Voice of Truth by Ginny_W
Chapter Notes: POA quote from chapter 13: “A Firebolt?”
Author’s Notes: I hope that this starts to answer some of the questions. I spoke with several people regarding the way that Hermione retold her story. I believe that the styles that I've used here, tell the story the best way.
Thanks go to Southern_Witch_69 for beta reading this story for me; she’s been motivational and encouraging.
Just how well do you know him, Hermione? The question is ringing in my head.
“Sit down, Harry,” I say calmly, preparing to answer.
“Hermione,” he says with clear warning in his voice.
“I’ll tell you. Just please sit down.” He reluctantly complies. I wish that there were an easier way to tell this story. Part of me is afraid to tell Harry everything, and the other part of me is relieved that this will all be brought out into the open. I carefully sit down again. “After you destroyed the last remnants of Voldemort, Harry, I really began thinking about all of those things that I mentioned. It was as if they were haunting me. I saw him at the first Victims of War Remembrance Service. The one that was about two months after they declared the ruddy war finally over.”
“He was there? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I didn’t know for certain! I caught a glimpse of him, but as soon as it registered to me who it was, he was gone,” I snap. Once again, I need to calm myself before I can continue. He’s still glaring daggers at me. I know he loves me, but it’s frustrating to know that he’s this upset with me.
“I saw him again at the one year anniversary.” Holding up my hand, for what seemed like the hundredth time, I continue. “I’ve usually been late to the celebration dinner, but that year I was horribly late…”
Hermione was dabbing her eyes. It had only been a year since they were all, finally, allowed to grieve. During the war many people died in service to the Order and to the Wizarding community at large. They had been very dark days, and there had been little time to mourn those that were lost.
Scrimgeour had commissioned famous Wizarding sculptor, Blake Barstow, to create a monument in the Hogwarts’ cemetery where people could pay their respects to all that were lost during those dark times. This year, the monument was being christened, and Scrimgeour was telling everyone that there would be an annual memorial service to remember the fallen, followed by a victory celebration. Hermione dreaded the idea of attending the celebrations… She’d never been one for parties. She was glad that they had won, that Voldemort was gone forever; however, she was not looking forward to attending the annual victory parties for the next hundred years or so.
They had finally finished reading the list of names and giving short speeches. Those that had gathered were dismissed to attend the celebrations. Standing from her seat, Hermione walked quietly away from the crowd of people. The day was drizzly and gloomy. Ministry employees had cast a sphere over the area where the service was to be held in order to keep the attendees from getting wet by the rain.
Hermione wasn’t sure where she was walking. Everyone else was leaving through the gates so they could quickly Disapparate to a happier and drier location. They couldn’t leave fast enough. Solemn, Hermione was not in the mood to join her friends just yet. She exited the sphere with a soft pop to walk among the dead. Instantly, she began feeling drops of water on her hair and body.
It took about ten minutes of slowly treading through the grass and reading the epitaphs of those that she remembered when she stopped. Hermione was no more than ten feet away from Dumbledore’s grave when she saw him.
The black cloak hanging over his shoulders was flapping in the breeze. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his plain black robes, and his stringy hair was blowing across his face as he stood at a respectable distance in front of Albus Dumbledore’s burial site. Hermione could not see his face, but she found herself wondering why the man’s murderer would be standing, as if paying his respects.
“Snape was standing over Dumbledore’s grave?” Harry interrupts.
“Yes, he was,” I reply. “Now, hush!”
Carefully, quietly, she dared to walk closer, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Professor?” she asked tentatively.
The man whipped around with his wand drawn on her. Hermione jumped at his quick movements. She instantly showed her hands, but she did not step back. Instead, she met his fierce gaze, a determined look on her face. “I’m not holding my wand. I…” She began to falter with the words she suddenly wanted to say.
“Out with it, girl,” he snarled at her.
“I”I just wanted to say thank you for everything that you did for us,” she said quietly.
There was obvious doubt in his eyes, though his stance relaxed, if ever so slightly. The silence stretched between them.
She knew that she could scream, and providing that there was anyone still left from the memorial service, this man would not be able to escape quick enough. They were, after all, still on Hogwarts’ grounds. However, a strong part of her did not wish to do that. She also knew that there was a chance that he could hurt her, but she doubted that he actually would. There was no rhyme or reason to it”just something in her gut told her to trust him.
Thus, it caught her completely off-guard when she was hit with a silent hex. Her body stiffened and began to fall towards the hard, wet ground. Before her body hit, however, he waved his wand yet again, slowing her fall so that she reached the grass gently.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Miss Granger,” he hissed, stooping over her. “However, regardless of your intentions, I cannot have you preventing me from leaving.” He stood back up. “Accio Firebolt,” he said. Moments later, a broom slapped into his hand. Mounting the broom, he kicked off the ground and quickly left.
“…it took about five minutes more for the Petrificus Spell to wear off, and I was able to move. I was soaked to the bone from lying on the ground, so I had to go home, clean up, and change. That’s why I was so late that evening.”
“A Firebolt? Snape had a Firebolt?” Harry mutters.
“I tell you about seeing the man after a remembrance service, and all you can mention is his ruddy broom?” I ask in undisguised disgust.
“Actually, Hermione, I can’t believe that you were so stupid as to approach the git. You should’ve called for help, detained him, something… ANYTHING!”
I roll my eyes at him. It was that or get riled up again, and I honestly think that one of us needs to stay calm right now. Sure, it may have been a tad foolish to approach a murderer that way, but I didn’t see it that way. Where I typically stick with my brains and logic, I am a woman… and there had been something telling me that Severus Snape could truly be trusted.
“That wasn’t the only time that you saw him, was it?” Harry accuses.
“No, it wasn’t,” I say firmly.
After that first meeting, Hermione began visiting the cemetery often. Something about Severus Snape began fascinating her. She began wondering about his motives, intentions, and true allegiances. Her attempts to see the man proved to be futile, she never saw him there.
As the year wore on, her visits became less and less frequent. Face it; visiting a graveyard on a near weekly basis can begin to take its toll and become rather depressing. With only three months to go until the next remembrance service, Hermione gave up going all together.
When the next Victims of War Remembrance Service finally rolled around, she again decided to wander amongst the tombstones after the speeches. All of the other guests could not leave the grounds soon enough, but Hermione was finding something peaceful about it. Walking the same path that she had the following year, she forced herself to stay calm as she neared Dumbledore’s final resting place.
There was no one there.
What did catch her eye was a bench that had been placed near the gravesite. Hermione sat on the cold stone. She was grateful that it wasn’t as dreary this year as it had been last time. Gingerly, she sat back against the bench and lost herself in thoughts and memories. The time slipped by.
After nearly an hour of sitting, she finally pulled herself up and left. She’d realized that their prior meeting had been a nothing more than coincidence.
Hermione only made a few visits until the next year’s service. Once again she found herself making the familiar trek through the grave markers towards the stone bench and the remains of Hogwarts’ former headmaster. Seating herself, she again lost herself in thought.
Hermione was no longer determined to find her former professor. She only wanted to be among the stillness and quiet. The air here was refreshing, especially when compared to the air in London where she lived and worked. The smells brought back memories of youth and”despite the location”life.
Hermione jumped when she suddenly felt a cold piece of wood up against her throat and hot breath in her ear. “Interesting. One might think that you were waiting for someone, Miss Granger,” came the familiar drawl.
Not daring to move, she replied, “Professor Snape.” She was surprised at how calm the words sounded.
“What do you want?” he hissed in a deadly tone, pushing the wand firmly against her neck.
“The ruddy git had you at wandpoint? Bloody hell, Hermione! What did you think you were doing going there if you thought he’d show up?” Harry chastises.
“By that point, I really didn’t think that Severus would appear,” I reply, noticing Harry shudder at Snape’s given name. “I just found it relaxing to be there. However, I was hoping to learn the truth… not some cobbled version of everyone else’s assumptions,” I spit back at him before going back to my story.
“I just came by to visit. I honestly didn’t expect for you to be here.”
“Really now? Do you expect me to believe that? I know how often you’ve been here. Do you think that I’m not aware of the number of times that you’ve visited since our impromptu meeting two years ago?”
“How do you know? Have you been spying on me?”
“You interrupted my meeting, Miss Granger. I had come back a few times to try to finish my time here and found that every time I tried, you were here. After a while, however, I must admit that I became intrigued.” He relaxed the pressure that his wand was pressing into her skin. “Last year, I was hiding just beyond that tree over there. I had expected you to arrive with a team of Aurors. I must admit that you surprise me, Miss Granger. Haven’t you told Potter or Weasley about your trips here?”
“No,” she replied. “I did come several times, hoping to run into you. However, when it became apparent that you were not going to be back, I began coming here for the quiet.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I suppose I want to know what really happened.”
The wand that had been sticking into her neck was removed, though she didn’t dare turn around. After several minutes, Hermione was sure that he’d left until she heard him take a breath to speak.
“If you truly wish to know the truth, Miss Granger, begin by looking carefully at the headmaster’s memoirs. Be back here next year, come alone, and if you truly wish to have your questions answered, we will talk.” His voice was quiet and surprisingly calm in her ears. That is until he hissed, “Do NOT double-cross me, Miss Granger.”