A Hundred Years from Yesterday

"How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base!"

Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The package from Draco sat untouched on her desk for most of the day. Hermione had relocated herself to the other side of the flat, ensconced with her next book to read through. She felt like Pandora; temptation had been wrapped in brown paper and laid within arm's reach, begging to be opened.

It also begged the question of why she was resisting.

Hermione had spent the night replaying the encounter with Draco instead of sleeping. He had been an intriguing enough conversationalist that, for a while, she had forgotten why she had tracked him down to begin with. It was disturbing that twenty minutes with a Malfoy could sufficiently distract her from the horror-show that was her former Professor. Guilt and intrigue warred evenly within her.

She looked over at the package again. The fascination she felt towards Draco did not overshadow this... fixation... or whatever it was that drove her to seek Snape's past. All that was required for her to be on her feet and across the room was to recall the image of the broken man who stumbled in front of her.

Hermione stood with her hands hovering over the package. Open it. What's the harm? She pulled open the attached parchment again.

It may be too much to trust a consummate Gryffindor to treat what I have given to you with delicacy, but perhaps you may put this to better use than I.

Or maybe I'm just a fool. -- D.P.M.

She wondered, not for the first time, just what he had sent her. The package was sufficiently warded to lead her to believe it was valuable, if not necessarily in market terms. She rested her hand on top of the package and felt the wards grow quiet; it had been spelled to recognise her, clearly. Before Hermione could stop herself, she began to pluck at the twine that held it closed. After all, it wasn't really giving in if it accidentally opened itself. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Hermione watched as the knot slowly came undone.

With the decision made, the string fell aside and the package began to unwrap itself. When all the paper had fallen away, what was left was a small Pensieve. Hermione's breath caught at the swirl of silver that shimmered in the pool, and she took an involuntary step backwards.

Oh my.

Harry, long ago, had tried to tell them what looking into one was like, but Hermione had never had the chance to see for herself. She understood that some things were easier shown than told, but taking a trip through Draco's memories was not what she had in mind when she had asked him what happened.

The contents of the Pensieve whirled and Hermione caught a glance of Draco in its reflection, looking exactly the way she remembered him in school. Hermione felt her heart pound in her throat, heard the throb of her pulse in her ears, and forced herself to take a deep breath. She really didn't want to have to charm her teeth back in place if she fainted, face first, onto the floor.

Some Gryffindor you are.

Hermione shored up her nerves and sat down in the chair; she had no idea how long this memory was and she was damned if she wasn't going to be comfortable -- gnawing guilt or no gnawing guilt. The runes on the side of the Pensieve flashed as her fingers brushed against them. Just before she touched the silver mist, Hermione wondered whether Draco wouldn't mind her keeping this a little longer to study the object itself.

Hermione's world spun and reminded her of why she never traveled by Portkey if it could be managed: the nausea was never worth the convenience. The passage into the bowels of the Pensieve had much the same effect. She was falling; falling through surface with the darkness churning around her.

Airsick, carsick, and now Pensieve-sick. Lovely, Hermione thought sourly. Her stomach rebelled despite the reassurance of solid ground beneath her very sensible loafers.

It took her several slow breaths before the room righted itself.

The pounding of a gavel finally drew Hermione's attention outward.

"That's quite enough of that. Remove him." The dumpy warlock in a droopy grey cap waved his had to dismiss the wizard from questioning.

The Wizengamot.

Ill-lit and ominous in appearance, it was buried in the basement of the Ministry. Away from prying eyes, her mind offered. It had been years since she had been physically present in the room and the circumstances couldn't have been more different. The full panel of wizards and witches sat elevated away from the condemned, solemnly staring down their noses with unconcealed disdain. The stark sound of chains scraping the floor was the only relief from the deathly silence.

Hermione didn't think she could have named a single member seated; however, it did not surprise her much. By the time she had graduated, the average lifespan of a Ministry employee was only slightly greater than that of a DADA professor.

The jury box was conspicuously empty.

Hermione's gaze lingered on the Draco, face as youthful and angular as she remembered him in school. He sat on the end of a wooden bench, taut as a bowstring, and flanked by two men she didn't recognise. Where was everyone else?

It had been another lifetime when she had last been in this room, standing beside Harry in their Sixth year. He had been attended by a steadfast audience of raucous enlistees of Dumbledore's Army who had seen enough of the War to defend the Boy Who Lived without hesitation. The students had shouted recriminations and jeers against the baseless accusations leveled at their friend until no semblance of order could be reclaimed. The press -- warned and invited by Luna -- could just be heard outside the door and over the clamor. Fearing a riot and the hellfire of bad publicity, the Chief Warlock had waved a disgruntled hand and dismissed all charges.

Cheering in victory, the DA had hefted Harry in the air to march out. Caught up in the excitement of vindication and rightness, she had found herself in Ron's arms and spun around the room. It had been their first kiss.

Hermione shook clear the fog of remembrance.

But now the same room was nearly empty in comparison, and Draco was clearly not celebrating.

Lucius Malfoy stood and Hermione was thankful that Draco had decided to keep some things private. She didn't need to hear the litany of crimes he committed. She had seen enough of them herself to believe he had been awfully lucky to not have been killed on sight.

Draco impotently watched his father be denied the dignity of walking on his own accord, manhandled, and then hobbled with chains. His Lordship, though, looking immaculate as ever, commanded his own poise. Hermione had seen him take more curses than she thought any wizard could stand (including no fewer than six of her own), and had even crossed swords with Harry before the End. Yet still, Lucius Malfoy looked as if he were ready for Sunday tea and not prison.

Honestly, they must be part Veela..

The two men with him were not so fortunately bred. The Aurors had not taken care to change them into Azkaban prison attire. All clad in the oil dark folds of a Death Eater's cloaks, battered, ripped, and rumpled. Was it that soon after the battle? Or an attempt to make them look guilty?

On his left was Rookwood, looking as horrible as Hermione had ever remembered feeling. He was one of the few Death Eaters Hermione knew on sight, owing largely to the fact that they had dueled -- quite viciously -- while trying to reach Harry. The red gouge across his cheek was hers. There were other scrapes and contusions on his face that she felt any Junior Healer could have fixed. Hermione thought it likely the Ministry 'neglected' to remove any imbedded curses that weren't life threatening. A thought quickly confirmed by the pronounced tremor in Rookwood's arm that he was trying desperately to conceal. He stared across the room, past Hermione's shoulder; his eyes flickered oddly in the torchlight and she wondered if he had been drugged. How much pain could he be in?

"Bring forth the next accused."

Her speculation was cut short as her gaze was dragged toward Snape as he stood for his turn. His nose was broken again, she could tell, even distorted as it was by the cantrip that rippled the air around his face. But the hastily applied charm could not completely hide the mottled bruising that dotted his cheeks, nor could it hide the bits of gravel that clung to his sallow skin.

That must have happened after he was taken. Certainly he hadn't looked like that when he had - Nevermind that now, Granger.

Snape shook off the grubby hands of the Aurors, unwilling to allow them another chance to forcibly subdue him. He strode unaided across the room to the chair of the condemned with as much determination as he would have had terrorizing students, or issuing commands in battle. Hermione was struck by how similar he was to Lucius right then in appearance. She supposed it was part of the Slytherin preparatory training: affect look of superior disdain at all times, regardless of personal discomfiture or circumstance.

He turned to face the Wizengamot and waited until all eyes were focused on him before sitting and purposefully snapping the restraints around his own wrists.

The Chief Warlock ignored the display and appeared to be looking over transcripts.

"Prisoner Snape, you have been charged with treason against wizarding Britain and have been shown to be in collaboration with, and a member of, the enemy group known as the Death Eaters and a loyal disciple of He Who Must Not Be Named." He paused to turn a page and sniffed. "At the time of your arrest you claimed to be under the employ of Albus Dumbledore in the capacity of a spy."

Hermione glanced over at Malfoy and Rookwood and was strangely disappointed at the lack of surprise that registered on their faces.

"No one has stepped forward to corroborate this assertion -- not even Dumbledore. What have you to say for this?"

All eyes in the room settled on the stiff-backed figure in the chair.

Snape curled his fingers around the wood of the arms; white knuckled, he refused to answer the challenge.

The Chief Warlock look disgusted and forewent any pretense of reading the parchment in front of him.

"Your steadfast refusal to speak since your initial statement does not bode well for your innocence. Prisoners Malfoy and Rookwood have behaved similarly, and it leads one to wonder in how much else you have colluded."

Snape tipped his head back and graced the man with the same glare usually reserved to those bearing the names Longbottom, Potter, and Black.

"We have new information that contradicts your story. Bring in the witness."

The door behind Hermione burst open and a skittish, trembling wizard was being held upright by two more members of Magical Law Enforcement. He lifted his head, caught sight of the defendants and had to be restrained from running out of the room. She thought he might have looked familiar; maybe he had been a year or two ahead of her at Hogwarts -- he certainly looked young enough to be. Before she could try to remember his name they had brought him up to stand before the court.

"State your name for the record," the Interrogator said, speaking for the first time.

"Hirtle, sir. Wayland Hirtle." The idiot was simpering now, bolstered as he was by the armed guards. Clearly sniveling had its limits, and was easily replaced by obsequious fawning.

"Do you recognise the man on your right, Mr. Hirtle?"

Everyone's head turned to watch Snape as his eyes bore into the man. To his credit, the man flinched under the weight of Snape's stare.

The witness continued on gamely.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir! Snape was my Lieutenant Superior for the Dark Lord, sir. Only old Malfoy here was his better, he was."

Three pairs of eyes settled dangerously on Hirtle at this proclamation.

Lieutenant? What was the prat going on about? Death Eaters didn't have rank.

In Order meetings, Snape had given them the impression that Voldemort's troops had the make-up of a politely organized mob. The only factor preventing total chaos from erupting was a well-founded and continual state of paranoia. A room full of opportunistic vultures was not a place to leave one's back exposed.

Giving the lot of them rank would have been tantamount to suicide. A guaranteed way to halve the number of followers of the Dark Lord through career advancement alone.

But Lieutenant Snape? If not for the dire circumstances Hermione would have giggled. Her overwrought mind provided the absurd image of her old Potions master in a RAF uniform. Momentarily oblivious to the seriousness of the events around her, Hermione was distracted by thoughts of Voldemort handing out pins to the Death Eater who had tortured the most Aurors that week.

".... yes, sir. Of course! Lieutenant... I mean, the defendant planned the attack on Hogwarts, sir."

The Interrogator leaned forward greedily. "Is that so?"

"Eh? Ah... yes, sir. The Dark- You Know Who was most pleased Lieut- the defendant knew how to drop the wards -- planned the troll attack on Hogsmeade, too!"

Hermione's jaw dropped. They actually believed this rubbish? Well, of course they did. It wasn't as though any of them had been in the fray themselves. They'd believe anything the lying, little rat told them; no matter how off base and ludicrous a story he concocted.

The only semblance of truth in his statement was claiming that there had been an attack on Hogsmeade; but it had been giants, not trolls. Hermione fumed. Snape had nothing to do with the wards surrounding Hogwarts. It had been the house-elves who had done the dangerous work. Those bound to the Death Eaters were fiercely devoted -- one only had to look at Kreacher to see that -- and willing to do whatever their masters commanded.

It had been Lucius who remembered Dobby had been able to enter Hogwarts unscathed while still bound to the Malfoys. No one would notice a few extra elves, nor question their presence if they had. Dumbledore had a known habit of acquiring new ones as he went about his business.

Simple, really. Send a small army of house-elves ahead to break the anti-Apparition wards -- who cared that they all died in the process -- and then appear en masse on the grounds while most of the Order had been dispatched to Hogsmeade on high alert.

Dobby had warned Harry, who, with the help of Dumbledore's Army, held their ground until reinforcements arrived.

Not that history mattered in a witch-hunt.

"And you say that Prisoner Snape was a willing participant in the torture and killing of Muggles?"

"Indeed," Hirtle said. His voice changed pitch to carve through the room like a shiv, and mislaid every ounce of deferential acquiescence.

The Interrogator failed to notice the shift, but Hermione didn't; neither, it seemed, did the three dark cloaked men.

"Well then. Thank you, Mr. Hirtle, for your testimony. Your own conviction as a subversive and Death Eater is upheld, but your sentence has now been reduced to no fewer than seven years in Azkaban prison. Aurors?"

An Auror stepped up to the witness, whose face bore no trace of its previous trepidation, and touched her wand to the man's bracelet in a complex series of taps. Just before he Disapparated, Hirtle turned and smiled smugly at Snape.

A moment later, all was silent again.

Snape seethed behind a wall of hair, fists clenched while he tried -- futilely, by Hermione's guess -- to keep a tight rein on his rage.

Apathetically, the Elders scribbled what they just heard onto a parchment.

"You have neglected to provide the Wizengamot with a representative in your defense. This is your last chance to designate someone to speak on your behalf, for sadly, Albus Dumbledore has elected to be absent from these proceedings."

Inhaling deeply, Snape slowly raised his head and stared solemnly at the Chief Warlock. The wizard was positively gleeful to have gotten such damaging, irrefutable testimony against Snape.

"This will conclude the trial, gentlemen. Unless Prisoner Snape has anything he wishes to add that might... ah... mitigate the retribution of this court?"

Hermione watched as Snape sat stoically and digested the implied offer. He turned and stared at Lucius for several long minutes. An odd serenity came over Snape's features, as though a great burden had been removed.

Snape turned back and faced the Interrogator with complete resolution.

"No."

His voice had been harsh and bitter, but held no trace of malice.

The Chief Warlock sighed. "Very well. Remove the prisoner."

The Aurors led an unresisting Snape back to his comrades. Before he was seated, Lucius stood -- over the shouts from the attending guards -- and placed a hand on Snape's shoulder.

"Brother."

The wizard dipped his head in acknowledgment and allowed himself to be chained to the other two once more.

"Prisoners Rookwood, Malfoy, and Snape: you are hereby convicted of treason against wizarding Britain, murder, and subversive acts done on the behest of He Who Must Not Be Named. You are to be imprisoned in Azkaban Fortress for the rest of your natural lives."

Hermione felt the uncomfortable lurching in her stomach and was ejected from the Pensieve before she saw what happened next.

She sat and stared at the walls of her flat while she contemplated what she had just seen.

"Bloody Nora."