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The first letter had come as a surprise, one week into his stay at Azkaban. Hermione Granger had never once reached out to him or attempted to visit while he convalesced at St. Mungo’s for months. He let the letter sit.
Severus had four letters from Granger by the end of his first month, having received one each week. He had no other correspondence, not that he was surprised. The majority of those he might have once called friends were either dead or their relationship damaged.
Having always been solitary by nature, it was not accurate to say that he was lonely in Azkaban, but he was most certainly bored. While the Ministry had done away with the Dementors, and it was preferable, certainly, to only be brought low by one’s own thoughts, they were often the only thing he had.
And so, on a whim, he opened the first letter.
Granger had been experimenting with a potion. She walked him through her thought process and asked his opinion on her conclusions.
The next letter revealed that she’d trialed the ingredients, nearly blown herself up (a result he could have informed her about had she waited for his correspondence), and then discovered the correct combination of ingredients. The one week turnaround time on her discovery was begrudgingly impressive.
In her third letter, Granger wrote about what qualifies as dark magic and why. The letter, essentially a dialogue with herself, was nearly two feet long. It was an admittedly fascinating discourse and by the end of the parchment, she had arrived at a similar stance to his own.
The fourth letter was more personal, though not intentionally so. In fact, he assumed she’d be embarrassed by the amount she’s revealed. Her talk about sleeping draughts and their interaction with pain potions and calming draughts, as well as if anyone has ever studied the effects of these potions alongside Muggle pharmaceuticals, was framed as an intellectual hypothetical. Though it did indeed spark his own mind to begin considering the historical precedent and potential ramifications as so little had in many weeks, he found he could not move away completely from its implications. Both Granger’s mind and body bore the injuries of war, and she was having trouble coping.
His fingers had, for the first time, twitched with the urge to reach for a quill, to write back and offer her something more effective than her current patchwork of potions. He did not.
The fifth letter, however, was blatantly personal. She had informed him of what the Daily Prophet had printed. She had partially defended and partially reprimanded Potter and his final words to the Dark Lord. She mentioned his standing in the court of public opinion and indulged in, a mild rant against the widespread idiocy.
It was most notable that she had not defended nor excused him. She had simply condemned those who passed judgment on rumor and assumption. It had pulled at his curiosity. He finally asked for the quill. And so began his one-year correspondence with Hermione Granger.
By month four, he referred to her as Hermione.
By eight, he’d given her leave to call him Severus.
Somewhere around month ten, he allowed himself to acknowledge that he looked forward to her letters and was becoming fond of the witch.
Their conversations are not personal, not directly. They speak as academic contemporaries, her mind matching his own easily. Personal details are woven in by implication and he wonders if she reads between the lines to see him as he has her.
The Hermione of the letters is different than the Granger he knew at Hogwarts. She is brilliant and witty in ways that he had not noticed, in ways that their previous dynamic would not have inclined nor allowed him to explore. Her idealistic optimism has undergone a metamorphosis into an incredibly captivating passion which ensnares him in each letter. It is an epistolatory connection of the minds but, starved for connection, he is not surprised that his heart has run away with the idea.
Which is why when she asks to attend his hearing, he says no.
The world within their letters has a sanctity too dear to him to ruin with the reality of life any sooner than he must. He is not sure, exactly, what Hermione thinks of him. From some of her comments, he has gleaned the idea that she is quite frustrated with how his proceedings have been gone—that she has stayed apprised of his situation and is seemingly on his side is a boon, but he knows better than to read into it. Even so, he feels distinctly dour as he is being transported into the Ministry for his trial.
When he walks into the courtroom, his gaze pulls instinctively to the uppermost left of the viewing platform. Hermione shifts under his scrutiny, caught out but defiant. He expects to feel cross but finds that he is thankful that she disregarded him. It had not occurred to him how badly he wanted a friendly face in the crowd as the rest of his life was decided.
The trial is long. His lawyer, supplied by the Malfoys, is quite convincing. Not only does he successfully match many of his actions during the war to a past precedent that pardons it, but, by the end of it, he has Severus himself almost convinced that he is worthy of redemption. It is however the jury that has the final say in the matter.
They do not even pretend to deliberate.
As the head juror announces their apparently unanimous decision, Severus understands that it was never a true trial.
He was never leaving here a free man.
There is cheering throughout the crowd. There is an outcry from a small pocket of supporters, Minerva and Potter among them.
He does not look to the upper left. He does not wish to see if she remains. He closes his eyes to shut out the world for a moment and tells himself that she’ll continue to write him even though his fate is—
“Stop her!”
Gasps. Screams. An intense increase in temperature.
“Fiendfyre!”
His eyes snap open. A small ring of fire surrounds his chair. While creatures dance in the tendrils of the flames, it burns blue not orange. Spells fired at him disintegrate before they can reach him. Hermione approaches slowly, her own circle of flames ensuring her path to him. Forget seeing her as a former student, she will only ever be a goddess of fire to him. Their flames meld together into one larger circle when she reaches him.
“It’s not fiendfyre,” Hermione says calmly. “But you are wise to keep your distance. Attempt to touch him and you will burn.”
“You are aiding a convicted criminal, girl,” an auror snarls.
She snorts. “Pardon me if I place little value in the verdict of a kangaroo court. You have declared him guilty not by weight of evidence but by weight of public opinion.”
“Hermione, think of what you’re doing,” Shacklebolt says.
“I’ve thought about it for weeks, Kings, planned it meticulously,” she says, almost conversationally. “You’re predictable. Your aurors? Easily taken in by a few drinks and the fluttering lashes of the ‘golden girl.’” Her voice sours at the nickname. “I knew what this outcome would be. I warned you. You chose politics. I’ve chosen doing the right thing.”
“You can’t even free him from his chair,” another auror sneers.
“Severus,” she asks, turning halfway to face him. “Before I make you an accessory, you would like to run away with me, no?”
He smirks. “I thought you were done with nonsensical questions.”
“Like I said,” Hermione taunts, turning back to the aurors as she flicks her wand and releases his binds. “Very easily taken in.”
She tosses him a wand. It’s not his own but feels familiar. The civilians draw back as he stands. Aurors converge.
“The two of you won’t make it out of the Ministry.”
“We’ll see.”
The flames, which he’s certainly typically disintegrate, continue to push back their foes. They howl in pain at the burns and grow faint from the heat. Hermione presses forward until they enter the hallway. She stops at a planter and offers him her hand.
“Trust me?”
He takes her hand and she plunges her hand into the dirt to retrieve grabs a small object, and they spin away into nothing, reemerging at a small cottage on an unrecognizable beach.
“France has no extradition,” she says, keeping her fingers threaded through his as she pulls him towards the cottage. “I’ve placed the enchantments I used on the run, but you can adjust them as you see fit.”
Severus pulls her to a stop just in the entryway. She tilts her head curiously.
“I don’t understand.”
“I love you,” she says unabashedly. “I understand if you don’t—”
“Brightest witch my arse,” he breathes against her lips before claiming her mouth with his own.