Chapter Text
“Just ignore her, Hermione,” Ginny hissed, pinching Hermione’s sleeve and dragging her into the kitchen.
Hermione tugged her arm free to shoot a look over her shoulder at Ron’s girlfriend - or, partner, really - who was currently entertaining everyone with a spirited rendition of Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Nothing Like a Holiday Spell’, accompanied by her playing on a piano which she’d transfigured from an armchair. Hermoine noted contemptuously that even Fleur looked impressed by the performance. Crowded around her was practically the entire Potter-Weasley clan, everyone clad in their twee Weasley Christmas jumpers.
Hermione itched her neck. The movement made her arms itch as well, along with everywhere else covered by her jumper. A stitch had unwound on her shoulder and the jumper was already beginning to pill, and she’d only received it this evening. In fact, Hermione’s jumpers had grown increasingly uncomfortable as the years went on, and she was starting to suspect that Molly was using the cheapest wool she could find now that she was no longer dating Ron.
Ron’s girlfriend - partner - finally finished singing, and with a flick of her wand the piano turned back into an armchair. Molly fawned over her performance, and her magical prowess.
“It’s not even a difficult spell,” Hermione muttered, filling her glass of mulled wine to the brim and taking an irritated gulp. It burned her throat, but she hardly noticed. She wasn’t much in the mood for this; she hadn’t been all evening. She hadn’t been in the mood to see Harry amicably breaking up fights between Albus and James about who played chaser and who played goalie on their new training brooms; she didn’t care for Arthur and Molly dancing as a love song came on over the wireless, or Fleur and Bill gently cradling Fleur’s pregnant belly. She wasn’t in the mood for standing alone amidst the sparkling lights, didn’t care for the warm golden hue filling the Burrow, the candles nestled in wreaths or the garlands stretching from the rafters, or even the table groaning beneath the weight of Molly’s cooking. She wasn't in the mood for any of it.
But most of all, she wasn’t in the mood to see Ron conjure up some mistletoe to hang from the rafters above his head, just for an excuse to kiss his new flavour of the week.
Partner! Of four years!
“She does this every Christmas,” Hermione continued. “You’d think everyone would be bored of her showing off by now.”
“She’s really milking it this year,” Ginny agreed sagely, chewing on a gingerbread biscuit as Ron presented his girlfriend with a delicate silver necklace, carefully lifting her hair aside to fix the clasp. “I wonder if she thought this was the year she’d get the ring.”
Hermione snorted as Ron’s girlfriend - Erin - twirled and leapt into his arms for a kiss. Snatching up a mince pie, she stuffed it in her mouth before it could start singing as George had enchanted them to do - but more importantly, before she could say anything scathing in front of Arthur, who’d meandered into the kitchen wearing an amiable smile to refill his drink.
“Having a good evening, girls?” he asked, hand hovering indecisively over steaming pitchers of mulled wine and mulled cider, and a questionable eggnog that their Auntie Muriel had decided to make herself, but which everyone had politely decided was not safe for consumption.
“We’re having a great time, dad,” Ginny giggled as Arthur pulled her into a one-armed hug and kissed her forehead.
Hermione’s heart sank. She’d been wrong before - more than anything, she wasn’t in the mood for that .
Over a decade had passed since she’d wiped her parents’ memories. She’d tried just about everything she could think of, but nothing had changed. At least Brisbane was supposed to be lovely this time of year, she thought; they were probably spending Christmas on the beach, soaking up the sun, instead of suffering through a particularly bitter English winter…
Still, her parents would’ve loved this. They’d adored Christmas, and had gone out of their way every year to make magic feel real to Hermione, long before they’d known she had magic herself. They’d have been utterly captivated by The Burrow, overjoyed that so many people were here, fascinated by the magic…
Hermione sighed, eyes dragging across her friends, the family she felt increasingly detached from, and their beautifully decorated house. Ornaments floated lazily above the tree, glowing and bobbing in midair. Little Lily sat at Harry’s feet in her tiny red Christmas dress, babbling and clapping her hands at the baubles that hovered just out of her reach, before turning her attention to the mess of wrapping paper on the rug where the children had unwrapped their Christmas gifts; outside, James and Albus’s yells of excitement echoed from the garden as they zipped through the air on their brand-new toy brooms, apparently impervious to the evening’s bitter cold.
Yes , she sighed. Mum and Dad would have loved this.
Like a switch had flicked, the noise and heat of The Burrow became stifling, pressing down on her until she felt she couldn’t endure it another second.
“I’m just getting some air,” she said abruptly, cutting across Arthur’s enthusiastic musings about the washing machine George had gifted him for Christmas, and the jaunty tune it played to signal it was done.
Without waiting for a response, Hermione fled. She grabbed her coat and scarf from the hook as she passed, shrugging them on haphazardly, and hurried out the door. James and Albus, too absorbed in their makeshift Quidditch match to notice, barely glanced her way as she swept down the path. The night was still and calm, the snow crunching softly beneath her boots as her breath rose in pale clouds. The cool, crisp air was a balm after the oppressive warmth inside, soothing her flushed cheeks and damp brow. Even the itchy wool of her hand-knit jumper felt less abrasive in the chill.
She walked aimlessly, her wand casting a faint, steady glow to guide her steps. Her thoughts wandered as she trudged along, paying little attention to where she was headed, or how far she’d come. Before long, she found herself standing in an open field, the untouched snow stretching out before her into the still night.
With a noise like a whip crack, someone Apparated before her. Hermione screamed, jabbing her wand at them.
“ Expelliarmus! ”
The words were out of her mouth before she even had time to think; she could thank Harry for drilling that into her later.
There were several peculiar things about the scene that followed, each settling into Hermione’s mind as slowly as the snow had first fallen. First, that anyone would choose to Apparate to an empty field on Christmas night - a field where, as far as Hermione knew, the only magical landmark nearby was the Burrow. Second, how a wand flew from the figure’s hand and landed with a soft thud in the snow some ten feet away. The figure itself, cloaked in thick, black robes, did not react. Instead, they swayed unsteadily for a brief moment, before collapsing in a heap in the snow. Third, and most chilling of all, were the vivid blooms of red spreading across the pristine white surface where they’d landed.
Hermione froze, her mind racing. For a moment she could only stand there, her breath clouding the air in shallow, panicked bursts. The figure lay unmoving, the red stains growing larger, seeping into the snow like spilled ink.
Swallowing hard, she gripped her wand tighter, lifting it into the air to get a better look. The figure appeared as little more than a dark stain amidst the snow.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady.
She received no response.
Hermione glanced back toward the faint glow of the Burrow’s lights in the distance; it was too far to shout for help, and the anti-intruder jinxes were still in effect from the war. She couldn’t Apparate, and walking could take too long. Turning back to the figure, she raised her wand a little higher, casting its light across the still form. She took a cautious step forward, her boots crunching softly against the frozen ground.
“Are you hurt?” she asked stupidly, though she didn’t dare come too close all the same.
When there was still no reply, Hermione hesitated. The logical part of her screamed caution - this could be a trap. Despite Harry’s best efforts, some Death Eaters and sympathisers still walked free, their whereabouts unknown - and most of the Order was back at the Burrow…
But the sight of the spreading blood gnawed at her conscience.
She edged closer, keeping her wand trained on the figure. She crouched a safe distance away, squinting through the dim light to get a better look. “I’m going to help,” she said. “Can you hear me?”
For a moment, there was nothing - just the creaking of the snow beneath her feet. Then, a sound reached her ears, faint but unmistakable: a wet, gurgling noise - half a reply, half a gasp.
“I’m coming closer,” she warned, struggling to keep the tremble out of her voice. “I just want to help.”
Her stomach turned, but she pushed the feeling down. She moved closer, wandlight illuminating more of the figure. The snow beneath them was stained crimson now, creeping further from the body. Her boots crunched softly as she took another step, then another. The thick, black robes glistened with blood, the figure’s face half-buried in snow and obscured by the shadows of their hood.
Hermione crouched beside them, trying to ignore the gurgling, rattling breaths and gagging noises emanating from beneath the hood. Hand shaking, Hermione lifted the fabric of a wide tear in their robes to reveal a deep, glistening wound. The smell of blood - hot, metallic - filled her nose and throat, and she fought the urge to gag.
“You’ve been Splinched,” she told the figure, doing her best to sound calm - but her voice was too high to sound reassuring. “I’ve got to get to the house -”
A hard, cold hand shot from beneath the cloak, gripping her wrist with terrifying force. It held on for only a moment before dropping back into the snow with a thud. The hand jerked and twitched in the snow, clawing ineffectively at the folds of its robes. Hermione watched, frozen for a moment, as the figure’s fingers dragged weakly against the blood-soaked fabric, their movements growing more and more desperate.
Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest, but she forced herself to focus. “You want me to…?” she asked, her voice faltering as she gestured toward their robes. The figure gave the faintest nod, their hand dropping limply to the snow.
Biting her lip, Hermione crouched lower, her fingers trembling as she reached inside. The fabric was heavy with blood, and she felt her gorge rising as it coated her hands, slick and cold, until finally her fingertips brushed against something smooth and cool. The cloak pocket clinked as she pulled it free, holding it up to her wandlight. Although unlabelled and smeared with blood, she recognised the greenish tinge of the liquid inside.
“You’ve got Essence of Dittany,” she breathed, brow furrowing. But there was something different about it that she couldn’t quite place; a sheen to the liquid that was unlike the potion she was familiar with, a different consistency, an odd colour.
The figure didn’t respond, their breaths still rattling and labored. Hermione shook her head, focusing her attention - there would be time for curiosity later.
With shaking hands, she uncorked the vial and tilted it over the gaping wound, letting the thick liquid ooze across torn flesh. It hissed softly on contact, releasing a faint trail of steam as it began to work, knitting the edges of the wound together. It worked like nothing she’d ever seen before - this was the kind of wound she was certain would’ve needed a month-long stay at St Mungo’s to treat seemed to halt the flow of blood immediately, replenishing flesh, and even whatever was damaged inside. Yet the figure’s breathing steadied, and although each breath came wheezing and bubbling, they did so far less harshly than before.
A sudden shiver ran through her, and she almost dropped the vial. The snow was melting through her clothes and creeping into her shoes, and she was freezing. She forced herself to tamp down the rising panic and racing thoughts that gnawed at her: the figure was covered in blood, lying in the snow, on a bitter December night. Even if she managed to help - to restore the blood they’d lost, to warm them - then there was the matter of moving them. How? And to where? The Burrow was out of the question - they’d made that much clear.
Her mind spun. I’m not a healer, I don’t know how to deal with this . How would she even begin to assess their injuries? She wasn’t a doctor, or a healer, let alone someone trained for this kind of emergency. What if she made it worse? What if she couldn’t get them help in time?
What if they’re dangerous?
She glanced over her shoulder for the briefest moment, wondering whether anyone had yet questioned why she’d been gone so long. Surely someone would come, would follow her footsteps to see her crouching in the snow beside a wounded stranger…
Without waiting for permission this time, Hermione plunged her hand into their pocket once more, drawing out a handful of vials so slippery with blood that she struggled to identify their contents in the half-light.
“Blood replenishing potion?” she asked the figure, holding out a brilliant red vial in front of their cloaked face. They gave a short nod. “Okay, you need to take this, now,” she instructed, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She reached for the figure’s hood, but one clumsy arm swung towards her. She’d fallen back into the snow with a gasp before she realised that they weren’t attempting to harm her, but to take the vial. Shaking fingers extended to grasp it, with little success; through cold or through injury, their stiff fingers didn’t seem to work.
“Here,” she said, crawling back onto her knees as her teeth started to chatter. “Let me do it.” She reached for the figure’s hood.
“ Don’t .”
Hermione froze, her hand hovering just inches from the figure’s hood.
The voice had come as little more than a rough whisper, hoarse and fragile, as though speaking took more effort than they had to spare. A heavy, wet cough wracked their body, and gobbets of congealed blood and spit spattered across the snow.
With trembling hands, she shifted her grip on the vial and raised it to the figure’s lips, half-hidden beneath the hood.
“Here,” she whispered, holding it steady as their weak, trembling hand reached up to grasp it. The motion was slow, uncoordinated, as if the figure still didn’t have full control of their body. Hermione held her breath, watching as the figure slowly drank, half concerned that they would knock the vial from her hands.
The figure’s hand fell back to the snow when they were done, and their body seemed to relax just a fraction, the wheezing and gurgling subsiding. Hermione exhaled a shaky breath of relief, and thought hard about what to do next, her thoughts sluggish and heavy.
It’s freezing , she decided. I should light a fire.
With a flick of her wand she summoned what had once been considered her specialty spell - bluebell flames. The blue fire nestled gently in the snow, and she hoped it might go some way into staving off the figure’s (by now surely impending) hypothermia. Then, she inspected the other vials she’d found in their pockets - but not recognising their contents, set them down again in the snow, eyes searching the cloak for any clue as to who this person was.
The dark robes were heavy, suitable for travel, but ultimately unremarkable - except for the gaping tears in the fabric, revealing a now-healed, jagged scar on the person’s abdomen. In the faint wandlight she could make out a handful of other scars of all shapes and sizes that dappled the skin stretched tightly across jutting ribs and a hollow belly.
It was unusual to be Splinched like that, she thought - at least according to what she’d read. Usually whole body parts were removed, or left behind, but a gaping wound in the abdomen was new to her. Part of her wondered whether it was even the result of a Splinching at all. She considered asking, and glanced at the figure’s concealed face. Hermione got the distinct impression that they were ignoring her, though she reasoned with herself that it was more likely they were too exhausted and cold to speak. They remained still, their chest rising and falling gently.
Hermione warmed her hands on the fire for a moment before moving her wand across their body, cleaning and drying their robes. It wouldn’t last; by the time she dried their legs, the snow would seep back into their upper body, and they’d be back to square one - but it was the least she could do for a moment as they recovered.
It was as she dried the stranger’s arms that her eyes caught on something beneath a tattered sleeve - a jagged, faded scar, its outline so distinct that it sent a chill through her.
The Dark Mark.
Her breath caught, and without hesitation Hermione thrust her wand against the figure’s throat, the tip pressing hard into the hollow beneath their jaw. Her heart pounding and her pulse thrumming in her ears as she reached for the hood, she yanked it back - and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The face beneath the hood was unmistakable.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her wand stayed pressed against his scarred throat, trembling slightly in her grip as her wide eyes stared into his. His breathing was slow and shallow, the faintest rasp escaping his lips. And yet, through the pain, through the blood, he was looking at her - watching her - with an intensity that sent her mind spinning.
But he died. He’d died a hero, giving his life to defeat Voldemort, and save the wizarding world. She had mourned him, respected his sacrifice. Yet here he was, bloodied and broken, lying in the snow before her on Christmas day.
His cheek bore a cruel scar that twisted his pale features, and his neck - Hermione swallowed hard - his neck carried the worst of it. The thick, knotted scar wrapped around his throat like a noose, disappearing beneath the bloodied fabric of his robes. It was a violent reminder of the bite that she thought had killed him, and the sight of it sent a wave of nausea rolling through her.
The man before her wasn’t just Severus Snape, war hero and spy. He was something else entirely now - something damaged, something changed. And yet, it was undeniably him.
The silence stretched, until Hermione’s voice broke the stillness.
“P - Professor Snape?”