Chapter 2

The Great Hall was humming, overflowing with animated conversation and the clatter of cutlery as pupils and staff tucked into the welcoming feast.

Hermione's eyes scanned the room, watching for signs of trouble. One hundred and eighteen new first-years, Headmistress McGonagall had reminded her, meant eruptions of uncontrolled magic, especially at the Welcoming Feast. Hermione remembered her own first night in the castle and flushed at the memory of how she'd burnt her sausages while waving her arms around.

Whatever had caused the arm waving must have been important at the time.

It was exhausting to learn to channel magic, and she could already hear snippets of arguments drifting up from the tables. It was inevitable. The fourth-year pupils had O.W.L. exams at the end of this year and would be asked to demonstrate their ability to control and shape the direction of their magic. It was daunting, and there would always be students who debated the restriction of wands as if the Hogwarts staff created the injunction just to thwart them.

Hermione understood their frustration. Many pupils had already read, Hogwarts: a History for History of Magic and knew that one of the Founders had used a wand himself, made by his own hand. They also usually conveniently forgot that it had also been the Founders (and the wizarding government that had evolved not long after) who had decided soon after opening Hogwarts' doors that the urge to channel and direct magic was undeniable, but the risks of such focused power were far too high.

The fourth-years weren't yet mature enough to understand, but they would, soon enough.

In the meantime, she had her own adjusting to do.

Spending her days in the lab was Hermione's idea of heaven. No timetable to interrupt her, no lessons to prepare, pupils to teach, or papers to mark. Now that summer had ended, she would be adding teaching demands to her lab work for the first time. On top of it all, she had been assigned the daunting job of looking after the new first-years while trying not to lose any of them to the disappearing corridor just beyond the Spells classroom, or forgetting to check for them, piled in a heap, in the safety net below the fifth floor staircase.

She was exhausted just thinking about it.

Hermione smiled as the main course disappeared and pudding arrived. The elves always went out of their way to make an impression, and they were undoubtedly preening in the kitchen at the students' shouts of delight. Soon enough, the tables would be cleared and the pupils would head back to their dormitories for the night.

"Are you ready for your first class, Miss Granger?" the headmistress asked as Hermione scooped up the last of her treacle tart.

It was a rhetorical question. Professor McGonagall had already given her final approval to the lesson plans she'd brought by last week, agreeing with Professor Evans's edits of Hermione's innovative additions. It still rankled, but the headmistress insisted that she stick strictly to the curriculum.

Still, McGonagall had been down to the dungeons to examine the Potions classroom and offer moral support and last-minute advice. Hermione wished the headmistress had remembered to ask her about the Nosce Ipsum potion. This, far more than her lesson plans, excited her.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Hermione said with a tight smile.

She understood her role; she really did. Despite the requirement that apprentices do research, the emphasis had always been on teaching; their faculty role far more valued by the Ministry than any sort of innovation. It was one of the realisations that had quickly begun to chafe. After six long years of school, of compliance and cooperation, Hermione had imagined that, perhaps, now, her initiative would finally be rewarded. She had harboured a fantasy for years that once she'd grown up, she would receive more accolades for her individuality than so far during her formal education.

Alas, it was not to be so.

Hermione fought the knot forming in her stomach. This was her job, and it was a good one. It suited her, all in all, and she would deal with the teaching requirement. Seventh-year apprentices took the second and third-year classes, leaving the introductory and higher level years to the Potions mistress. It was a good system, Hermione thought, and one that she hoped left enough distance between Apprentice and student to ensure at least a modicum of compliance.

"Professor Evans would never let you go forward unprepared," the headmistress reassured her, breaking into Hermione's thoughts, and with a quick pat to the younger witch's arm, made her way to the podium for the opening announcements.

It took only a moment for the room to fall quiet. Hermione envied Professor McGonagall her knack for holding a group's attention without appearing to do anything at all to win it, and wondered how she would fare in the morning with thirty students and their swirling potions.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall began. "And to those of you who are returning, welcome back. I have just a few announcements before you return to your dormitories. Tomorrow is a big day, and I expect you'll all want to get a good night's sleep." The headmistress tilted her head and waited for the inevitable titters from the older pupils.

"We are pleased to welcome Potions Apprentice Hermione Granger, who will be taking second and third-year lessons, and Neville Longbottom, who will be doing a practical Apprenticeship in Herbology with Professor Sprout. You will see him in the greenhouses and, I trust, will not interrupt him whilst he works.

Groundskeeper Hagrid has invited the fifth-years to accompany him into the Forest tonight to meet the unicorn colts born there last week. If anyone needs to ask questions prior to the visit, you may find him after dinner in his office on the third floor."

The headmistress raised her eyebrows, and Hermione hid a smile. It was more likely that students entering their sixth year would be ineligible to visit the unicorns, but it paid to be safe.

"Before you finish your pudding and head off to bed, let us remind ourselves of what the Four Founders established here, and the mission with which we are all entrusted."

Hermione leaned back in her chair and sipped her wine, a welcome perk of her elevation to the staff. She wasn't much of a wine drinker as a rule, but tonight, the cup with its shimmering deep burgundy symbolised her newfound adulthood and hopes for the future.

As she listened to the familiar tale, Hermione's eyes began to droop. The candles lighting the hall twinkled along the edge of the crystal goblet and cast a soft glow on the wine gleaming inside. The reassuring shape of the headmistress hung like a smudge of colour reflected in the glass, and Hermione looked up at her former teacher, lost to the rush of safety and affection she felt at the familiar image: her stern but encouraging expression, upright carriage, and tartan hat.

Later, she'd try to convince herself that exhaustion explained why, when she lowered her gaze to her goblet again, it was no longer the image of the headmistress suspended there, but that of an unfamiliar man. Slender, with slick dark hair, it was he...not Headmistress McGonagall...standing at the podium and addressing the hall.

She gasped.

It was too early for the revealing potion to be working...only three hours had passed. Perhaps they had been mistaken in their calculations.

Hermione blinked.

The image of the man was still there.

She couldn't hear his voice, but the tired lines around his eyes made her lean in to get a closer look, and the stiff set of his shoulders left her fingers itching to ease the tension there. How odd. She didn't know this man, and he looked anything but approachable. Still, even in this hazy reflection, she could feel his energy: he was wound taut like a spring about to be released, and she was drawn to it. To him.

Could it be? Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she could hardly hear the words of the Founders' Tale anymore. She must be meant to see him, she thought. But what did that mean?

Hermione glanced up at the podium. Silly, she thought, to check that it was still Headmistress McGonagall standing there. Of course it was her.

She didn't recognise the wizard, and his presence on the dais should be impossible, if not for the evidence in the goblet. It was only when he finished speaking and returned to his seat that Hermione saw his face clearly at last.

Her heart raced.

Dark, edged with sooty lashes, his eyes were haunted not only by long shadows of candlelight, but by deeper worry, she thought. Nothing had prepared her, she realised at once, for the reality of what she might see reflected back at her once she'd taken the potion.

What had she imagined? Another career? Travel or work behind a desk at the Ministry? She shuddered. Never would she have imagined her fate might be entwined with a total stranger. But who was he, and how could he be standing where Minerva should instead?

She leaned closer, rapt, caught by the reflection in her glass.

It wasn't that he looked so severe, she thought, though he did, or intimidating, though he cut an impressive figure. It wasn't even the flash of strong hands and long fingers under the sweeping sleeve of his robes. She felt a sudden desire, like a pang in her chest, to hear his voice, and from the set of his mouth, she imagined he must be a man who spoke precisely, without a syllable going to waste.

But it wasn't any of these things that made her catch her breath or hold her glass perfectly still, lest the image melt away.

It was the look in his eyes when they hesitated for a split second (could he see her, too? The potion shouldn't allow him to see her...) before his gaze swept past her as if he had no idea he appeared, impossibly, in the red-tinged goblet, despair belying the aggressive set of his shoulders.

Why, she wondered, watching the image of the wizard fade away, did a man sitting in a room full of what must be hundreds of people, look so terribly alone?

The fire in his chambers burned hot, but his bones were cold.

Severus reached for the elf-made wine with a shaking hand and topped up his drink one last time. Personally, he'd have preferred Firewhisky, but if he had already begun to hallucinate so early in this thrice-damned school year, he'd best stay away from the hard stuff.

Two hours later, and he still felt like he was jumping out of his skin. It was bad enough to be looking over his shoulder constantly, wondering who was listening, who was watching. But this? To see Granger of all people, hovering in the reflection of his wine glass? Ridiculous, and yet, under the circumstances, an absolute nightmare.

It must be the strain, more intense than ever before, with the Carrows dogging his every move and the Dark Lord's ever-increasing demands. It was nearly too much. Obfuscating the truth had become so second nature he wondered what remained of the Severus Snape who had once loved a girl and longed to show her magic.

He swirled the wine remaining in the belly of the goblet and leaned in to inhale its rich scent. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep his eyes from straying to the burgundy stain inside the glass, half hoping and half fearing he'd find Granger's face there again.

He'd recovered quickly enough, he thought, when he'd turned from the podium and found those eyes staring at him. Had fallen into his seat and looked away before the oafs seated on either side of him noticed anything amiss.

With a groan, he levered himself off the armchair and made his way to his bedchamber. The ghosts and the portraits had been tasked to monitor the corridors for errant students, and the elves would alert him should the Carrows stray out of bounds. With his network in place, he might even doze for a few moments here and there ... if he could only shut off the persistent thoughts of Granger and the boys out there somewhere, presumably...hopefully...executing Dumbledore's plan, whatever in the name of Hades that might be.

One thing he knew for certain. She wasn't meant to be anywhere near Hogwarts. Certainly not in the Great Hall eating dinner, dressed in odd violet robes, and most definitely not reflected in the depths of his wine glass.

He took another sip before putting the goblet on the table for the elves to clear away. Despite the illusion, he knew she hadn't been there. Not really. He'd even done a surreptitious scan of the hall and high table just in case she'd sneaked in, disguised in those strange robes.

But, no. Even if had she had slipped past the layers of security and surveillance spells undetected, she'd concealed herself admirably well despite her unlikely appearance reflected in his goblet.

Severus laid his head on his pillow and watched the last of the fire flicker and fade to glowing ember.

He hoped to hell, wherever she was, she'd continue to stay hidden.

To stay safe.

Never had reflective surfaces held as much appeal to Hermione as they did in the weeks following the Welcoming Feast. Not one to spend much time contemplating the vagaries of wildly frizzing hair or the dark circles that inevitably showed up beneath her eyes during wild fits of studying, Hermione had always treated her image as a sometimes curious but mostly irrelevant fact of nature.

But now, if reflective surfaces might have the potential to show her something more than her own face, well, then, that was something else, entirely.

"It worked!" she'd said after the feast, when she had returned to the lab to meet Professor Evans.

"What do you mean, 'it worked'?" she asked. "It hasn't been four hours yet."

"But I saw him. I mean, I saw something in the goblet. A reflection. It was a man, and he was standing at the podium, addressing the students."

Professor Evans' brow was furrowed, and she wore that tight-lipped look that never boded well.

"Impossible," she said. "Even if the potion had worked and you were seeing a man who was entwined with your fate, there wouldn't be a wizard at the podium. You must have imagined it."

Nothing Hermione said could sway her. And when she brought the oval mirror for Hermione to gaze into, all she saw there was her own reflection.

"Back to the drawing board," Evans said, though she gave Hermione a reassuring pat on the back before suggesting they both retire for the night.

Hermione had dropped the subject, going back to her notes, trying to work out what had gone wrong. It had gone wrong. Professor Evans had said as much. But still, she searched for him in every reflection she could find.

Oddly enough, now that she was looking for them, she discovered that Hogwarts held less than its fair share of reflective surfaces. Oh, certainly, there were cups and goblets at meals, and mirrors (magical and otherwise) in her chambers. But the large sheets of glass that adorned the modern buildings of non-magical London were completely absent in the old castle. Instead, stained glass and leaded windows provided portals only for the weak northern light that streamed into the cavernous rooms, none of which provided anything like a satisfactory mirrored surface.

As day flowed into day, she stopped noticing the way her eyes would stray to every expanse of glass or spill of liquid (and to be fair, the potions classroom gave her a fair number of those) in the hope that she might discover once and for all whether the man she had seen suspended in her wine glass had been (as she had hoped) the result of the revealing potion after all, or whether he had been a figment of her overtired imagination.

It was only the mystery of the thing that kept her looking so persistently, she told herself. An anomaly to unravel. A perfectly reasonable motive for pursing a shadowy reflection.

She tried not to notice the lurch in her belly when she thought she might not ever see those dark eyes...shadowed but intriguing...ever again.

Snow crunched under her feet as Hermione made her way to the Greenhouses. She was grateful that when she returned to the castle, she wouldn't be beset with lesson planning and marking papers. The students had gone home for the winter holidays; only a handful remained for special projects or simply because the castle seemed a homely place to be.

Standing outside Greenhouse Four, the wide expanse of glass mirrored the castle behind it, along with the last rays of the setting sun to the west. Hermione nearly dropped her collection basket, transfixed by the flickering light against the glass.

"Hermione, what're you doing standing out there? It's freezing." Neville poked his head out the door and waved her inside.

"Sorry, Neville. Got distracted."

"Well, hurry up. The Abyssinian shrivelfigs are ready for harvest, and they can't take the cold."

She nodded and hurried inside, breathing the steamy warmth of the place into cold lungs and shrugging off her heavy coat and gloves.

"Thanks for making time for me, Neville," she said. "Professor Evans will have my head if I don't finish replenishing the stores. We're running low on everything, and the N.E.W.T. students need alihotsy leaves dried and ready for them when they get back to class."

Neville glanced up at her from a pile of fluxweed and quirked his lip.

"I don't think I've ever known you to be behind on anything, Hermione. Should I be sending you to Matron Pomfrey for a physical? Or better yet, to Professor Tonks, to be sure you've not been possessed by the evil spirit of procrastination?"

Hermione smacked his arm and tried to pretend she wasn't blushing. So what if she wasn't working her fingers to the bone? Hadn't she done that enough over six years of schooling? She'd obtained an interesting Apprenticeship, even if it meant teaching a group of students who would never know a Runespoor from a Doxy egg. Besides, if Professor Evans were unsatisfied with her performance, she'd say so, wouldn't she?

Hermione squirmed.

She didn't manage to convince even herself.

"I've been a bit preoccupied, to be honest," she said, peering at Neville from beneath a shock of hair that had fallen into her eyes. "And this term has been exhausting."

Far more than she'd expected, in fact. Six years of tutoring Neville and haranguing Draco to do his homework was nothing compared to the day-to-day reality of teaching and marking for eight lessons a week on top of her own research.

"I understand," nodded Neville. "Those third-years, especially, are just confident enough to be cocky. You should see the mess they made of the Puffapods last week, even though Professor Sprout gave them explicit instructions. Took me four hours to clean up after they'd gone."

Hermione nodded.

"What's got you preoccupied?" asked Neville. "Man troubles? That is, if that's the path you're considering after apprenticeship."

"It might be," she said, though the thought of finding a wizard whose interests matched her own and who wouldn't drive her mad seemed nigh on impossible. "Which man would that be?" asked Hermione with a sigh. "Because if you know of someone suitable, I'd appreciate you pointing him out to me."

Neville laughed.

"I supposed you've already noticed Ron's attempts to get your attention, then."

Hermione snorted.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', and a 'no thank you'."

"Spot on," said Hermione. "You were in his Dormitory. Do you think you might steer him... elsewhere?"

"I don't expect he'd take my advice much to heart," said Neville. "Not that I see him much these days."

Hermione smiled. "Well, he knows you and I are friends, doesn't he? Maybe you can tell him that my attentions are otherwise engaged."

"Sounds like that's not far from the truth, eh?"

Hermione blinked. She wasn't preoccupied with the man, she thought, just the mystery. It would be foolish to let herself be consumed by the image of a wizard she was fairly certain wasn't even real.

"No problem, Hermione," Neville said. "I'll take care of Ron. But between you and me, what is going on?"

Good question, Neville,, she thought.

Could she simply tell him the truth? That she'd been searching every reflective surface she could find for a mysterious wizard...one who (for at least three good reasons) had no business being there? That she'd been spending every free moment wondering who he was, and how he'd appeared the way he had as a sort of mirage?

Brilliant, Hermione, she thought. Good way to get sacked or sent to St Mungo's, or both.

"I'm fine," she answered. "Just overworked, I expect."

Neville pursed his lips. "If you don't want to tell me, just..."

Hermione's gasp interrupted him, but she didn't notice.

"Neville," she whispered. "Do you see that?"

Neville turned toward the window to the east, black from the encroaching darkness outside and fogged with steam from the heat of the greenhouse.

"See what? It's just us in the window."

But Hermione had already risen and was walking towards the glass, her hand outstretched.

Neville might not be able to see him, but he was there.

Her heart pounded in her ears and she approached the reflection.

It was as if the greenhouse window opened directly into the Headmistress's office, and she, as if suspended in midair, could look directly in. But instead of Headmistress McGonagall, sitting at her enormous desk, sifting through piles of paperwork or chatting with the portraits, he was there, the wizard she'd seen that night, pacing back and forth across the wide chamber. Arms clasped behind him, robes swishing with every movement...it had to be him, she was sure of it.

He looked simply awful, and Hermione's stomach fluttered in sympathy for him, this stranger who looked so tortured and alone. She stepped closer to the window and noticed that if she pressed her nose to the glass, she could see the inside of the office. Unlike the one she was accustomed to, packed with personal touches, magical knickknacks and shelves piled deep with books and papers, this one seemed almost bare, apart from the full bookshelves, as if its current occupant didn't intend to stay. Even the portraits were vacant, leaving their headmaster alone with his heavy heart.

She didn't realise she'd been holding her breath until the wizard turned to look outside his own window and stopped short, his eyes wide. Alarmed.

Can you see me?

Hermione let out a shaky breath, leaving another layer of fog on the glass. Without thinking, only impulse guiding her, she took a fingertip and wrote rapidly in the fading steam, her eyes never leaving the man across from her, who looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Who are you?"

Severus froze.

His heart pounded in his chest; panicked, his thoughts stalled.

Not again. No.

It was impossible.

It couldn't be her, it couldn't. She was on the run, hiding from the Dark Lord. It couldn't be Granger's blurred face in the window, looking more curious than surprised.

Besides, Granger would recognise him... Unless something had happened to her. Had she been injured? Her memory damaged? Was she incapacitated? And even if she were, what magic would allow her to appear to him like this, an apparition outside his window?

Who are you?

Now that, he thought, cradling his head in his hands, was a question for the ages.

She was gone from the glass when he lifted his head, and he wasn't sure if he was more disappointed or relieved. Seeing things that weren't there hardly inspired confidence, and Merlin knew he had enough reasons to feel uneasy already.

And yet.

The sight of her had been oddly comforting, for all that it was terrifying. It was obviously Granger, but different than he remembered her. Gone were the shadowed eyes from too much studying and the stooped posture of a student both eager to please and anxious about succeeding. Instead, she'd looked surprisingly relaxed. Curious, but not afraid. Hardly how a young woman on the run from the most dangerous wizard in the world ought to look.

He shook his head. What folly. To be wasting even a moment pondering what was obviously the product of too little sleep and too much stress. Neither condition was likely to abate any time soon, he thought, so he'd best just get on with it. If only he could put the image of her concerned, curious eyes out of his mind.

Neville insisted on accompanying her back to the castle, a detour to the Matron included, without comment or request. Hermione bore it well, despite her desire to protest and explain, gritting her teeth and agreeing to take the Calming Draught and go straight to bed.

"You're obviously overtired, Hermione," the mediwitch told her. "Not uncommon for apprentices after their first full term. Just take care of yourself, and you should be right as rain before you know it."

"Thank you," she murmured, tucking the bottle into a pocket of her robes.

She didn't need it. She was certain there was nothing at all wrong with her, but one didn't argue with the Matron.

"So what was it you thought you saw there in the window?" Neville asked, just as they approached her chamber door.

Hermione glanced at him, surprised, and shook her head.

"Nothing. Must have been an optical illusion," she said. "Sorry to disrupt your whole evening with nothing to show for it. I'll have to come back tomorrow to finish collecting. If that's all right with you, I mean."

Neville narrowed his eyes. "Tomorrow is fine, on the condition that you go right to sleep. Agreed?"

"Of course," Hermione said, smiling stiffly.

She waited for Neville to turn the corner before closing and bolting her door. Taking only a moment to deposit the Calming Draught in the nearest bin, Hermione headed straight for the fireplace.

"Headmistress's Office," she shouted as soon as the flames burned green, and stepped right through.

The tea was cooling on the table between them and the fire burned low.

"Are you going to tell me what really brought you here tonight, Hermione, or should we continue to perpetuate the fiction that you were simply dying for the biscuits the elves bring me before bed?" The headmistress smiled and leaned back in her chair.

Hermione shifted in her seat and put her teacup down carefully on its saucer.

"I have a question," she said. "An odd one," she added quickly at the twist of the headmistress's lips.

"It's unlike you to hesitate to ask a question, Hermione."

"Yes, well, when you hear the question and the reason behind it, you may well wish I'd kept it to myself."

"Tell me."

The simple request, the genuine concern: together, it was enough.

"Has there ever been a wizard as head of Hogwarts, Professor?" Hermione whispered, just loud enough for McGonagall to hear. "A headmaster instead of a headmistress?" Hermione felt herself flinch at her own question, trying to ignore the tittering from the portraits on the walls behind them. "Obviously, I know my history," she rushed to add. "No male Headmasters since the time of Vulpus and no male faculty since Swott." She took a deep breath. "But is it actually true? I thought if anyone would know..."

The headmistress leaned forward. "Miss Granger. Hermione," she said. "The legacy of witches alone teaching at Hogwarts is part of a long tradition dating from more than four hundred years ago. So far as I know, it is accurate." She paused and leaned back again. "What, may I ask, precipitated the question?"

Hermione sat for a long time, staring into the popping fire. Either something was very wrong with her, or something was just wrong.

"I'm not sure," she said, "whether I've imagined something or not."

"What is it that you believe you might have imagined?"

Hermione turned her eyes from the flames, only to find them lingering on the stained glass tucked into a curve of windows to the left of Professor McGonagall's desk. She rose from her chair and made her way to the windows. It was easier to answer this way, facing away, immersed in the intricacies of the inlaid glass.

"A wizard," Hermione answered. "In here. In your office. Except it wasn't your office. Not exactly. It was far more bare, and he looked so lonely." Hermione brought her hand to the window and ran a fingertip along the edging.

"A wizard? In this office?"

Hermione nodded. "Pacing."

"Pacing."

Hermione didn't reply. The colours of the window were mesmerising. She'd never seen this one up close, never been behind the headmistress's desk where all the detail of the scene could be appreciated.

It held the Four Founders, each in their own arched panel of glass. The four windows together depicted the Hallowing, the story told during every Welcoming Feast since the establishment of Hogwarts.

The surface of the window was mottled with dust, and Hermione brought the edge of her robe to rub against a spot, clearing it away.

Cleaning it.

The colours beneath were so vibrant. Even more brilliant than she had imagined.

The glass shimmered beneath the cloth of her robe, and Hermione couldn't resist clearing away more until the figure and what she held in her hands glistened.

She was vaguely aware of holding her breath as she brought the palm of her hand to rest on the image of a cloak. That must be what was shimmering, she realised, or perhaps it was the object Helga Hufflepuff was holding in her other hand. The cloak called to her, the cloak that had (according to the Founders' Tale) long ago been woven into the wind and wood and stone of Hogwarts, a magical shield over them all.

It was not as if she thought she might actually feel the texture of the fabric or the spill of cloth like water over her hands. Had she paused to think, she would have expected glass, solid and cold, beneath her palm. Never in a thousand years would she have predicted that her hand would pass right through, as if the images were made of mist instead of ground sand and pigment and iron.

Never in a million years would she have expected to meet another hand on the other side.

Warm and strong, pulsing with energy.

And never would she have expected him (it was a man's hand, a wizard's hand, teeming with magic) to fold her hand inside his larger one...

...and pull.

the headmistress's office, nestled in four of the high, arching windows that line the walls [in the Great Hall; in the entrance hall; in the library; in the dungeons; in a deserted tower; crumbled beneath layers of stone], lies an expanse of stained glass. Over the years, the House-elves have, inexplicably, neglected to polish it, leaving the residue of years of life coating its surface.

Beneath the grime, four figures sleep. A thousand years is a long time, and the evidence of the centuries since they last drew breath lies like a mist over them...a soporific. Tonight, one of the figures shifts beneath her heavy blanket of dust. As she draws breath for the first time in a millennium, the glass crackles with its own sort of life, its own brand of magic.