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The Complexities of Human Nature	By : ElleAllio Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 4367 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. This is a nonprofit fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Introduction / Tea And Time-Turners
- 1
Warnings
This fanfiction deals with mental illness, including (but not limited to) depression, post traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and anxiety disorder. Later chapters will feature explicit racism, violence, torture, child abuse, homosexuality, and incest. Chapters may possibly contain detailed depictions of self harm, suicide, drug abuse, eating disorders, rape, and/or pedophilia. Ideologies (religious and otherwise) will be dissected; Abrahamic and Judeo-Christian beliefs, in particular, will be heavily debated, and at times vilified.
I have yet to decide if I will be writing lemons (sex scenes) into this fic. Seeing as this story focuses on the brutalities of war and the complexity of human beings, dark content will be relatively frequent. Please be aware of the fact that I will not be posting any other warnings. Proceed with caution.
The views and opinions expressed in this fanfiction are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the author.
Introduction: Yes, You Should Read This Part
It is generally accepted that nurture plays a significant role in the development of human beings. It is highly unlikely that a person be born with inherently evil nature. All creatures are capable of both good and bad, yet most remain somewhere in the gray areas. This is demonstrated by the ruthless Hermione Granger, a generally accepted 'good' person, who sacrifices Umbridge to the centaurs, no doubt knowing their brutal folklore, who holds Rita Skeeter captive in a jar, then subsequently blackmails the journalist into doing her bidding, and who permanently disfigures a sixteen year old girl for reporting rule-breaking activity (yes, Rowling stated in an interview that the ‘sneak’ jinx left scarring).
Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore also work in the shades of gray, though whether they were, in the end, 'good' men is still a matter of controversy.
With that established, we must ask ourselves, what has happened to the villains in our story to make them, in our eyes, evil? Was Tom Riddle a sociopath? Did the effects of a parent under the influence of Amortentia during conception make him incapable of feeling love? Or was he a product of abandonment, social outcasting, and racism? Was the insanity of Bellatrix Black due to inbreeding, or did something happen to her? What circumstances drove Peter Pettigrew to taking the dark mark?
This tale will take us down an emotional rollercoaster, full of betrayals, domestic abuse, genetic instability, neglect, bullying, and ignorance. We will explore the childhood of Severus Snape, the paradoxes of time travel, the symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, the connotations of bigotry, and the medieval mindset of the 1970s pureblood movement. And we will observe human nature vs. societal nurture.
Chapter One: From Tea Time to Time-Turners
“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.” -Jane Austen, Emma
Tuesday, August 18th, 1998 - Hermione Granger
Hermione had come to truly appreciate her afternoon tea time with the newly appointed Headmistress. After the Battle of Hogwarts, many had stayed to assist in the reconstruction of Hogwarts. For the month of May, a makeshift town had sprouted up along the edges of the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake, littered with tents and hammocks. The seemingly endless funerals ceased as May turned to June, and by July the crowds had slowly returned to their families and shifted their attention to rebuilding their own lives.
The ones who remained longest were those most profoundly affected by the war. Few were surprised by the ferocity in which Neville Longbottom threw himself into the reparation of the greenhouses, nor the crazed determination George Weasley demonstrated in his renovation of Gryffindor Tower. Some had gossiped about Harry Potter's insistence on fixing up the dungeons and Shrieking Shack, but those who knew him well understood his reasoning. None had anticipated Draco Malfoy’s return to the school after his trial, arriving with single-minded resoluteness in restoring the Great Hall and ground floor classrooms.
By early August, the castle had been fully reassembled, leaving only Neville in his apprenticeship—and Hermione.
In all honesty, she was not completely sure why she had yet to leave. Even Harry and Ron had pounced on their offer to train as Aurors, despite never having attended their seventh year or sitting their NEWTs. Clearly, defeating a notorious Dark Wizard negated the necessity of formal education. It had been nearly a week since they'd left, and Hermione had wiled away her time taking inventory of the library and restocking Poppy Pomfrey's medicinal potions.
The petite brunette nibbled on a lemon biscuit as Minerva poured her another cup of tea. She murmured a thank you, but was too absorbed with the album in her lap to bother with the scalding liquid.
“Ah, my late husband,” commented the tartan clad witch, leaning over to examine the pages with her favourite student. “Elphinstone Urquart. That was taken on the day of his third proposal to me, in 1974.” She chuckled, shaking her head in nostalgia. It had become customary for them to flip through the Headmistress' memorabilia from her younger years, swapping stories and expressing their yearning for things long passed. “The poor man was smitten. Yet I was still lovelornly watching my muggle infatuation from afar.”
Having already heard the complicated and thrilling tale of Professor McGonagall's youthful career, courtship, and eventual marriage, Hermione simply smirked and nodded appreciatively. Finally reaching for her tea, she flipped the page, and found herself spluttering into the crook of her elbow as she avoided sloshing Earl Grey onto the aged pictures below. After several long moments, she managed to inhale deep, gulping breaths, placing the fine china cup and saucer back onto the table between them. Her whiskey orbs flickered up towards Minerva, wide and disbelieving, before returning to their prior focal point.
A secretive smile curled up the elderly woman's thin lips. “That,” she told Hermione conspiratorially, “Is Persephone Glacendres. She was my student in the 70s, and later my friend. She disappeared the night of the Longbottoms' attack. Karkaroff identified her as a fellow Death Eater, though Dumbledore swayed the Wizengamot to have her exonerated as a spy, regardless of her evanescence.”
“I didn't know there was a double agent in the first war,” Hermione murmured, unable to lift her gaze from the photograph.
There was a pregnant pause before Minerva spoke again. “The resemblance is quite striking, is it not?”
She didn't answer, instead running a finger across the faded image. Even if she had wanted to respond, she didn't know what to say. A thousand questions buzzed around in her head, none of which she wanted to voice aloud. But when the silence stretched on, the headmistress continued.
“In your fourth year I approached Albus. It was the night of the Yule Ball, just as we'd finished removing the celebratory enchantments on the Great Hall. Though I admit I had not seen a likeness until then. I believed, at the time, that perhaps you were a relative. Albus quickly negated that suspicion.”
Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was a relief to have her fears so immediately put to rest. For the worn picture she stared at looked very much like herself.
The woman, in some ways, looked nothing like her. Her hair was lighter—a caramel colour in contrast to Hermione's chocolate curls. It was not evocative of the frizz and bushiness that her tormentors had teased her for as a child. She could not tell whether it was riotous or tame due to the elegant coif it had been placed in. And Hermione had never really worn makeup, considering it superfluous. Even for the Yule Ball she had only applied a light gloss and a small amount of mascara. However, this woman wore coal black winged eyeliner, her lips a startling shade of cherry red. She did not have the gaunt, hollow look of a woman recently recovering from war. There were no bruise like rings circling her eyes, as there were around her counterpart's. Her skin was smooth and glowing, unlike Hermione's, which was chapped and peeling from neglect.
Yet, despite these differences, the face staring back at her, smiling mysteriously, was astonishingly similar to her own.
The same uncommon, honey coloured eyes. The same heart shaped face and high cheekbones. Her lower lip was pouty, accented by the lipstick, with the same small dimples at the corners of her mouth. But behind the glamorous cosmetics and the secretive smile, there was a haunted, hunted flicker in her gaze. Hermione recognized that sharp stare. She saw it every morning in her mirror, as she dutifully brushed her teeth—a mechanical mannerism, one last instinctual genuflection of her muggle upbringing.
Persephone Glacendres, McGonagall had said. Someone should have warned that girl that no facade, nor any amount of face paint—war paint?—could conceal that panicked glint.
“Did Headmaster Dumbledore supply you with an explanation?” the young Gryffindor asked, carefully regulating the pitch of her voice. It would not do to squeak, or stutter. She finally looked up to meet Minerva's probing scrutiny.
“He did,” her soft Scottish brogue affirmed. “I do not mean to trouble you, Hermione. But I have known since Albus's death that it would fall on me to inform you. Now that the war is over, and you have regained your health, I believe it is time you know.”
The thudding against her rib cage ached. She had never shied away from knowledge, but for the first time in her life, she was not sure if she was ready to learn the answer to her question. Seeing her Professor's expression, she recognized that this would be a difficult truth. Her fingers clenched together to cover the album in her lap, attempting to stay the trembling of her hands.
McGonagall reached up to grasp a chain hidden under her high collared cloak, pulling from beneath it an object that Hermione immediately identified. It was not the same as the one she’d had before. This was smaller, with an extra ring encircling it. Instead of gold, it was white, like platinum, the sand held within the hourglass like black ash. Looking at it she knew, with clawing clarity, what the answer would be. She felt the colour drain from her face, and her heart seemed to flutter before feeling as if it had stopped altogether and dropped into her stomach, bile rising in her throat and choking her.
No, she thought in disbelief. That single word echoed in her mind. It was not enough to drown out the dozens of other discernments. A whisper of a rhyme. I mark the hours, every one, Nor have I yet outrun the sun. My use and value, unto you, Are gauged by what you have to do. A warning from a wizard. Mysterious thing, time. Powerful, and when meddled with, dangerous. She wished that she could stop the words that were about to spill from her mentor's lips. The same lips that had cautioned her just a few years ago—a lifetime ago—while presenting a third year with a seemingly innocuous golden trinket. You cannot travel forwards, Miss Granger—only backwards.
“You are not a relative of Persephone Glacendres, Hermione. You are Persephone Glacendres.”
And from there, things rapidly progressed.
It was nauseating, this sensation. It reminded her vaguely of the way she sometimes felt at night, when she was jerked awake by the impression of falling. Colours blurred so quickly past her eyes that tears welled up, spilling forth and sliding down her cheeks, only to evaporate the moment they dripped down her face. She wondered, vaguely, if somewhere, in some time, a tiny droplet of salt water splashed against someone's skin.
Something tugged at her navel, not unlike the feeling induced by a portkey. She was unsure of how long she stood there, with the world spinning around her, dizzying her and causing her head to throb. Time was, after all, relative. But the exhaustion that entered her body, the hunger that eventually made her stomach rumble soundlessly in this place where no noise existed, told her that her body had measured the time in hours. She felt as if she were suffocating, stuck in an endless loop of apparating. And it simply continued, on and on.
When the spinning finally stopped, she found she could stand no longer.
Falling to the ground, the robe clad girl threw her hands out to support herself. The dirt of the forbidden forest swayed, rotating at a leisurely pace. She gripped it tightly between her fingers in an attempt to hold gravity in place, gasping in huge lungfuls of air and blinking away the disorientation through bleary eyes. Slowly, so slowly, the vertigo began to ebb.
It was then, when her gaze focused, that she saw the silver chain dangling from her neck.
Remain calm.
These were the words that repeated themselves over and over again in her mind, as she stared in petrified shock at the broken shards of glass clasped to the piece of jewellery. The charcoal coloured contents were indistinguishable from the damp dirt below her.
“Reparo,” she murmured, poking her wand at the mangled remnants. Nothing happened. Frustrated, with desperation tinging her voice, she tried again. “Reparo!”
Picking herself up, she did the only thing she knew to do. She began her journey to Dumbledore.
Tuesday, July 16th, 1977 - Hermione Granger
Uncertain of her precise destination—cryptic was a generous description for Minerva's hasty preparatory warnings—she approached the stone gargoyle. She had encountered not one person on her trek across the grounds and through the castle, which was not necessarily surprising. Considering the feather-like aspen seeds lazily floating on the warm breeze, she’d likely arrived during summer vacation.
If nothing else, McGonagall had provided her with the password to the Headmaster’s office. After ascending the spiralling staircase, she had found the office empty, so she seated herself in one of the soft chairs in front of the desk and knit her hands together, waiting.
The silvery instruments spun and whirred at her. Her natural curiosity almost drove her to examine them, but she did not think Dumbledore would appreciate walking in to find a stranger poking and prodding at his things. Fawkes tilted his head at her from his perch, but clearly decided she was a non-threat, as he soon after returned to burying his beak in the crook of his feathers. For Hermione's part, she simply tried to evade the distinct feeling that she was... wrong.
Not doing something wrong. Not in danger. But just wrong. As if her very existence was out of joint.
The door handle turned behind her and she twisted expectantly. Dumbledore entered, his trademark sherbet lemon between his teeth, and stopped, staring at her in surprise.
Her stomach dropped. No matter who had sent her, he was clearly not expecting this.
“Headmaster Dumbledore,” she greeted tremulously after a long silence. Albus nodded slowly, warmth weighted with suspicion in his normally bright eyes.
“I am he.”
Clearly, it was her turn, but she found she was at a complete loss. Best to start as she had been instructed. “Headmaster Dumbledore arranged for my arrival,” she informed him hesitantly, aware as she said it how absurd it sounded. His tufty white eyebrows rose.
“Most curious, as I can testify with certainty that I have never seen you in my life. Perhaps we should begin with you telling me your name,” he directed, a slight bite of mistrust clear in his voice as he sat down behind his desk.
She took a deep breath, searching for the best place to start. “In this day and age, sir, I have no name.” She knew there was nothing she could offer him; no truth she could tell him without revealing too much. So she told him what she could, how she could, knowing it would not be enough. But all the while determined to think of something, anything, to allow her to stay at Hogwarts. “I have no family here,” she began, the painful truth of it causing her voice to quiver. “I have no friends, nor connections. I have no wizarding heritage. You will find no record of my existence. But I can tell you that I am here for the sole purpose of defeating Lord Voldemort.”
The ancient wizard had listened politely, steepling his fingers, the misgivings only increasing as she spoke in earnest. But at her final statement, he stilled. It was a long moment before the fading of her voice and her next words, during which Dumbledore watched her with narrowed eyes.
Tentatively, she began again. “There is only one thing I can give you, Headmaster. One thing that may convince you to trust me.” Licking her dry, cracked lips, the teenager sitting before him whispered, “Let me show you who I am.”
Leaning across the desk, the girl knew there was nothing else she could do. This was what he would require of her. And she would sacrifice what she could to gain what she must. “I know you are a master of Legilimency. Please. Look into my mind, and let me show you what I can.”
The silence stretched on. But, with agonizing slowness, Albus unsteepled his hands and withdrew his wand from the sleeve of his cloak, pressing the fabled Hallow to her temple, and wordlessly cast the spell.
What he saw was himself.
Twinkling blue eyes gazed out of an aged face. The auburn colour had leaked from his hair, leaving behind a silvery mane that fell halfway down his back. The flesh of his hand was blackened.
A flash, and Tom Riddle appeared instead. A snake-like version of the handsome young man that was now so actively involved in the politics of the wizarding community.
Replaced by James Potter, with a stag patronus flittering across the sky, forcing dozens of dementors backwards to protect a ragged man from their kiss.
Hermione's carefully selected memories flowed passed his mind's eye, vivid and frightening. One monstrous image after another. He did not press her for further answers, but instead accepted what she offered him. And, when they finally ceased, he pulled himself out of the short clips she had exposed to him. Only four words rang hollowly into the air between them.
“You are a seer.”
Shaking her head, this woman, this almost-girl, pulled from beneath her shirt the remnants of the trinket. And suddenly, Dumbledore trusted her. He trusted her inexplicably.
“Well then. Let me be the first to welcome you to July 16th, 1977. Tell me, my dear—do you happen to be fluent in any language other than English?”
Between the two of them, they began to brainstorm who, from this day forward, she would be.
Notes: To alleviate any confusion, Hermione's initial reaction to discovering the photograph is due to seeing her own face reflected back at her. Obviously, Miss Granger is very proud of her muggle heritage, and to see someone so similar in appearance in the 70's would immediately bring to question whether or not they were related. When she discovers that the picture is actually herself, there are several reasons why this would be disturbing. First and foremost, Hermione is still recovering from the Battle of Hogwarts, and, in my opinion, wants peace and quiet for the time being. Instead, she finds that she has yet another task to complete, and has been told that her counterpart is a first war spy for the Order. Most importantly, as someone who is intimately familiar with the use of time-turners, she knows that they are only capable of sending you back in time, not returning you to your present. A 21 year jump is extensive, and would require her to live out those years under this other identity. The rhyme I used is from the inscription on Hermione’s time-turner from Prisoner of Azkaban. Glacendres is from the French glace et cendres, meaning ice and ash.
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The Complexities of Human Nature