Twelve

September, 1998

"You're late," Snape growled from the small dining table littered with paper. Minerva had given him the Potions syllabus to review at long last (Horace's changes had been execrable). When he had dared inquire as to the possibility of the Defence Against the Dark Arts position, Minerva had curtly told him that the Board had decided not to continue that curriculum this year. Back to Potions for him, he supposed.

"Excuse me?" Hermione dropped her books on the coffee table with a heavy thud and hurried to the kitchenette. Tapping her wand on the kettle, she bent and rummaged for the tea tin.

"You and Potter should have finished his Transfiguration revision half an hour ago. And what in the name of Nimue, Merlin, and Circe do you think you are doing?"

"I'm sorry; I'm looking for your tea tin. Why do you always hide it? You get grumpy when you can't have your tea in the afternoons – I thought I'd start it for you."

"An admirable notion, but entirely unnecessary, I assure you. Kindly cease burbling about tea and explain your lateness."

Hermione straightened and harrumphed. "I stopped to talk to Professor Dumbledore on my way here," she said as if speaking to an idiot. "He was reading Winnie The Pooh to Ethelfred the Ensnared in the north part of the second floor corridor."

"Was he really?" Snape sneered. "You'd be advised, Miss Granger, to stay away from that interfering, decrepit blob of oils. People who associate with the old fart tend to wind up dead. Or bitten."

"Professor Dumbledore was a powerful wizard for the side of Light," Hermione exclaimed, "and you should be more respectful of him! Honestly, it's just like being with Harry and Ron all those years and reminding them that as much as you tormented them, you still deserved their respect."

"Indeed?" Snape arched an eloquent eyebrow and moved carefully to the kitchenette. "Accio tea tin."

"That's what Harry told me," Hermione admitted, ducking as the tin sailed by her head. "It's a bit fuzzy, but I do vaguely remember that being one of the lectures I'd give the boys." She hopped up onto the tall stool at the edge of his counter and accepted the tin from Snape's outstretched hand.

"I, for one, am glad to hear at least somebody in the Golden Trio was on my side," Snape muttered. "Now, take your potion. The tea will keep until later." He handed her a vial of oily, grey liquid.

"The meditation exercises you taught me are going well," Hermione admitted, swallowing the potion. "But does this memory-enhancer have to taste so foul?" she asked, screwing up her face.

"Unfortunately, there is no way, despite what Muggles think, to counter the taste of the ginkgo biloba and the fish oil."

"Oh, well." Hermione sighed and gulped down the rest of the vial. "Now what?" She scrambled off the stool upon which she had perched.

Snape moved back to the table and retrieved his cane.

"The hearthrug, Miss Granger," he commanded, pointing to the worn red carpet. "You will want to cast a Cushioning charm, of course."

She smiled and flicked her wand as she settled gracefully upon the floor before the fire, at the foot of the battered leather chair, which had been a gift from Lucius upon his first appointment to the faculty. Beside the chair, a floor lamp, a relic from the wreck of Spinner's End, cast a gentle glow. She looked up expectantly and smiled.

"I'm ready, Severus," she said.

Slowly, he followed her, wincing as pain shot from his shoulder down his spine.

"Very good," he said, suppressing the urge to touch her face as he moved to the chair. "Close your eyes," he managed. "We will try to draw out more of your memories of the summer before you began your study at Hogwarts. To achieve this, you must begin with meditation. This will clear your mind." Snape waved his wand, and his sitting room darkened. Hermione settled herself upon the hearthrug, legs crossed, eyes closed. She looked impossibly calm for someone in her position, he reflected: impossibly calm and entirely too trusting. Does she really think I can heal her? More fool her!

"Draw your attention into this room," Snape murmured. "Focus on the sounds of the castle around you, the fire crackling, my voice." He dropped his voice to a murmur. "Feel the floor beneath you. Now. Draw that focus inward. Focus on your breathing."

Snape waited. The tension she had worn upon her face for the last two years began to fade as she relaxed and focused. The lines of worry that had etched themselves into the corners of her eyes (should an eighteen-year-old girl have the face of a woman of thirty?) faded in the firelight, eased themselves from her as her countenance resumed the fresh look of the girl he'd so studiously ignored for all those years.

"Now, Miss Granger," he said quietly, "I want you try to remember. It doesn't matter what, but pick something. Let it be a thought, an idea, a notion, something from the summer before your first year. Let your mind wander until it arrives at its destination – that which is the most important will come to us by a seemingly random process."

He waited. Hermione's steady breathing and the gentle crackle of the fire (for even in early September, the dungeons were chill) were the only sounds.

Come on, girl. Find it, find it, there must be something there.

August, 1991

"Are you sure about this, dear girl? What I am asking of you could affect the rest of your life. How you live, how you interact with others." Albus sat in the Grangers' living room, the flowers on his shirt clashing horribly with the flowers on the sofa. It pleased him that he could clash so. Severus would have insisted he blend in more, but Severus was notoriously hidebound when it came to fashion.

Martin's jaw was set – he looked ready to lash out. And no wonder! Jocasta was staring at her hands, folded tightly in her lap, a curtain of brown, curly hair hiding her face.

"It's not a decision that she should have to make alone," Martin declared.

"No," Albus agreed. "But it is a decision that she will ultimately have to bear alone."

"She's eleven years old, for God's sake!" Martin cried.

"Dad!" Hermione interrupted. "I may be, but if what Uncle Brian is saying is true, we need to think carefully about this!"

"Darling, you can't possibly know..."

"No, Dad, I can't. But I do know that I'm different, and that's enough to warrant thinking about what he has to say."

"Even still, you are not old enough to make this decision!"

"But old enough to go away to school?" Hermione asked defiantly.

"Hermione!"

"Your daughter's a brilliant girl, Martin," Albus interrupted. "She deserves an environment where that brilliance can be put to use."

"And I've been practicing all summer, Dad. And I have books. Whatever happens, I'll be prepared. And it's not like I'm going to live in the woods by myself for the school year – I'll be coming home for the holidays, and there will be other teachers and students around."

"But at what price?" Martin demanded. Jocasta looked up from clenched hands. "What price to send you away where there are men who want to kill you? Why can we not keep you safe here? At home?"

Albus was silent for a few moments as Martin's words hung heavily in the air.

"I will not pretend," Albus finally said, "that there are not difficult times ahead for these children. But they are the ones who will lead us from the Dark into the Light. Without them ..." He trailed off.

"And you're certain of this ... this danger?" Jocasta asked.

"More than I am of my own name," Albus replied gravely.

"And I can help?" Hermione demanded.

"You will be a hero – a savior, in many ways – when our world so badly needs one." Albus smiled at her; the girl was Gryffindor, through and through, despite her academic potential. He'd have to be sure to have a quick word with the Sorting Hat later that day. "But the decision to do what is right, to accomplish what must be done, is often much more hazardous than we at first think. It is only fair that I should warn you of this."

"But there are things you can do, things I can do to prepare?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, yes, dear," Albus replied, "a great many things." He paused. "Perhaps we ask too much of our children," he continued quietly. "But perhaps, we have no choice. The choice must ultimately lie with each individual."

Hermione's parents frowned at one another.

"At eleven," Jocasta said, "I was beginning to put aside my dolls and think about clothes and boys. At eleven, Hermione is reading books that make my head spin and thinking of Universities and studies. But she is still a child. She is too young, too inexperienced to be making life or death choices."

"Mum!"

"Your mother is right," Albus replied. "You have far to travel and many choices to make as you grow into the woman you are destined to be."

"But this first choice," Hermione said, "to go or to stay, will lead to others. Others I must be prepared to make as I tread this path."

"Yes."

"Then I choose to go."

"Hermione!"

"Mum, I can't stay. Not when I could lose all that I've learned this summer, all of what makes me, me. You've always said I was special." Hermione smiled bravely – the smile of a much older girl. "I think we're about to find out how special I really am."

"It is a good path, dear girl," Albus said, "and one I would die helping you to travel."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you," she said. "I will try to ... I will be what you need me to be."

Albus smiled. Her enthusiasm, borne of youthful confidence and intelligence, was endearing. "We're not quite ready for life and death declarations from you yet, dear girl, for your life is still long and full of promise. When you become old and withered like me, perhaps then you can make such grand statements."

"Are you sure, Brian?" demanded Martin.

"I have to be, Dad. It's a task that I've been offered," Hermione answered eagerly, cutting Albus off.

"You know you will always have a home here." Jocasta rose and moved across the carpet to her daughter, embracing her, eyes moist.

"I do, Mum."

Albus watched as she snuggled into her mother's embrace. "Good." He rose and rubbed his hands together. "A safe place for our dear girl to go will be vital in these coming years."

"You mentioned that there were precautions that you must take?" Jocasta asked.

"Yes," he replied, pulling out his wand. "And it's time to begin."

As the girl turned towards him, eyes wide and trusting, Albus sought to forget the conversation in his office that morning with Severus:

"It isn't fair to her, Albus," his Potions master rasped. "No eleven-year-old should have to shoulder such a burden."

"When it is a danger to her, yes."

Albus looked around the neat, suburban sitting room. For Muggles, even, they looked so normal. Who would have thought that she who would guide Harry Potter himself could have flourished here?

"I need to have Atalanta here, too, I think," he said to Martin and Jocasta. "Will you fetch her for me?"

The place between the worlds was grey – a soft, green grey that enveloped her like a cloak.

Distantly, she could hear the voices of her parents and Dr Gupta.

"The signs of brain activity are not encouraging, I'm afraid, not since last week," Dr Gupta sounded concerned.

"Are we losing her again?"

"That is up to Hermione. If she wished it, she could rejoin us at any time."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Martin, that Hermione controls her own reality and her ability to slide in and out of these mental states. The anti-psychotics help keep her grounded."

"She's expressed a desire to come off of them, when she's lucid, that is."

"I can understand that. But this is a critical time for her – where she can choose to work with us or not. The anti-psychotics are keeping her with us to a certain extent, but she needs to choose to take those next steps and rejoin us fully. We cannot increase her dosage, but we must wait. I know that she can hear us, for example – look how she responds, even as we speak."

"How do we get her to choose? To choose us? The life she knows?"

Dr Gupta chuckled.

"If I knew that, Martin," he replied, "I'd have retired by now. Time will be our greatest ally."

"Miss Granger, I want you to come back into this room. Focus on the breath first, then the sounds that you hear – the sound of my voice, the crackling of the fire. Turn your head first left, then right, as slowly as if you are not moving at all."

Snape's voice filled her mind, seeping into her consciousness like heat from a warm bath.

"Severus," she breathed.

"Return to this room, Hermione," he said gently. "Bring your mind back here."

"It was a choice," she murmured, "always a choice."

"Focus on the sound of my voice and begin to open your eyes."

Slowly, almost painfully, her eyes fluttered open. Professor Snape, Severus, clad in a plain white t-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms crouched opposite her on an ottoman. She felt the warmth of his hands as he reached out to brush the hair from her face and sighed as she leaned, almost unconsciously, into his touch. He smelled of parchment and wood smoke. He looked relieved as she opened her eyes.

"Severus," she murmured. "I wanted to choose this life. I didn't care what my parents thought – I knew this life was the one I had to choose."

Her hair was burnished mahogany in the firelight. Her skin was cool and smooth, and as her eyes fluttered open, he caught the look of complete trust and contentment as she focused upon him.

She had focused upon him. She had murmured his name before anything else.

The teakettle shrilled, jerking him from his reverie and her from her nap upon the sofa.

"Do not stir," he said to her. "Despite the relaxation that your meditative state brings on, it still can be exhausting. I will fetch the tea."

"Thank you." Hermione yawned.

In the kitchenette, he allowed himself to watch the woman curled up upon his sofa stretch luxuriantly.

"Hermione," he murmured to himself, "is this the life you truly chose?"

Dismissing the desire to be part of her life at all, he slammed open the cabinet and pulled the cups from their shelves. Old, disgusting pervert, he berated himself, you're no better than Albus.

AN: Not mine, no money. Special thanks to Bluestocking, Subversa and SavineSnape for their help!