The Hero Dies in This One

Chapter 16 – The Hero Dies in This One

The days following his departure found her more depressed than she had felt since the war. Hermione went through the motions at work, cleaning up the museum every night after the guests had left, heating her soup and eating it directly out of the can, spending her nights trying to read trashy fantasy novels... and failing. She felt empty, emotionally and mentally exhausted, and spent the wee hours of the morning trying to figure out just why all of these things had happened to her.

It had not taken her as long as she expected to reread every single document at her disposal regarding Snape, to see if there was anything she had missed...anything that would have somehow allowed him to survive and live with her now.

The answer, of course, came to her from the source she had least wanted to find it in. As she thumbed through Rita Skeeter's tell-all, she got to the point where Skeeter was talking about his death.

Corroborating this belief, and unexplainable to any of the experts who examined his body, was evidence of a nasal hemorrhage which began sometime after the Trio had left. While the wound on his neck appeared coagulated (somehow the fangs just barely missed any major veins or arteries, slicing primarily through muscle and other soft tissues), this nasal hemorrhage likely caused such a severe loss of blood on top of his prior injuries that it is believed that Snape bled to death.

Some believe that the sheer loss of that many memories at once (it is never recommended to extract more than one memory at a time) caused the hemorrhage that took Snape's life. Other Healers noted evidence of a competently healed hemorrhage in his nasal passages that was not corroborated by his medical records. Did Snape suffer from some medical condition unknown to those around him? Did the giving of his memories cause his own death?

No, it wasn't the memories. For months, Hermione had felt so guilty about his death, never knowing that she really should feel responsible for it.

Casting Rita's book aside in disgust, she worked her way through the newly unlocked journals, looking for any indication that he blamed her, hell, if he even knew about the long-term implications of the hemorrhage.

She reached the end of the last journal. On the last page, a cryptic message had appeared.

You didn't think I was above squirreling possessions away under the floorboards of my bedroom, did you?

Puzzled, she went up to his bedroom. Though she rarely entered unless it was absolutely necessary, she loved his childhood room. Snape had always seemed most human to her in this room with his Manchester City pennants and rock posters (and one of the periodic table)...a far cry from his damp, molding rooms in the dungeons.

Other than her occasional sweeping or beating out of the knotted rag rug, the floor had never really caught her interest. Now she found herself on her hands and knees, feeling every plank of wood, hoping one would give way under her hand.

One did.

Under it, she found a very Muggle notebook, complete with spiral binding and filled with line upon line of blue, ballpoint ink.

My Hermione, it began. It was a new journal, just for her. Curling up on his small twin bed and pulling an old knitted afghan over her legs, she continued.

If tonight is any indication of how hard this life I've chosen to return to will be, then I will probably be making use of this journal quite often...

~~&~~

She read the whole thing through the night, finishing only when the first rays of sunlight crept into the room and filled her surroundings with hazy light.

The final pages of the journal, dated to the week before his death, gave her the answers she needed, though she did not like to read them.

April 25, 1998

The story of my life, Hermione, should a real version ever be written, should begin "The Hero Dies in This One." No one should come into it under false pretenses of a deus ex machina. While I was in your time, my portrait told me that there was no future for someone like me. I wanted him to be wrong. I even scheduled an appointment with a Healer to fix the hemorrhage you healed, knowing it would give me a shot at life. I didn't go.

Now, older and with far more distance from our time together, I can see his point. Heroes never live, or if they do, they live a half-life, hounded by those who would honor them. To live would be to wish to gain you back, but would you have me? Older, crueler... a murderer so many times over. To live would not be to gain back what we had...it would tarnish it, demean it.

From the moment I left you, I lived only to ensure your life and the lives of as many as I could help keep safe. I will feel guilty about maiming George well into my afterlife, whatever it may be, Hermione. Tell him that, please. And for all those I could not save... Their memories haunt me every waking moment. I've read every source I could about time and time travel, both science and science fiction, and they all seem to agree: do not change anything. And yet, I can't help but ask what was the use of all of the resources I had been given if I could not change anything? If I could not take back one death? I hate the Dark Lord most for this...for giving me this gift of time travel, fully realizing, I'm sure, that the what-ifs would destroy me.

The Final Battle, as I hope it will be called, is only days away. It is my last task, and I hope that I manage to succeed. I have thrived so far in spite of myself. There were a couple of narrow escapes. But you are safe, Potter's safe, even Weasley, in spite of his inability to just stay where he's supposed to be, is safe.

Safe as anyone being chased by all of wizarding kind's worst ilk can be, I suppose.

Stop mourning me, Hermione. I will die a hero's death. All I ever wanted as a child was to be loved and respected, and through my death, I will be. For a brief few days with you, I lived that life. Soon, I will for all our history. Without your kindness, that would not have been possible.

Stop blaming yourself. You gave me all I ever wanted.

...Severus

He was asking her to let him go, which was all her friends had been asking of her, too. He had given her permission to move on, but how? How could she possibly deal with the knowledge that it had been she, and not Lily Evans Potter, who had been Severus Snape's inspiration to endure all those years as a spy?

The last page of his diary was open before her.

May 1, 1998

Hermione,

Tomorrow will be the last day I see you in this life, if that blasted biography of Skeeter's is to be believed. I assume when I see you tonight, you will look at me with scorn...how could you possibly know of my life? I am the killer of Dumbledore, the taker of house points... The week we had together, when I was twenty, has not happened for you yet.

I would like to say I go into my death relieved. Anyone else might say I should be. What kind of life would there be for me after the war? No one forgets a person accused of murder, even if they are exonerated. As if I would ever be forgiven. It does not matter that Dumbledore ordered me to do it...I could have chosen to die that day, breaking my Unbreakable Vow and asserting my own agency.

But where would that have left you? Quite probably dead, and my entire reason for going through the last decades would have been for absolutely nothing.

No, I do not go to my death happily. I suppose you should ignore my last entry, wherein I tried to act the long-suffering hero. I am not sure why I even felt the need to lie to you sometimes in this journal. My entire life at this point is a string of lies, and given this is my last full day of life, I do not want to lie anymore.

This is the truth. The only thing that has gotten me through the past weeks has been fantasizing about not going to the Shack tomorrow...to shirk my duties and somehow find a way to have a life with you. To suddenly approach you after you would have encountered my younger self.

Of course, that would never be possible. If I did not go to the Shack tomorrow, I would not die, the museum would never open, and that week in my past would never have happened. All you would see is me, old, grey, and bitter. Why would you be attracted to that when you have so much more to live for?

I know that I have held on to your memory in a way that is completely unseemly. Nearly the entire time I have known you, you have been a minor... a child. There is something completely disgusting in me that I try not to dwell upon. And yet remembering how you were so very kind to me, in spite of your hatred of who I was at that time... That kind of caring has buoyed me through my most difficult times.

This is the last time I will be able to write you. Please know that, in my own twisted way, I do love you. I hope you take this to heart when I say don't let Ronald Weasley go. I promise you that, like most men, he will grow out of the many habits that annoy you, especially if his father is any indication of the man he will grow to be. You may think that he rushed back to your side as soon as he could because of his loyalty to Harry, but it was for you, Hermione. Let him give you the life I never could.

Tonight, I will go to my childhood home for the last time to hide this journal in my bedroom. I hope it will bring you some peace.

Goodbye,

...S.

As she read through his last entry, she was moved by the desperation, the sorrow. The last paragraph stung even more than her fight with his portrait. Because on some level, she knew he was absolutely right.

Looking at the clock, she realized that she had less than an hour before she would have to open the museum. Rushing to her attic, she quickly got dressed before jotting off a quick note to Harry and Ron at their office at the MLE. She hoped that they would come... But in all honesty, she only expected to see Harry.

Throwing some Floo powder in the fireplace, she called out the office address and tossed the letter through the grate before running down to work.

~~&~~

Harry Potter sat on the edge of his desk, thumbing through yesterday's mail, pausing only to take sips of tea. It was early, and Ron had not yet made it to the office.

A belch of green dust shot from the fireplace, startling him and causing him to slosh tea on himself, followed by a piece of parchment addressed to himself and Ron written in incredibly familiar script. He leaned over to grab it, then perched on his desk once again, wondering what Hermione could possibly have to say to the both of them.

Harry and Ron,

I need to speak with you both. I think I have needed to for a very long time. We have so much to talk about... one note from me could not even begin to address the issues between us.

Harry, could we please meet at your house tonight? And can just the three of us be there? I know it's a lot to ask, but I just need the three of us to have some time together... alone. It's been so long.

Ron... I know that you are probably looking at this, angry and confused, and vowing not to come.

Please come. I need you.

Love, Hermione

Ron found him as Harry finished reading the note, Harry's mouth open from shock, the parchment clenched in his trembling hand.

"'S wrong, Harry? You look like you've seen a ghost?"

"Not a ghost, no. Just a note from Hermione. It's addressed to both of us."

The look of shock on Ron's face was quickly replaced by anger, then morbid curiosity. "What the bloody hell could she possibly want?" he asked, the venom Harry expected to pair with the words noticeably lacking. The shock on his face must have been worse than he thought.

Harry handed Ron the note to read and watched as an array of emotions passed over Ron's face. He was pretty sure one of them was hope.

"Seems our girl needs us, Harry. We haven't let her down since the troll, have we?"

Harry grinned, fairly sure that Hermione would disagree. But frankly, it wasn't worth mentioning to Ron. "Nope. Let's not start now."

~~&~~

Hermione could not believe how nervous she was to see her best friends. Two people she had seen naked on multiple occasions (Ron because... well... and Harry because he always seemed to forget his towel while they were camping), and yet she was as nervous about their upcoming meeting as she had ever been as a friendless first-year.

Emotionally, she was stretched thin. Anything could set her off tonight, either into tears, screaming, or hysterical giggles. If she had any hope of mending her broken relationships with the people that mattered most to her, she probably needed to do none of these.

She Apparated to the front steps of Grimmauld, brushing away the hair that had escaped from her ponytail in transit. Taking a bottle of whisky from her pocket, she enlarged it to full size.

Before she could knock, Harry threw the door open and pulled her into a hug. They were nearly the same height when she wore heels, and his hugs always fit perfectly. Screaming internally at the tears that tried to rush to her eyes, she clung to him, not realizing how badly she needed to be held.

Over Harry's shoulder she saw Ron, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of the hallway, his gaze nearly Legilimizing her.

Harry finally pulled away, remembering his manners.

"Can I have your coat? Do you want something to drink? Well, beyond what you seem to have brought?"

Hermione managed a wan smile and held the bottle out to him. "With what I need to tell you two tonight, I thought it might help..."

"And what exactly is that, Hermione? Going to tell us what all that research was about?" Ron's voice, while not as angry as the last time they had spoken, still sounded hurt.

She reached out and clasped his hand. "Yes, Ron. All of it."

Harry, never one to handle awkward situations well, blurted out, "Brilliant! Dinner's under the warmer. Why don't we start talking first and grab a bite in a bit?" And without waiting for an answer, he dragged them into the dining room, busying himself with grabbing glasses and ice and fussing over everyone.

"Okay," Harry said, throwing himself into a chair and sloshing a few fingers of amber liquid into his glass. "Everyone have what they need?"

Ron nodded. He had been oddly quiet since the foyer, and Harry, bless him, ignored it.

"Actually," Hermione responded, not quite making eye contact with either of them, "Harry, could you go and get your Pensieve?"

Harry had bought a Pensieve shortly after the war ended. While he did not want to forget his memories, he had told her, Harry did find it easier sometimes to put certain memories in the bowl. He said it helped him gain perspective.

"Sure... I'll be right back."

Harry left the room, and the awkward silence became deafening. Ron just stared at her, again seeming to try to deconstruct her with his gaze. Not able to stand it any longer, she interrupted the silence.

"I just thought... I just thought it would be easier. To show you both what I need to say instead of saying it. To not lose it in translation from thoughts to words."

Again, Ron simply nodded, but curiosity sparkled in his eyes. Hermione felt compelled to squeeze his hand again, but refrained, instead, taking a sip of her drink.

Harry returned, the beautifully engraved Pensieve levitating before him. He eased it down on the table, the bowl so large it covered nearly the entire surface, and resumed his seat.

Hermione drew her wand slowly, laying it across her palm. "Harry... Ron... I need you to witness an oath for me?"

Harry looked perplexed. "But why? We will always believe you, Hermione. 'Sides, we know your 'tell' when you lie." Even still, he was trying to lighten the mood. Ron looked as if he might smile.

"I know," she responded, "but what I have to tell you... It would be better if you knew that my words were true from the very beginning. They will be... hard... to believe."

The boys drew their wands and placed the tips on her palm. Closing her eyes, she invoked the words of the Wizard's Vow:

"I, Hermione Jean Granger, hereby swear that the memories I am about to put forth are in no way fabricated. They are given of me of my own free will, and they are representative of complete reality."

The tips of Harry's and Ron's wands glowed red, and the tip of Hermione's shot red sparks. They all withdrew their wands, and Hermione dug in her pocket for her vial of memories.

Using the Pensieve was a good plan, she thought. Removing enough of each memory for them to see had calmed her down significantly. She still had enough to know the context, but many of the strongest emotions had been stripped away from them. If anything, this would help her make it through what was to come.

She tipped the memories in the bowl and watched as they slipped through the liquid of the Pensieve. Motioning for the boys to enter, the three of them stood and dipped their heads in at once.

While she had once told them of her first encounter with Snape's portrait, she had never given details of his dressing down. She started with this moment.

They stood to her memory-self's right, able to see both her face and Snape's portrait. As Snape berated her, Ron leaned and whispered mockingly in her ear, "He speaks to you this way, and yet you still defend him?"

Hermione sighed. "Just watch."

Ron took a step back and continued glaring.

The scene melted, and they found themselves in the attic, observing Hermione getting ready for bed. She was lying in bed, reading one of her books, as they watched.

Harry laughed. "I don't seem to remember you wearing that the last time you slept over."

"Shut up," she hissed in return.

Both of the boys noticeably jumped when the body appeared on the floor. Even though Hermione knew the thud was coming, it still startled her.

"Bloody hell, Hermione. Who is that? I thought you had Apparition blockers on the attic?" Ron turn toward her, puzzled, hurt.

"I do."

"Then who..."

As the body rolled over, his face becoming clear, Hermione clenched her fists, her nails biting hard into her palms, bracing herself for the onslaught.

Ron's face went white as a sheet. Harry, gobsmacked, turned toward her, his mouth hanging open.

Ron started the onslaught of questions.

"Is that...?"

"Yes."

"But he's so..."

"Young?"

Ron nodded.

Pensieve-Hermione's scream rang through the room, and on instinct, Harry ripped his wand from his sleeve. Hermione watched herself run from the room to cloister herself in the bathroom. The slam of the door finally broke through Harry's shock.

"That's Snape?" he asked.

"Yes."

"He was here?"

"Yes, Harry."

"How?"

"Time-Turner."

"From what year?" Harry knew, as she had, that this was a critical part of which Snape was there.

"1980."

To be continued...

AN: Originally this was one very long chapter, so I have split it into two (the second half will post next week).

The working title of this entire story was "The Hero Dies in This One" (from The Ataris song of the same title) but too many people told me that it would cause an uprising. After all these months of posting, I'm pretty sure I should have left it.

Thank you to my lovely betas!