t know, Miss Granger. His body was not discovered on the field and no trace of him has yet to be found.” Hermione watched the headmistress’ expression turn from weary to speculative. “May I ask why you want to know so much about a traitor?”
Anxiety balled low in her gut, but she found it remarkably easy to lie to the woman who had been her mentor. Perhaps becoming a murderer made the lesser sins even easier to execute. “Oh, no reason. I was just curious as to who had been with the Dark Lord at the end,” Hermione said as blithely as she could, given the circumstances. “I think I’m rather tired now and would like to rest. I’ll answer the Ministry’s questions when I awake.”
And with that she shut her eyes, but even as the infirmary was fading from sight and Hermione Granger seemed to be welcoming a hard earned rest, her mind was whirring with possibilities. And promises.
Severus Snape was alive and still considered a traitor.
Perhaps for once she could find the truth among the miscalculations and lies.
***
* note- The “=” sign in meteorology means “thin mist”
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