For All Intents and Purposes

Disclaimer: Don’t own it.

Edited by thyme_is_a_cat

Chapter 19 – Black Holes and Revelations

November in Scotland was as miserable as she remembered, and she doubted the prudence of her impromptu visit as she wandered up the muddy lane toward Madam Beetlebump’s cottage. It was a Saturday, so she was not expected at work… rather, she wasn’t required to be at work, but no one would have been surprised to see her. And it had stopped raining for the first time in two weeks. Feeling lonely and very sorry for herself, she had decided to Apparate to Hogsmeade instead of the Ministry, partly because she couldn’t think of anything that needed doing (even her desk was clean) and partly because the odd letters that Luna had been forwarding to her since the beginning of the month had stricken her with maudlin nostalgia.

Though it might not have been raining in London, the weather was not as cooperative in Scotland. The air was cold and damp, easily penetrating her thick, woolen cloak and heavy, winter robes to settle in the marrow of her bones. Her scars seemed to have shrunk, pulling uncomfortably at her back. It wasn’t raining so much as misting: a gentle drizzle that at first seemed harmless, but was as insidious as the cold. She had her hood pulled over her head, a fuzzy muffler tied around her neck, and a warm pair of leather gloves on her hands, but was already considering abandoning her trip down memory lane in favor of something hot to drink at the Three Broomsticks.

Stepping carefully around puddles that had collected in depressions in the ancient, cobbled road, Hermione caught sight of the cottage.

An arbour had been added to the front gate.

She stopped, staring at the lattice archway that supported a tangle of bare, thorny vines, and was suddenly reluctant to walk any closer. Over the past couple of months, she had wondered if Madam had survived the last two decades, but had been reluctant to return. She had been the only person still possibly living with whom she had spent a significant amount of time in the past, and Hermione hadn’t wanted to tempt fate. Granted, no one would have put much stock into the ravings of a crazy old cat lady, even if she had deigned to speak to a non-feline, but Hermione had decided against it, nonetheless. Especially since the letters had started arriving.

Luna had forwarded the first letter three days after Halloween, and one day after she had called it quits with Draco. He had refused to term it such; he had insisted that it was a “cooling off period” after his father’s beastly behavior. However, she hadn’t made the break just because of his father, but she had been at a loss to explain it to him. That his friend, Healer Greenglass, had driven her to distraction by his similarities to the man she loved would not have gone over well. She also didn’t want to admit that she had been using him for his companionship and didn’t return his feelings. She suspected that he loved her, though he hadn’t said as much, and she was fond of him, but not the way that he obviously wanted. She couldn’t continue to exploit his feelings so that she would feel less lonely; he didn’t deserve that, and her conscience wouldn’t allow it. And perhaps he was right; after an absence, her heart might grow fonder, and they would give it another go. Or perhaps not. It had been a month, and though she was forlorn and often miserable, she felt truer to herself than she had in what felt like an eternity.

Hermione was sure that Luna had meant well with the letters, and after she had managed to swallow her heart back into her chest and shake life into fingers that had been numbed by fear, she had appreciated her friend’s thoughtfulness.

Someone had read Luna’s article in the Quibbler about Snape and an unnamed woman and was now demanding to see her sources. This person was clever and thorough, having managed to dig up references to a Miss Heidi Greenglass in the archives of the Daily Prophet and claimed to have her Order of Merlin in his or her possession.

It was this last point that had finally driven Hermione to visit Madam’s cottage. If someone did have her Order, then they had to have acquired it from Madam. Therefore, if Madam were alive, she might know the identity of the letter-writer, or at least the person who had collected the medal.

‘What if Madam had written to Luna?’ she thought suddenly, but discounted that possibility as preposterous as soon as it occurred to her. For one, the letters had been written in an arrogant, condescending tone, and the last one had been vaguely threatening. And for another, she doubted that Madam would remember her as anything more than one of many in a long procession of domestic help, if she remembered her at all.

Despite her reticence, she pushed open the little gate below the arbour and walked up the path to the front door, noticing with dismay the shoots of weeds that had pushed through the stones and the overgrown, but now dormant, state of the flowerbeds. The windows were dark from the street, and now she could see that they had been shuttered from the inside. The front door was warded against intruders much the same way that Spinner’s End had been after the final confrontation with Voldemort. The house was clearly abandoned and had been for some time.

Like the cold, melancholy seeped through her skin and seemed to replace her blood, pushing sluggishly through her body. Hermione gazed wearily at the front porch where the cats had liked to lay. There wasn’t even a dusting of cat hair to speak of their presence. She stared at the stone steps, waiting for the inevitable tears, but her eyes remained dry. Too dry, and she blinked to relieve the sting.

‘It was a mistake to come here,’ she decided, even as her feet shuffled along a tributary of the path around the front of the house to the garden gate. The latch had rusted shut, but she could see what remained of the herb garden: a tangle of dead and dying plants that had long since spilled over their planters and had begun to encroach on the black, wrought iron patio set. A vine had seeded between the flagstones of the patio and had twisted itself through the ironwork, knotting the chairs and table to the earth. Sunny summer days and white cat hair on black robes seemed so far away as to be impossible, a pleasant dream that was slipping slowly from her grasp. She should let it go.

A gust of wind whipped her cloak around her legs, and the drizzle thickened into a driving rain. Turning away from the gate, she hurried back up the path to the road. That hot cuppa, or perhaps a toddy, was long overdue. From the corner of her eye, she spied a dark figure approaching from further out of town, bundled up as warmly as she was with his hood completely concealing his face.

‘Poor sod, to be out in this weather,’ she thought, giving him a sympathetic smile that she was sure he couldn’t see. Drawing her cloak closely around her, she turned away from the man and Madam’s cottage, quickening her pace as she headed back into town.

The Three Broomsticks was crowded, noisy and unbearably warm, wrapped up as she was. Grimacing against the raucous shouts from a party at the bar, deafeningly loud compared to the quiet of the empty streets, she stripped off her gloves and shoved them into a pocket in her cloak, which she shrugged off and hung to dry near the door. Winding her way through the tables, she stopped at the bar to order a bowl of soup and a hot drink, then found a small table at the back, her drink in tow. Pulling the latest Terry Pratchett novel out of a pocket in her robes and Engorging it, she settled down to read while waiting for her food, a mug of hot mulled wine at her elbow.

The door blew open with a spray of rain, and Hermione glanced up to see the figure from the road slam the door shut behind him. Her food arrived just as he was shedding his cloak, and she forgot about him as the steam from her soup, redolent with the rich scent of vegetable broth and barley, bathed her face. Returning to her book, she tucked in. She was taking a sip of wine when something blocked the feeble light that had managed to penetrate her dark corner, and she shifted in her seat, trying to regain it.

“Excuse me, Miss Granger,” a voice spoke above her, a rich, silky voice that made her heart skip a beat and then plummet into her stomach. Trying to steady her nerves, she slowly lowered the book and gave the man her polite, but discouraging, attention. His face was hidden in the shadows, but there was no mistaking that long, black hair – or that voice.

“Healer Greenglass,” she said courteously and buried her nose back into her book, pointedly not asking him if he would like a seat. He took one anyway, setting a glass of smoking Firewhisky onto the table. Scowling, she shifted the hand that was holding her book open, thank you very much, and willed him to go away. His presence, devastatingly familiar, was disconcerting, and she was a trifle embarrassed about her flight from the Halloween party. She was not in the mood for his company.

“I hope you don’t mind; it is the only seat left in the house,” he said, his tone belying the fact that he knew she did mind, and he did not care.

“Of course not,” she lied poorly, and turned her attention back to the story. She would ignore him until he left. She would not be forced away from her own table by this man and the memories he stirred.

“You left the party in some amount of distress,” he said, obviously disregarding her cues to leave her alone. “I hope that I was not the cause.”

She hummed noncommittally as she scanned the page, trying to find her place again. Just as her eyes landed on the paragraph, the book was snatched out of her hands. Squawking indignantly, she raised her eyes to the man sitting across from her, holding the book out of her reach. He had arrestingly dark eyes, and for a moment, her heart had tripped its beat again, but then the rest of his features registered. His nose was straight and narrow, but perfectly proportioned, and his features were sharp, but not overly so. The impression was of a classically handsome face, slightly aristocratic, and it disappointed her more than she cared to admit.

“Well?” he asked impatiently, and his teeth, straight as soldiers, flashed whitely.

“Do not flatter yourself,” she sniped. “It had nothing to do with you. My book, if you please.”

Watching her intently, he leaned back in his chair. Narrowing her eyes, she pursed her lips and calmed the urge to snatch back the book by taking a sip of wine. She had the distinct sense that he was goading her to speak with his silence, so she kept her lips pressed tightly together when they weren’t busy with her cup. The corner of his lips tugged upward briefly as he took an answering sip of Firewhisky. They might have stared at each other for seconds or minutes, Hermione wasn’t sure, but the longer they sat there, the more unnerved she became. When he finally set the book on the table and propped his elbows on the tabletop, steepling long fingers in front of his face and tilting his head to stare at her from under black eyebrows, she twitched so hard that her mug jerked in her hands.

“Draco mentioned that you have decided to… ah… separate temporarily.” He broke the silence casually, as if they hadn’t just had a tensely silent struggle of wills. Then again, it could have been her imagination. Either way, the pressure rushed out of her as if she had been punctured, and she was excessively grateful that he had spoken first, ending the conflict.

“There was nothing temporary about it,” she said, though she had meant to tell him that it wasn’t any of his business. “He’s a good man, but…” She took another sip of wine before anything else revealing could escape.

“But?”

Taking another sip, she noticed with no small amount of anxiety that she was going to run out of wine very soon. Her soup was only half finished and rapidly cooling. She supposed that she could simply continue to eat, but despite her earlier display of bad manners, she couldn’t eat in front of him when he wasn’t. Surrendering to the inevitable, she gestured at her soup and the hunk of crusty bread next to it. “Will you join me?” she asked with little grace.

He smirked, recognizing his victory. “It’s coming.” No sooner had he spoken when his food arrived, plunked onto the table by a red-faced man in a stained apron. He had ordered a thick stew, accompanied by the same crusty bread.

“And more wine, please,” Hermione said, draining her cup and passing it to the waiter, along with a few coins for the wine. “What brings you to Hogsmeade, Healer Greenglass?”

He shrugged, a languid gesture with one shoulder, and her eyes were drawn to the movement. She had always admired Severus’ shoulders. And his hands. This man also had an upper body worthy of a second look. A similar build, even. Forcing her eyes away, she stared at the wooden tabletop and started counting the knots until he spoke again.

“Certain information of interest had come to light recently, and I wished to investigate.” In spite of herself, her curiosity was piqued, but before she could inquire further, he added, “I saw you at the late widow Beetlebump’s cottage. Did you know her?”

Surprised that he would have known her as well, she stared at him for a moment, speechless. “I, erm.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, a number of years ago. I did not know that she had passed on.” Raising a spoonful of stew to his lips, he blew on it carefully, then slipped it into his mouth. Catching herself staring yet again, she asked the first question that came to mind. “What happened to her cats?”

“New homes were found for them. Surely, you did not expect them to be cast out on the street?” He was teasing her gently, and she had to force herself to remain irritated with him.

“No,” she replied testily. “Did you take any of them?”

“One,” he said slowly, significantly, though the significance was lost on her. He seemed to be dancing around an issue that should have been clear to her, prodding her in a direction of his choosing, but she remained frustratingly blind to it, as if she were running into a mental block. “A relative of my own cat.”

“That was kind of you.”

“Indeed, but it was no great hardship.”

“Then do you live around here?” she asked, hesitant to nose into this man’s life, especially when he unnerved her, but curious nonetheless. He seemed willing enough to answer, encouraging even, in a strange way.

“I used to live in Manchester, but had to relocate due to… circumstances beyond my control.”

Manchester. He had lived in Manchester… “Have you been friends with the Malfoys for long? Draco thinks highly of you.”

His lips twitched, but she wasn’t sure if it was in humor or a nervous tick. “I have known Lucius since we went to school together, and Draco is… almost family.”

Hermione absently swallowed a spoonful of soup, not tasting it. An idea was starting to form against her better judgment. It was impossible and was sure to devastate her if it turned out to be false, which it would because it was impossible… but what if…

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The man who called himself Pericles Greenglass watched the young woman finish her soup, her eyes glazing as she grew paler. She had no idea, for he was practiced in the art of concealing his emotions, but he hung on each breath, savored every small movement she made. It was torment to sit across from her, close enough to touch, but not touching, knowing what he did and waiting impatiently for her to come to the same realization. He had thought that she would have reached it by now, for she was quite intelligent, but he supposed that she would have difficulty accepting the idea as a possibility. He certainly had doubted his sanity until he had seen the proof in the scratches on her back. He understood that she would have just as much trouble believing as he had; more so, bearing in mind that he had been deemed dead for the past four years.

He had considered keeping his distance. For several days, he had raged that after all these years of believing her gone beyond recovery, she had turned up now when he was old and exiled. Then, he had dithered over the raw facts and the fantasies around this woman that his mind had created over the decades, debating whether he should leave her in peace or confront her with the truth about himself. Finally, the man who had lived for others for most of his life now could not deny himself this one thing.

The morning that he’d woken up to find her gone, he had been disappointed and more than a little insecure, but not terribly worried. He would have preferred to drift into wakefulness wrapped in her arms and continue the snogging that they had left off the night before. It had been entirely plausible that she had gone back to Madam Beetlebump’s to freshen up. They had gotten a bit dirty the previous night, and she hadn’t had a shower. Of course, he would have let her use his.

By lunchtime that day, he had begun to imagine that her scars were bothering her, and she had gone to St. Mungo’s to have them examined. Though wouldn’t she have woken him up? Or left a note? She hadn’t changed her mind about staying with him, had she?

Evening found him back at Madam’s after having already visited her once, St. Mungo’s, Lupin (he had taken a job as a bartender with Aberforth Dumbledore at the Hog’s Head) and having cast several tracking spells. As before, the spells had failed him, even though he had several hairs and some of her blood from when he had cleaned her wounds. Again, the spells that required samples of her body pointed him to the boring Muggle family. He had actually approached the woman as she walked her toddler to the neighborhood park. Her name had been Jean Grange or something, and no, she had not heard of a Heidi Greenglass. The woman had been a dentist, for Merlin’s sake.

The week dragged on with still no sign of her. Madam had not seen her for several days, and she had not left a note. The fact that Heidi had left her possessions in her attic (including her Order of Merlin that he had pocketed for safe-keeping) seemed to imply that she might have gone home (wherever that mysterious, complicated place might be) to take care of something (like arranging to stay with him?), but as the week lengthened and the beginning of the fall term loomed, precipitating him leaving Spinner’s End, he had grown more anxious and hurt. Alternately, he cursed her name for breaking her promise to stay and sat on his sofa, staring at where they had slept together, imagining her body broken and battered in some terrible accident. The only thing that had prevented him from drowning in bitterness and resentment was the fact that he had felt the truth behind her declaration of love. She had loved him. She had meant it when she had said that she would stay. So what had happened to her?

He had finally found her note while packing. As he had shrunk his cloaks and whisked them into his luggage, the folded piece of parchment had fluttered from underneath the hem of his winter cloak to rest on the floor. It was slightly crumpled, and he had been tempted to toss it without bothering to look at it, assuming it was a grocery list that had fallen from his pocket. Luckily for him, he had been running late enough that he had ended up shoving it into his pocket and forgetting about it, only finding it again when one of the Hogwarts house-elves returned it with his laundry.

They had ironed the creases out if it and then refolded it, and it was suitably intriguing sitting atop his tallboy that he plucked it up and opened it. The first sentence knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he’d barely managed to stagger to one of his armchairs before his knees buckled.

Dear Severus,

If you are reading this note, then things did not go the way that I had hoped, and I could not stay with you. That does sound trite, doesn’t it? Regardless, if I could not stay, then I know that my heart is broken.

The thing is, it is complicated – more than you can image, and more than I can explain. I wish I could, but as I said before, it is for your protection. Do not go looking for me – you won’t find me, as much as I wish you could.

(A splotch of water had blurred what appeared to be a drop of ink, and as he sat sobbing in his room, he had imagined it to be one of her tears.)

However, I find I must tell you something, and damn the consequences.

Be wary of snakes, and add anti-venom to your little store of emergency potions. Always keep them on hand.

(Another splotch here, distorting several words)… we had had more time, but therein lies the crux of our problem. It isn’t fair that we didn’t have more. Then again, the time we had was stolen, so perhaps it wasn’t fair that we had any at all.

Now I’m babbling, and I don’t want to rewrite this letter again. What I really want to say is that I love you. You are a better person than you believe, and you are meant to do great things. The gift of your friendship is more than precious to me, even if you don’t return my feelings.

Know that I love you.

H.G.

Minerva had dropped by that evening to ask after his summer fling, only to find him crying into his Firewhisky. After much inappropriate prying and a spot of Muggle scotch, Severus had not only spilled his guts about his Heidi, he had also let her read the letter. Producing a surprise of her own, Minerva had handed him a clipping from the Daily Prophet: the two of them walking together in Diagon Alley, which he had added to the photo taken just after the Fortescue robbery. She had been sympathetic and compassionate, assuring him that Heidi would have returned to him if she could and commiserating with him regarding the vagueness of her note. She had also blabbed to the Headmaster, and he’d had to endure some rather pointed questions regarding her identity, motives, and the Starglass.

However much he had been hurting, the school year had progressed as school years tended to do. His students were as miserable as he was, largely due to his behavior, but at least teaching had given him something on which to focus. He had also brewed Wolfsbane for Lupin, and the monthly meetings became an evening of socialization for the both of them. He had caught himself wishing more than once that he and Lupin had been on better terms in school. Remus Lupin could be tolerable company.

The werewolf was devastated by Heidi’s disappearance, but acknowledged over a few drinks that she had only had eyes for him. They had speculated on who she could have been and from whence she’d come, to where she had disappeared and what it had to do with the Starglass (which had also vanished). Was she an Unspeakable on a top-secret assignment or a Changeling in human disguise visiting from the Fairylands? Had she come from a parallel universe or traveled through time? Once, they had taken a bottle of Old Ogden’s out to the well and gave it a thorough inspection. In the end, all of it had been nothing more than conjecture, some of it sillier than others. They knew little about her, except for the fact that they missed and loved her in their own ways.

That year, his state of mind had been very similar to that of the previous year, after Lily’s death, and slowly, he let go of the hope that she might find her way back to him. His friendships with Lupin and Minerva helped to buoy him above the numbing despair that had wrapped insistent, insidious fingers around his ankles to pull him into desolation. He had never stopped loving her. Every woman he met was held up to her image and found lacking. His more promising students were compared to her intelligence and integrity and then pushed harder to reach her ideal. He protected the Boy-Who-Lived for Lily’s sake, but lived for Heidi.

That she had traveled through time was never a serious consideration. In all actuality, it shouldn’t have been possible, for he had read nothing supporting the feasibility of long-interval time travel.

Now, he could think back to the student Hermione had been and wonder how he could have been slapped in the face with the woman he loved and been utterly oblivious to her. She had had the same hair, the know-it-all attitude, the righteous, Gryffindor sense of honor and penchant for bending the rules in order to right the wrongs of the world – not to mention her respect for him, in spite of her classmates’ opinions. Even Lupin had pointed out the striking physical similarities one night at the Black house, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

“Miss Granger is growing into a lovely young woman, don’t you think?” Lupin had asked him one evening, watching the student in question as she had chastised her friends for not studying over the summer holiday.

“Might I remind you that she was your student,” he had said, scowling at him in rebuke.

“Not any more.” Lupin had winked mischievously and then sobered. “I simply can’t help thinking that she reminds me of someone. Of Heidi Greenglass.”

“Nonsense,” he had snapped, tearing his eyes away from the cozy little scene. She had reminded him of Heidi, so much so, that he was unnecessarily strict with her. Fair, but strict. “Heidi wouldn’t have bothered with those twits.”

“She bothered with us.”

He hadn’t had anything to say to that.

He had been just as unconvinced when Draco had told him that he had found a Heidi for himself. Taking her advice, he had insinuated himself into his godson’s life, instilling character into the boy that Lucius neither possessed nor could teach. Once, when the boy was six, he had found his clippings of his lost love, inquiring after her. He had told Draco a modified version of his adventures with her, impressing upon him the importance of loyalty and friendship. He had been amused when Draco had asked for many retellings of the story, eventually modeling his perfect woman after his own.

As it turned out, Draco had found Heidi, and he had nearly crumpled under the blow when he realized that she did, indeed, belong to him. Or so the aristocrat believed.

Draco had been the only person with whom he had trusted his secret: that he had not died of the snakebite in the Shrieking Shack. When the Dark Lord had risen the second time with Nagini as his familiar, he had begun to experiment with anti-venoms and poison tolerances. By the time his ungrateful master set the snake on him, he was immune to most poisons and had added a powerful coagulant to his store of emergency potions. He was not the first Death Eater to have been attacked by Nagini. It wasn’t until he had fled Western Europe for Australia that he had recalled Heidi’s warning about snakes. He and Draco had been exchanging letters ever since, but it was only recently that his godson had encouraged him to come back to England to see the renovations they had made to his house and to meet his new girlfriend.

Deciding that a trip to England would be relatively safe if he were suitably disguised, he finally allowed himself to be convinced. The house had been less interesting than he thought it would be. It certainly looked better, but he really couldn’t have cared less. He had never been fond of it in the first place. The honoring of his memory was nice, but a bit late. He would have appreciated having more of the public’s respect before his apparent death. Expecting Draco’s new squeeze to be even less interesting than the house, he had been completely unprepared for the truth. So much so, that he hadn’t believed his eyes until he had seen the angry welts crossing her back.

It was at that moment that the hints, the inexplicable knowledge that she had possessed, the complications had finally fallen into place. Heidi Greenglass was Hermione Granger, and she had traveled through time. He had felt like the biggest dunderhead to have missed it. It was just as well that he had remained ignorant, for had he figured it out while she was still his student, he was quite sure that he would have been driven insane with unrequited love and an internal ethical struggle over whether to approach her, how to approach her, and whether or not the time-travel would actually take place if he were to say something before the event occurred. Now, he understood why she had refused to tell him who she really was – it would have been disastrous. At that instant, however, he had been so completely flummoxed to have finally found his Heidi, that he hadn’t cared who she had turned out to be, just that she was.

And then she had fled from him.

It shamed him to admit it, but when Draco had ranted and wept over their breakup, he had been wholeheartedly relieved. With a selfish longing in his heart, he had hoped that she had somehow recognized him (despite her flustered flight) and therefore could not continue to see his godson. Because she loved him. She had to. The wounds on her back were only months old, implying that she had only just left him. He wanted the answer to that, as well.

Simply asking Draco where she lived would not have done; even a concerned Healer (he had taken her advice on that point, also, and found that not only was he good at it, he rather enjoyed it) would not track down a patient that he supposedly didn’t know to check up on scars that the patient had insisted she didn’t want examined. Draco would suspect something, as would anyone else he could ask. He had considered tracking spells, but he seemed to have developed an irrational superstition of them; that if he was to cast one, then she would disappear again. It was nonsense, but there it was. So, he had put off tracking spells as a last resort and instead tried to whittle the source of the Quibbler’s article on he and Heidi out of Miss Lovegood, hoping that it might lead him to her. He was almost positive that Hermione had been the source because he was certain that no one could have found a diary left by a woman who had never truly existed.

Instead of returning to Australia, as had been his original intention, he had taken to trolling about Hogsmeade, hoping that she would eventually make an appearance. Finally, on this miserable day in November, she had.

She cleared her throat, staring bemusedly at her now empty bowl as she drew patterns in the dregs of broth at the bottom. Hardly able to contain himself, his fingers straining to break from their steeple to snatch up her hands, he watched her, willing his calm mask not to crack. He couldn’t remember a moment when it had been more difficult to remain stoic. Her eyes darted up to his, then swept his glamoured face, her hopeful expression clouded and hesitant. She was afraid to hope, he realized, and she didn’t have the visual confirmation that he had had.

“Walk with me,” he said, breaking the silence as he stood and extended one hand, pleased that his voice was strong and confident, if a tad husky. He had to be able to speak freely with her, to give her the reassurance that she needed, but he couldn’t do it here, in a pub. Not if he wanted to maintain his privacy. Though if it were required of him, even if it meant revealing his secret, he would shout to the rafters that he was Severus Snape and that he loved her. There was little he wouldn’t do to have her again. When she stared up at his hand blankly, his gut clenched in fear that she would refuse. He experienced a long moment of almost debilitating panic until she placed her hand into his, curling her fingers around his palm and offering him a shy, tentative smile.

“Alright.”

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A/N: The title of this chapter is from a Muse song. I love that band.