A/N: I don't own the characters or Hogwarts. If I did, I wouldn't be worrying about how I'm going to pay for college! But keep your fingers off the plot, please. This happens to be a bit of a new thing…I haven't really investigated the whole Severus/Hermione bit before. As they are sort of main characters, I'm a bit concerned as to how I'll warp my own perception of them by the time the next book makes it into my hands...not to mention yours, my winsome reader. At any rate, here goes…

Changes Made

Chapter One


Severus Snape sat on a thinly upholstered sofa with his cloak wrapped tightly around himself. His chambers were surprisingly warm and dry considering the dank, clammy chill of the surrounding dungeons. Torches lit most of the room, yet shadows lingered in corners and lurked under furniture. Snape's rooms were clean, yet unfeelingly so. There was little decoration aside from the swirling pattern incised into the dark, glossy bookcase and the single rug on the floor, woven in the pattern of a serpent.

The other furniture in Snape's rooms was of the same glossy wood as the bookcase. The solitary table and chair gleamed in the flickering torchlight. On the table, a clear globe balanced gracefully on a delicate silver stand. Across the room, the fireplace was well kempt and dark. Beyond that, a heavy door stood ajar, leading to his prison-like bedroom. The bed was covered only with a thin sheet and blanket. Next to it, a bedside cabinet stood holding only a candlestick. Snape's bedroom was devoid of any personal possessions, save for the trunk half-hidden in shadow beneath the bed.

On the sofa, Snape seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the wall across the room, lost in thought. Pleasant or unpleasant, it was hard to tell; no emotion displayed on his closed face. Inside his head, a whirling turmoil of feeling and contemplation spun dizzyingly.

Finally summer. No students worried about nothing more than a passing grade, no quaking first years tripping over themselves when he billowed past, no exploding cauldrons or spilled ingredients, and no Potter, reminding him of everything he hated about himself and his past. Potter.

And then, Black. Dead. Snape felt a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Dead in part because he, Snape, had allowed his emotions to over power reason and logic. Black, a man brave, yes, and strong, who had died in a fight to save that godson of his, spawn of that cocky bastard James.

James Potter, handsome and talented and as cruel as any boy Snape had ever known. The torment he had put Snape through was nearly unbelievable! Using the art of magic to cause horrible embarrassment. Calling names, humiliating him in front of the only person at Hogwarts he had cared at all for. Lily Evans.

Lily. She had always stood up for him. She had always been furious at the way that James arrogantly treated others, as if they were merely dust at his precious feet. He and the other so-called "Marauders." Lupin, standing silent, never condoning, yet never making any move to stop his friends from pursuing their spiteful entertainment. Pettigrew, the quivering, traitorous follower. Worshipping the ground the others walked on because he was too weak to find his own way. And Black, encouraging his best friend to pitilessly scar a classmate. Not physically of course, but memories remain much longer than flesh ever could.

Lily. Even after everything that insufferable prat had done, James Potter had still won her heart and hand. It made Snape want to hit something. And of course there was Harry, a living, breathing reminder of those memories. And now, the boy knew. That nosy git had flung himself headfirst where he had no business being. Dumbledore's Penseive had one flaw, and that was that any one waltzing past who took the fancy to poke about would find themselves watching another's personal experiences. So Harry had witnessed a few the worst Snape could remember. From school first, and then those memories of home, if you could call it that. His parents, fighting, his father, drunk. Sitting alone locked in his room, no hope of anything better. And Harry knew.

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Hermione Granger stared blankly at the partially unrolled parchment before her. Approximately one-third of it was covered with precise, no-nonsense script - and essay on doxies. For not the first time since the summer holidays had begun, Hermione pushed herself away from her homework and rose to gaze out the window at the trim, suburban street. A row of perfect white houses with perfect front gardens occupied by men and women with their perfect BMWs lined the street. In the mornings one could see their perfect children dressed perfectly to attend their perfect private schools with their perfectly overpriced tuitions. Hermione sighed and looked back into her own room.

The bed, perfectly made without the merest hint of a wrinkle. The walls, perfectly white. A shelf on the wall held a collection of porcelain dolls, with their perfectly dusted rosebud smiles. A perfectly polished birdcage stood in a corner, currently empty. Griselda, a gift from Hermione's parents was delivering a message to Harry. Crookshanks was nowhere to be found, having disappeared into the garden directly after breakfast. Hermione looked down at her perfectly organised desk and her half-completed homework. A sudden urge to rebel washed through her like a crashing wave. An urge to break the perfect box she'd been kept in for so long. And no more confounded homework! She blinked. That would be considered a highly un-Hermione-like thought.

She knew how others thought of her. Besides Ron and Harry, and perhaps Hagrid, no one knew how much different she was from the face she held during classes. And they didn't know all of it, even! Hermione had seen that the night of the Yule ball in fourth year when she had deviated from the norm and gone wearing something other than school robes. Her parents expected her to receive perfect marks in everything, and so she did. Her studying habits were perfect. It had been ingrained into her mind since the time she was old enough to understand that timeliness, cleanliness, intellect, and organisation were to be the most important things in her life. To please her parents, these were what Hermione had built her life around.

When she had received her owl on her eleventh birthday, her father had been much less than thrilled. A witch for a daughter didn't fit his perfect picture of the perfect family. How would this be explained? Fortunately, her mother had seen this slightly differently and managed to talk him into thinking that this would only enhance the perfection of their lives. Their daughter would be receiving a highly respectable and valuable education, although admittedly different. She would still be studying, just not the normal array of math and science they were used to. Reluctantly, they had ventured into Diagon Alley with the Weasleys, an experience that while certainly not their favourite had not been entirely disagreeable. And so, Hermione had been able to remain their perfect daughter.

Hermione was alone in the house. Her parents were at their dental practice as they were every day except Sunday, when the office was closed. For the most part, they had little to do with her everyday life as she wasn't home most of the year and had always been a most responsible girl. The worst she had ever done was left a pot of beans boil over one evening while she had her nose buried in an informative book regarding Goblin riots. It was time for a bit of change, Hermione decided. But how to go about it?