Severus looked up from his desk, and set aside his quill.
“Miss Granger,” he said, eyeing her curiously; it had been some years since he’d seen her. There were strands of grey in her chestnut hair, more pronounced lines beneath her eyes. And prominent smile lines, he noted sourly; she must have had a good life. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, carefully inflecting his voice so that it was clear that he did not consider it a pleasure at all.
“Professor,” she replied carefully. “How are you?”
There was an odd quality to her voice that he couldn’t quite identify. His scowl deepened.
“If you’re just here for idle chit-chat, Miss Granger, then you can be on your way. I’m much too busy to be -”
“No, no,” she said, hurrying to sit in the chair opposite his desk. He seemed to notice, for the first time, his office; it was not his usual office. It was much too white, although the lights had been dimmed. Behind Granger was a bed, sterile white again, sheets tucked with military precision - but sprawled over the top of it was a knitted blanket in shades of green. He squinted at it for a moment, perplexed - where was he? - before his attention was drawn again by Granger politely clearing her throat.
“I was wondering, Professor, if you could help me with a project I’m working on,” she said. “Just a few questions. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
He observed her more closely; age had been kind to her. But something was amiss - if he really was a Professor, and she really was a student, then why was she so old? If he was her Professor then by necessity she should be a teen. He looked around his office again, in a state of dreamlike certainty; this was his office. He was at Hogwarts. But the office in front of him bore absolutely no resemblance to his dungeon. And yet it was his office, he was certain of it. It was the only thing he was certain of. His gaze flicked back to Granger.
“Miss Granger, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
She’d been fidgeting with the handle of her handbag, but now she nodded, eyes wide.
“Voldemort’s dead,” she said, and his heart nearly stopped from the shock. That was impossible; he worked alongside Dumbledore to protect Potter from the Dark Lord. He’d been thinking about it just now - hadn’t he? How he’d have to stop… whoever the Dark Arts imbecile was this year. He couldn’t remember, he realised, who that was - or what the year was.
“No,” he insisted. “The Dark Lord remains -”
“He’s dead,” Hermione said firmly. “Harry defeated him.”
His eyes narrowed. “And why are you telling me this?”
“You’re Dumbledore’s man,” she said. “I trust you. And I need you to trust me.”
He searched her face, and then her mind. It was almost too easy; it was almost as though she were showing him. He felt her relief at the Dark Lord’s downfall, saw glimpses of a memory in her mind’s eye; how the Dark Lord’s lifeless body hit the ground, and how Potter succeeded, against the odds, using only Expelliarmus .
“Potter looks young,” he said. “You don’t,” he added snidely.
“It’s been a while,” she admitted, not even flinching at his insult. “You were injured, on the night of the Battle.”
A kind of paranoid realisation seemed to hit him then; that would be why his office didn’t seem familiar, not quite right, even though it was; why nothing she said made much sense.
“So,” he asked delicately. “I’ve been incapacitated for some time?”
“Some time,” she agreed, reaching into her handbag and producing a little vial. She set it down on the desk in front of him. “This will restore your memories. You’ll have noticed by now that… something’s not quite right.”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer, turning the vial in his hands. The liquid inside was a delicate blue, swirling with white threads that looked alarmingly like Pensieve memories.
“What is this?”
“A memory restorative,” she said, lifting her chin. “The Lunamnemnis Elixir. I’ve modified it slightly,” she added, as though any of that meant anything to him.
He stretched his fingers thoughtfully. “And why are you providing me this, Miss Granger, instead of a Healer?”
She reached into her handbag again, this time producing a copy of The Daily Prophet . “Being Minister for Magic has its perks,” she said, offering the sort of smile that asked him to trust her.
He slid the newspaper closer. And there it was; an image of Hermione Granger, first Muggle-born Minister in living memory, waving cheerfully at the crowd. Potter and Weasley were at her side. There was a rosette pinned to each of their lapels in the picture; at the heart of each read In Memory of Those We Lost. There was no grey in her hair, in the picture. There certainly was on her head.
“This picture is old,” he said, sliding it back across the desk. He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted.
“And so am I?” she asked, preempting him; it felt as though she’d had this conversation before. Perhaps she had, and he simply didn’t remember. She wore a hint of a smile. He couldn’t decide whether it was melancholy or understanding; perhaps it was both.
“Miss Granger, how long have I been here?”
Her smile faltered. “A fair while. Take the potion,” she urged when he opened his mouth to demand more answers. “It’ll help, I promise you. We can discuss everything afterwards.”
He scowled. Everything from her face to her memories to the newspaper and her story seemed to fit, even within his foggy understanding; and what did he have to lose? He was slowly realising that he didn’t know much about anything at all, and whether he took the potion and died or took it and remembered, either was better than this. He uncorked the vial, and tipped it down his throat.
He was met by a rush of memories, all at once; the cold stone floor of the Shrieking Shack, drowning in his own blood; Fawkes’ tears searing away his wounds. A Muggle life, a miserable life, before being rediscovered by Hermione in a dimly lit restaurant on a rainy January night. Their first kiss tasted like red wine; their wedding day, her radiant smile beneath a veil of lace; mornings watching the birds amidst the crisp smell of dawn. The day Hermione became Minister for Magic he stood inside, watching her on the balcony as she addressed the crowd; the day they found out she was pregnant, stunned by the glowing potion result; the births of their two children, newborn cries and tiny, wrinkled hands; sleepless night and noisy days with newborns became a lifetime of righting his father’s wrongs; a happy life, with happy children. Their children’s first trip at Platform 9 ¾, tearful goodbyes viewed through a haze of steam.
A lifetime of memories began to falter and fail, the last of any prominence was Hermione’s 120th birthday. He caught glimpses of a garden in full bloom, and the sound of old friends’ laughter. Their faces were familiar; he couldn’t remember their names. One man had a most peculiar scar on his forehead. Severus had asked where he got it.
The memories slowed to a halt, until at last he had them all. Countless days, countless nights; the feel of Hermione in his arms, every night, for a lifetime. He opened his eyes.
“Oh,” he sighed. “I see.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, rising from his desk with some difficulty as Hermione let out a whimper and threw herself into his arms. “Where am I?” he asked softly.
“St Mungo’s,” she sobbed. “I visit you every day, Sev, every day, and I -”
“It’s alright,” he whispered, rocking her gently from side to side. “I’m alright. How are you?”
“Getting by,” she murmured into his chest. “The house is too big without you.”
“Mm,” he said, stroking her hair. “How long have I been… here?”
“About a year.” She sniffled. “I tried to keep you at home, but you would get confused, and upset - I had to take your wand after you jinxed me.”
“I’m sorry, I would never -”
“I know,” she said, holding him tightly. “I know, it’s not your fault.” Hermione took a step back and dabbed lightly at her eyes with a tissue. “Sev, do you think - all that testing we did with the memory Elixir, do you think -”
“Hermione, how old am I?”
“One hundred and fifty-six.”
“That’s a good age. Even wizards have to die eventually,” he said softly, taking her hand. “I don’t regret anything,” he added. “Look at all those years we had with your parents. I don’t regret anything at all.” Hermione gulped, and he pulled her into his arms again. He sighed. “How long?”
“They don’t know,” she said softly. “You’re not dying, exactly, you’re just - forgetting.”
“No,” he chuckled. “I mean, how long do I have with you, right now?”
She sniffled. “Maybe… maybe an hour. It used to be more, but it’s not - it’s not working as well as it used to.”
He held her at arm’s length to get a proper look at her. “You’ve aged suspiciously well,” he said, teasing her.
“De-ageing potion,” she said, giving him a tear-stained smile. “Otherwise you don’t recognise me when I walk in.”
“Only because you’ve grown so much more beautiful,” he sighed, wiping her cheeks. “Can I see?”
“No!” she cried. “No, if you slip back, you won’t recognise me, and you’ll tell me to leave!”
“Please? I want to see you,” he said softly. “As you are now.”
Blinking away her tears she nodded and, fumbling with her handbag again, produced a vial to return her to her current appearance. Hermione uncorked it with shaking hands and drank, her form shimmering momentarily as the magic took effect. Severus watched with a tender smile as her features transformed, revealing the woman he loved in all her aged beauty. Her hair, now a crown of soft white curls, framed her face; her eyes, still the same warm brown that had captivated him all those decades ago, framed with wrinkles etched from years of laughter and countless smiles. Severus reached out and took her trembling, speckled hand, marvelling at the softness of her skin, the way her fingers intertwined perfectly with his.
“Beautiful as ever,” he murmured, drawing her close and burying his hands in her hair. Hermione’s tearful smile widened, and she leant into his touch.
“Almost as beautiful as you,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “How do I look?” He glanced around the room. “I take it they don’t let me have a mirror so I don’t get confused.”
Hermione nodded, running a hand through his hair. “You’re all grey,” she said fondly, “and all wrinkled, and incredibly handsome.”
He chuckled and took her hand, guiding her to the bed. They laid down face-to-face, drawing the blanket over themselves. It was one Hermione had Transfigured for him, the night he’d first tested the Lumanemnis Elixir, designed to restore her parents’ memories, and he clutched it gratefully in his hands. He pulled Hermione close, burying his nose in her hair.
“You don’t have to come and see me,” he murmured eventually, resting his chin on her head. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“I can’t leave you -”
“I won’t remember,” he argued softly. “I won’t remember one way or another whether you come to see me - but you will. I’m losing myself. You don’t have to watch me go.”
She shook her head vehemently against his chest. “I can’t leave you,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “You spend so much time as a Professor these days, stuck somewhere miserable and lonely. You ask the Healers why you can’t just leave - and why McGonagall and Dumbledore refuse to take your owls.” She sniffed. “They Confound you when you get agitated, give you fake Potions essays to mark to distract you, but you’re miserable. And I can’t - I can’t leave you like that. I won’t let that be how you go. Thinking that nobody cares.”
He smiled sadly, pulling her tightly against him. “You always were too good to me.”
She laughed tearfully, tightening her arms around his waist. She cried for a while as he kissed her forehead and played with her hair, rubbing slow circles on her back. It was easier for him - in no time at all he wouldn’t even remember why he was crying.
“How are the kids?” he asked, tucking a stray lock behind Hermione’s ear.
“Coping,” she said sadly. “They’re visiting you tomorrow - I just wanted you alone today.”
He made a noise in the back of his throat. “What’s the date?”
“Our anniversary.”
“Oh,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Happy anniversary, my love.”
“Happy anniversary, Sev,” she said, and her voice broke.
The room was silent, save for Hermione’s soft sniffles, and the faint ticking of a clock. He inhaled her scent; he was grateful she’d worn the perfume he loved so much, the one he remembered. He sighed, planting another kiss on her head. He wanted her forever, not for an hour. The clock ticked on.
“When the time comes… When even the Elixir doesn’t - doesn’t help you remember me any more,” Hermione whispered. “When that happens, I’ve made some Elysium’s Embrace.”
He paused for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you.” Tears were in his eyes again now, rolling into her hair. “Will you stay with me, then?”
“You know I will. I wouldn’t leave you alone.”
“I know,” he said, laughing sadly. “I know, I just like to hear it.”
“Maybe you’ll think of me,” Hermione offered hopefully, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “When the potion takes you, and gives you a vision of a perfect, happy life as you pass,” she said, her voice little more than a choked sob. “Maybe you’ll dream of me.”
“Oh, I’ll only think of you,” he said, smiling into her hair. “The day we met - well, for the second time,” he smirked; Hogwarts would not be in his vision of paradise - but the vision of Hermione finding him, desperately alone in a restaurant on his 49th birthday, taking his arm and leading him into a new life. “That day we met,” he repeated, “until the day we married, and -”
“And not a single day after that,” she teased, tickling his neck.
“And every - single - day,” he emphasised each word with a squeeze. “ Every single day after that.” He pressed a kiss to her lips, and pulled back to admire her; his beautiful, wonderful wife. He gently traced the lines around her eyes with his fingertips.
“If I could choose any life to flash before my eyes, Hermione, I’d choose the one I had with you.”