Part II: Christmas, 2000 Chapter 1: Blue Christmas

Part II: Christmas, 2000

Chapter 1: Blue Christmas

Hermione Apparated into her parents' back garden and let herself in the door. The sitting room was warm, with a nice fire burning in the hearth. The artificial Christmas tree her parents had bought two years ago was assembled and decorated in its accustomed place to the right side of the room. Hermione looked away from the tree, her mouth firming into a straight, mirthless line, and she marched purposefully into the front hallway. At the foot of the staircase, she called, "Mum? Dad?"

Linda Granger appeared at the top of the stairs. "Hermione! Welcome home!"

Hermione climbed up to her mother and they embraced. "I'm so glad you're here," Linda said, smoothing hair away from her daughter's face.

For a moment, Hermione allowed her cheek to rest upon her mother's shoulder. "It's good to be home," she admitted. "The city is just too strange during the holidays."

John Granger appeared on the landing behind his wife, and Hermione walked into his arms, allowing her father to engulf her in his hug. "My little girl," he said. "It's been too long since you've been for a proper visit."

Hermione breathed in the familiar scent of his aftershave and felt both comforted and secure. "I've missed you, too, Dad," she said, giving him a squeeze about his substantial middle before stepping away from him. "But I can see you've been well," she added, patting him on the tummy. Both he and her mother laughed.

"It's time for tea," her mother said, leading the way down to the kitchen. As they settled about the kitchen table with tea and sandwiches, they caught up on news.

Hermione had a flat in the city, from which she could walk to her job as an administrative assistant at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. Though she had begun as an apprentice in their Potions Department, she had been half-way through her course of study when she had switched to administration. There were plenty of applicants for potioneers to keep the hospital in its supply of basic potions, but she had never seen such an unholy mess as the management staff at the hospital. Management, apparently, required a certain flair for the ruthless organisation of the schedules of other people; after seven years of chivvying Harry and Ron into doing their homework and revising for their exams, Hermione had what it took. Along the way, she had also acquired a certain merciless approach to her dealings with other people; if Harry and Ron had a suspicion of where she had learnt to emulate that particular tactic, they were wise enough to keep their thoughts to themselves. Although they had found it all but impossible to praise the questionably heroic acts of someone they loathed, they were yet too well brought up to speak ill of the dead.

As Hermione carried the tea dishes to the sink for washing up, her father said, "Are you sure you won't reconsider, love? It's been a really long time since you spent a holiday with your cousins."

Linda gave her husband a quelling look, but did not rush into speech herself; perhaps this would be the year that their Hermione would once again become the uncomplicated child she had been before that horrible wizarding war. Linda kept her own compassionate brown eyes on her daughter's back, reading her body language and waiting for her words. With all her heart, she hoped her daughter would agree to accompany them on their family visit for the holiday.

"Thanks, Dad, but I prefer to be alone at Christmas," Hermione responded, busying her hands in the soapy water, with only the tension in her shoulders betraying her discomfort with the topic of discussion. "And you'll be home on Boxing Day."

"It breaks my heart to leave you here on your own at Christmas, love," her father blurted, his voice weighted with care. "It's been three years now since that Dark Lord bloke was brought down – how long are you going to mourn?"

"I'm not mourning," Hermione said, her voice devoid of emotion. "I am simply not able to make merry, and I don't care to be around those who can. Please – why do we have to repeat this conversation every Christmas?"

Linda rose then and placed her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "We'll probably keep on asking, love – but once we've asked and you've answered, we'll leave it alone, all right?"

"Thank you, Mum," Hermione murmured, without once stopping the monotonous motions of washing the tea dishes.

Having waved her parents off on their drive to visit the extended family, Hermione made the rounds of the downstairs windows and doors. As the sun set, she placed wards more out of habit than real fear that such precautions would be necessary. Once Voldemort had died, most of his followers had been rounded up within two months. The Aurors had made some arrests after that, but it had been over a year now since the last Death Eater capture and trial. There were only nine known bearers of the Dark Mark for whom no accounting had ever been made. Among those was Severus Snape, who had gone missing in action and was presumed dead.

Satisfied that the house was secure, Hermione built up the fire in the hearth and settled on the sofa with a small tub of chocolate ice cream in her hands and a stack of movies on the coffee table before her. Her ritual for the last two years had consisted of watching the movies – amongst which were Home Alone, White Christmas, Scrooge, and It's a Wonderful Life – and permitting herself to become immersed in the recollections which she suppressed at all other times: the memories of her last happy Christmas.

The attack on the Burrow on Christmas night had been the opening salvo of the war. The Death Eaters had brought war to wizarding Britain, and the Order of the Phoenix had responded with all its might. Hermione had been ensconced at number twelve, Grimmauld Place with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, but they had not been excluded from the war councils. The war, such as it was, had raged for just over three weeks, consisting of four major battles and a number of skirmishes.

The ending had come, ironically enough, at Hogwarts. Voldemort had been tricked into believing that Harry had hidden in the castle, and the Order of the Phoenix had been able to successfully surround the Death Eaters. Hermione and Ron had formed Harry's personal guard, casting over and again the spells they had learnt from Harry himself in Dumbledore's Army. When Voldemort had fallen, Harry had fallen with him, and Ron and Hermione had dropped to their knees at his side.

Dumbledore had descended upon them then, in a flash of blue-white light, and had borne Harry away in his own arms directly to St. Mungo's. Ron had gone in search of his family, and Hermione had begun to go from body to body on the battlefield looking for Severus Snape, whom she had not seen since Boxing Day morning when he had walked out of her house.

Remus Lupin had found her amongst the carnage, crying uncontrollably, turning over black-cloaked body after body. "Hermione!" he had cried, seizing her by the shoulders and forcing her to stop. "What are you doing?"

"Where is Severus?" she had sobbed, grasping Lupin's ripped and ragged robes in her fists. "Where is he? Why can't I find him?"

Lupin had frowned, Hermione's words and manner having made no sense to him. "Severus was cloaked as a Death Eater, Hermione – he and the other Order spies within Voldemort's ranks were the ones who made this ambush possible. I saw him earlier, disabling Death Eaters from behind – but I don't know where he is now. You ought to be in the Infirmary, not out here. I'm sure that Severus is fine."

Firmly, Lupin had compelled Hermione off the field where Ministry officials had begun identifying the dead and making preparations for removing bodies. He had deposited her in the care of Madam Pomfrey, who had set up an impromptu field hospital on the third floor. Two of the Charms classrooms and the entire Trophy Room had been filled with litters of patients, volunteer medi-witches, and lime green-robed Healers. Hermione had allowed Madam Pomfrey to place her on a bed, but once the matron was out of sight, Hermione had cast a Disillusionment Spell upon herself and had crept back out to the field.

A week had passed before she had grasped the fact that she had searched every possible place within and without the castle for Severus; she had then borrowed the Marauder's Map from Harry's trunk and had stared at it obsessively for hours on end until Ginny had finally taken it away from her.

"What are you looking for, Hermione?" she had asked with great concern.

"Severus. I'm looking for Severus," Hermione answered doggedly, turning on Ginny with fierce eyes. "And don't you dare repeat those lies to me!"

Ginny Weasley was every inch Molly's daughter. Squaring up to Hermione, she had said, "Professor Snape is missing in action, Hermione. We don't know where he is, but you know very well that he is probably dead." Hermione had twisted away from her friend, putting her hands over her ears as she had done when she was a child. Inexorably, Ginny had grasped her wrists and forced her hands down. "But do you know who isn't dead, Hermione? Harry isn't dead. He's lying in the hospital and he needs his friends. Ron is practically living at St. Mungo's. Why aren't you there with them?"

Hermione had gone to sit with Harry in the hospital. She loved him; he was her friend – but she no longer called him "best" friend – not in her own mind, at least. Her best friend had walked out of her life and gone missing, and although his behaviour towards her in the last instant had seemed cruel, she did not believe that it gave the lie to his kindness prior to that moment. They had not spoken of their feelings – it had been the wrong time for that – but she knew that he had felt the same way she did.

After all, had he not called her his rose when he had thought she was sleeping?

Roused from her reminiscences, Hermione glanced over at her copy of The Little Prince, which lived most of the year in a special box in her bedroom cupboard along with a bottle of aged cognac, a box of liquorice teabags, and a tube of lemon-scented shampoo for oily hair. Rattling at the bottom of the box were four golden Galleons. The chess pieces, however, she had not been able to leave behind. Those had been his very own, and he had given them to her; she kept them on the table beside her bed at her flat, a shrine to what might have been.

Once Harry had been well enough to leave hospital, Dumbledore had decided it was time for the school to open again. They had all been back at school before the first thaw. The seventh years, many of whom had by then been war veterans, pushed on with the last of their schooling, and though they did not sit their N.E.W.T.s until August, the overall showing and the number of N.E.W.T.s obtained had been rather impressive.

Their N.E.W.T.s behind them, Hermione had gone to work at St. Mungo's, whilst Harry and Ron had both tried out for and made the team for the Chudley Cannons. After completing her seventh year at Hogwarts, Ginny had taken a position at Gringott's Bank as an apprentice curse-breaker. During the Quidditch season, Harry and Ron were away quite often; when they had a break, they lived together on Grimmauld Place. Ginny continued to live at the Burrow with her parents. Hermione and Ginny tried to meet once or twice a month to keep in touch, and Harry and Ron went out of their way to seek Hermione out when they were in town, but she found herself living a life far more isolated than she had done before.

Once a month, without fail, Hermione owled Professor Dumbledore, asking for an update on the status of the Death Eaters who were missing in action. Once a month, without fail, the headmaster replied to her that no further information was available.

And still, she dreamt of tumbling through the snow with strong, firm hands holding her and keeping her safe. And yet, she dreamt of dancing the night away, cradled with incalculable tenderness within the arms of a man with a sharp tongue and a wicked wit. In sleep, she revisited again and again the days bracketed by his will and warmed by his voice.

On the first anniversary of the fall of Voldemort, there had been a tremendous celebration, both at Hogwarts, the scene of the battle, and at the Ministry, the scene of the aftermath. Hermione, labelled "war hero" by the press and the public, had dutifully made her appearance at these functions, supported by Harry and Ron. On the night of the Ministry Gala, she had been stupefied by the sight of a hook-nosed profile, framed by long black hair, and she had thrust her way through crowds of people to reach her goal. Viktor Krum had been pleased to see Hermione but puzzled by her fierce, if brief, bout of crying when she had seen him again.

He had been even more pleased when she had gone home with him that night.

After three months, he had long ceased to be pleased and had simply been very confused. Hermione had known of Viktor's affection for her for years – since she had been fifteen years old – but she had never permitted him to hope that she returned his sentiments. From January to April of that year, she had seen him several times a week, had gone to his bed each time he had asked, but she had never appeared happy. It had seemed to him as if she had been going through the motions of a love affair, while never having been touched by the emotions of a love affair. In April, he had brought his prolonged visit to London to an end, bidding Hermione farewell and making no plans to see her again.

The fiasco with Viktor had taught her a much-needed lesson: one man could not substitute for another, no matter how similar their appearances. Each time Viktor had expressed tenderness, Hermione had found herself recoiling from him. The sex she had been able to stand, particularly in a darkened room, and Viktor learned early on that she would become angry with him if he spoke to her during lovemaking. In the end, when Viktor had left her, Hermione had known that her efforts had failed, and she had resolved not to make that mistake again.

Soon afterwards, she had made the move into hospital administration, and she had thrown herself into the task of reorganising St. Mungo's from the bottom to the top. Department heads had long ago learned to duck into other rooms when they saw her coming, for few of them lived up to her rigorous standards of efficiency and proficiency. She had become unpopular amongst the rank and file employees, and more than one casual observer had likened the terse Miss Granger to that sarcastic bastard, Snape, the Potions master.

When word of the epithet had come to Hermione, she had been inordinately pleased.

It had only been in the last month that her peace had been disturbed again. In early November, an article had appeared in the Daily Prophet hinting at top secret negotiations being carried on from within the Wizengamot itself, regarding the possible pardoning of war criminals. There had been a storm of public outrage over the notion, followed by the overwhelming denials from the Ministry that discussions of that type had been taking place. Hermione had thought nothing of it until the same rumour surfaced again, this time with more details.

Instead of "war criminals," it had spoken of "double agents."

That very afternoon, Hermione had been in the headmaster's office, demanding the truth. Professor Dumbledore had assured her that there was nothing to tell, had apologised that she had come all that way for nothing, and had personally walked her to the gates of Hogwarts.

Ten days later, the newspaper had reported the "ongoing negotiations" as fact, although details of the identities of the Death Eaters had not been disclosed. Hints that the acts of these spies had so turned the tide of the war with Voldemort that the brigands deserved not only pardons, but recognition, had been laced through the article. Hermione had left her office that day in such a temper that those in her path had given way, and she had marched all the way to the Ministry rehearsing what she would say to gain access to the Death Eaters in question.

She had made it no farther than the Auror Office, where Kingsley Shacklebolt had told her that there were no Death Eaters in custody, although he had promised she would be the first person he would Floo if any turned up.

Professor Dumbledore had not been in when she had visited at his office and had apparently been too busy to answer his owls.

Two more trips to the Ministry over the last week had afforded her no further information. Increasingly detailed newspaper reports, when flung in Shacklebolt's face, had been met with blank puzzlement.

"Hermione, there are no Death Eaters in Auror custody."

It had been Shacklebolt's careful stress of the last two words that had given Hermione an idea. That very morning she had used her key to enter Grimmauld Place and had borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak from its place in his old school trunk. She had made it all the way down to Courtroom Ten at the Ministry of Magic, where she had found a very nervous Minerva McGonagall pacing the hall before the door. Hermione had remained very still beneath the cloak, and soon the doors had been opened, and Professor McGonagall had been summoned to give evidence. Hermione had slipped through the doors just before they had been closed and had followed closely behind her former Professor as she had crossed the old stone floor to the witness chair.

McGonagall had just been asked a question regarding her role in the Order of the Phoenix when Hermione had become aware of Dumbledore, who had sat in the seat of the Chief Warlock. Unless she had been very much mistaken, he had been looking directly into her face. Too late, she had recalled what Harry had told her once before – that he was sure Dumbledore had seen him beneath the Invisibility Cloak one night in Hagrid's cabin.

"Excuse me, Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore had said with gentle courtesy. "I am afraid that we have a visitor who has lost her way."

The eyes of the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot had turned eagerly to look about the room, and Hermione had wished very much for a rock under which to hide.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore had said. "How may we help you?"

Defiantly, Hermione had pulled the cloak from her, lifting her chin as she had looked Dumbledore squarely in the eyes. "I have simply come to have a word with the persons who are seeking sanctuary," she had stated.

"I am afraid this is a closed hearing," an elderly witch had told her kindly.

"One moment, Griselda," Dumbledore had said. "We will ask the subjects: is there anyone amongst you who wishes to have a word with Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione had craned her neck to see to whom Dumbledore had been directing his inquiry, but all she had seen was a box with four empty chairs, beside which a man had sat at a table, scribbling furiously on parchment. The scribbler had appeared to speak to the empty chairs, then he had responded in a clear voice, "No one wishes to speak with Miss Hermione Granger, sir."

Dumbledore had smiled at Hermione and had spread his hands to show that he had done all he could. "I am afraid that we must ask you to leave the hearing, Miss Granger – and, your word, perhaps, that you will not return in a clandestine way?"

Hermione had straightened her spine before saying, "Very well, Headmaster." She had turned and walked out of the courtroom, closing the door carefully behind her.

Without bothering to return to her office, she had Apparated home, set out enough food and water for Crookshanks to hold him for a week, and gathered her gear for her Christmas stay with her parents. It was the Friday before Christmas, and she was going home. If she was going to be despondent, it might as well be somewhere truly conducive to her own particular brand of misery.

By the end of the first Christmas movie, she had eaten the best part of the small tub of ice cream, paying scant attention to the video and letting her mind wander over events both recent and distant, all of which contributed to her current mood and state of mind.

Extreme unhappiness had not been particularly kind to Hermione. Eating comfort food had brought on a bit of weight gain, although compared to her weight at the end of the war, she was probably within five or six pounds of where she had been three years before. Stress wrought havoc with her complexion, giving her more spots at the age of twenty-one, when many women were outgrowing such things, than she had suffered as a teenager. She seldom bothered much with her hair or cosmetics anymore; after she and Viktor parted company she had even thought a time or two of ways to make herself less attractive to the young wizards who continued to ask her out. Tonight, for her evening of ice cream consumption, movie watching, and memory indulging, she was dressed in her old Christmas pyjama pants and oversized sweatshirt combination; on her feet were her Winnie-the-Pooh slippers, and her hair was twisted up and held at the back of her head with a clip. She neither expected nor wanted company – which was no doubt the reason why someone rang the doorbell.

"Bugger!" she exclaimed angrily, wondering if ignoring the ring would cause the visitor to depart. It could only be some bloody neighbour or other, and she had nothing to say to anyone – and was certainly not dressed for receiving guests.

The visitor now knocked firmly on the door. What if it was some kind of emergency? Or what if Harry and Ron had decided to drop by after their Quidditch game? With ill grace she stood up and went into the front hall, putting her eye to the peephole.

Nothing but blackness.

She turned her back – determined not to open the door for an unknown visitor and thinking she could hide in the sitting room until the intruder just went away – when the visitor spoke.

"Miss Granger?"

For a moment she stopped breathing, sure that she was suffering from auditory hallucinations. A further pounding on the door made her swallow and draw her wand, assuming a defensive stance.

"Hermione! Open the door. I know you're in there."

Afraid and angry, she rushed at the wooden door. "Show yourself!" she demanded, thinking that she would hex the boys if they were playing this cruel trick upon her.

She placed her eye back to the peephole and the tip of a wand ignited, becoming steadily brighter until it lit from below, in chiaroscuro, the gaunt planes and sharp angles of the unlovely countenance of Severus Snape.

A/N: Beta reading thanks to Snarkywench and Brit-picking kudos to Magically.