A Hundred Years from Yesterday

It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late.

Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham

First week October, 2016

Panic had subsided in the time it took for Hermione to walk out of Hogwarts and Apparate to the safety of her flat. The nervous energy had failed to abate; however, it left her with a racing mind and nothing to show for it.

Hermione paced the length of her flat, chewing on the side of her thumb. When she had arrived home, she had run through the various possibilities for finding out about Snape: each one being even more unlikely than the last.

She had immediately dismissed the idea of buying one of the many books that told the history of The War. The authors who had written them were either completely unconnected from those of them who had been there, or directly under the watchful, censoring eyes of one Albus Dumbledore.

Nothing would be there that she didn’t already know.

She had then dismissed the thought of going to the Ministry. Even had she still been under their employ, her security clearance had not been high enough to breach the wards guarding the Unspeakables’ reports. As it stood, Hermione was uncertain whether they would have contained the secrets she sought.

That left her squarely with first hand accounts. But who was there to ask? The only person she ever remembered Snape speaking to on a personal level had been Lucius Malfoy – a man she never wanted to lay eyes on again. Luckily for her, Malfoy was still held under wand and key. There were some things she was just not prepared to do, no matter how determined she was.

She stopped and frowned at herself. Her cuticle was bleeding and she tasted the copper tang of blood in her mouth. Irritated, she went to run her finger under the tap. Not Malfoy, no Death Eaters at all for that matter. Looking for Hogwarts’ staff seemed equally futile. Dumbledore was dead, the miserable old bastard. Minerva hadn’t known, from what she could tell. Lupin had died in the War, with his hands wrapped around Pettigrew’s throat. She wasn’t quite sure where the rest of the staff had ended up.

Order members? They were few and far between as well: either from death (natural or otherwise) or from retirement (voluntary or not). Hermione turned off the tap. Students? Few knew as much as she did; most knew far less. A vague recollection pricked the forefront of her mind. Draco Malfoy? Draco might know. She admittedly understood very little of Slytherin internal politics, but she thought she had seen enough to know that it was not terribly different from Gryffindor’s own.

There was a connection between one and one’s Head of House that lasted beyond graduation. As much as she could remember, Snape and Draco had been especially close. Yes, he was her best bet, but where was he? He had vanished quietly and unobtrusively. She and many others would have assumed he would have made quite a scene after his father’s arrest. He had done no less in their fifth year.

Hermione walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob. She could try a locating spell, but she wasn’t holding out hope that he would be traceable. It seemed hopeless. She then began to pull the tea out of the cupboard.

A little caffeine was sure to get her thinking clearly.

---

When Snape opened his eyes, he could not immediately tell how long he had been unconscious. He coughed and felt his chest tighten in searing pain. The last thing he remembered was stumbling through the streets of… Hogsmeade? It must have been. There had been enough times where he had dragged himself home from one meeting or another - near death - that he would have managed one more time.

But that still begged the question of where he was now.

In a bed to be sure, but not one to which he was accustomed. There were bedclothes for one thing. Glorious cotton sheets, soft and warm. Perhaps he was hallucinating. It was not the first time he had thought himself away from that putrid sink hole of a prison. There was sun; there was silence; there were warm sheets to wrap around him and ward off the cold.

If this were a dream, he was going to enjoy the reprieve.

Then the shivering began anew.

He curled his fingers around the cloth and pulled upwards. His face contorted in pain as the muscles in his arms seized. Snape rolled over and held the useless appendage to his chest. Merlin’s arse! His muscles had atrophied to the point of making even the most mundane of activities excruciating. It was a marvel he wasn’t face down somewhere in the forest.

Snape took stock of the situation. He was cold; he was most definitely not hallucinating…

And everything hurt.

Snape curled himself up in the bed and waited for the tremors to pass. He wasn’t sure if the reality that he had truly been released was a blessing, or merely the next stage of his punishment. There had been solace in the numbness he had perfected after seventeen long years entombed. But here, in the harsh light of morning, he had no defenses against the sharpness of detail. He wondered what had been in those potions, and if they had heightened his senses instead of dulling the pain.

Pain, pain, pain.

Something he was accustomed to, surely, but it seemed magnified after waking up – part exhaustion and part sensory overload. He had walked for so long, barely aware of the people who brushed past him or of the cobbled stones under his shoes. It had been so easy to get lost in the colours, too bright and vivid, and taken with the cloying smell of people. It was truly a welcome distraction from the pain, the discomfort, and the nagging reminder that his body was not in any condition for this sort of activity.

Then, just then, there had been something floral in the air, out of place amidst the unpaved streets of the village. He had nearly tripped when he noticed it. The soft warmth of flowers and cream had made an ache in him; a desire to wrap his body in it as though scent could be a tangible solace. It had been so long since anything had stirred him like that.

How odd it had been that the decay of incarceration had failed to yield any evidence of the putrefaction within. Azkaban had no odour – no smell at all. It had perhaps been the hardest change to come to terms with. After all, he’d spent nearly all of his life surrounded by ill-kept, teenaged students with their cosmetically masked odours. There had been potions ingredients, day-old tea, and the smell the house-elves left behind to bombard his olfactory sense.

Scent had kept him alive more than once, and then… it had been gone. Wrenched away from him with as much force as the hand that had snapped his wand used to break with a vicious crack. The pieces tossed aside while he could only watch helplessly as something primal in him splintered irreparably.

But then it had returned - invasive and wretched and sublime in its grip on him. Today there had been the wafting aroma of cheap beer and sweat, a musk that clung to the inside of his nose and accompanied by a strong arm, helping him upstairs.

Had that happened?

A memory misted his vision. Another brick fell. The Hog’s Head. Aberforth, the ghostly mirage of his former saviour, guiding him to a private room and nursing him through spasms.

“You can rest now, Severus. He’s dead.”

Oblivion had never before been as peaceful as it had after that benediction.

It had been the first night he could remember where he had slept without nightmares.

Snape felt a vague sensation of warm hands rolling him onto his side and a moist towel pressed against his brow. He thought he might have screamed from the burning in his throat. Another potion was held to his lips and soon brought some relief. His breathing evened out and lulled him back to sleep.

---

In the end, Draco wasn't difficult to find.

Hermione made a few discreet inquiries with one of her last contacts back at the Ministry. Last being only contact back at the Ministry. Short of lighting fire to the desk or bringing the ceiling down on their traitorous, underhanded heads, Hermione could not have burned more bridges on her way out. Disillusioned with the entire institution, she had rather effectively cut herself off from the friends she had made there.

Her one remaining acquaintance was one not many could have rid themselves of had they tried: Murtha Baca. A sunny, sprite of a witch, Murtha had passed from office to division to Undersecretary as a sort of floating assistant. Whether this lack of permanence was due to no one being able to stand more than one week of her boisterous optimism, or owing more to her remarkable resemblance to a bumblebee, no one could say for certain. Still, she flitted from office to office and remembered everyone's name and birthday and was always up on the latest gossip.

So naturally, when Hermione needed to find a wizard lost from the public eye for the better part of two decades, she belted up and invited Murtha out for coffee one dreary afternoon.

"Hermione!" Murtha's mood never seemed to be effected by the weather, nor did her wardrobe. She all but ran Hermione down, wearing bright yellow robes and a hat - nearly as high as she was tall - covered in roses. It was almost enough to make Hermione give up her mission and Apparate far, far away. Almost.

"You look fabulous, bunny!" Ungraciously accepting the hug, Hermione slowly extricated herself from Murtha. She most certainly did not look fabulous in her drab navy blue robes, bearing one of the least flattering waistlines ever designed. Still, it was nice to be complimented by someone who could lie and do it well.

"It's nice to see you too Murtha," Hermione forced a smile and proved that she did come away from six years at the Ministry having learned something.

Not wanting to spend more time with the witch than necessary, Hermione quickly diverted them both toward the crowded London café. It was a popular Ministry hangout, though not strictly one limited to the magical world, which could be found by the more dedicated Muggle and as such, was always busy.

“Oh, it’s been ages! No, don’t tell me, you’re seeing someone. I can tell these things, you know, dearie; you’re positively glowing!”

Hermione quickly ordered herself an espresso. If there was any hope of getting through this encounter without a migraine, it would be if she were highly caffeinated. She took another glance at Murtha, who was now chatting animatedly with the bloke behind the counter, and changed her order to a double.

When they sat back down, her companion continued her previous thought as though she had never been interrupted. “Oh you simply must tell me who it is. Everyone always said you’d wind up a bitter old spinster, but I knew better,” Hermione began to clench her jaw, “and look at you now!”

“Really, Murtha, it’s nothing like that-”

“Nonsense! Tell me what you need. Are you shy? No need to be, bunny, you look simply smashing in that retro-chic number.”

“No, you don’t understand-”

“Ooooh, is he married?! How scandalous!”

“Murtha!” Hermione was reduced to shouting to get the blasted woman’s attention. “I was just wondering if you knew where I could find Malfoy.”

The witch frowned and grew rather agitated. “He’s in Azkaban, of course.”

Hermione waved her hand to clear the air of the idea. “No, I meant Draco.”

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. Murtha practically beamed with pleasure and leaned in conspiratorially. “Brilliant! You’ve had a thing for him since school, haven’t you? Potter’s friend, secretly carrying on with his sworn enemy – it’s better than Corrie!”

Hermione groaned and dropped her head in her hands. The Ministry really should put a ban on that programme and do the world a favour.

“Did you lose touch? Did he run off with another witch?!”

This needed to end, now.

“We were never… he… it doesn’t matter. Do you know where he is?”

Murtha sat and took appraisal of the witch in front her. Her vapid, little mind swiftly catalogued every tantalizing bit of gossip to bring back to work. There were so few love affairs these days, after all. Coming to a conclusion, she nodded and reached into her handbag for a quill. She wrote on a napkin the last place she had heard Draco had been and slid it across the table to Hermione.

“Don’t worry, bunny, I have a good feeling about you two.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and sculled her coffee.

---

After she had finally extricated herself from her coffee date, Hermione decided she would wait until the next day to go see if Murtha was more on target with Draco than she had been with her.

She Apparated directly to the countryside and looked around. She was taken aback at how typical it all looked. She had always assumed any Malfoy would somehow have managed to have their home look foreboding; an ostentatious manor surrounded by high walls that were covered in man-eating vines. Maybe even a basilisk to roam free and scare away intruders. Or, on special occasions, Muggles impaled on pikes to greet the more well-to-do guests. It was a large piece of land to be sure, but otherwise the house was very mundane. Had her parents had more money, she could easily have imagined them living here.

Hermione walked up past the well manicured lawn and knocked on the door. After a moment, the door opened. She was greeted by the sight of Draco in complete Muggle attire. He stood and held the door open in plain, black trousers and a freshly pressed Oxford shirt. She was so fascinated with his clothing that she almost missed the utter lack of surprise on his face.

“So you’ve come for the rest of it then?” Hermione stared dumbstruck when Draco began to speak.

“You shouldn’t have bothered. The deed to the house isn’t under my name and I have no assets to speak of. Really, you Ministry types should keep better track of those of us you have already robbed.”

Hermione stood, gaping like a codfish, as Draco closed the door in her face.

“Malfoy, wait!”

She heard the turn of the door bolt and then the sound of footsteps retreating.

“I’m not with the Ministry anymore, Draco!”

Nothing. Hermione sighed and gave up hope that he was going to come back. She turned away to leave when she heard the bolt slide back and the door open again. Hermione spun around to see Draco standing aside inviting her in. He led her inside and to a sitting room, where he flicked an impatient hand to one of the chairs. As they sat down, Hermione took the chance to look over Draco more fully. He looked irritated. Irritated and tired. Odd, he hadn’t even insulted her yet.

What was worse was that he seemed perfectly content to wait her out.

Bloody Slytherins.

“You’re living as a Muggle!” Hermione blurted out and immediately regretted it. Fabulous, Granger. She just managed to keep her hand from flying up to cover her mouth.

Draco, for his part, rolled his eyes in disgust.

“Gryffindors never could keep from putting their foot in it. With that in mind, I’ll give you this one as a gift.” He brandished his wand with a flourish. “Still a wizard. They didn’t castrate me with the rest of them. I may even have a house-elf or two around here.” He quickly held up a hand to stop the burgeoning rant. “All paid, of course.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something and, in confusion, snapped it shut again.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said, fumbling with the situation.

“What I don’t understand is why a fine, upstanding witch of the new wizarding world order has made her way here to speak with me. It took considerable effort to find some place far away from those who would jump at the chance to get me alone. I don’t see any rotten fruit in your hands; so, I must presume this is not be a social visit. Tell me, Granger. What brings a Ministry… excuse me… ex-Ministry witch to the home of the number one persona non grata?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, suddenly aware that she would be bringing up parts of the past that must have been unpleasant.

“Did you hear?” Well, it had served well enough as an opening gambit with Minerva.

“Did I hear what, Granger? Being deliberately obtuse is not attractive on a Gryffindor.”

“Dumbledore’s dead.”

“Oh sweet Merlin, where’s my handkerchief?”

“I didn’t like him either but –”

“Give me a minute Granger, I’m all choked up.”

“This isn’t funny, Draco – ”

“Am I laughing? Get to the point already.”

“They let Snape out.”

The silence that followed was palpable. Draco’s face became shuttered; the look in his eyes was icy.

“Get out.”

“Draco, I know you two were close – ”

“He is my Godfather. Now get out.”

Hermione spoke hurriedly. “I saw him in Hogsmeade. You can’t imagine what he looks like.”

“Believe me, Granger, I can imagine.”

“What happened to him, Draco?”

“You know exactly what happened. You put him in Azkaban.”

“I didn’t –”

“Maybe not, but Potter did, and Dumbledore.”

“We didn’t find out for weeks. I want… I need to know what happened.”

Draco look tired again as his mouth drew into a grim line. “You don’t deserve to know.”

Hermione recoiled back as if he slapped her. “Of course I do!”

“Why? Because you feel guilty now? It’s a bit late to ride in on your white horse to save the day. Come wave your wand over us, Granger, and wash away our sins. If you care to remember, I was absent from the war. Unlike you, I don’t have any past atrocities to tell glorious tales of to future generations. Whatever you might think, my hand has never cast an Unforgivable.”

He stared stonily at her. Age had dulled the petulance of his manner and left in its place… what? Bitterness? Ambivalence? She wasn’t sure. One moment he looked bored, and the next there seemed to be an impotent fury in its stead.

It was compelling; he was another pretty puzzle for her to turn over in her mind.

“Ah, the vaunted Gryffindor curiosity,” Draco must have seen something in her face. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “You’re dying to know, aren’t you? I’m afraid that’s not enough for me to continue this act of the carnival of the grotesque.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but knew he was right. She had seen what was left of Severus Snape and now there was nearly two decades of curiosity that had built itself up around the man. Where had she been all these years? That Malfoy called himself persona non grata was true. He had been the only one who had cared and he had been the only one who had been powerless to stop it.

After a long moment Hermione nodded. She excused herself and left Draco alone in the sitting room as she went to the front door. She spared a last glance over her shoulder at the peaceful Muggle house surrounding her old nemesis before Hermione Apparated home.

Three days later, she received a large owl post.