Chapter One

Chapter One: In which Hermione Granger gives Minerva McGonagall a gift and commits a faux pas in front of a former professor.

"I'm certain the Board of Governors will be more than satisfied with your qualifications, Miss Granger."

"Thank you, Headmistress. As I mentioned, I'm investigating my options. I have no idea what sort of teacher I would make, but I appreciate your meeting with me." Hermione smoothed the skirt of her sober navy robes and glanced around the circular office. An infrequent visitor while she'd been a student and a nonexistent one in the eight years since, she was nevertheless surprised at how elegant a stone-walled room could appear. A tasteful geometric-designed tapestry hung on the wall directly behind the headmistress, and a semblance of order had rendered the multitude of bookcases as much a decorative statement as they were practical. There was surprisingly little clutter.

The gallery of portraits had been rearranged artistically according to the frames' style, color, and substance. High on the wall, in the far corner, was a blank canvas framed by a thin silver band. Hermione could only surmise it had been intended for former Headmaster Snape, but she didn't really know. The last time she'd been in the office the portraits had hung higgledy-piggledy, and their occupants had been enthusiastically applauding Harry's survival. Now several portraits were unoccupied, leaving a scattered handful of the past headmistresses and headmasters paying attention to the meeting.

"Surely you don't live at the Ministry, Miss Granger?"

"Sorry?" Hermione asked, her attention pulled sharply back to the witch seated behind the desk.

"Your address," said Septima Vector, indicating the curriculum vitae she held in her hand.

Hermione shifted her posture, leaning forward to explain. "It's standard protocol implemented since the war. All Magical Law Enforcement personnel use the Ministry's address for professional correspondence."

"A prudent decision." The headmistress inscribed a note on the parchment while the subject of that note appraised her would-be employer. When she was little more than thirteen, Hermione's attention had been captured by Vector because the witch was an excellent instructor and her subject had been fascinating. But Hermione had been too focused on her studies and Harry's survival to have perceived her former teacher as anything other than a repository of knowledge. Now, however, she noticed the intricately coiffed black hair and stylish, pearl gray robes which instilled a desire to check whether she had stains on her own robes. The slender woman had always moved gracefully, but there was stateliness in Vector's manners Hermione had been too inexperienced to recognize. It was very easy to see why she'd been named Headmistress over other candidates.

While her former student adjusted her paradigm, Vector completed her thought and placed her owl feather quill in a crystal tray. "If you teach Arithmancy with as much enthusiasm as you had for the subject when you were a student, I expect you to be an exemplary teacher."

Hermione flushed with pleasure. "Thank you, Professor."

"How soon will you know whether you're interested in the position?"

"Frankly, yours is the first possibility I've realistically entertained. I have several other appointments over the next few weeks. My understanding was that you were interviewing for the next school year. Is there a deadline, or are there other candidates for the position?"

Vector smiled. It was closed-mouth and perfectly proportioned. It was the sort of smile which would look dignified on the front page of a newspaper or women's magazine, and Hermione wondered if the older woman had practiced it before or after she'd been appointed headmistress.

"Professor Banneker has accepted an appointment to the International Confederation of Wizards and will be leaving for Brussels after the summer term," Vector said. "Fortunately, the advance notice gives the school a great deal of flexibility in choosing her successor. At present, besides you, there are two other candidates. Hogwarts has had to struggle to regain its former prestige, Miss Granger, and we live in something of a cloistered community. Thus, any addition to our small circle is carefully vetted."

"I imagine you've found Arithmancy helpful in the culling process," Hermione remarked, crossing one leg over the other and dangling her foot.

"An astute supposition. No prospective candidate is offered an in-person interview if their inclusion does not balance a series of Arithmantic equations. While I've attempted to fill our vacancies with exemplary teachers, I won't deny that having a hero or–" she arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow, "–heroine on the staff is an extremely good advert for rebuilding the school's reputation."

"If I hadn't learned not to stereotype, I would say that's quite Slytherin of you, Headmistress."

Vector actually laughed. "Yes, well, I would most likely have been in Ravenclaw had I been a student here."

"The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Ravenclaw, but ...." Hermione shrugged.

Vector arranged the bottles of colored ink in a row next to the crystal quill tray. "Not that you didn't have the intelligence to make an excellent addition to Ravenclaw House, but it seems the wizarding world owes the hat a debt of gratitude for its perspicacity in placing you as it did."

"If that's what you'd like to call it. Harry and Ron decided I was too bossy to be sorted anywhere other than Gryffindor."

Both women laughed, and Hermione relaxed for the first time since entering the room. Interviews had always made her nervous, her subconscious equating them with N.E.W.T. exams.

When she finished laughing, Vector said, "Arithmancy isn't the only vacancy I'll be facing in the near future. Professor Slughorn has decided to go back into retirement."

"I had heard he purchased a house in Majorca." At the headmistress' expression of surprise, Hermione elaborated. "He still has a number of contacts within the Ministry."

"Does he correspond with you or Mr. Potter?"

"Not in particular although Harry and I send him candied pineapple for Christmas."

"Harry and you?" The eyebrow rose. "Have you and Mr. Potter become a couple?"

"No." Hermione stifled her mirth. "There's been a lot of speculation, but don't believe everything you read in Witch Weekly or The Daily Prophet. Harry's like a brother to me, and besides, he's quite happily married."

Vector nodded. "And Mr. Weasley?"

Hermione bit her lip, a remnant of childish uncertainty, and her ease of a moment before evaporated as quickly as a Patronus with no happy thought to sustain it. "He's actually the reason I'm looking into a career change. It's rather awkward at the Aurory now that – "

Raising a hand, Vector said, "You need say no more, Miss Granger. On occasion, I can balance an equation before the end calculations."

"I appreciate your understanding, Professor."

"Call me Seven, please. Even if you don't accept the position we've certainly known one another long enough to dispense with such formality ... Hermione."

"Thank you, Seven." Then she asked, "Forgive my asking, but who was so bold as to give you the nickname?"

Vector leaned back in her chair. "I acquired it during my very first staff meeting. The Muggle Studies professor had only been teaching for a year. She was young and American, and had studied at the Salem Academy. When we were introduced she had the audacity to ask, 'Septima? What sort of name is that? What does it mean anyway?'"

"She didn't!"

"She was remarkably brash. I was taken aback, but Severus Snape looked down his nose at her and said, 'How fortunate for the students that your subject is Muggle Studies. Your education in the classics is woefully inadequate.'"

Hermione's amusement was cut short when a deep, vaguely familiar voice chimed into the conversation. "Then, in order to educate her further, Severus said, 'Septima, Madam Smith, means Seven in Latin.'" She looked for the newcomer, but no one had entered the office, and Hermione finally located the source in a gilt-framed portrait hanging amongst its brethren, but her former headmaster merely nodded when their eyes met.

Vector smiled her perfect smile. "And she was far too dense to understand he was insulting her, because her response was, 'How silly some parents are. My dorm mate was named Poppy of all ridiculous things.' By the time she married and returned to the States at the end of that year Mary Smith had managed to offend most of the staff. However, I've been called Seven ever since."

"Shall I confess my relief that she was too intimidated by my reputation to call me anything other than headmaster?" Dumbledore's oil-based eyes had been magically enhanced to twinkle when he was amused.

"I shudder to think," Vector replied. "In any event, Hermione, you are welcome to use the name if you like."

"Thank you. I can imagine Professor Snape confronting Madam Smith. He must have been fairly young at the time."

"In his early twenties if I recall correctly," Dumbledore answered. "It was the same year Seven and Madam Pince came to us. A most distinguished year indeed."

"Thank you, Albus." Vector gave the former headmaster a stern look. "Now if you will be good enough to let me finish the interview. You may speak with her afterward, but I have a Board of Governors meeting later and I must be prepared."

"Don't let me interrupt. Miss Granger, it was delightful to see you again."

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore." She wiggled her dangling foot, but very few would know it was a sign of restrained irritation.

"Be sure to give my regards to Harry. If he would move that blasted portrait of the Kraken from his office, I could come for a real chat."

"I'm afraid it's a Department-wide policy, but I shall pass on the message."

"I think I'll go and find Severus and reminisce a little." Dumbledore rose from the throne-like chair he'd been sitting in and moved to the edge of his portrait, then with a wave of his hand, he slipped from the frame.

The meeting concluded shortly thereafter, and Hermione promised to let the headmistress know her decision as soon as she'd investigated her other opportunities. Vector agreed, in turn, to advise Hermione if either of the other candidates proved more suitable for the position.

They parted cordially, and Hermione rode the circular stone staircase down to the gargoyle while thanking her luck that her interaction with her former headmaster had been short. Her opinion of Dumbledore had deteriorated over the years, especially after having seen Severus Snape's memories, suffered the rigors of the Aurory after she'd passed her N.E.W.T.s, and specialized in investigative techniques and Dark wizardry profiling. In her more educated opinion, Albus Dumbledore was responsible for almost as much misery as Tom Riddle, but she was very careful with whom she shared that opinion.

Several staircases and one brush with fame later (a small group of Ravenclaw first years whispered her name excitedly amongst themselves as she passed them), Hermione was comfortably seated in an overstuffed chair, upholstered in the McGonagall family tartan, with a cup of piping hot tea balanced on her lap and a piece of Highland shortbread held between her fingers. She sipped the strong lapsang souchong and watched as her former teacher and recent friend opened her birthday present with the same fastidious attention to detail she showed in her Animagus form.

Minerva McGonagall was in the waning years of her middle age, brought on precipitously by Dolores Umbridge's unwarranted attack a decade before. Her hair had more gray in it, and the bun she habitually wore was looser, fuller, as if the strictures of wartime were truly a thing of the past and she contemplated letting her hair down. While her friend had poured her own tea, Hermione had noticed more wrinkles on the faded porcelain skin, but McGonagall's eyes behind her square-framed glasses were as clear and knowing as ever.

Carefully peeling the Spellotape from the metallic red paper, the Transfiguration professor said, "This is unexpected."

"I know we haven't exchanged gifts before, Minerva, and I used your birthday as an excuse really. I stumbled over it and immediately thought of you."

"Oh!" The wrapping paper fell to the floor, unnoticed, as McGonagall traced the raised letters of the book's title with her thin fingers.

Hermione said, "I couldn't find a first edition, but this is –"

"I've never seen anything better than a third rate translation before. Where did you find this? You can't have just stumbled over it."

Caught in the polite fiction, Hermione confessed. "I may have put it on my wish list at Dots and Dashes last year, but the timing was perfect."

"Minerva–" a voice Hermione should but didn't recognize announced a visitor's arrival "– must you give Bedford detention – Oh, good god! Look what the cat dragged in!"

The door opened fully and Hermione's jaw dropped at the sight of the newcomer: Severus Snape dressed in ubiquitous black wool and white cotton. Astonished by his appearance, she was speechless.

"Severus, behave yourself! You knew Hermione was coming today." McGonagall held out her gift. "Look what she gave me. It's An Al-Iskandariyyan Cat in Mauretania by Ubasti. This is the Edward Fitzgerald translation. It was done in the early 1800's before Fitzgerald discovered his passion for Persia and Khayyam. Look at its condition, Severus."

Snape accepted the slim volume from his colleague's hand, and while he examined the book, Hermione examined him. It had been several years since she had seen him in person – seated in the witness chair in front of the entire Wizengamot – but she had been deeply moved by his quiet dignity as he struggled with his injuries. Not only had they inhibited his ability to speak, but she remembered how heavily he had leaned on the stout walking stick he had needed to use.

The last time they had spoken was the night he had been forced against his better judgment to kill Albus Dumbledore. Hermione could still recall, in graphic detail, pacing the cold dungeon corridors outside Snape's office, Luna posted at the opposite end of the long hallway. It had been late, around midnight, when Professor Flitwick raced down the corridor. He hadn't even noticed Hermione or Luna as he sprinted into Snape's office shouting about Death Eaters in the castle. She remembered the sound of the small wizard's barely contained panic, and then the thump of a body falling to the ground, followed immediately by Snape's explosive exodus. He'd been taken aback by her and Luna's presence, but had directed them to care for the ailing Charms master.

For months Hermione had believed Remus Lupin's statement that Snape would've killed her had she attempted to stop or question him, but when the truth had finally come out, she had never been more ashamed. She, who had told herself Snape wasn't evil, and furthermore, that he balanced at the very edge of a steep precipice, should have looked harder at the circumstantial evidence. Severus Snape had been protecting her that night; protecting her and Luna from Death Eaters and a vicious, lethal fight.

There had never been an opportunity to apologize or thank him for what he'd done for her and now certainly wasn't the time. Not to mention that he was so very different than she remembered.

Snape was as tall as ever and quite lean. His nose was still large and hooked, and appeared to have been broken and healed improperly. His teeth were still crooked, but perhaps less yellow than before. There were deep furrows between his thick eyebrows, and she imagined the lines around his eyes were a result of pain rather than laughter. However, the most dramatic differences between Snape then and Snape now were in his posture and his hair. Where he used to hold his body like a highly strung predator, moving with stealthy exactitude as he ambushed unsuspecting students and victims, he now leaned against the door frame with indolent grace, his long fingers reverently exploring the second edition memoirs he held. There was something compelling about his focus and the way his dark eyes devoured the text.

And yet none of the changes wrought by eight years of relative peace were as dramatic as the change in his hair. It had been shaped by a professional and was shorter than Hermione had ever seen it. He obviously made an effort to keep it clean, although this late in the day its oily tendencies had begun to show. She had never known he had a high forehead; his black hair had hung like oil-soaked curtains, hiding the broad expanse of brow leading to a slightly receding hairline. Now that his entire face could be seen, his nose was proportional to the rest of his features.

As if aware of her scrutiny, Snape looked up from the Al-Iskandariyyan memoir. His eyes met hers and heat flooded her face, but Hermione was distracted by his scar. When he had looked up, the puckered bite marks on his neck became visible.

Abruptly, she remembered how he had acquired them. As if a Time Turner had spun wildly on its spindle, sending her back to the moment of the scars' acquisition, she recalled being in the Shrieking Shack, huddled in the dirt tunnel peeking over Harry's shoulder as Voldemort screamed, "Kill!" to his monstrous snake.

In the here and now, Hermione's eyes filled with tears and her breath became a ragged wheeze.

"Hermione? Are you all right?"

McGonagall's sharp tone pierced Hermione's abstraction, jerking her back from the quagmire of nightmare, and she realized she was staring directly into Snape's all-too-knowing eyes. Forcing herself to look elsewhere, McGonagall's worried expression pulled words from her mouth. "Yes! Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Minerva, Professor Snape. I'm fine. Really." She avoided looking at Snape, the world's premiere devotee of sarcasm.

Instead of abrading her with the rough side of his tongue, Snape merely returned the book to its new owner. "Professor McGonagall, we'll discuss Bedford's situation later. Miss Granger, enjoy your trip down memory lane."

And then he was gone.

Hermione stared at the naked door frame, relief and unexpected disappointment warring within her breast, and McGonagall, after an understanding appraisal of her former student, opened her book. Several minutes later, Hermione apologized.

"It's not necessary, dear girl."

"It's just –"

"The first time you've seen him?"

"To speak to, yes."

"Most people stare at him, but very few have more right than you. You knew him. You were there that night."

"Both nights." Hermione clarified, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, and then after a beat, she said, "He's quite different."

"He is at that." McGonagall shut the book, and picked up her tea. "I – er – we've become good friends, he and I."

"Minerva!" Hermione's mouth dropped open. "You and – and Professor Snape?"

"Of course." It took fully half a minute for the penny to drop, and when it did, the elder witch dropped her tea cup when she realized the conclusion Hermione had come to. McGonagall's face flushed to the tips of her slightly pointed ears. "No! Not that. I meant that we've become friends. I had always trusted him because Dumbledore's faith was so strong, but I'd never liked him. After ... that night on the tower ... well, I hated him."

"I never did." Hermione pulled her wand from the sleeve of her robes and, with a swish, repaired the broken tea cup. "I was hurt and confused," she said, "but I never hated him. That was such a dreadful year. And afterward ... after we knew .... I felt so guilty for not realizing he wasn't dead right away."

"You were very young." Hermione shook her head and McGonagall elaborated. "No matter how much you'd already faced or how precocious you were, you three were much too young to carry the fate of our world on your shoulders."

"I don't disagree with you. Aside from Bellatrix Lestrange, if there was anyone I hated it was Professor Dumbledore."

McGonagall patted her hair as if discomfited, but nodded. "I quite understand. He's the only one I hated more than myself for a time. Although the Carrow siblings vied for prominence. You might have felt guilty for not knowing Severus was still alive, but if I hadn't attacked him earlier that night, then he might not have gone to Voldemort in the first place."

Hermione was gobsmacked. "You attacked him? I had no idea."

"I'm not terribly proud of it." She shifted in her chair, her hands gripping the arms while her mouth thinned. Then, as if Hermione had passed some sort of test, she spoke. "There we were having just left the Carrows trussed up and hovering in the Ravenclaw common room; Potter and Lovegood were following me under that invisibility cloak, and Severus startled me. He used to do that, suddenly appear in the corridors at night. I once thought he'd learned how to Apparate within the school's grounds. In any event, he confronted me, asking if I'd seen Potter. I thought he knew something so I hexed him."

"I'd no idea."

"It isn't something I'm eager to tell people, and you and I have never discussed the war."

"It's not easy to talk about, especially with people who weren't there." Hermione crossed and re-crossed her legs, her hands playing with a fold of her robes. "Actually, I try not to think about it anymore."

"It isn't a topic for casual dinner conversation. Perhaps in another thirty years, but it's far too soon to discuss with strangers."

"For some of us, I think it will always be too soon." Hermione's eyes strayed to the empty doorway where Snape had leaned not ten minutes before.

"A good point." Minerva refilled her teacup, added a splash of milk, and then took a long sip. She noticed the direction of Hermione's attention. "After that last fight when I knew Dumbledore's faith hadn't been misplaced, I was furious. With myself, with Dumbledore, and with Severus."

"I completely understand," Hermione said.

For the next few minutes McGonagall and Hermione learned the truth of the motto confession is good for the soul. Then, after a brief pause while details were assimilated, the elder said tartly, "Dumbledore's lucky to have a portrait. I do have claws." Hermione snorted, which, in turn, elicited McGonagall's laughter, and then their mirth overflowed until they were teary-eyed. McGonagall dabbed at her eyes with an instantly conjured handkerchief. "Great heavens! It wasn't that funny."

"No," Hermione agreed, pressing a hand against the stitch in her side, "but it was cathartic."

"I suppose so." McGonagall swiped the last of the chocolate biscuits in the way a cat pounces on an especially tasty morsel. "The worst of it was ... I was furious for not having figured it out. I've known Severus since he was a boy, and worked with him for more than a decade. I had watched him protect his students – you three in particular. The year he was headmaster he did his best to shield Longbottom and the other students while maintaining his reputation as a Death Eater, but I was blinded by misdirection. I expected better of myself."

"That's exactly how I felt." Hermione set her cup and saucer on the small table. "I can't tell you how relieved I was when I heard he was in St. Mungo's."

"It was a long recovery, and he was right to leave the wizarding world during his convalescence."

"I've always wondered who saved him."

McGonagall lifted the lid on the pot, checking how much tea remained. "That's his story to tell."

Hermione bit her lower lip and considered the statement. Then she said, "I never expected to hear that he was teaching again."

"Severus always wanted to teach Defense."

"He's certainly an authority on the subject. I'm surprised, though, that the Board of Governors allowed him back."

McGonagall's expression was very smug. "Many of the staff petitioned for his reinstatement. The Board wouldn't go for headmaster, of course, but after two years, and Kingsley's endorsement, they were willing to be reasonable."

"How long has it been since his return? I'm afraid I haven't kept track. I saw the article in the Prophet, muckraking rag that it is, but I don't remember if it was last year or the year before."

"Last year. This is his second as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He's a demanding taskmaster, but his students learn."

"I know I did."

McGonagall snorted indelicately. "Hermione, you didn't need instruction. All we had to do was point you in the right direction and cast Enervate."

"What a flattering picture," Hermione replied wryly, and received a pointed look in return.

"None of us were surprised you petitioned to take your N.E.W.T.s independently of your peers, nor that you passed with distinction. You were alternately the sort of student every teacher covets and every teacher dreads. Terribly eager and frighteningly bright, but inclined to arrogance."

Hermione flushed. "I was a horrid know-it-all. According to the boys, I'm still bossy."

"I've long suspected, and, in fact, it was Filius' hypothesis that those boys were your saving grace. As a result of your tempering experiences with Potter and Weasley you avoided the pitfalls which would have made you a female Percy Weasley."

"Eeeew! Minerva, could you be any more heartless?" McGonagall snickered. "I know he's better than he was," Hermione continued, "and he's returned to his family, but he can be a punctilious, officious arse." Hermione grimaced. "Let's change the subject."

"By all means."

"How is Professor Snape now?"

McGonagall's eyebrows rose and she directed a rather shrewd look at her former student, but she accepted the detour easily enough. "That first term was quite a challenge. He'd just returned to England, and that first week it was as if the castle was besieged by Howlers. They came from everywhere: parents, strangers, Rita Skeeter fans. By the third day, students placed bets on which house generated the most negative mail. The furor died down by Halloween, and fortunately, this year, the most blatant criticism comes from students playing the occasional practical joke. Some are rather cruel, and Filius refers to it as Snape-baiting, but Severus ignores the taunts for the most part."

"I remember the year Rita Skeeter targeted me. Some of the letters I received were truly vicious." Unconsciously, Hermione's fingers twisted together, sensory memory recalling the painful blisters she'd received after opening one particular letter. Then she said, "I hadn't realized he left England."

"He was at one of those rest cure places in Germany. Somewhere in the Black Forest. At least Dumbledore did something right. There was a bequest to Severus in the will – the provisions were Secret Kept until Potter prevailed – which provided sufficient funds for his medical care. Apparently, Severus turned to the Muggle world for physiotherapy when the St. Mungo's treatment ran its course."

"Really?" Hermione leaned forward, brushing a stray curl from where it had fallen into her face. "I didn't realize he straddled both worlds."

"I don't believe he did." She paused to lift her tea cup, but stared at its empty state while she formulated her next comment. "For years he disdained all things Muggle, but he was determined to walk again instead of suffering that shuffle he had at the beginning."

"So he was gone for six years?"

"Five. He remained in England until he was exonerated." McGonagall set her empty cup down and asked, "More tea?"

"No, thank you." Hermione watched the brewing ritual: the generous measure of tea leaves, next a silent Aguamenti to fill the pot, then the swirl of a heating charm, and, finally, the replacement of the top so the tea could brew. "I know I didn't see him for very long, but he isn't the same as I remember."

"Living in the Muggle world forced him to adapt."

Unconsciously, Hermione pulled a curl – the one which had fallen into her face earlier – to its full length. "And his hair?"

McGonagall watched the straightened curl spring back when it escaped Hermione's fingers, and she replied, "He told me it got in the way of his healing so he had it cut. He liked the change well enough to keep."

"It really alters his appearance," Hermione said thoughtfully.

"It's more than just his appearance."

"I hope so, for his sake."

McGonagall's reply was smug. "Enough that he danced with the headmistress and Madam Hooch at last year's Valentine's Day dance."

Hermione sat bolt upright. "He danced?"

"In front of the students." A feline smile stretched McGonagall's lips.

The younger witch shook her head in disbelief. "I can hardly believe he's the same man."

"He isn't. He's been set free."

"I'm very happy for him." Hermione watched her hostess pour freshly brewed tea, and the conversation turned to other topics.

"Wasn't Ubasti one of Cleopatra's handmaidens?" McGonagall asked, referring to her birthday present. "I thought they all died with her."

"No. She was nursemaid to the children until they were taken to Rome after their parents' suicides. I believe she remained with the daughter, Cleopatra Selene, who later married the king of Mauritania. Ubasti followed her from Italy."

"I've often wondered if Ubasti wasn't the reason the Egyptians created Bastet as a goddess. Ubasti's Animagus form was a black cat. I only know about her from my general history, and I've always been curious."

"I thought you'd enjoy the book." Then, Hermione said wistfully, "I always wanted to be an Animagus."

McGonagall leaned forward and patted her hand. "You can't have every magical advantage. Leave some for the rest of us."

Hermione grinned, and the remainder of her visit was spent discussing the success of early witches and wizards to blend in with their Muggle counterparts. She left McGonagall happily perusing her new acquisition when she finally took her leave.

When Hermione descended the main staircase, Snape was in the entrance hall, an isthmus obstructing the current of students following the ebb and flow of their daily lives. He was a slash of black against gray stone, yet his was no longer a sinister presence. She was surprised when he silently followed her through the double doors and out into the chilly autumn evening. The weather had delivered on its earlier promise of rain, but the squall had blown itself out, leaving the verdant grounds wet and sparkling as daylight waned.

Startled by his apparent readiness to see her off the school's premises, Hermione said nothing, but allowed him to accompany her. Surreptitiously she admired his gait; such a contrast to the last time she'd seen him. Nonetheless, she bit her tongue lest she blurt any of the inappropriately personal things fighting for prominence in her brain.

They walked in companionable silence until they reached the groundskeeper's hut. Seeing the sprawling pumpkin patch, its gigantic gourds competing for space and awaiting culling for the upcoming Halloween feast, she smiled. The hut with its vegetable garden had been Hagrid's home for many a year, and some of Hermione's happiest times as a student had taken place under the magically thatched roof. It was where she, Harry, and Ron had spent countless hours pretending to drink the tannic acid their half-giant friend stewed, and it was where Hermione had sought solace that painful winter when she had helped Hagrid prepare for Buckbeak's defense even though her best friends had ostracized her. As far as she knew, the hippogriff had traveled with Hagrid when he'd moved to France four years before.

Initially, when arriving for her meeting with Vector, Hermione had thought the hut abandoned, but now a thin swirl of smoke rose from the chimney, lazily snaking into the darkening sky. "I thought Charlie Weasley had rooms in the castle," she said.

"He does. Unlike his predecessor, Mr. Weasley has made Care of Magical Creatures one of the more popular courses."

"I'm not surprised; he's as enthusiastic as he is knowledgeable. I thought he took over all Hagrid's responsibilities."

"Only his first year. Mellors," Snape said, indicating the hut, "took over him, and has been here for three years now. I believe the headmistress is quite pleased with his addition to the staff."

"I look forward to meeting him." They lapsed back into silence. Just before they resumed their walk in the direction of the front gates, Hermione glanced up at him and gestured toward the school. "I'm sorry for what happened."

Snape's lips twitched, possibly suppressing a smile. "Is that a blanket statement to cover the gross misdeeds of your youth, or does it have more specific intent? I, for one, can think of a number of reasons you might owe me an apology."

Her forward progress halted so abruptly Hermione practically skidded on the gravel path and she turned to face him directly. Relieved not to see a sneer marring his features, she said bluntly, "If we were to do an accounting between us, I'm certain it would be in your favor. Regardless, I am sorry for staring at you so rudely in Minerva's office. I hadn't expected to see you at all. It isn't as if –"

"We were friends?" He cocked his head, his dark eyes boring into hers.

She actually laughed a little. "No, Professor Snape, I would never be so presumptuous."

"What a pity." He spun on his booted heel, his long strides carrying him swiftly from her side, leaving her to stare after his retreating back until it disappeared over the crest of the hill.

"Hermione?"

Whirling, she found Septima Vector standing a couple meters distant. "Hello again, Professor."

"This isn't the first time you've been to Hogwarts since the war's end, is it?"

"No. I was here for the first memorial service, but since they've been moved to the Ministry I've had no reason to return. Minerva and I usually meet in London."

"I see." The older witch looked toward the castle, her eyes following the direction Snape had taken. "Many things are the same."

"And some are quite different."

"That's true enough." Vector pulled her dark cloak about her. "If you'll excuse me, I must be getting back. You're welcome to stay as long as you like."

"Thank you. I'm just reminiscing."

"Completely understandable. It was nice to see you, Hermione."

"It's been a pleasure ... Seven."

The headmistress made her way to the castle, following the same route her colleague had taken moments before.

When Vector was out of sight, Hermione resumed her scrutiny of the hut. Shades of happier times blurred her sight – three small children hiding beneath an invisibility cloak, the sounds of laughter, Fang announcing their presence, Hagrid's gruff gentleness in offering his rock cakes – until she realized it was unshed tears which obscured her vision.

With a final look behind her, she turned toward Hogsmeade. Motion in her peripheral vision drew her attention to the Forbidden Forest. Half expecting to see a Thestral winging above the canopy, she saw instead a gray owl soaring over the woods, its wingspan easily as wide as she was tall. A faded image tickled her memory, but it remained a nebulous, unformed thought. When the large predator dove beyond her sight, she knew it was time for her to go.

As she passed through the gates, Hermione was entirely unaware that she was being observed.

~o0o~