Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Ron, I can't do this!"

"What?"

"This." She waved a finger between them both. "All of this. I want a career! I want some time..."

"Don't be stupid..."

"Stupid? Stupid?" Her voice sounded shrill in the room. She could feel a rushing in her ears.

A dull flush spread across his neck, and he stuck his lower jaw out in mulish defiance. "Look, that's not what I meant, I mean.... Come on, Hermione!"

Ginny caught hold of his arm. "Ron..."

He flapped his arm, dislodging her. "It's alright, Gin," he said, "she gets like this sometimes. She'll be fine. When we're married..."

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Hermione screeched. She stumbled backwards, away from his outstretched hand, her boots catching a little on the uneven flagstones on the kitchen floor. Her breath was catching in her chest. She could not stand it anymore. Trapped! Smothered!

Her magic rushed through her, and she dimly heard the crockery rattle on the shelves of the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. Ron and Ginny cried out, but Hermione didn't listen. She could not think, could not stop. Images rushed through her mind, snapshots of places and people that she had known and lost... locations for safety, long since discarded from the War.

"Hermione, love..."

Instinctive and desperate, she grabbed hold of one of the pictures in her mind as her magic pulsed.

Destination.

Desperation.

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The constriction of Apparition had taken her breath away. Automatically, she put out a hand to steady herself, and her fingers connected with a slick block of frozen stone.

Instinctively, she ducked into a crouch, wand out in her shaking hand.

She blinked rapidly, heart hammering in her chest, panic closing her airways and sending adrenaline rushing through her chest and limbs.

Quiet. So different from the Burrow's heat and noise....

She made herself take a deep breath.

Dark... cold rain.

Trees and gravestones.

A churchyard... She was in a churchyard.

She panned her wand around her in a semicircle. More grave markers and dark bushes. Yew trees and fir, some rhododendrons, their leaves glistening with moisture, bowed and still.

Breathing out, she stood uncertainly, belatedly checking herself for signs of Splinching. Nothing missing, she noted with relief.

The cold was beginning to permeate her clothing, making her shiver. She folded her arms around her torso as she looked about, trying to confirm her exact whereabouts.

Her breath caught as she recognised the old church with its square bell tower and squat nave. She remembered the footpath that weaved its way around the ancient stones and overgrown memorials. Strange that she should have grasped hold of these memories, this image to fuel her Apparition! Echoes of her previous visit, clutching onto Harry's coat as they stared down at the very gravestone that she stood over now, washed over her. The fear and uncertainty that had suffused her then, in those frighteningly dark days before Voldemort's downfall, was profoundly mirrored in her current emotional state.

Ron had not been with them then, and he wasn't here now.

Her throat constricted. Then, lost and confused by the riddle of the Hallows and the search for Voldemort's ruptured soul fragments, all she had wanted was to see him again, feel the comforting strength of his large, warm hands on her upper arms and hear his gruff reassurances. But now...?

Shit.

Shit.

Now Ron's hands were stifling her. The long length of him covering her in bed restricted rather than protected. His reassurances were hollow in her ears.

This wasn't war; this was the rest of her days.

She realised that she was shaking, and the wool from her Weasley jumper felt scratchy under the skin of her hands. She felt the smooth wood of her wand and the crackle of the letter from the Department in her fists.

Shit.

What am I going to do?

Satisfied that she was alone in the churchyard, she slid her wand into the charmed pocket in her jeans and squinted at the envelope in her hands.

It was the opportunity for research into memory and time, the chance to hold an apprenticeship with one of the leading researchers into theoretical Arithmancy. It was independence, something in which she could make her mark... make a difference, all bound up in an invitation to meet a Master Peverell from the Department of Mysteries. She shivered slightly at the name, reminding herself that the Hallows were all but out of reach. Still, compared with a future of domesticity and suffocation, the letter seemed like a lifeline.

But Ron couldn't see it.

Her throat hurt. Tears felt like acid in her eyes.

She clutched the letter to her chest, feeling her heart thunder underneath the crisp paper in her fingers.

In her mind's eye, she saw Molly's disappointed expression, mixed with the implacable protectiveness the Weasley matriarch felt for all her children. She'll never forgive me. Remember when she thought I'd two-timed Harry?

A sob escaped her mouth, driven out like bile.

She saw Ron's dear, familiar face and began to cry harder, her knees sinking into the wet grass at the base of a headstone.

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A sudden scraping noise caused her to look up. To her horror, she saw the black outline of a man almost upon her.

Snatchers!

She cried out in alarm, instinctively twisting away from the man and overbalancing, falling into the muddy puddle to the left of the gravestone. Where's my wand? she thought frantically, scrabbling to right herself, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Cold water splashed on her neck and soaked through the wool of her jumper. The cold of it brought her up short, made her stop, reminded her that she wasn't a hunted fugitive any more and that the Dark Lord was dead. Oh God, am I going mad? She forced herself to calm down and look again at the man who had surprised her. There was something familiar about him... if she could just think!

Like a ghostly vision, Professor Snape took another hesitant step towards her into the diffused light from the church tower, his feet scuffing the gravel again. She stared at him, her mouth open in utter shock. Him? Here? What on earth...?

"W–what are you doing here?" He seemed as surprised as she was. His voice was the same as she remembered from his trial – still deep and resonant, but scratched, as if he was forcing his larynx to work.

She tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangulated, "You!"

He stood still for the moment, looking dumbly at her, as if in shock.

She struggled to her feet and stared at him, her mind a whirl of questions. He jerked forward towards her, and automatically she flinched backwards, still trying to get used to seeing him in front of her in this of all places. Embarrassed by her initial reaction, she stuffed the letter from Master Peverell back into her jean's pocket and stood straighter.

"Miss Granger," he began, but then stopped speaking as they stared at each other. Hermione allowed her eyes to roam over his face. He looked dreadful. Always thin, he now looked positively emaciated. Dark shadows bruised the skin under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken and pockmarked with dark stubble. He had cut his hair! It still fell in greasy bangs around his face, but was shorter at the neck and sides. She looked him up and down, unable to stop her features twisting in sympathy. What on earth is he wearing? Some old shapeless army greatcoat was wrapped about his person. Is he sleeping rough? Her eyes came to rest on the flowers in his hand. White lilies, she thought. Why...?

He caught her eye and straightened, his face resolving into a familiar sneer. "What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly, and she saw the hand gripping the flowers tighten, the flowers pulled almost behind him in a defensive gesture.

Her heart had ceased its frantic beating, and she was feeling calmer. She cocked her head on one side. "I heard that you were released," she said quietly. "It must have been horrible in there."

She saw him flinch. "That's none of your business, Miss Granger," he said sharply. "I asked you a question. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at some sort of party by now with your fellow saviours of the free world?"

The irony of the question helped her to recover further. If you only knew, she thought. She looked at the gravestone, then at the ground at his feet. She was suddenly exhausted.

"No, I'm not," she replied quietly. "Look, do... do you mind if we sit down, Professor?" She looked beyond him to the small wooden bench. At least it wasn't the ground.

He seemed torn, but then his lip curled, and for a moment, she thought he would make some sort of withering comment. But as the seconds ticked by, she saw his face change and something speculative flashed across it. He gave a mocking little bow, gesturing with the bunch of lilies in his hand that she should precede him to the bench.

Merlin, it's cold! Slowly, so as not to startle him, she drew her wand and cast a Warming Charm, sitting down onto the rough wood with relief. As an afterthought, she added a Silencing Charm too – a variant of one of the protective Wards she had cast during the War. She needed to think and the spell created a quiet space around them both.

After a moment, she felt him settle beside her and was surprised that he allowed his leg to rest against hers, despite the narrowness of the bench. She realised that she was shaking and gripped her knees, willing her legs to still.

A few seconds passed. She began to feel warmer. His was a curiously calming presence next to her, in his old coat and tatty jeans. Not quite the imposing Professor from school any more.

But he hasn't been that for a while, she realised with an uncomfortable shiver. She remembered his trial. He had looked much smaller then, too... much smaller than Ron, or even Arthur, when the Weasley's had stood flanking either side of him in the bleak courtroom. A thin, wiry man, all sinew and tension, like a fox in a trap.

She darted a quick look at the hand he had grasped on his lap. The fingers were clawed defensively on the cellophane around the flowers.

As if aware of her scrutiny, his leg jiggled, and he exhaled sharply. He seemed on edge. Nervous, even.

"Well, Miss Granger?" he asked. "We are sitting down. Why are you here?"

"I...I walked out on Ron tonight. I think," she said. There. She had said it. She felt her world begin to crumble again and fought the sob rising in her throat.

He snorted disparagingly, as if this news was unimportant and childish.

Bastard, she thought. I'm not at school anymore. She pulled herself together, the sob replaced by ire.

He seemed to notice her annoyance and shifted a little on the bench beside her.

He coughed. "That... does not explain why you are here tonight," he said gruffly. "Here, by..." He gestured sharply with his long fingers at the graveyard. "Here..." he said again.

She breathed out slowly. "I don't know why I'm here, really," she said. "I wasn't sure where I was when I arrived. It was only after I saw Harry's parents' graves that I knew for sure."

"You Apparated without a clear idea of your destination? That was a very stupid thing to do."

The familiar sneer was back in his voice, and she felt herself flush defensively. "I was very upset. I didn't Splinch myself. This wasn't the first place that I thought of, just the one that came to me at the last second. Besides," she added wryly, "I've had quite a bit of practice Apparating quickly."

He didn't reply, and she sniffed, still looking at her hands. He twisted his wrist and looked at his cheap Muggle wristwatch.

"You... walked out...?" he prompted her impatiently.

"I've had a job offer for when I leave school this year. Well, actually it's just an interview, but..." The tiny diamond from Ron's ring glinted in the light from the bell tower. She didn't need to say any more.

"I fail to see...?"

She made a small exasperated noise and waved her ring finger at him. "Can't you...?"

Surely his much vaunted Slytherin cunning would be able to read these signs!

"I am perfectly capable of seeing your finger, Miss Granger," he replied testily. "It is the implication of your words that is difficult to discern."

"Bloody wanker," she muttered under her breath and gripped her knees again. Stay calm. Keep calm....

"I take it that Mr Weasley does not wish you to accept this job," he said eventually, looking again at his wristwatch.

"Fifty points to Slytherin, Professor," she said sourly, then turned once more to look at him. "Ron wants to get married as soon as possible and–and start a family. He's a good man, and I owe him – all of them, really – so much... perhaps I shouldn't... But it's the most extraordinary opportunity and..." She cleared her throat. "Ron's been my boyfriend ever since the last battle – we got engaged just before I went back to school in September..."

She saw him roll his eyes and felt another flash of exasperation at his reaction. Really – did he have to be quite so patronising?

"And we've been through such a lot together," she continued, gritting her teeth against his sneering. "He'll be devastated. But it's not just him. If I break up with Ron, then I lose everyone I know. Everyone is related to him, either his best friend or part of his family. Molly will never understand, and Ginny is my only girlfriend and Harry..."

"So, go back to your Weasley, and be happy," he responded nastily. "There are worse things than being disappointed in your career. Really, Miss Granger, your love life is none of my concern. And now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Oh, you don't have the first bloody clue, do you?" she countered, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Of course you wouldn't understand. You always kept everyone at a distance! It's not just Ron I was crying about – I won't have anyone anymore." She sighed and looked down at her hands clenched together in her lap. "I'll be on my own, completely alone. I'll be a pariah – cut off from everyone I know."

There was a short pause.

"What about your parents?" he asked awkwardly.

"They're gone," she said flatly.

"Gone?" He seemed surprised. For the first time in their conversation, she felt that she had his genuine attention. Of course, she thought, why should he know about this?

"I modified their memories and sent them away to Australia so that Voldemort could not find them. After the war, we tried to reverse the charms that I had laid, but it didn't work. Now I can't ever bring them back."

She began to shake as the emotions crowded in on her again. Why couldn't she stop crying? Stupid, stupid, stupid... pull yourself together, you silly idiot!

She forced herself to stay in control.

"I just can't spend the rest of my life... cooking and knitting jumpers...," she muttered distractedly. "I really want to go to that appointment, and I don't know what to do anymore. I feel... lost. And I can't talk to anyone about it because everyone is just getting on and they'd tell me to do the same, and I should be able to do that, I should... Oh, this is so bloody stupid."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled Ministry letter, rolling it between her fingers and staring at the seal of the Department of Mysteries as it phased in and out. She felt Snape go very still beside her and suddenly remembered that she had no idea why he was here... and with lilies in his hand.

Suddenly, she didn't want to think about her problems anymore. She looked at him again. He was staring at the envelope in her hand, as if he recognised it.

"How are you, Professor?" she asked and saw him jerk backwards, his face closing up.

"How am I?" he asked, seemingly confused by her question. "How am I?" he repeated, recovering some of his customary sarcasm. "Why, Miss Granger, I have never been better, clearly." He waved his free hand at his shabby clothes and unkempt appearance. "After all, Azkaban is a veritable health farm, nowadays. Spending three months in there alongside my fellow surviving Death Eaters – each of whom I had counted as my friend at one point or another and all of whom I had betrayed by my actions during the wars – was one of the most peaceful and satisfying experiences of my life so far."

Oh. Of course. She blushed in embarrassment.

"Well, you're free now," she said in a small, hopeful voice.

"Oh, yes," he snapped bitterly, "it is even more wonderful to be 'free', Miss Granger. I suppose that I should be grateful that I am no longer gainfully employed teaching dunderheads or at the beck and call of a madman. I am 'free', indeed."

"Although, of course," he continued, relentlessly sarcastic, "'freedom' is rather a relative concept, in my case. The terms of my release included placing me under The Trace, as if I were a child. Every time I do the smallest of charms, some little tosser in the Ministry knows exactly where I am and what I am doing. I have no employment prospects, little life savings, and the respectable wizarding media have branded me either a lovesick fool or a bloodthirsty traitor who tortured children...."

"'There are worse things than being disappointed in your career'," she snapped back at him, setting her jaw. He wasn't the only one who was in a shitty situation.

There was a short, dangerous pause. Hermione held her breath as a range of emotions flickered over his sour and pinched features. Eventually, he seemed to relax.

"Touché, Miss Granger," he acknowledged with a small, wry grin. "Touché."

"So," she continued, emboldened. "Neither of us has particularly good prospects, then. I am stuck either becoming my future mother-in-law or cutting myself off again from all the family I have... And you... well... you...," her voice faded into silence before his expression.

He arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't supposed to survive the war, Miss Granger, but I did."

She said nothing, waiting for him to finish.

After another moment, he cleared his throat. "And now, apart from doing everything I can to disguise where I am and what I am doing to piss off the Ministry of Morons... for the first time since I was a boy... I don't know what I'm going to do." The last sentence would have been impossible to hear, but for her Silencing Charm.

"I-I need... I have something that I must do," he blurted out, his voice sounding loud and raw. He cradled the lilies in his arms self-consciously, and she immediately understood why he was there.

"Oh, Professor," she breathed. "I'm so sorry if I've intruded onto your remembrances."

He seemed to jump a little, glowering at her. "What?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated quickly, not wishing to break the delicate accord that had sprung up between them. "You came here to pay your respects. That's why you're here, isn't it? I can see that. Of course, I'll-I'll leave you alone."

He made a small, gruff sound in his throat as she made to rise from the bench, and she sat back down again, regarding him warily. He looked at her for another long moment, and then he made a small, involuntary gesture with the bunch of flowers towards the Potters' graves.

"I have never missed this moment," he said quietly. "To lay the flowers as the church bells strike midnight."

He seemed to flush a little under her scrutiny. "There's a charm," he muttered. "It-it reminds me... and helps me to focus... I need it so that I can feel...."

Ohhh, she thought. He must be thinking of Lily.... She remembered Harry's hurried and breathless account of Snape's memories after he had defeated Voldemort in the Great Hall, and she felt a rush of acute embarrassment that this most private of men had revealed so much of himself in those last, desperate moments. She wondered if he knew that Harry had told her about the memories, and then realised that he must know. His devotion for Harry's mother had been the cornerstone of his defence at the Trials after all. She squirmed at the memory of Harry's righteous indignation as he had stood in Snape's defence... and the awful shame and humiliation on Snape's face as Harry had spoken.

"I understand," she said, trying to be gentle.

His eyes locked onto hers, and she felt the faintest whisper of his mind stretch out to her, but before she could respond, he reared backwards and jerked to his feet awkwardly, moving silently over towards the pale marble gravestone before them.

She watched him approach the Potters' grave and saw his shoulders hunch, the flowers heavy in his arms. He stood still, head bowed, waiting for the bells to ring midnight.

The bells!

Quickly, she cancelled her Silencing Charm, and the graveyard was flooded once more with the sound of the bells from the tower ringing slowly to a standstill.

As the tenor struck the first chime, something extraordinary happened. The gravestone before him shimmered, and a sparkling mist at the base of the white stone coalesced into a beautiful bunch of crystal lilies.

The bell struck again.

She stood without thinking, drawn to the lilies, fascinated by the nature of what was obviously a very intricate and powerful charm. Snape's body was shaking with tension.

Three bells.

Four.

The breath caught in her throat as she watched him slowly, reluctantly, withdraw his black wand from the pocket of the great coat.

Five.

She remembered what he had said about the Ministry knowing what he did and when. She was suddenly filled with indignation that they should intrude on his most private moment. Perhaps if she cast the charm, then his actions would remain private....

Six.

She reached over and softly but deliberately placed her hand on top of his. "Don't," she whispered. "The Ministry..."

She felt his shock. His hand trembled for a moment and then stilled under her cold fingers.

"Let me do it for you," she said. "What's the incantation?"

"Semper meminere," he muttered, "Before the twelfth chime, but..."

There was no more time to think about it. She called upon her magic and cast the charm, feeling the power of it rush through her, through his wand, and outwards towards the gravestone.

The crystal lilies exploded into a cloud of fine, sparkling motes of dust which showered both of them. She gasped as the cold particles landed on the skin of her face and hands, suddenly terrified of what would happen. Snape was standing still beside her, resigned... almost as if he was waiting for something more to occur. She was very conscious of their close proximity. The old greatcoat was scratchy against her cheek and smelt slightly stale, as if it had been in storage for a long time. She wondered where he was living, how he was living, what he was going to do with the rest of his life, whether he had anyone to call a friend....

He seemed to be tensing himself, although the hand beneath hers was warm and steady to her touch.

She shivered again and gasped as she felt a build up of magical energy that set her skin dancing. Snape's hand flexed and twisted under hers, his body pulling away from hers as he turned towards...

A raw surge of energy hit her without warning. Her head snapped backwards, smacking sharply into his chin, and she bit her tongue. There was no time to feel the pain of the impact, however, as an extraordinary rush of feelings exploded in her chest, making her giddy with emotion.

She was suffused with love. A love that was all encompassing, so deep and so desperate that it had to be clung onto, like a dying man grasping hold of hope.

She cried out in fear and shock, off balance and terrified.

His arms were around her now, steadying her, clutching her closer to him so that her face was buried in his neck. She could feel the ripples of hot scar tissue underneath her lips.

Her hands came about his waist, and she clung onto him for support, for anchorage.

What the hell is happening? Her breath caught as she rode the overwhelming sensations. She felt strange and powerful, and her body shook with the elation of possession. It was like the first time that she had known magic, using mother's wand to cast a spell, feeling the power of it thrum through her chest. It was knowing that she was the cleverest in the class, being proud of that fact and thrilled to see others looking at her with sour envy.

It was the thrill of mastering the exactitude of potion making. The selfish joy she knew when making amendments and variations of a standard recipe yielded better, stronger, more potent results. Crush the Sopophorous beans, you old fool. The delight in mastery of control, the ability to gain access, undetected, to another's thoughts... the savage pleasure in seeing an enemy fail.

Hermione was confused. These memories and emotions were alien to her and frighteningly unfamiliar – like jagged bones digging into her skin.

A fresh wave of longing washed over her, and Hermione moaned, clutching the rough wool of Snape's coat tighter. He was nuzzling her face, rubbing the stubble of his cheek against hers, murmuring soothing nonsense in her ear.

I am hers, and she is mine. Bright eyes and a confident swagger, robes swishing as she swung her hips from side to side. A backward glance and she was lost, trotting after the green-eyed witch, charged with passion and filled with despair as she watched her slip further and further away into the arms of another.

What we have, we hold, yer little shit. But she couldn't – she couldn't hold on to her! So capable of love, wanting nothing more than to be with that other person who looked at her without pity, who protected her... who cared for her, when no one else had ever, ever...

Hermione cried out as adrenaline pounded through her. She felt a dizzying sense of arousal, of protectiveness, crashing against all the other feelings and memories, almost too much to bear. Was this Snape? She trembled in shock at the realisation. Her old professor was holding onto her, pouring everything into her... shuddering with the power of it, desperate, passionate and lonely.

She burrowed even closer to him, burying herself in his skin. She would save him! She would keep him safe. She felt his throat constrict as he swallowed, and she slowly began to run her lips over the sweaty skin of his scarred neck, inching upwards towards the sharp angle of his jawline. His hands cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. His head turned, and she clutched him even tighter, desperately holding on as his emotions engulfed her, her own need rising up to meet his. She wanted him... wanted more... wanted...

"Yes," she mumbled into his delicate skin, "want you... need this...."

He trembled and shook in turn, rocking her, responding to her arousal with short juddering gasps, his fingers flexing rhythmically in her hair.

Abruptly, he froze, and Hermione became aware that the thrum of the magic that had driven her emotions since she had cast the charm had ebbed and withdrawn.

Oh, my God, she thought. I nearly kissed him. The extraordinary nature of that thought threatened to overwhelm her.

For a few moments, she continued to stand awkwardly in his arms, too embarrassed to move, trying to control her breathing and make sense of the last few moments.

She became aware of the sound of the bells in the church tower, the cold from the night on her neck and cheek, the feeling of his chest rising and falling erratically against her own.

Slowly and stiffly, he began to pull back, dropping his hands from her head and stepping away from her.

She could not bear to look at him, but at least he didn't say anything. She dragged her fingers through her hair and resettled her baggy jumper on her shoulders.

He still didn't speak.

Hermione's body was still thrumming with the aftershocks of the charm. Her fingers tingled with it, and she rubbed her hand hard against her thigh while darting quick looks around her. Exuberant shouts and cheers were audible now from the village square beyond the churchyard, and the whistle and pop of fireworks made an explosive counterpoint to the jangling noise of the church bells.

Gradually, Hermione calmed. She was grateful to be a logical woman, one who prized Arithmancy and science much more highly than Divination and guesswork. She strove for objectivity in her thinking. Experiencing his memories and emotions had been very difficult, and yet the charm had left behind a strange sense of resolution within her – a determination to follow her own path, rather than compromising herself to meet others' expectations. She felt a thin pulse of defiant self-confidence rise within her, in a way that she had not felt it for months.

Midnight. It was a new year. A new start, she realised. I'm not going to be frightened any more.

She thought of the letter from the Department of Mysteries, crumpled in her pocket... the chance for a new challenge, for a career that would take her away from the memories of past battles and the suffocation of domestic duties... and she wanted it. She wasn't afraid of the future.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head to meet his eyes.

She had expected vitriol and bitterness, his trademark defensive spite, but instead, she was surprised to see him staring back at her, his eyes wide, shocked and unguarded. His hands hung limply at his sides.

They stood in a frozen tableau, a thin man in a battered old coat, a shivering young woman in a hideous jumper.

Then, slowly and to her utter astonishment, his face split into a broad, open grin.

He looked younger, boyish even. His dark eyes danced and sparkled in the intermittent flares of the new year fireworks.

This was something new.

She smiled tentatively in return.

"Miss Granger," he said, and his voice was rough with emotion. "May I offer you a lift to your appointment in London?"

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A/N: If this chapter seems somehow familiar, that's because it is. Another version of this chapter has been published before as a stand-alone story called The Redemption Charm. That story was exclusively from Severus' point of view. After it was published, I was approached by a number of readers to see if I would consider writing a sequel. I decided that I would because I had a number of ideas that contextualised what happened in that one-shot... and that is how the whole of Time's Arrow came about. Thank you to all of you who take the time to comment and review. I really appreciate it! Love and hugs as always to my Alpha / Beta team of beaweasley2, Clairvoyant and nagandsev. I own nothing you recognise from the Harry Potter universe (although I really wish I did!)....

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