A Pensieve Sky

A/N: Many thanks, as always, to my beta, Anastasia (TimeTurnerForSale), by whose grace and patience this chapter achieved its tension, word by elusive word. Also, a special thanks to Indigofeathers.

Note to Readers: The mysterious secret of Hermione's past will unfold, of course, but not quite yet. A certain tall, dark, and leather-clad wizard has some thinking to do. ::flourishes dark!quill:: ~ Ari

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As the dark, rolling landscape of Northern England slipped beneath him, his body responding capably to the slipstreams and currents, Severus relaxed into a low flying stance and allowed his mind to roam freely. Although he had not been expecting Minerva's Patronus summons, he had been expecting... something. For a very long time.

After his release from prison, he had refused the headmistress' offer to resume his teaching post, stating his desire to pass some time in intensive research. Retiring from the public eye, he accepted the bequest of a small property from his mother's family, and the Wizarding world had heard nothing of Dumbledore's notorious murderer since.

His work for the Order had, of course, come out at his trial, but murder was murder, so he had stood, unmoved, amongst the few surviving Death Eaters as, one by one, in alphabetical order, they had been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss.

As the head of the Wizengamot neared "S," an anticipatory rustling began, but Severus had appeared to be equally unmoved by his own relatively light sentence: five years in Azkaban, for "dishonorable conduct unbecoming a gentlewizard."

He had wondered wryly what back-thinking, dusty tome the Wizengamot had unearthed to come up with a crime ambiguous enough to mollify the bloodthirsty while easing its own ambivalent conscience.

It was an apt enough verdict. Originally intended as a euphemism for sexual deviance, the judgment carried with it a vague but indelible taint, even though contemporary Wizarding culture no longer worried overmuch about honor.

Angling his broom away from the lights of a small Muggle city, he snorted at the memory. No, lacking honor now qualified one, he supposed, for politics.

No hint of amusement had shown on his face during the sentencing, of course, and if his dark eyes had sometimes glittered with sharp, anarchic laughter during his time in Azkaban, there had been no one there to see it.

As he flew in a long, sweeping arc around the city, he reflected that Albus would have seen the humor in it, if he'd known.

The moon before him blurred.

It had been too many years since he had flown in the Highlands. He had forgotten how sharp the chill could be at a Muggle-safe altitude...

He was kidding himself. He loosened his glove with his teeth, baring his hand to wipe his eyes. Running his hand through his hair, shaking it loose, as if the wind could clear that distant night from his mind...

No. The memory he was seeking was later, from a few years after his release. He eased his fingers back into his glove, clasping his hands to tighten its fit, and resumed his original northward course.

On a rare trip to Diagon Alley to meet one of the Head Goblins on a minor legal matter, he had elected to Apparate near Flourish and Blotts to inquire personally about a few rarer titles he wanted for his research.

He had forgotten how crowded the bookstore could be before start-of-term, and wove dispassionately among the crowds of students to whom the sight of him signified nothing more menacing than the presence of an adult – any adult.

Working his way to the back of the shop, he found his progress checked on several occasions by the sudden and apparently random changes of direction to which the younger members of the crowd seemed especially prone. Near the Arithmancy section, he found his way confounded altogether by a particularly tangled knot of rambunctious red-heads.

"Da," the smallest, a witch of about seven, had whined. "Why can't I go to Hogwarts? I'm almost as tall as Lily."

At that, Severus' attention had focused more sharply on the young witch.

Green eyes. Of course, they would be.

He had winced slightly, and with fluid ease, he had slipped unnoticed behind a row of bookshelves, where two older Ravenclaws appeared to be debating the merits of an Advanced Arithmancy text. He paid little heed to their conversation until his ears caught one phrase:

"... the bat. Flapping around in those robes like some sort of Dementor." The taller girl shuddered, still weighing the book in her hands.

The other nodded. "I'd rather face one of them than take another year with her. Mum insisted that I continue the subject, though."

"Well, with an O on your O.W.L., what did you expect?"

"Just because you deliberately dropped your score so your father couldn't make you..."

"I did no such thing!"

"Please, Angela. You've been first in the year since we first boarded the train." Both girls made some reflexive gesture with their fingers at its mention before the shorter witch continued, "No one will blame you for doing it, if you just admit it."

The girl named Angela tilted her head for a moment, as if figuring a probability. Finally, her eyes sparkled and her lips twitched. "Oh, fine. Still. An E isn't so bad, I suppose, and it did get me out of the N.E.W.T. class." Rather triumphantly, she held the textbook out to her companion.

The other accepted the burden, lamenting, "Frightfully clever of you."

Angela's voice faded into the general buzz as they moved away. "It was, wasn't it? I hate the old bat."

After a long moment, Severus had realized that his eyebrow was in grave danger of disappearing into his hairline.

Making a final turn in the night sky, Severus caught a glimpse of the distant lights of Hogsmeade and, beyond it, the deep, rough darkness that was the Forbidden Forest. His riding leathers creaked slightly in the cold as he shifted his seat to ease his lower back. It had been far too long since he had flown such a distance.

Skirting the tops of the trees and beginning his descent toward the castle, he pondered the memory he had been seeking.

Later that day, after concluding his business at Gringotts, he had turned into the side-street where the more specialized Potions ingredients were sold. It was, as he'd expected, nearly deserted, as most sane witches and wizards avoided London the pre-term shopping week if they had any choice.

Nearly deserted.

Yes, that was the memory.

The door to Alvins Apothecary had no handle, and as he had pulled out his wand to work the passcharm, the door had opened, and he was face to face with Hermione Granger.

"Professor." A tight nod before she had stepped back coldly to allow him entry.

Backwards, had been his thought at the time, but he had since had occasion, and reason, to perceive her odd inversion of gender etiquette altogether differently.

He had nodded a greeting, and stood with his arm out, gesturing for her to move first.

She had held his gaze impassively for a split-second too long before sweeping through the door and proceeding down the street, her cloak waving behind her, its liquid motion lending her otherwise stiff bearing an undertone of... shame?

Poetic, he had snorted, and entered the shop, but as he made his transaction he realized he'd been turning something over in his mind since her cloak had disappeared around a corner.

There had been something in her eyes – or, rather, something absent from her eyes that should have been there.

He knew that absence. He had awakened to find it waiting for him in his mirror every morning since he could remember.

Fine, then; war changes people. He had paid for his purchases and left.

But... she had looked at him for just a little too long. Almost as though through the darkness of whatever it was she had seen, done, or survived, there was something else, something that remembered what it was she had lost, and it had recognized the same memory within him, and been unable to look away.

Unable to look away, out of...

What was it?

He hadn't known what it was then, but a few years later, when her work began to appear in Ars Necronomica, he had remembered that encounter, and he had known.

Envy.

Oh, yes. Something in Hermione Granger remembered what she had lost.

Skimming the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, Severus Snape eased his broom for the descent to the grounds, and moments later he was striding up to the front door, stomping snow off his boots while the plumes of his breath, caught for a second by the moonlight, skirled away behind him.

No, it was best not to remember. Very few managed it and stayed sane.

He, of course, was one of them.

A moment later, warm torchlight spilled through the open door, and Minerva's silhouette appeared before him. "Severus." She nodded, stepping aside so he could enter, burying her hands in her sleeves against the cold. Drawing a careful breath, she began, "I suppose you want to know what this is about."

"Hardly," he replied, removing his gloves, and the headmistress looked up sharply, the words she'd been seeking dying in her throat. He regarded her steadily, a grim smirk playing on his features as the door swung shut. "But I rather suspect that you do."

----

"No," she mumbled.

A few moments later, her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide, hair wild, clutching the sheets.

She turned a face naked with horror to the moon, shining implacably down upon her, and saw the trees whipping wildly in the ever-strengthening wind.

"No!" she yelled, the word ripping her throat raw. "I can't!"

In the silence that followed the echoes, she heard Ron shaping the words, "You can."

Pulling the pillow to her chest, she curled around it.

"I can't," she whimpered.

She started ever so slightly to rock.

Eventually, she rocked herself into a fretful sleep.

She would remember none of it in the morning.