Six

“We go through the present blindfolded… Only later, when the blindfold is removed and we examine the past, do we realize what we’ve been through and understand what it means.”

–Milan Kundera

7th October 2004

Hermione is 33

Today is the very last time I will Travel to him. Only, I’ve told myself that every single day for the last two months, now.

In our timeline of Thursdays, it is late 1994.

My younger self is fourteen and caught in the buoyancy of a secret romance with Viktor Krum. The Triwizard Tournament is in full swing, and Hogsmeade swarms with Slavic boys and pouting Beauxbatons students, even during the week. Barty Crouch, Junior squats in Moody’s body like a spider spinning a trap. The Dark Mark itches and burns like a warning beacon on Severus’ arm.

I have watched Severus grow bleaker since Harry arrived at Hogwarts, and his promise to Lily and Dumbledore has drawn his affability to paper-thin dimensions... He’s shorter tempered, and he doesn’t smile as often as he used to. I’m sure that he can feel that something Dark is lurking on the horizon, that life is not going to get any easier for him from here on out.

No wonder he hasn’t noticed that Hermione Jean Granger looks a lot like Hope Grant does.

12th November 1994

Hermione was 15

It was the best day I’d had in a long while. Even though Harry and Ron were still not talking to each other, I was in a brilliant mood.

I carried Viktor’s library smiles like a bright star in my pocket; Professor Vector had given me an O+ for my latest essay; the sun had broken through the November gloom to shine through the corridor’s windows and warm the world.

For a moment I forgot that I was worried about what the upcoming First Task would be, that dark scowls and stares would follow me when I talked to Harry. I loosened my hair, and my curls spilled over my shoulders. I stopped next to a bright and warm piece of sunlight and smiled, tipping my face into the light.

When I opened my eyes, Professor Snape was standing statue-still not five metres away, staring at me like I’d grown a pair of cat’s ears again.

He didn’t look angry; he looked horrified.

I hurried down the corridor past him, and when I glanced back as I turned the corner, he still hadn’t moved a muscle.

12th November 1994

Hermione is 33

It is such a beautiful day when I arrive in Hogsmeade. It’s a surprise because November is usually caustic in its cold. Beyond Hogwarts I can see the mast of Durmstrang’s boat, and I smile. I stopped writing to Viktor long before I started to Travel, but I have such fond memories of him. He gave self-confidence in myself as a budding woman; I changed from a little girl to a teenager aware of her feminine wiles under his besotted, heavy-lidded gaze.

Severus is leaning against the wall of the Hog’s Head as I approach, and I smile because it looks like we’re going somewhere else today. But his face is dark and tightly drawn between his dark, long hair, and the lines of his shoulders are tense and tight. I frown slightly, wondering what has him in such a mood. Has Karkaroff been in his face again… has Barty Crouch spitefully upended his stores?

“Hello, Severus,” I say, and I expect him to answer in turn and then make some comment about how the sunshine might justify a trip somewhere nice, where we can share an afternoon of solitude and quiet companionship.

But he just pushes up off the wall and starts to stride away towards the woods. He’s walking so fast I have to almost jog to keep up with him.

“Where are we going?” I ask, and I clutch at a stitch in my side just below my heart.

It looks like we’re going back to the Snowbell clearing, and I grin when I’m right. Does he have another surprise for me, another beautifully stoic gesture of friendship?

I glance around the clearing; it’s bare and the grass is grey. All the flowers have retreated into themselves, and it’s so quiet I can hear my expectant heart thud in my ears. I frown at him. He’s standing still, with his back towards me. I take a step closer and open my mouth to ask him why we’re here again.

“Why are you here, Hermione?” he asks.

“Because…” I start to answer, but then horror fills my mind and freezes in my veins like black ice.

He turns to face me; anger has etched deep lines into his face, curled his hands into fists. His nostrils flare, and his lips are pulled into a thin, white line. Fury races below his jaw at his pulse point, and I can tell he’s ready to explode.

I take a step backward under the ferocity of his glare. “I’m… so sorry,” I whisper through the hard and tight lump in my throat.

And then I turn and I Travel back to my present, and Time squeezes so hard around me I feel like the world is falling apart.

13th November 1994

Hermione was 15

I couldn’t stop crying, even after Madam Pomfrey had Reduced my beaver teeth, even after my childhood overbite had disappeared into magic’s beyond.

I lay on the bed in the Hospital Wing, and I curled into myself, drawing my knees up to my chest with my hands pressed over my heart as if that would take the hurt away.

Professor Snape’s cold and hard voice echoed in my mind over and over: “I see no difference.”

How could he have been so cruel to me? I had been hit by the hex; I was an innocent bystander. It was all Malfoy’s fault, and it was so unfair!

I had done nothing wrong at all.