Stockholm

Chapter Seven – Stockholm

Hermione was allotted holiday time yearly, time she never took. She held the likely deluded belief that keeping Snape's memory alive was more important than giving herself time off every now and again. Yet for the first time, she had no issues closing down the museum. Alive-Snape seemed a much higher priority than Dead-Snape.

She entered his study and began pulling books off the shelves, any volume that might give her any clue as to what to do with him. That nasal hemorrhage had disturbed her more than anything else in the last two days; she had already seen enough blood pouring out of Snape in her life and really hadn't needed to see it again. This time, at least, it had been red, healthy blood, lacking swirls of glittering memories and venom.

Seeing something so like what she had witnessed that night in the Shrieking Shack had understandably upset her. All that blood... It just seemed too close to his brain. What if next time it was not limited to his nose? What if he were to have an aneurysm on the way back?

Pay attention, Granger... Clearly, he isn't going to have a deadly aneurysm because you have figured it out...

Thinking about the intricacies of cyclical and linear time was beginning to give her a headache. She took her books to the kitchen table, and procuring herself a mug of tea, she began researching and taking notes.

By dinner, she had not gotten much further in her studies, nor had she eaten. She had not heard a peep from her prisoner all day, and if nothing else, she was proud of her charm work. At most, she had gleaned that the academy had been doing research in theories of forward time travel since the first rise of Voldemort, but no one had really gotten beyond theory. Theory that anyone who had ever used a Time-Turner probably could have come up with on their own.

She was incredibly frustrated.

She made her way to the front door to go in search of food. If Snape were to be in her attic for any length of time, she would have to learn to cook. She passed by a mirror and laughed at herself. There was a large smear of black ink on her cheek, and several nibbled-on quills currently held up her hair. At least she hadn't used her wand.

Her stomach gurgled loudly, and she smiled, realizing that some study habits never change. For tonight, at least, Snape would have to be happy with takeaway curry.

~~&~~

The next day was much the same. She was back at the table with no idea as to what she would do. She had spent the morning skimming through his diaries, hoping for some insight into this situation. Snape could often be rather cryptic in his own writings, and it was possible that she had skimmed over any mention of this event and had not understood what he was actually referring to. But as far as she could tell, there was no mention of his experiences in the future or of her. Not a one.

She knew that the Hogwarts library would give her no answers. Books of any real depth were usually hidden, checked out, or missing, and unlike her stolen books on Horcruxes, she didn't figure Accio would work from this far away.

As much as she hated to admit it, a trip to Grimmauld Place was in order.

She Apparated directly to the library, assuming that no one would be in there during the middle of the day. As her luck lately would have it, she was wrong. A figure on the sofa rolled over and opened his eyes.

"Hermione!" Ron looked shocked, but his jaw quickly tightened, and his face looked suspicious. "What are you doing here...?" He sat up, flustered, and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

Hermione winced...of all the people to run into at number twelve, she had hoped it wouldn't be him.

"Oh, nothing... Just thought I'd come borrow some books."

Ron sneered. "Books, eh? The Greasy Git's old books weren't good enough for you? Though, I suppose you never really did like anything more than you did books."

She sighed. He was making this so much more difficult than it needed to be. Her Ron never used to grimace at her like that. Besides, he was not supposed to be here. She was becoming increasingly anxious.

"Why are you home from work, Ron? Are you ill?"

"You seem to have forgotten that I don't answer to you anymore."

Her shoulders slumped. "Yes, I suppose that's true. But I do need to look through Harry's books. He may be the only person that has what I need."

She was surprised when Ron's facial features softened for a second, a look of concern crossing his features. "Nearly all of Harry's books are Dark on some level, 'Mione. What could you possibly be doing that would require reading what's written in these books? Hell, Sirius didn't even like coming in this room. Said the books gave off a 'bad vibe.'"

She really did not want to talk to Ron about this. If she were to mention Snape, his books, or the fact that his younger self was currently being held captive in her attic, Ron would go ballistic. It would be better to just blow him off.

"I can't tell you, Ron. But it is important. Please, could you just let me get what I need?"

Ron's face turned purple. "You know what, Hermione? Fine. Leave me out of your plans. I was trying to be nice. Y'know, there's no reason we can't be friends. Well, that's not true. If you're going to keep things from me, I just... I can't handle that."

"Keep things from you? All I wanted was to talk to you, and you shut me out. The end of the war was hard for all of us, and you wouldn't help me heal. All I wanted was for you to listen. And you pushed me away. So now you expect me to open up to you? You can't have it both ways, Ron!"

"All you wanted to talk about was Snape! He's all that you ever cared about! I'm sorry if I didn't want to have to play second fiddle to a dead man!"

Before she could respond to his completely unfair accusations, Ron left the room the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

She collapsed on a loveseat, appalled at what had just happened. How had Ron turned the conversation around on her so easily? Taking care of Snape really must have her depleted emotionally.

She cast a charm of her own making over the books. It caused the spines of any books referencing time travel to glow red, making her job much quicker. She had not figured out yet how to use the charm to mark the pages, but at least it was a start.

She shrank the books and stowed them in her jacket pocket. Hoping to find Ron and try to patch things up a little, she left the room in search of him. When she couldn't find him, she cast Homenum Revelio.

He was gone.

Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of home and spun.

~~&~~

He could not stand being locked in this attic much longer. The girl was no help. Last night over curry, he had tried questioning her. Asking her about the Dark Lord, about the war, about how it ended, about her role in everything. She refused to answer any questions and finally had cast a Silencing Charm on him before rushing to the bathroom and turning all the taps on. Through the sound of running water, he was pretty sure he heard her banging things about and emitting rather angry sounds. Whatever the answers to his questions were, they seemed to very much make her uncomfortable.

Today, she arrived later than usual with dinner, which appeared to be canned soup and homemade sandwiches on a tray, a far cry from the takeaway he'd been treated with thus far. He looked at her face and noticed red rimming her eyes. Someone had made her cry, and for some reason, he didn't like that. Since Lily, he had tried so desperately to distance himself from Mudblood women, both for his own sake in the Death Eaters and to get away from the memories, and yet he felt his heart tugging in the same old way. Fool.

"So, is being holed up with me so bad that I'm now making you cry?"

She looked at him, shocked, and then burst into slightly hysterical, seemingly cathartic laughter. He twitched uncomfortably.

"Heavens no! For once, the reason I'm crying has nothing to do with you." She dissolved into giggles.

He didn't know which was worse: not being the cause of her crying, or knowing that he'd been the cause in the past on more than one occasion.

Putting down their dinner, she dried her eyes with her sleeve, stuck somewhere between tearing up again and giggling. "You know, you did make me cry the first night you were here."

He crossed his arms and glared at her. She began to laugh harder.

"What's so funny?"

She took a deep breath, trying to quell her mirth. "You have no idea how many times you've crossed your arms and glared at me just so. Some things never change, I suppose."

He wondered why she had apparently irritated him so many times. Not knowing was beginning to get old.

"You know, Snape? You're the most entertaining prisoner I've ever had."

His eyes narrowed. "You've held other prisoners?"

"Yes. For about ten minutes. A man by the name of Mundungus Fletcher."

Snape grimaced. He knew Fletcher, a smelly, sneaky thief who resided near his favorite apothecary in Knockturn Alley. He couldn't count the number of times he'd tripped over Dung sleeping one off on the sidewalk in the rags he called clothes. Still, he was sure that to many, the thief would be considered an improvement over himself.

"I am aware of Fletcher, Granger. I am thankful you prefer me to him."

She smiled radiantly, and he felt it like a punch to the stomach. Maybe it was the forced proximity, maybe it was the fact that she seemed incredibly intelligent, or maybe it was that she was trying to help him regardless of her misgivings about his allegiances, but he was finding himself drawn to her. He had seen how the Dark Lord's prisoners were held, and daily he was thankful that she offered him a couch, a bed, warm food, a shower. Had he his wand, he would have been able to break out of here in an instant. Without it, he still might, but how far would he get without being able to Apparate or defend himself?

She still refused to tell him about the Dark Lord or the war. The complete lack of information was making his task more difficult, and he had to admit that was making him a little batty. So what if he did escape? Would he be killed on sight for his Mark? If the Light had won, was he now persona non grata? Was he keeping his fellow men company in Azkaban?

Was he even alive?

Something was nudging against his hand. He looked and saw that she was attempting to get his attention with a plate of sandwiches.

"What, no curry? No fish and chips?"

"Shut up. You're expensive. Sandwiches and soup are cheap."

Against his will, he felt the corners of his mouth moving upward.

They ate their meal in companionable silence. Far too companionable for his liking.

~~&~~

He watched her as she prepared for bed, picking up items, her wand ever present at her hip. There was no way he could wrestle it from her; she did not let him get close enough. She always stuck him to that damnable couch at night, so there was no way to get it from her then.

"Are you ready for the charm, Snape?" Her voice broke his reverie.

"No, but I suppose that doesn't matter. I am a prisoner after all."

She did not seem too happy that he pointed that out. She cast the charm on him, and he did not feel a bit different. She was definitely good with her wand. Had he cast that sort of charm, she would have felt herself being suctioned into the sofa. But no matter. Who needed proficiency at Charms?

She dimmed the lights and crawled into her own bed. "Good night. Sleep well. I'll most likely figure out how to send you home tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes. She had been saying that for days now. He was starting to lose hope that he would be able to leave here... or complete his mission.

Rolling over, he fell into a fitful sleep.

~~&~~

He was dreaming. Dreaming of himself in long black robes, buttoned from neck to foot. They looked terribly uncomfortable. In the dream, he was running down a long hallway near Ravenclaw Tower; from what he was unsure. He looked at his hands as he ran and nearly yelped in fright. His hands, yes, but older, more lined, veins protruding across the back.

Lily Evans' eyes. Good God, were Lily and Potter going to have a son? A son who looked like that? And if he had to teach this boy, would it be as unnerving as he thought to look into James Potter's face day after day but see her eyes?

"Coward! COWARD!"

That word, one he had hid from his entire life, caused him to doubt his dream abilities. He began falling. His wand flew from his hand, and he plummeted towards the earth. The last sound he heard was his own screaming when...

His body hitting the floor suddenly roused him. He awoke to realize he had rolled off the sofa. Rolled off the...

That's why he hadn't felt even a whisper of that Sticking Charm. She had fooled him into thinking she had cast it. The witch was a horrible captor and too nice for her own good.

This was his opportunity to escape, to find the answers his Lord sought.

His eyes searched for the clock...10:30 p.m. He had not even been asleep that long.

He crept over to her bed, hoping that her wand would be easily visible on her nightstand. It wasn't. He looked down at her lying flat on her stomach, her arms clutching at a pillow. Her wand was nowhere to be seen.

Bugger!

He had no idea what he was going to do. She probably had her wand somewhere on her person, and there was no way to find out without rousing her. Miserably, he went to the stairs and lay down on the entrance, willing it to open. He poured all of his magical energy into making the wards disappear, hoping for one last burst of childhood spontaneous magic to get him out.

The latches clicked, and the usually creaky gears of the stairs turned silently, the passage to downstairs opening under him.

Finally, the answers he sought would be revealed. And he had no idea what to expect.

He walked through the house, expecting it to have been renovated in some way. Nothing looked as if it had been changed. All of the photos and paintings were the same. The putrid green shag carpet still lined the hallways.

The doors to the bedrooms were opened.

If there are tenants, why are the doors open?

He entered his childhood bedroom and clicked on the lamp. It was his room. Just as it had appeared only yesterday. His small twin bed. Football pennants and his OWL results tacked to the wall. A picture of Lily... It was here, all here. Like a shrine.

What kind of sick fuck is this Granger girl?

As his hand approached a shelf full of childhood objects, he felt a jolt of magic. Wards. Why would there be wards? He took a small wooden box from the shelf, and popping the latch with the side of his thumb, he lifted the hinged top and found exactly what should be there: a piece of iron pyrite he had found as a child, a seashell from the one family vacation they had taken, the filter from the first cigarette he'd ever smoked.

Closing the box, he flipped it over and slid his fingers along the edge. Finding the one spot on the box that would yield, he pushed, and a secret compartment opened. A brittle four-leaf clover fell into his palm, the sole remnant of the only picnic his mother had ever taken him on. She had handed it to him, remarking that little Princes always needed good luck. Reverently, he put the sprig back in the box, replacing it on the shelf.

Thoroughly confused, he left his room, stopping in his parents' room just long enough to see that it had not been touched, either. All of the things his mother had left behind when she had moved to her flat were still there in the same places that she had left them, things he had not bothered to move when she had gone.

He descended to the ground floor, alarmed at what he might find. He felt like a voyeur in his own home, and it was a decidedly creepy sensation.

The smaller appliances in his kitchen were newer, but the oven, range, and refrigerator were the same. Everything was spotless. He opened the pantry...all his favorite things were there.

Had she lied? Did he still live here? Was she renting the attic from him?

That made no sense. Why would she have his books and albums?

Only one answer made even a remote level of sense...

Morbid curiosity took him into the dining room. Mountains of research littered the table, including some very familiar-looking journals and some newer ones... He would need to find a wand so he could copy them for his own reading.

He turned on the lights over the dining room table and began sifting through the paperwork. The girl had definitely done her research on time travel. Some of these books were positively Dark. He wondered how she could have procured them. He picked up one and looked at the flyleaf; "Property of R.A.B." embossed the page. Regulus? What the bloody fuck was wrong with this girl? Did she collect Death Eaters' belongings? Was his home some sort of crown jewel in her collection of Dark things?

His heart was pounding, his head spinning. He stumbled into his sitting room, his fear mounting.

Everything was in complete order, other than the fact that some of his books were missing. Books which now resided in his attic.

One thing had changed; there, at the far end of the room, was a door that had not been there before. Swallowing hard, he crossed the room and, opening the door, entered a room he did not recognize. The room was faintly lit, and framed newspaper clippings and photographs lined the walls. He walked through the room mesmerized, barely registering the headlines but realizing this room was devoted to him. Almost like a museum...

At the far end of the room was a portrait larger than the rest, wall sconces on either side casting light on a mostly black canvas. He looked closer and, seeing clasped hands, realized that part of the blackness was a person, its back to the viewer. Long coat sleeves covered the entirety of its arms. A long black cloak hung to its feet, clad in sturdy boots perfect for the laboratory. Black stringy hair hung down its back.

A portrait? But that must mean I'm... No. Nononononononono...

"Took you long enough to show up," an all-too-familiar voice said, its timbre lower and slightly scratchy.

As the figure turned, the candlelight caught its hawkish profile.

The last thought that crossed his mind before his body hit the floor was at least he wasn't bleeding to death this time...

AN: I really do love this chapter. In my mind, this is really where the story starts flying. I had horrible writer's block after chapter 6, for about a year, and this chapter finally came to me. I hope you enjoyed it. As always, thanks to all my betas!