A Hundred Years from Yesterday

"Eh, brother, but nature has to be corrected and guided, otherwise we'd all drown in prejudices. Without that there wouldn't be even a single great man. 'Duty, Conscience,' they say- I'm not going to speak against duty and conscience, but how do we really understand them?"

Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsty

The door opens on a man.

It swung silently despite the age and condition of its hinges. Decades of intermittent use and wet sea air had left it rusted. One would not expect it to move, let alone do so smoothly and without the grind of metal on metal.

The torchlight from the hallway was gentle but the wand, pointed at him with a whispered 'Lumos', blinded his eyes. His head had turned away and toward the dark corner of the cell. He seemed to sink further into the hard cot as he waited.

But it doesn't come. Whatever blow he expected did not land. Disconcerted, he kept utterly still, holding himself in a state somewhere between unconsciousness and screaming.

But it doesn't come. The gripping chill that seeped into his bones, the icy breath that filled his lungs -- not there. No drowning, no shaking. No fear.

His mind scrambled to keep up. Maybe this was what it felt like to die. Nothingness. Oblivion tinged with the anticipation of the unimaginable horrors ahead. If this was what the gentle lips of death brought, he ought to have rethought his answer all those years ago.

"Snape."

The voice shook him from his misbegotten reverie. His name, he knew. It has been years since he has heard it uttered, but the sound of it barked past impatient lips still managed to unlock every memory carefully shut away.

One by one the bricks around his past fell.

"Snape. You're free."

That name again; impersonal and impatient and clearly expecting something from him. Something he knew he would be unable to give.

The light moved closer as the man brought shaking hands up to protect his face. A hand reached out and gripped his shoulder. They pulled him up and pried his hands away leaving him to be blinded by the light. He screamed then, for every moment he had not in his entire life.

He might have rather it had been a dementor.

---

Hermione Granger remembered ten years after Voldemort's fall. The Daily Prophet had put together a special edition to commemorate the wizards who had accomplished such a victory. Ha! She snorted at the memory. The witches who had been a part of it - a bloody great part of it - were conspicuous in their absence from the headlines. Minerva, Vector, Molly Weasley-- their roles forgotten amidst the bonhomie of the victors. Her own picture had only been there because Harry had insisted on having one of the three of them together again. Herself. Ron. Harry. The Golden Trio.

Ha! She thought again. Seven years after that photo was published she never saw them anymore. An occasional owl post to show they hadn't forgotten their 'best friend.' An occasional pint shared before they were off to some other exotic location for celebrity Quidditch. Apparently there was no statute of limitations on exploiting one’s part in the victory of the century. Nor could the passage of years make them any less thick-witted that they would notice how she met their token correspondence with nothing more than a perfunctory smile and hug. To call them friends would be to go too far.

Too much time. Too much Quidditch. Too many self-congratulations.

She picked up today's Daily Prophet.

The Legend of Dumbledore to Live On

Our Great Minister of Magic-- magnanimous even after death! The reading of Minister Dumbledore's will brought with it a lasting reminder of why he will forever be known as the Greatest Wizard since Merlin! Accompanying the heartfelt farewell message to the wizarding world (for the full text see page 3) were the surprise gifts dedicated 'to those I've loved and must leave behind.'

Among the more private legacies were undisclosed gifts set aside for those in his intimate circle; of particular note were those promised to Harry Potter, named executor of Minister Dumbledore's estate. A source close to the deceased says Potter was the recipient of a phoenix as well as the sword of Godric Gryffindor, himself. Potter, with his customary humility, refused to comment on his gifts, saying only, "Albus was a deeply private man and I will respect his wish for privacy." What a dear!

The bulk of the Dumbledore estate, however, will be split between three beneficiaries. (For complete legal details see page 10b). Those witches and wizards who have children at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be pleased to hear that, in addition to stipends available through the Remuneration Fund for Muggle-Inclined Families, all multi-blooded families who qualify may have their school materials paid for out of the Dumbledore Memorial Fund. Good show Minister!

A smaller portion (but no less important!) is the rededication of the Spell Damage floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Formerly the Janus Thickey Ward, it will now be renamed the Albus Dumbledore Memorial Ward (against the Minister's wishes) to commemorate the generous donation he has made. Those poor souls who suffer the lasting indignities of that messy war business will now have an improved care regiment and new beds once the funds are made available.

The last beneficiary will be the War Memorial, dedicated not yet ten years ago. The money set aside was to benefit the caretakers with replanting the garden, but the Board of Trustees unanimously voted to erect a statue of the late Minister instead. The statue will be placed in the center of the memorial ring where the names of those who fell may be still read and touched to reveal their portrait. (See Memorial Renovation Plans page 2) Plans are still being made with Potter over whether this statue may mark the Minister's last resting place as well.

A final request was made, bizarre as it may be, and must be repeated here per the Minister's request. Convicted Death Eater, subversive, and former Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Severus Snape, was granted a full pardon for acts committed against wizarding-kind.

"It is my final wish that Severus Snape be freed from Azkaban prison," the Minister wrote. "He has served his time for that which he committed. It is my desire that he be granted leniency for the dedication which he showed to the education of our young witches and wizards and that his life sentence be commuted immediately to time served."

Such a surprising act is, of course, only to be expected from the wizard who was always known to be a bastion of mercy and forgiveness. Truly no other could have rallied Britain to put the memories of the War behind them and enter into this new, glorious era of cooperation between all magical peoples, regardless of their upbringing...

Hermione resisted throwing the paper across the room only barely. Severus Snape. Another name conspicuously absent from the official history books. Leniency! Pardoned for crimes done at the Headmaster's request! All for the sake of the Order, he said.

Ha! How Dumbledore had covered up Snape's role as a spy so completely she'd never know. Severus Snape. Trundled up with the rest of all that unseemly war business and tucked neatly away under lock and key. Out of sight, out of mind, and Dumbledore’s white hat was immaculate once more.

Hermione hadn't wanted to consider it at the time, but she supposed Harry had a played a rather key part in it. There had been too many times during their time at school where the enmity between Harry and Snape had nearly cost them the war. No matter how often it seemed that she or Remus or Mrs. Weasley reminded Harry of the importance of the work Snape was doing, the hard glint remained in Harry's eye at the mention of the spy's name.

Hermione herself had written it off as teenage rebellion; the result of an unstable home life and absent male role models.

But it served as a convenience for Dumbledore once Voldemort was dead in the ground. He had gone about collecting Death Eaters and corralling them into group trials as quickly as possible. Most of them were not even announced publicly until after the convictions. Snape had been sentenced and in Azkaban a month before she had heard what had happened.

Harry had served as the distraction.

Harry who had to have them with him while he went to St. Mungo's. Harry who had to have them prepare him for the press conferences. Harry who needed her to pick out his dress robes. Harry who cried in her arms and confessed to being the one to find Hagrid's body. Harry who did everything he could to keep them out the way while Dumbledore took care of the clean up.

Hermione, in her most cynical moments, wondered whether Dumbledore had planned this the entire time. He was never terribly concerned about Harry's abuse of Snape. Even when Harry was at his most hostile – their shouting matches at Grimmauld Place had rivaled those of Snape and Black years past – Dumbledore did little more than sit back and look disapproving while Lupin separated the two. She didn't care to speculate on whose suggestion it was to send Snape to Azkaban with the rest of the Death Eaters.

‘I am so very sorry that you had to suffer his temper for seven years, Harry. If there is anything I can… Oh? Well he did help us … but if you think it’s for the best...’

The war orphans weren’t the first to demand reparations.

When she had finally cared to consider her complicity, it was difficult not to try to explain away every action in order to assuage her guilt. How was she to know that no one from the Order would testify for Snape? How could she have known anyone would need to? The idea would have been preposterous.

"I didn't know!"

It sounded pathetic even to her ears.

Hermione shook her head. It did no good to dwell on it. Snape was getting out now and maybe maybe there would be a way to clear his name.

But she had retired from the Ministry long ago; her words had long since failed to hold sway over the course of the nation. A generation had now come of age without knowing who Severus Snape was. How could they? Three Potions Masters had stood in his place in that time, and he was not nearly wicked enough to be taught in History of Magic along side the likes of Lucius Malfoy. He remained barely a footnote in the annals of the war, when he had done more than even Harry to bring about its end.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. Her tea had gone cold and Harry’s solemn face staring up at her from the cover of the Daily Prophet made her mind churn with haunting possibilities.

She had to get out of this flat; the walls were getting stifling.

Work. Always the great balancer. Hermione collected two of the manuscripts that were due and shrunk them down. The sun was waning in its elliptical and shone warmly through the gossamer folds of the window drapes. If she hurried, she would make the evening post and still have time for a late tea.

Coat on. Wand in hand. She was ready to go.

She apparated to Hogsmeade and walked the short distance to the post office, wondering for the three hundredth time why the publishers dictated all parcels be sent from this location. She had once tried to send them with her private owl only to have it sent back. Whatever enchantment kept them from receiving mail in such a fashion has left her owl extremely distressed - the poor thing had pecked at her hand for weeks after – and in the possession of a very nastily worded Howler.

There was nothing to it though, they were explicit about this requirement, and if nothing else, it got her out of the house. (Hermione doubted whether her owl would have even agreed to make the trip a second time.) She reminded herself that it was a pleasant day out; she could actually see the sun.

The best part of all was that it was the middle of the week and there were no students to get underfoot. Hermione just wasn't up to dealing with the little bleeders.

"Two cerulean barn owls, please," Hermione said, once she reached the front of the queue. She enlarged the manuscripts and tied them together with the provided bits of twine and filled out the owl order form. She waited as they coaxed two of the sulkier owls off their perch and sent them off laden with her parcels.

There. She'd been productive at last. Now she could spend the next week dwelling futilely over the past without a looming deadline.

Hermione sighed.

This wasn't going to work. She'd go have a butterbeer for old time's sake and then regroup. Maybe she'd even visit her parents. They'd been angling to see her for a past few months and talking to them would be - for once, blissfully - absent of any and all references to wizards long forgotten.

She got no further than a few steps out of the door way when a slow lumbering figure caught her eye.

No, it just couldn't be.

The man half-stumbled and lifted his head. Sunken, hollow eyes stared right through her.

Snape.