1) Alternate Universe fic. There are surface similarities to the canon setting (places, characters, spells, magical disciplines and arts), but the actual social structure and history of this world is different. As such, some familiar faces may have notably OOC behavior.

2) Chapter lengths will vary (some will be close to 5k, some will be under 2k). Updates will be sporadic.

3) Reviews are always welcome and appreciated, but never demanded.

Fancasts:

Adrian Brody as Severus Snape; Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle

DISCLAIMER: I donot own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from this work.

ONE

He uttered a markedly unhappy groan—funny, right up until that moment, Hermione'd thought she'd never hear anything but a sound of pleasure from the man—as he looked over the official post she'd received from the Ministry. Dropping the letter aside atop the blanket, he leaned back against the headboard, his gaze following her movements as she laced up her boots. He hadn't budged a centimeter toward dressing himself, one long, finely muscled leg sticking out from beneath the covers as he folded his hands behind his head.

"So, you're going to be a soldier for the Empire of Wizarding Britain, then, are you?"

Oh, poo. He was probably just grumpy because he'd have to find himself a new shagging buddy. "Proudly, sir!"

Arching one golden brow at her, he frowned.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, unaccustomed to seeing anything but expressions of ecstasy and abandon on his rugged features. "Oh, please. Don't be so dour. You're a wizard, you've known I was a witch since the first night we met, this shouldn't be a surprise. You know how this all works, and that this was always a possibility. This is exciting. Exhilarating!"

"It's madness." Sitting forward, he managed a petulant tone, an uncharacteristic pout tugging at his bottom lip. "Wha' about me? Wha' about this?" He gestured around their rented room at the inn. Just as fast, though, he pulled a face and dropped his hands back to his sides—clearly aware the inclusion of their surroundings didn't help his argument—and went right back to pouting.

She couldn't help a giggle at his attempt, though. Making a humming sound in the back of her throat, she leaned across the bed to drop a kiss on that adorable, pouty mouth. It wasn't right that a grown man of his impressive stature should be able to pout so convincingly. "You'll be fine, and a man who looks like you will have no problem finding himself someone to replace me."

Scoffing, he narrowed his eyes in a feigned wounded look. "So callous."

Now it was Hermione's turn to scoff. "Oh, please," she said again. "This isn't a relationship. We're not in love. Hell, we don't even know one another's names." From the moment they'd met, it had been nothing but their hands all over each other, sweaty limbs and tangled bed sheets.

She'd run into him, literally, one night a near year ago on her way home from the bookshop, he on his way to work a late shift as security for Gringotts. To this day, Hermione couldn't be sure exactly what had passed between them in that moment as their eyes had locked and their bashfully murmured apologies had died on their lips, but the next thing she knew, he was calling out sick from work, and she'd sent a message to Mum that she was going to be out rather late tonight, as oh, wouldn't you know it? Flourish and Blotts simply did not have the volume she was looking for! She'd just have to pop over to Tomes and Scrolls in Hogsmeade. To which, of course, Mum predictably suggested Hermione stay overnight at one of the inns there, as Mum hated the idea of a young woman traveling alone late at night.

Not that she'd had very much sleep by the time she returned home bright and early the next morning. It had been the most un-Hermione-Granger-like thing she'd ever done in her life, but she didn't regret it for a second. They didn't know each others names, only exchanging contact numbers. The pair met up once a week—sometimes more frequently—and deliberately kept before and after conversations to a minimum, only discussing the most frivolous things. She'd even used the old-school Muggle method of 'redacting information'—using a black marker to blot out any personal information—on the Ministry's letter to keep him from glimpsing her name by accident.

But, frivolous non-relationship or not, she felt he deserved more than her simply never returning any of his messages again. And so, she'd brought the letter along when he'd asked to meet up tonight . . . yet had only shown it to him afterward, as she was rather sure that basically announcing this was over between them might've seen to him deciding he wasn't in the mood.

He smirked, though it was somewhat mirthless. "Well, if that's how it is, then my name is—"

She shot out her hand, pressing her fingers against his lips. "Stop. You know even if we did know each other better, it wouldn't change anything. I start attending Hogwarts in a week."

A smile curving his mouth behind her fingertips, such a mischievous gleam came into his eyes that she found herself letting her hand slip down. Just enough for him to speak.

"Didn't you once mention your birthday is after the start of the school term?"

"Yes. 19th of September."

"Oh, so . . . ." He slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his lap and linking his hands behind her back. "You'll be 19 on the 19th? Sorta cute, that."

Snickering, Hermione shook her head. "It's hardly as though I control when my birthday falls."

"Well," he said, dropping his gaze to her mouth. "What if, on that night, you could slip away from the castle grounds, and come meet me at the Three Broomsticks, hmm? I'd love to make sure you have a veryhappy birthday this year."

She bit down on her lower lip as she leaned closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. "If I can't, you might just have to find a way to sneak into Hogwarts."

"And risk corporal punishment just for a good shag? Certainly would add a level of spice we've never tried before."

"I can promise I'll try to get away that night, I think it's a Saturday. Should be allowed a night's leave."

There was a twinkle in his baby blues as he winked at her. "That's sort of settled. But um . . . ." He scraped his teeth against his bottom lip as he pulled her closer, still. "How about another go before you leave, hmm? Might be our last chance."

"Well," she said, pausing a moment to look pensive. "If you're going to insist so—" Her words were cut short by a delighted shriek as he threw her backward on the bed and immediately followed after her, undressing her all over again.

The Hogwarts Express looked like a functioning relic—she imagined it was precisely what would've been designed had steam locomotives existed in Medieval times. Aged crimson and rusted black . . . there was a certain spooky charm to the train that she couldn't really put into words, more of a feeling than something that could be vocalized.

Though the platform was a bit crowded—teaming with people, some around her own age, some older though she thought sure the professors must already be at the castle, preparing for first instruction tomorrow—there seemed a distinct lack of the usual hum and bustle of such an area as the Express pulled to a whining, hissing halt. She wasn't certain if it was nervous excitement that kept everyone quiet, or a sudden rush of anxiety that had struck them all at once; she was positive she felt a bit of both, herself, as the ancient locomotive loomed before them.

Whatever the cause, as soon as the doors opened and the crowd pushed forward, chatter broke out everywhere while students started filing into the cars. Hermione'd never been the shy type, but she found her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth just now as excuse me's and ooh sorry's filled the air. She forced a grin and nodded politely in response, holding her familiar in its carrier close to her chest as she neared the open car door before her.

It seemed a stroke of luck that she found an empty seat, given the veritable stampede. Though, as she poked her head into the compartment in question, she was a little intimidated to find three sets of male gazes staring back at her in question.

"Sorry," she said, forcing out the word as she cleared her throat and pointed to the vacant spot beside the young man with the glasses and wide green eyes. "Is that seat taken?"

To her relief, the smile that curved his lips as he shook his head seemed to reflect her own nervousness. "No, no. Please."

As she stepped in, she remembered Crookshanks. "Oh! Sorry, again, but are any of you allergic to cats?"

Though all three shook their heads, the ginger-haired wizard seated by the opposite window scrunched up his face as he peered through the grated door of the carrier. "You sure tha's a cat?"

A scowl immediately overtook her features, causing the last occupant—the one with the silver-blond hair and sharp grey eyes—to burst out in laughter. "You git," he said, sparing Hermione the need to answer. "Can't you tell? It's a kneazle-hybrid."

She met his gaze with a grateful expression as she took the open spot and set the carrier down beside her feet. "Thank you."

Though he nodded in response, he directed his next words to the other young man, once more. "Swear, you might as well be a Muggleborn."

Hermione stiffened, her brows shooting upward. "Maybe this wasn't such a good place to sit, after all," she said in a whisper.

All three looked at her, then, an awkward tension filling the compartment.

"Oh! Oh, are you Muggleborn?" the one with the glasses asked.

She exhaled sharply through her nostrils, her eyes locked on the blond. "I am."

The subject of her glare winced visibly while the ginger-haired wizard snickered at his pained look. But the one seated beside her turned fully to face her, waving dismissively at them. "Look, you're going to have to ignore Malfoy. He's an arse."

"Oy!"

Hermione snickered in spite of herself at the way he went on as though this Malfoy hadn't spoken up at all. "But he doesn't mean anything by it. It's just his way of saying Ron's lack of knowledge about Wizarding culture never ceases surprise him."

"Should I take it you're all pure-bloods, then?"

He shrugged. "I'm technically a half-blood, depending on who you talk to. My mother's a Muggleborn witch."

She nodded, well aware there was some controversy about such blood statuses. Some considered that one was only a half-blood if one parent was a true Muggle, while others considered one a pure-blood only if both parents came from magical lineages. She knew, as well, her own status meant that someone far back in her family had been born to such a lineage but lacked the ability to wield magic, themselves, making her birth as a witch something a bit miraculous. Didn't stop some pure-bloods from viewing the word Muggleborn with a level of disdain. There was even a derogatory term for Muggleborns that she had a clear understanding from all her studies one should not expect to hear in polite company.

"My name's Harry," he said, offering his hand. "Potter."

Hermione froze mid-motion as she moved to take his hand in hers. "Potter? The son of James Potter and Lily Evans, the war heroes?"

He laughed, grasping her frozen hand and shaking it. "I've a feeling I'm going to be getting that reaction a lot tonight."

"Sorry." She grinned sheepishly. "Just . . . I've been reading up on everything I could get my hands on about the Wizarding world since I time I was able to cast a spell. I never expected I'd meet someone so famous."

"Careful, you're going to make him want to crawl under his chair."

Her eyes shot wide at Malfoy's words. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to embarrass you."

Harry shrugged, settling back in his seat. "It's fine, really. What's your name?"

In the fuss she'd just made, she'd not even realized she hadn't introduced herself. "Hermione Granger." She turned to look at the other two. "Malfoy and Ron. Should I assume you're not brothers?"

Harry chuckled at how immediately disgusted both wizards seated across from them appeared.

"Merlin, no," Malfoy said with a grimace. "We are, at best, distant cousins. Malfoy's my family name, my first name is Draco."

"Draco? Like the dragon constellation?"

He arched a brow, a half-smile plucking up one corner of his mouth. "Precisely. You are good."

"Not distant enough," Ron muttered, jabbing an elbow against Draco's ribs. Of course, plunk a pretty girl down in the room and his dear, distant cousin starts flirting the second she shows she has the faintest scrap of intellect. "And I'm Ron Weasley."

She nodded, spotting a smudge of something on his face. Her brows pinched together. Was he twelve running about with dirt on him like that?

He frowned at her, a bit worried. "What?"

Hermione looked at the other two compartment occupants. They each darted their gazes away. Oh, so they had noticed, too . . . . "You've got dirt on your nose." She rubbed at the bridge of her own nose in demonstration. "Just there."

"Wha'?" Scowling, Ron swiped at the spot she'd indicated with the edge of his sleeve. "You two weren't even going to tell me?"

"Oh, we were going to tell you," Draco started with a shrug.

"After watching you sit through the welcome feast and sorting ceremony with your face a mess, of course," Harry tacked on.

Hermione barely held back a laugh at the string of hushed curses Ron Weasley loosed as he turned his attention out the window, refusing to acknowledge any of them for the remainder of the train ride.

The feast was wonderful. Filling, everything was delicious, and her earlier inexplicable anxiety had vanished. She'd even been introduced to Ron's older brothers—a rather dashing pair of twins. At first she'd wondered why Ron simply hadn't sat with them, but the warning that they were unabashed pranksters gave her a fairly good idea why he kept his distance.

It was her understanding the sorting took place after the meal because as the school year began officially tomorrow morning, they'd be expected to sit with their Houses then, while the welcome feast was one last opportunity to share a meal with their friends before start of term.

As excited as she was—just as she'd told her lover, this was an exhilarating thing for her—when the ceremony began, she felt her heart hammering against her ribcage all over again. The headmaster took the podium, steely blue eyes staring out at the lot of them from behind pair of half-moon spectacles as he talked about the grandeur of the institution they were joining, pointed out the out-of-bounds areas of the grounds, and introduced the faculty.

She wasn't certain she heard any of it. Not until a fiercely-stern looking elder witch stepped up, a fine silver dagger in one hand and an enchanted scroll open in the other. Hermione thought she recalled that the headmaster, Dumbledore, had introduced this woman as Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Dumbledore read the names from a list before him. Each new student filed up obediently after the last, as though they hadn't all blanched at the process of sorting. They watched with bated breath as the student on stage took the dagger from Professor McGonagall's hand and drew the blade across their palm. As they winced and painfully curled their hand into a fist, dripping the blood onto the scroll.

Professor McGonagall called out the name of the House which appeared, and the student left the stage to join the appropriate group.

Next thing she knew, it seemed, Hermione was called up. Swallowing hard, she put on a brave face and started up to the dais. Oh, she knew there were likely to be lessons and training that made this seem painless by comparison, but honestly! Why did it have to be the palm? Why not her finger, or forearm? The palm had more nerve endings, it was a needlessly painful alternative.

But then perhaps that was the reason such rituals called for this, she considered, perfectly aware she was babbling in her head to keep herself calm. Pain was a powerful sensation, it likely gave some oomph to the casting.

Taking the dagger in hand, she nodded to the elder witch. Hermione rounded her shoulders and reminded herself to breathe as she braced for the pain. Just do it, Hermione . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . . The flash of pain across her palm shock through her but she swallowed down a sound of discomfort, keeping her features schooled as best she could.

She could swear in that moment, as she kept up that stoic front, she heard a deep, sinful-sounding voice from somewhere at the faculty table drawl in a whisper, "Interesting."

Ignoring it, she gave back the dagger and held her hand above the scroll. Just as much as she braced for the pain, she braced to learn which House the ceremonial magic had decided was best suited to her skills and abilities as she curled her fingers into a fist and dripped her blood onto the scroll.

"Gryffindor," she said in a hissing breath as she shook her head. "I still can't believe it. A fighter? Me?"

Harry chuckled from his place beside her on the sofa in the common room of Gryffindor Tower. "You say that like it's bad. It means the scroll recognized you as brave and capable."

"I'd much rather be acknowledged as intelligent and capable."

He arched a brow before glancing about and then returning his attention to her. "Really?"

"Oh." She shook her head once more, aware her words could be taken as a slight. "No, no. I don't mean fighters can't be both brave and intelligent, in fact, it's best when they're both, but I just thought I'd be a strategist with the Ravenclaws, or an alchemist with the Slytherins."

"And being a healer with the Hufflepuffs doesn't strike your fancy, huh?"

Hermione snickered. "Oh, no. Their calling is noble, but I've a terrible bedside manner." Now it was her turn to arch a brow as she nodded toward where Ron was bellyaching about some godawful thing his brothers had done to him during the feast. "And now I'm stuck with the likes of him."

Harry followed her indication and chuckled. "Well, you're also stuck with the likes of me."

She looked from Harry, to the bellowing ginger-haired wizard, and back. "Tha's true." Appearing to think on it for a moment, she leaned over a little and whispered, "Want to be my new best friend?"

"Depends. Who was your old best friend?"

"Oh," she answered, shrugging. "Never really had one before."

He narrowed his eyes in an appraising look. "Not much of a people person?"

"It's not for lack of trying," she admitted with a wince.

"I see." Harry recognized the nod toward some social awkwardness. He faced forward, again, watching the frivolity around them alongside her. "Well, this is going to be an interesting year."

Frowning thoughtfully, she pointed out, "That's not a yes."

"It's not a no, either. Friends? Absolutely. Best friends? I dunno, you have to beat out that fool for the job." He waved in Ron's direction.

"Challenge accepted." An idea striking her, Hermione remembered the parcel of confections her mother had tucked into her coat pocket before she'd left home. Withdrawing her wand, she summoned the package to her waiting palm. "Chocolate pastry, Harry?"

His brows drew upward and a grin curved his mouth as he nodded, watching her open the box. "Malfoy was right, you are good."

She wasn't certain what to expect when she settled into a desk chair beside Harry in their Potions lesson the next morning. Of course, she knew the Slytherins would be expected to excel at this particular course, but she planned to be right up there with them when time for readiness inspections and on-paper exams rolled 'round.

The professor—one Severus Snape—seemed nowhere to be found as the students entered the room and chose seats. Yet, as the last desk was filled, the door slammed shut and there he stood. Tall and slender with a prominent nose, his features appeared pinched in an eternal sneer. Longish jet hair hung, lank, into equally dark eyes that glared around the room as though they'd all interrupted him from something far more important than training them for the betterment of Wizarding Britain's future.

"Welcome, students. I will begin with a warning. I do not coddle, pamper or cater to anyone. You either are capable of keeping up with my lessons, or you are not. If you find that you are not, I'll thank you to drop my course in favor of some easier instruction as quickly as possible, so that you waste neither my time, nor your own."

"Whoa," Harry said, his voice a barely audible murmur in the stunned silence of the room. "Mum always joked about this, but I thought she was exaggerating."

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat, somehow managing to speak as Severus Snape took roll call. "Joked about what?"

"Professor Snape's an old friend of hers. She always says 'Sev' should be short for 'severe.'"

"Uh huh." Hermione nodded, unable to take her eyes off the dark-eyed man. Perhaps it was her imagination that he kept flicking his gaze toward her as he called out names and awaited responses. What she knew wasn't her imagination, however, was the familiarity of his voice.

That was the same voice that had whispered when she'd been sorted last night. The same voice with that edge to it that felt like it tickled across her skin.

"Hermione Granger?"

"Present," she said, swallowing hard as he definitely looked at her this time. Definitely held her gaze a little longer than was strictly necessary, before moving on to Daphne Greengrass.

She had no idea how she managed, but she focused on the lesson that followed rather than that voice. She noted down everything he said, raced through the passages he told them to read, had answers at the ready for every question—which really annoyed her, because even though he noticed her hand raised every single time, he never once called on her.

The last hour of class saw to them experimenting with blood magic. More specifically, using their own blood to create a locator beacon, so that if they were ever separated from their partners on a mission, they would be able to find one another, or learn immediately if one of them fell in combat.

Hermione's palm still stung from last night's sorting ceremony. She looked over at the other workstations. Her fellow students had opted to simply pick open the healing wound on their hands and use a bit of blood from that.

Staring down at the dagger beside her cauldron, burner, and jars of varied ingredients, she tried to figure if a new wound might be preferable for effectiveness. Shaking her head, she watched Harry at the next workstation as he took a hint from the other students, simply going to his already-existing wound.

"I can't help but feel that that's wrong," she said in a whisper. Sighing, she picked up her dagger.

Despite her surety, her hand shook a little as she held the tip of the blade against her waiting fingertip. In her moment of hesitation, a pale, long-fingered hand wrapped around her wrist, steadying her.

She felt the press of his body close against her back as he guided the blade to slice across her skin, quick and clean. Hermione was so distracted with his nearness that she didn't even feel the sting of the cut.

"You're the only one who understood, despite how obvious I thought I made it," he said softly, his breath tickling along the back of her neck as he slid his free hand over her bleeding one, pressing a few drops to splash against the blade.

"You . . . ." She swallowed hard, licking her lips in a nervous gesture. And oh goodness, her cheeks were suddenly very, very warm. "You know the sorting ceremony's ritual, you know perfectly well we'd already have open wounds from it."

"Precisely." Severus used his hand still around her wrist to lower the dagger, scraping the bit of crimson off into the cauldron. "Power comes from pain, Miss Granger."

She'd not expected him to echo her own realization from last night. "Understood, sir."

He slid his hands from her, but seemed to linger a moment. Reminding herself to breathe, she looked back at him over her shoulder. Those dark eyes met hers, holding her gaze for a few stammering heartbeats before he stepped away.

The wash of cold against her skin in his absence made her shiver, bringing her back to her senses. Looking about the room, she saw that everyone else was still focused on creating their own potion for the locator beacon. No one had seen what had just happened.

Hermione even found herself wondering if she might not have imagined it. The mild sting in the tip of her finger, and the way Severus Snape met her gaze just then as she looked over at him—his eyes again locked on hers for a few seconds before he returned his attention to reprimanding some other student for incorrect herb usage—told her that moment between them just now had been very, very real.