Disclaimer: Don’t own it.

Edited by thyme_is_a_cat

Chapter 6 – Butterflies and Hurricanes


It hardly surprised Hermione that when her back hit the bottom of the well, she landed softy, as if the ground had materialized under her. As she had dropped into darkness, a sudden, fierce longing had gripped her: an intense desire to go home. With the light had come an odd, familiar sense of floating, briefer than before but unmistakable to the time-traveler in training.

The air in the well was stiflingly warm, though she could tell from the periwinkle circle of sky that it was nearing twilight. The storm was gone. Snape was gone. Frowning, she glared up at the faintly twinkling stars. She couldn’t believe that he had tried to Obliviate her and steal the phial.

Bastard.

But, he had tried to catch her before she fell, and he’d looked stricken as his face had flashed out of sight…

Poor, distrustful, pathetic bastard.

She sighed, irritated that her wholly justified anger was slipping away more quickly than it should. It appeared to be a moot point at the moment anyway, since the object of her anger was no longer there. With an effort of will, she forced her mind from Snape and to the situation at hand.

So, she was no longer where she had been (when, actually – she was exactly where she’d been). It was interesting that it seemed to be the same time of day. That implied that some time had passed here after she had fallen into the well. Of course, she was assuming that she was in her own present, which was not necessarily the case. However, if she understood the passage on the Starglass correctly, and it was, in fact, the catalyst of movement through time (which she strongly suspected, not that it explained how she had begun time traveling in the first place – she would have to revisit that thought), and her artifact was, indeed, the Starglass, then it would be her intent it would use to bring her here… and she had wanted to go home.

She climbed to her feet and levitated herself out of the well, deciding that it would be more productive to learn when she was than to sit at the bottom of a potions dump and speculate on it. She would have to ask Severus about the safety issues involved with throwing various and sundry wastes into a hole in the ground and leaving them to stew, even if their neutralizing agents had been added. Could any of them react with residues from other disposals or elements in the dirt itself? She was sure he had been careful, but were his friends just as conscientious? Perhaps they could set up a small experiment…

Oh.

No, they couldn’t. He was dead.

Sighing and sniffling lightly, she rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead as melancholy settled on her shoulders, as heavy as her wet robes. The fabric clung to her skin uncomfortably, chilling her despite the warmth of the evening and increasing her misery. Two weeks ago, she had respected the man, even if she hadn’t liked him. Now that she had gotten to know him better, she would have been pleased to count him among her friends. She felt blessed and cheated at the same time: to have had that short time as companions and yet to have wasted years on antipathy, watching him die with an unmoved heart.

She had watched him die and had done nothing.

Choking back a sob, she pushed open the chain link gate that led out of the Industrial Graveyard and trudged between the houses. She couldn’t even regain her former snit at his attempted theft and subsequent chase for the phial to salve the lancing pain in her breast. What had been so important…?

She slipped the tiny phial out her pocket and held it up in the fading light. Tiny specs of fine, gray dust glittered faintly in the pointed bottom. Holding the stopper tightly closed, she upended it and then righted it, watching as the dust slid along the walls of crystal. There was no sign of the sharp obsidian shards. It was yet another mystery to add to her growing collection.

Hermione’s train of thought abandoned her as she caught sight of Snape’s house on Spinner’s End, and she stopped in her tracks, staring in mute shock. The prison-gray grime that had coated the house had been scrubbed clean to reveal bright, red brick. A lush lawn had been sown in front, and colorful bunches of pansies bloomed on either side of the walk. The windows were clean, the porch swept, and a sleek cat, black as pitch without a flaw on him, napped on the top step. The rest of the neighborhood was no less dismal, but in comparison, his house shone like a polished ruby.

Gobsmacked, she meandered up the walk, noticing absently that the cracks in the cement had been repaired and the weeds pulled from between the seams. Great care had been taken to restore the house; it looked better than when he had been living in it as a young man. Then again, she couldn’t imagine him on his knees gardening. The cat rose and stretched as she climbed the short set of stairs, twining around her legs in an affectionate, familiar manner. Bending at the waist, she let her fingers glide over the silky fur, smiling when the cat arched its back into her touch. She gave the base of its tail a good scratch, then let the tail slide through her fingers. When she straightened, the cat sent her a reproachful look and traced a figure eight between her legs as she raised her hand to the doorknob.

Before she could turn it, the door was flung open, yanking the knob out of her grasp and dragging her slightly off balance. Catching herself on the frame, she half-expected to stare up into the face of Snape, himself, but she only had a moment of disappointment before relief washed through her, and Ron swept her up in a crushing hug.

“Hermione! Gods, Hermione!” he moaned into her hair. Tears wet her neck as he pressed his face into her skin, planting frantic kisses on anything his lips touched. Hermione wrapped her arms around his shoulders and returned the embrace, melting into the security it offered.

Suddenly, he latched onto her shoulders and wrenched her away, holding her at arm’s length. Giving her a little shake, he blurted, “Where were you? It’s been over a week! We thought you’d been…” He shook her again, harder. “Where were you? Whose old robes are these?” He wrinkled his freckled nose. “And why are you all wet?”

“I… what?” Hermione’s mind wobbled on its axis as if it had just hopped off a spinning merry-go-round. ‘A week?’ she thought, dumbfounded, and gestured to the tidy entry that sported newly waxed wooden floors, an ornate, wrought-iron coat rack, and freshly painted walls. “You did all this in a week?”

“All what, Hermione? Where have you been?”

She ignored the second question in favor of the first, not sure how to answer. “The paint, the gardening, the… the… everything!” She flung out her arms to encompass the house and grounds.

Ron let his arms slide from her shoulders, his face crumpling into alarmed concern. “Hermione… we’ve been working with your group to restore this place all summer. A.A.S.S., remember? But we haven’t done anything since you disappeared. I’d only come back today because I thought maybe… We have to get you to St. Mungo’s,” he finished decisively.

Hermione winced internally, sure that her utter bewilderment must be plastered across her face. Not to mention the fact that she was muddy, bedraggled and looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backward. But what could he mean about her group restoring this place? No one had been willing to help except Ron, and only because she’d wheedled and nagged and finally threatened to withhold nookie. She had a dreadful feeling that she was not the only thing to change after her little sojourn in the past.

Ron had taken hold of her elbow and was trying to lead her toward the door. Digging in her heels, she shook her head. “No, no, that isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly fine. I just—”

“Fine? Fine? You have been gone for over a week! We contacted the Ministry when you didn’t reappear! Aurors are out searching for you, Harry is pulling his hair out, your parents are on vacation so we couldn’t reach them, but—”

“Oh, Ron, I’m so sorry!” She wrapped the shaking, crying man in her arms and held him close, her own tears leaving silvered tracks on her cheeks. She owed him an explanation for her absence – and how she wished she’d known that the time spent in the past would also go by in the future! Opening her mouth to describe her adventure, she paused, suddenly unsure that telling him about the time portal in the well was a good idea. Would he want to destroy it? Use it? And once Ron knew, then word would leak to the Ministry through his conversations with his fellow Aurors in training. It would be wise to keep that information close so that she could study it without fear of interruption or interference. She was almost salivating at the opportunity for a bit of private research on such a unique phenomenon.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her job at the Ministry. Bureaucratic nonsense and political idiots aside, she did important work and improved many lives that had been devastated during the war. She arranged for counseling and rehabilitation for those stripped of their wands and property during the Occupation, Voldemort’s short reign. She placed orphans in foster care (one of those being young Teddy Lupin, who was being raised by Molly) and organized the funding and rebuilding of houses and businesses destroyed during the Occupation. It was Good and Noble Work, as Harry put it. But it wasn’t nearly as exciting as catching the end of a mystery and pulling, watching it unravel like a colorful Weasley sweater until she found the final slipknot. This last week spent researching and experimenting with Snape had been more fun than she had had since her Hogwarts days – shouting, fighting and the whole being trapped in the past thing not withstanding.

So, when she opened her mouth a second time and drew a deep breath, she said, “I stumbled upon a Portkey in the field behind the house.”

Ron stiffened, pulling away to gaze at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “A Portkey?”

She nodded. “It was a bit of twisted metal. I tripped in a gopher hole and landed on it. I ended up on a beach in Thailand.”

“Thailand?”

Nodding again, she warmed to her story and spun a tale of foreign wizards, language barriers, misdirected Portkeys, a run-in with a Sphinx, a bout of bad stomach, and a rainstorm on the coast of France. By the time she had finished, Ron had relaxed enough to laugh at her misadventures. They were now seated comfortably in the parlor, the walls of which had been stripped of their books to give the bookcases a good varnishing. The ceiling was waiting for a coat of paint over the primer, and sheets covered much of the furniture, including the sofa on which they sat. The black cat had come in with them and was now curled up on the sheet covering the wingback chair.

“Ron, whose cat is that?” she asked finally, when they were both slouched on the sofa, shoulders touching and cups of cooling tea in their hands. He craned his neck to give her a glance askance.

“That’s Mewlip, Professor Snape’s cat. A.A.S.S. takes care of him. Are you sure you’re alright?”

No. “Yes, I’m fine.”

---

Hermione spent the next several days in a whirlwind of frantic visits from friends in her tiny flat; annoyed Floo calls from coworkers who had thought her quite irresponsible for haring off for a week (even though she was technically on leave for the A.A.S.S. project); a full inquisition as to her whereabouts by an irritated old Auror and a stack of mail that was daunting in both its height and determination to tip over. The bag of owl treats that she kept by the mail window had been torn open and plundered, and little nuggets were scattered over the counter and across the floor.

Crookshanks wouldn’t speak to her for two days. She was disappointed, but figured she had gotten off lightly until she’s slipped her feet into a new pair of flats and found the surprise waiting within. Swearing loudly, she’d Vanished the shoes and had scrubbed her tainted foot until it was raw. She decided then and there that it was time for Crookshank’s biannual bath and grooming, something she’d been putting off for a couple of months. When both human and cat were dry, smelling fresh, and brushed until they shone, forgiveness was given and life settled back into routine.

Except, of course, for the fact that she missed Snape. No, Severus – not Snape. Occasionally, she would catch herself mulling over an idea and making a mental note to tell him, only to remember why she couldn’t. She realized that she would have put up with a few barbed insults if she could have dropped by Spinner’s End to find him studying at his kitchen table.

All in all, few things had changed after her trip to the past and back again. She was still a Project Manger in the Office of Wizarding Services and Special Projects, Department of International Magical Cooperation. The office was as cobbled together as ever, having the same feeling of neglect. That was fine; as long as she got her funding, she didn’t really care, and her infamy for long, dry, tedious, fact-laden grant proposals had long bullied money out of the Department head, just so that he wouldn’t have to read them (or listen to her read them to him, as the case may be). Once, after two years of working in the Office of Wizarding Services, she had advanced on his office waving a thick, rolled parchment that was still blank, and he had drafted her a Gringott’s credit slip without waiting to hear the title of the project. Hermione had actually gone to him about the quality of parchment (she’d punctured two with her quill while writing up her current proposal). She’d written the grant anyway and acquired all appropriate signatures, but only after a quiet revel in her power over a bottle or three of butterbeer with the boys.

The most noticeable change was with A.A.S.S. and her friends’ view of Snape. The organization numbered more than three times as many members as it had before she’d left, totaling nine, including seven volunteers besides herself and her secretary. Luna Lovegood was working on a biography of his life as a double agent for Dumbledore as well as volunteering for A.A.S.S., and Ron referred to him as “Professor Snape”. Though Harry had shaped up his language soon after the war, Ron had never seen fit to give the man the respect that Hermione felt he was due. When she’d finally asked, burning with curiosity, he’d given her an odd look that was becoming entirely too familiar and replied, “Well, he was a right bastard in class, yeah, but he wasn’t so bad at Headquarters. Almost civil. Well, except to Sirius, of course.”

“Of course,” she’d mumbled, wishing she had learned Legilimency so that she could pull the foreign memories from his brain. A civil, older Snape: now that would have been worth paying to see.

“Alright, Hermione?” he’d asked. He had been doing that a lot lately. She’d just nodded and waved away his concern.

A couple of days later, she’d discreetly (somewhat, anyway – discretion wasn’t exactly her thing) gathered from Ginny that while he’d still been a fearsomely strict professor and favored Slytherin, he hadn’t been quite as cruel as she remembered, and he’d been civil, as Ron put it, to his peers and fellow Order members. Hermione wondered at the change and was tremendously glad that her unintentional meddling had had positive results rather than a disaster such as, oh, Snape deciding to betray Dumbledore and spy for Voldemort instead. She’d read about the Butterfly Effect.

Unfortunately, her relationships with Ginny and Ron had somehow suffered. Ginny held her at a distance and avoided being alone in the same room with her. She was polite, but behind her smiles festered an unknown resentment that Hermione could not draw out of her. When she’d asked Harry about it, he had simply shrugged noncommittally.

Ron had devolved into an obsequiousness that was almost as bad as in the year they had spent searching for Horcruxes. He handled her carefully, usually agreeing with her and only offering token resistance to things that he normally would have flat-out refused. He hadn’t tried to sleep over once since she’d climbed out of the well, and she’d only seen him on three occasions over the past seven days. The Ron she knew would have had his hand in her pants the very night she had arrived and would have been attached to her at the hip (literally) for as long as he could manage it. Though still affectionate, he seemed reserved and distant at times, and she couldn’t figure out whether it was a result of her absence or a change in the past. Either way, it wounded her, compounding her feeling of being off balance. He wouldn’t tell her what was wrong, either.

So it was that when she finally found an afternoon to return to Spinner’s End for a look around, she went alone. It was just as well, really, because Ron would have certainly gotten in her way, but she’d longingly hoped that he would take the initiative to get under foot a bit more. She missed being missed.

The house was as eerily well tended as she remembered. Someone had been by to water the pansies, as evidenced by the moist soil and perky blossoms. She was gratified that though the man was still not generally well liked, he had some of the respect that his memory deserved. It made her job a hell of a lot easier. Mewlip rose gracefully to greet her as she stepped onto the porch, trilling as he bumped his forehead against her leg, then darted into the house ahead of her when she pushed the door open.

The air was redolent with the stinging odors of fresh paint and ammonia cleanser, and a cloak hung from one of the hooks by the door. ‘Probably a member of A.A.S.S.,’ she thought, but just to be on the safe side, she shook her wand from her sleeve into her hand as she walked noiselessly into the little room.

A young witch with long, blond hair was enchanting books to fly out of boxes and organize themselves on the shelves. Even with her back turned, Hermione easily recognized Luna Lovegood. “Luna,” she said happily in greeting, “I didn’t know you were here today!”

With a glance over her shoulder, Luna smiled wistfully at Hermione as she flicked her wand to direct the books in midair to land on the shelves by her elbow, leaving several still sitting in the box at her feet. “Sometimes, when I hit a difficult point in my book and the words won’t cooperate, I come here to be closer to him.”

“I understand.”

“I suppose you do.”

Hermione glanced at her sharply, unnerved by Luna’s unusually focused gazed fixed on her. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and she wondered what was going on behind her cornflower eyes. Clearing her throat and staring up at the rows of recently dusted leather-bound volumes, she asked, “They haven’t been giving you any trouble, have they?”

“The books? No, they have behaved well enough.”

“I suppose I should let you get back to it…” Hermione trailed off, her discomfort forgotten as her eye caught the title of a particular book. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she scowled. ‘Shame on him! He kept it!’

“Shades of Gray” was shelved alphabetically with the twelve volumes of “Darke Vessels and Deadly Alembics” and the other books she and Severus had referenced in their quest to discover the origins of her phial. Whether he’d forgotten it or held onto it as a memento, she would likely never know, but to see this concrete evidence of their brief time together unexpectedly warmed her heart and tightened her throat with sorrow as she raised her fingertips to glide along its binding.

Luna’s face suddenly appeared in her field of view, startling her. The witch covered Hermione’s hand with her own, then pulled the volume from the shelf. “It’s a Hogwarts library book. He didn’t seem the kind to steal books, did he?”

Irritated, feeling the need to defend them both, she snapped, “Perhaps he only borrowed it with the intention of returning it, but events prevented him?”

“Perhaps. Have you ever felt like yourself, but not?”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Luna,” Hermione said warily, frustration coloring her tone.

“A week ago, I woke up at my desk. I had fallen asleep writing,” she explained with a rueful smile that Hermione returned, having done that very thing many times in the past. Ink was not that easy to get off one’s skin once it had dried. “But I couldn’t remember what I had been writing.”

“Your biography?” Hermione hazarded a guess, confused with where she was going with this, but having a feeling that she wouldn’t like her point.

“Yes, my biography. But for an instant, I couldn’t remember writing it,” Luna repeated, blinking owlishly at her.

Shifted nervously, Hermione asked, “Maybe you need a memory potion?”

Luna sent her a long-suffering look, and Hermione rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t think I do. Take a look at this.” She opened the book to a passage that Hermione knew well, revealing the sheaf of parchment still resting between the pages she had marked.

Well, now.

It was not the parchment she had used. It was, in fact, a clipping from the Daily Prophet. Edges ragged as if they had been torn, it was dated August 22nd, 1982 and featured a moving black-and-white photograph of a plump, hysterical witch in an enormous feathered hat being comforted by a wizard in an Auror uniform. The front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor framed the photo but the door was hanging awkwardly on its hinges. The title read: “Not So Sweet Treat: Robbery at Local Ice Cream Shop”. Most of the story was missing, but she had a good idea that the woman in the photo was now minus one handbag and some jewelry. The woman blew her nose in a lacy handkerchief, then wailed at the sky as large tears rolled down her dimpled cheeks. The Auror patted her back sympathetically and gestured to another Auror, who left the frame of the picture. Revealed behind him, a couple suddenly turned toward the camera, and both faces were clearly visible before they darted into a crowd of milling wizards and witches. Hermione gasped and took a startled step backward, her eyes darting up to meet Luna’s, which held a mild amusement.

“Yes, I was a bit shocked when I saw it, myself. I thought I had to be mistaken, at first…” Luna smiled as the photo repeated itself… the woman blew her nose… shook her fists at the sky… and two impossible faces stared out of the picture before dashing away.

Hermione’s stomach roiled, and she swayed on her feet, swallowing against the moisture that suddenly flooded her mouth. Abruptly, she sat on the sheet-covered couch, her clammy palms pressing against cheeks that had become hot and dry, her heart thundering in her ears. Luna sat next to her, placing the book on the coffee table to rub Hermione’s back soothingly.

“I’m not mistaken, am I?”

“But—but… that never happened!” Hermione wailed, too distraught to notice the panicked note to her voice.

“It did happened. Twenty years ago.” She pointed to the date.

Hermione shook her head and scrubbed at her face. “Not for me.”

“Ah, I see,” said Luna suddenly, and surprisingly, Hermione believed that she did. If anyone could accept such a ridiculous, unreasonable situation, it was Luna Lovegood. “Maybe we could sit down together later, and I could interview you about what he was like as a young man.” Hermione looked at her, aghast, through her fingers. “I wouldn’t quote you as a source, of course.”

With a final pat on Hermione’s back, Luna stood, leaving the book open and the photograph lying on its pages. “I’m going to finish up with these books,” she said, gesturing to the open box and its contents, “but I think you should go home and rest.”

Nodding as she plucked the newspaper clipping from the book, Hermione took a deep breath and stood, shooting her a grateful look for not pelting her with questions and for taking the matter in stride. Now that the shock had begun to lessen, her muscles twitching with the surcease and dissipation of adrenaline, she was able to think clearly about what the newspaper clipping implied. It terrified her, and yet gave her hope.

Luna retrieved a darkly bound book on “Practical Applications of Thaumaturgy” from the box and opened it as she pulled the clipping from Hermione’s nerveless fingers to lay it across a page. “I think this other one should go back to the library, don’t you?” Luna asked casually as if she had not just seen evidence of a bizarre time paradox tucked into the pages of a stolen library book.

“Long overdue, I’m sure,” Hermione managed with a shaky smile.

Placing the open book in Hermione’s hands, Luna fixed her with a softly serious gaze, her pale eyes wide and slightly protruding. “Hermione, be careful. What you are doing can have consequences that reach further than you could ever know. And watch out for the Aevumexesoris.”

“The Aevumexesoris?”

“Yes, they swim in the eddies between now and then and eat anyone that gets stranded. They are quite vicious.”

“And ugly,” Hermione added with a shudder.

Cocking her head, Luna lifted hopeful eyebrows. “If you could catch one…”

“Not bloody likely.”

“What a shame.” Luna shrugged and closed the book in Hermione’s hands. She caught one last glimpse of two faces darting out of the frame of the photograph: Severus and herself.

---

A/N: The title of this chapter is from a song by Muse: “Butterflies and Hurricanes.” In fact, the title of this fic is also inspired by a Muse song: “Unintended.” The lyrics of “Unintended” go well with the theme of the story, as well. If you aren’t familiar with the song, then I highly recommend it.