Greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13)

The first time round, she had been excited, one hand kept in the pocket of her new robe, clutched around her wand and frantically trying to remember the spells she had memorised just in case, staring at the sky ceiling with wonder, impatient to begin her education.

This time, however, she had bigger fish to fly.

Still, she thought, looking around, it felt good to be back at Hogwarts - a Hogwarts which had not yet been destroyed, which would never be destroyed if she succeeded. And yet, it had already gone wrong: the Time Turner, especially altered by Professor Dumbledore to transport the remnants of the Order into Riddle's youth had not worked properly. Instead, it had taken her only as far as 1977, at the beginning of Voldemort's first reign of terror, and left all the others behind to almost certain death.

She shook her head to clear it, for there was nothing she could do now but to try her best with the chance she had been given.

Despite all of her adventures in this building with Harry and Ron during their tumultuous years here, this was not a corridor in which Hermione had ever been. It was narrower than the general ones used by the students, and served, as she had only recently discovered, as a passageway between the Great Hall and the professors' chambers, where for Hermione herself had slept for the past few days.

Through the little door in front of her, she could hear the occasional shout of the Sorting Hat, followed by muffled clapping. Eventually it subsided, followed by Dumbledore's voice, scarcely louder than a murmur through the thick iron.

She straightened then, and smoothed a hand over her hair, tucking strands of it behind her ears. Over the years, it had become somewhat less frizzy, but it would always be burdensome. Then she ran her hands across her robes to remove any specks of dirt, though she was perfectly well aware that there weren't any, and finally admitted to herself that she was nervous.

Hermione despised having to wait.

This had been true from an early age, when back at her primary school, she would fidget in her seat as the teacher took the register, sneaking longing glances at the books she wasn't allowed to open, and hope that for once, they would tell her something she hadn't read about already. Later, during the war years, she had found the hours before a plan could be carried out the most frustrating, for while she was fighting, she could depend on her magical ability and her brilliant memory, but in those agonising hours beforehand, she was left at the mercy of her mind, invariably reminding her of the many things which could go wrong.

But her life from now on would have to be a state of prolonged battle, though not always the sort that she could fight with spells. She told herself that his had been true since Dumbledore had died, but it wasn't the same. Previously, she had at least had people she could trust and depend on, and besides, other than brief arguments, when conflict arose, it ultimately ended up in a clash of wands. Here, where Hermione knew of people only what they might later become, she was alone.

Then the door opened, startling her out of her thoughts, and Hermione Granger took a deep breath and stepped through into the Great Hall.

It was just as she had remembered it, and for a minute she almost halted in her steps, caught up in the memories.

There, the closest to her, was the Slytherin table, draped coolly in green and grey, and the distaste that she felt was habitual. It was hard to remember that some Slytherins had fought alongside and in the Order, and all too easy to remember that the majority of Death Eaters had hailed from there.

She had not time to dwell on the thought, though, for her gaze was inevitably drawn to the other side of the room, where the Gryffindor Table, where she had eaten three meals a day almost every day for six years, reading and writing and talking with her friends, was positioned. It would hurt, she thought, to sit there without them, but still, the thought of being in the common room and sleeping in the Tower in a red poster-bed again pleased her.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that it was only when she found herself standing next to Professor McGonagall that she became aware that she had reached the stool. The older woman gave her a slight smile, and once she had sat down, laid the Sorting Hat on her head.

The rim of it had scarcely dropped over her eyes when she heard its small voice in her ear.

It sounded delighted, "Hmm, a time traveller! Haven't had one in centuries. Put you into Gryffindor before."

Despite herself, Hermione felt herself nod. The Hat ignored it, although she must have jostled it.

"Hmm. Plenty of courage, yes, it's certainly served you well. But you prize it not for itself, but because you have needed it to survive. Fine mind too, oh, yes, there's lots stuffed in here. Glad you're my last one this year; most eleven year olds would seem boring in comparison. But not Ravenclaw, I think. You've started learning more for safety than for pure enjoyment, and the atmosphere of the Tower would not suit you anymore. Ah, interesting. Very interesting. Very loyal to a certain few; you'd do anything if you think that it'll protect them."

Hermione found herself frowning. If not Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, which she had always considered second best, if a close one, then – she could not prevent herself from gasping. Surely the Hat would not –

But it certainly seemed so, for the Hat continued, "My goodness, your own parents! Hmm. The end justifies the means, yes? Such determination and beliefs would serve you well in –

And then the Hat seemed to move atop her head and it shouted for the entire Hall to hear, "SLYTHERIN!"

The applause from that table seemed almost hesitant; the other houses remained still.

Almost on automaton, Hermione moved her hand up to grasp the hat and lifted it off her head. The material was soft, and, though it looked dirty, when she had laid it on the stool, her hands were not stained. The thought made her think of her mother, who had complained so often of the wizarding world's dedication to quills, and bemoaned the ink on her daughter's fingers.

But her mother was gone, and she could not afford to think of her.

At the Head Table, Dumbledore's face was impassive, and his eyes were fixed on her. She wanted to somehow communicate to him that she had not lied, that the Hat had changed its mind, but she did not dare to lower her mental shields. On his left, Professor Slughorn was positively beaming.

The walk to the Slytherin table, back the way she had come from, seemed to take longer than it had in the other direction. Part of that, she thought, was due to the fact that the stares, far from abating, had in fact intensified after the proclamation.

As she drew closer, Hermione became aware of the fact that the Slytherins against the wall were shuffling slightly towards the back of the hall, so that a seat was created for her at the end of the bench. She resisted the urge to sink down thankfully; this was not the Gryffindor table, where such lounging was commonplace, and it was not her Hogwarts.

Instead, she sat down, as primly as she could manage, and kept her back very straight. As she did so, Dumbledore clapped his hands once, and food appeared on the dishes in front of them.

Fighting the urge to look over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione helped herself to rice and some beef stroganoff, and couldn't help but smile, for there was nothing quite like Hogwarts food.

Then she could saw movement in her peripheral vision, and, out of instinct built up over the previous year, her head snapped up, and her hand flew to her pocket. It was only then that she realised that though the boy sitting across the table was holding his wand out, he was in fact making no move to attack her.

She offered him a sheepish smile, and hoped that they wouldn't question her. As she did so, she noticed that he looked very familiar indeed.

"Shall I spell your robes for you?" he asked, wand poised to do so.

Hermione stared at him.

Sirius had been a Gryffindor, of course, so this would have to be Regulus, the R.A.B of the false locket.

His hair was black and curled around his face in sight waves, and his eyes were a cool grey. He was not as good-looking as his brother had been once; the angles of his face were perhaps too sharp for him to be called handsome by most, but there was something about him that drew the eye.

Lavender Brown may have said that it was his tragic fate, and once upon a time Hermione might have scoffed, but Lavender had given her life to save Hermione, and she could not bring herself to disregard that.

"What do you mean?"

Besides, since Regulus had eventually turned against Voldemort, she thought that it might be possible to stop him from ever joining him in the first place, were he to see what it truly meant to be a Death Eater before it was too late. It was people like that she would need, for the less soldiers the other side had, the easier it must be.

"The House sigil," he said, gesturing at her chest.

Hermione looked down, and remembered that indeed there was only black fabric where she had been accustomed to see the Gryffindor sign. It had never occurred to her to wonder how her previous school robes had gained their sigil; she supposed that somewhere at the back of her mind, she had simply ascribed it to magic, and instead concentrated on more important things.

"Oh of course, that's very kind." It was only then that Hermione realised that her hand was still curled around her wand. Embarrassed, she removed it, and resumed eating.

But Regulus Black shook his head. "It's school policy; I'm surprised your uncle didn't tell you." He waved his wand, and Hermione looked down to see the Slytherin snake displayed on her robes.

"It has the additional benefit of making us easier targets for the Gryffindors," said a dry voice to Regulus' left, and Hermione turned to see a young Severus Snape.

He would not age visibly over the years: his face was smoother and his hair a little shorter, but any of his students would have known him at once.

"The Gryffindors? Really?"

"I suppose Dumbledore would have portrayed them as the guardians of the Light."

She made herself frown, for a girl who had never been to Hogwarts would not have heard anything negative about the House usually known for its valour, especially since Dumbledore, her supposed great-uncle, was commonly supposed to have been a member. "I was aware that the Gryffindor and Slytherin students usually don't get on," she said, "but surely they can't all be that bad?"

Snape scoffed. Regulus grimaced.

"The younger years usually stay out of the way," he said, "but there are a couple in your year who go out of their way to target us. You'll soon see what I mean." He ate a mouthful, and then seemed to startle. "I do apologise, I quite forgot. I'm Regulus Black, and this here is Severus Snape."

"Hermione Granger."

She had been somewhat uneasy about keeping her original name, but Dumbledore had been adamant that her presence here, if she were to be successful, would delete from existence her younger self, and that therefore, there was no reason to spent the rest of her life living under an alias.

"We had heard," said the girl next to Hermione. She was so pale that her skin seemed almost translucent, and made her blue eyes stand out. "Dumbledore announced it right before you came in. I'm Camelia Parkinson."

The penchant for flower names, Hermione thought, must be a family thing, like astronomical names for the Blacks. They shook hands.

"What did he say?"

"That you were his niece, and that your school had been destroyed and he was now your guardian, and that he was sure Hogwarts would show you appropriate hospitality," Camelia said, raising her goblet. "The interesting thing was that the only family Dumbledore was previously known to have was that brother in Hogsmeade." She grimaced, as if lack of association was obvious.

"My grandmother was a cousin of his," said Hermione to her, and then, feeling it unlikely that people other than the Marauders had been pestering Snape, said, "Who are the ones who target you?"

"Us," said Camelia sharply. "You're a Slytherin now."

"Give her time," said Regulus. "She's only been one for a few minutes; you wouldn't expect the first years to consider themselves Slytherins yet."

Camelia bristled, shooting him a curious look. "Most of them are from families which have been ours for years. I certainly would."

Regulus inclined his head, and turned back to Hermione. "They call themselves the Marauders. It's a misnomer: they don't steal from us, but they do what they choose to call pranking. It's largely composed of trying to humiliate us, though they seem to have a special loathing for Severus." He turned sideways, and looked, tilting his head slightly, a frown forming on his face. "I can't see them. This can't be good."

"Surely you ought to be glad of their absence?" Hermione said, for she couldn't conceive of missing Malfoy, though perhaps Harry would, always suspicious of the other.

"You wouldn't say that if you knew them," said Snape – she couldn't think of him using his given name. "Most Gryffindors protect them, even the better ones. You'll soon learn that."

"Are we not to hear more about how Evans is the one exception, Snape?" Camelia said, raising her eyebrows.

A flush spread across Snape's sallow face, but he didn't reply.

Harry's mother¸ Hermione realised, then, because it was something a new student might know, asked, "The Head Girl?"

"She used to be his friend," said Camelia, indicating Snape with her chin. She looked over at the Gryffindor table, and after a minute, pointed with her fork. "She's Gryffindor prefect: does her job better than some, but not well enough."

Hermione looked over, glad to be sitting with her back to the wall, so that it would not be obvious at whom the new girl was looking. The girl Camelia had indicated was not facing her, so all that Hermione could see of her was the long dark red hair cascading down her back. From the position of her head, it looked as though she were laughing.

"What do you mean?"

Camelia looked over at Snape, who looked at his plate. Neither of them answered.

Finally, Regulus said, in a deliberately casual voice, "If she's around, she intervenes to stop them, but tends to be more occupied with arguing with Potter than actually helping."

"Oh!" said Hermione, with an air of sudden realisation, for this also was knowledge that she could attribute to Dumbledore. "James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and – " she pretended to hesitate, for too much might make them suspicious. There was little reason for her to know about the students, after all. "I've forgotten the last one."

"People usually do," said Regulus. "Dumbledore told you?"

She nodded. "He said they were trouble makers."

She had barely had time to say this when the doors swung open with a clang, and the four silhouettes were visible. Simultaneously, all of the food on the plates of the Slytherins exploded.

Hermione closed her eyes and flung herself against the wall, but she was too late, and felt something strike her cheek and something else the top of her head.

Then she felt something tug at her arm, and flung it to the side on instinct.

"Ow!" came a female voice – Camelia's. "Think before you react."

Hermione opened her eyes, and remembered where she was: the Great Hall, not fighting a war at all. "Sorry."

Camelia stared at her, then shook her head. "No, I suppose it's fine. You're not used to them. Anyway, it's over now."

Hermione sat back upright, raising a hand up to her face. It came away wet with source.

"I'll do you if you do me," she said, lifting her wand, but Hermione only stared at her blankly.

Camelia sighed, and spelled both herself and Hermione clean, then stepped closer to look at her more closely. "You've got rice in your hair. Hold still."

As Camelia picked the rice out of her hair, Hermione let her gaze go back to the Gryffindor table. At the edge closer to the doors, four boys were clearly celebrating, though she was too far away to make out their expressions. To her dismay, she could see that more than a few of the Gryffindors were laughing, though at least Lily Evans had stopped.

She was relieved, however, to see Professor McGonagall bearing down on them. At least something was still the same.

And yet, she was sure that the Gryffindors of her time had not acted like that. Admittedly, some of them could be casually cruel: Fred and George had booed once at the first Slytherin sorting of the year, and had shoved Montague into a broken vanishing cabinet, but the latter at least had been caused by the other's actions during Umbridge's regime. And Hermione herself had cursed the parchment and not told anybody.

The end justifies the means, the Sorting Hat had said, and yet it had not seemed supportive. But that had not been casual, for after Umbridge's decree, they might even have been expelled, and Hermione, like all true Gryffindors, abhorred traitors. And being expelled, though not worse than death as she had once thought, was not much better, especially before the O.W.L.s.

Still, she would have felt better about it if she had informed them beforehand. But the past was behind her, she thought, and yet it wasn't: the past was the present, the past was now the future, the whole reason she was doing this. Still, if Dumbledore was right, and if she succeeded, Marietta would never be scarred, because the DA would never be formed.

She told herself that the twinge of regret she felt about this was meaningless, but it wasn't quite true: during her time at Hogwarts her life had revolved around her books, her classes, and her friends; she did not like to think of them growing up without her.

She did not like the thought of a future without them, either, but her desires were irrelevant. Her own dreams had to be sacrificed, for the good of so many others. The greater good, Dumbledore might have called it, once.

"That's them, I take it?" she said, to distract herself.

"Yes, my brother," Regulus said, almost spitting the words out, "and his friends. The one with the hair of a mop is Potter, Lupin is one not smiling anymore, and Peter Pettigrew, the one you forgot, is the short one."

"He's not your brother anymore," said Snape, and it took a moment for her to realise that the look on his face was a smile, so unused was she to seeing him wear that particular expression.

Regulus gave him a stiff nod. "I know," he said curtly, glowering.

"Does this happen often?" Hermione asked, for she did not intend to be caught out again if she could help it.

"Do you mean at dinner or at all?" Camelia asked, then proceeded as though Hermione had answered. "Lunch is usually safe, there's not that much of an audience. It's more often dinner than breakfast, because some people prefer to sleep in, partially to avoid such incidents – except on the first day, when we get schedules, and so attendance is compulsory." She looked over at Hermione's face, and whatever she saw there made her reach other to pat Hermione's hand. "We can sometimes guard against it; they never get us the same way twice." She hesitated, "well, when it's what they consider a prank, and this was more childish than most. But when they come out of nowhere and attack you in the corridors or outside there's not necessarily anything you can do."

"They charmed the individual plates," Snape said. "The food on the serving plates was not affected. Next time, check for interference."

"I did," Regulus protested.

Snape looked at him in disgust, as though being unsuccessful was worse than not even making an attempt. "Use a more effective charm, Black."

"Stick with us for a while," Camelia suggested, "but you might be safe anyway. Dumbledore is quite lenient with them; they won't want to anger him by targeting you."

"So he knows?"

Snape snapped, "Everybody knows."

"We're not the House that's fondest of the Headmaster," said Regulus, shooting Snape a look. "No offense intended."

Hermione nodded, and made herself smile at them, for she had grown used to Gryffindor, which had almost worshipped Dumbledore, and it was extremely jarring to think even slightly fondly of those who didn't. But she could not afford to make enemies of these people, whom she may need, and who had, after all, been kind to her despite their opinions.

The thought that they wouldn't be if they knew her real parentage came unbidden, and she tried to push it away. It was not her real parentage anymore, and what she was sure would be termed her 'blood traitor views' could be explained on her pretend family, who were dead, and Dumbledore, who would not be easily harmed, rather than personal interests.

It was safer that way.

Still, she could not avoid the feeling that she was repudiating her parents by doing so. Her mother, with her fierce activism, who would have hated to see her daughter pretend to be anything she was not, and her father, with his rosary wrapped around his fingers, and his stories of lies and the crow, and another Peter the traitor.

Hermione Granger had been called pragmatic from almost the moment she could converse properly; she had never considered that it might be a bad thing until she had raised her wand at her parents and mouthed the words.

"All the same," she said, "please don't speak too badly about him in my presence." Almost as soon as she had spoken, she regretted it. By silencing such comments, she would be denying herself a way of identifying possible Death Eater recruits, since someone who spoke favourably of Dumbledore was hardly likely to join Voldemort.

Camelia huffed. "What kind of people have you been spending time with? Of course not!"

"Gryffindors, most likely," said Regulus. "They would."

Hermione did not answer, for she could not deny it, and yet the private tutoring group she was meant to have attended would have been too small for a divisive system. Thankfully, she was spared from answering by the appearance of the desserts, though she noted that they did not distract the Slytherins as much as they had many of the Gryffindors, particularly Ron.

She smiled at the reminder, and did not let herself think of the last time she had seen Ron. It was far better, since if she succeeded then those events would never have happened, not to dwell on it.

Between mouthfuls, she said, "What are the teachers like? During lessons, I mean. Obviously, I've met them all, but the Headmaster, naturally, didn't tell me about them, only a little about the curriculum, so that I could catch up if I had any gaps."

"Do you call him the Headmaster, then?" Regulus asked. "Not 'dearest Uncle' or anything equally cloying? He seems the type to go in for things like that."

Hermione looked at him, and lied. "I used to call him the Professor. But that would surely get rather confusing here, so I'm trying out different ways of referring to him in absentia – I call him Uncle to his face naturally. But I don't want people to think that I'm constantly pushing the connection."

"And that," said Camelia happily, licking her spoon, "is exactly why you're not in Gryffindor."

Hermione looked over at her sceptically, for Harry had never much liked being the Boy-Who-Lived. "Really?"

"Insufferable show-offs," Snape hissed.

As he spoke, Hermione saw that some students were rising to their feet, first years from their average size. She was just wondering whether to follow them when Regulus shook her head. "We'll show you around."

"Dumbledore would have done, surely?" Camelia said, turning to her.

"A bit, certainly. But the stairs move, so it may take a few days for me to be sure of my way around." Or rather, it would have done if she hadn't attended Hogwarts for six years. A part of her couldn't wait for classes, where she wouldn't have to downplay her knowledge to avoid suspicion. Who, after all, would be surprised by intelligence in Dumbledore's relatives?

"Average time for first years is between two weeks and a month," said Snape, a hint of challenge in his dark eyes. "It took me a week."

Hermione smiled at him. "I have a good memory."

They walked then through the Great Hall, with Hermione being the only one of them to look anywhere other than straight ahead, until they reached the doors. Then they made their way down to the Slytherin common room, retracing the steps Hermione and her friends had walked to Potions class so many times.

Eventually, after walking through what seemed like a labyrinth to Hermione, so used to the easily accessible Gryffindor common room, they reached a wall, in front of which stood a stocky dark skinned girl. When she saw them, she turned and whispered something to the stone wall behind her, which opened to reveal the entrance to the common room.

Regulus nodded at her as they passed, and after they had done so, said, "Rishika Patil. 6th year prefect. That's my year." Then, lifting his eyes to Hermione's face, added, "We used to date. Not anymore."

Hermione, somewhat puzzled as to why he was making such a point of it, did not reply.

The room they entered was long, and rather different from the Gryffindor common room, which had been round and cluttered. But both were decorated in the house colours, with a large mantelpiece on one side and carved chairs, although these were currently mostly set in one corner, where the first years was listening to an older boy talk.

"You can't open the windows," said Camelia, indicating the other side of the room.

"I should consider that obvious, Parkinson," said Snape, who gave Hermione a brisk nod and walked away. Privately, Hermione rather agreed with him, for through the window could be seen the water of the lake, though as it was late evening, no creatures or plants could be easily seen.

"Don't mind him," said Regulus. "He had an unpleasant encounter with them on the train."

"It can get rather stuffy in here," Camelia admitted, sitting down. "But sometimes you can see the Giant Squid really close. Closer than Evans has, at any rate, which makes her comments somewhat unjust." She smirked, and Hermione was uncomfortably reminded of Pansy Parkinson, who was otherwise not visible in the girl's face, though she had to be a relation: a niece, perhaps?

"Oh, I'm not so sure. I find the squid to be infinitely preferable to Potter," said Regulus, sinking down into a nearby armchair. "I claim this one."

"What are you talking about?"

Regulus frowned up at her. "Why, that I intend to sit here this year, of course."

Camelia sighed. "We've been through this. You can't monopolise chairs. The common room doesn't belong to you," and turning to Hermione, she added, "He tries this every year."

"I meant about the squid," Hermione said.

Camelia laughed. "Sometimes when Potter asks Evans out – which he does incessantly and to no avail – she proclaims that she would rather date the Squid. But she's a Gryffindor, and they live in a tower, so I'm not sure if she's ever even seen the squid."

Hermione frowned, for in Harry's photographs, Lily and James had always appeared very much in love, and while she was willing to believe that they might have previously disliked each other, this was their final year at Hogwarts. Since Harry had been born almost a year after her, this left Lily about two years in which to fall so much for James that she would agree to marry him. From her companions' comments, Hermione didn't think it likely.

Camelia stood up. "Come on, I'll show you to our rooms. Oh, and I almost forgot. The new password gets listed on that message board there every fortnight," she said, pointing.

That, at least, was familiar, though Hermione dreaded to think what sort of words they might be. Gryffindor's had been mostly whimsical, but due to her mistake, the Polyjuice incident had stuck very firmly in her head. To constantly have to say Pure-blood, the code for entry to the home of bigots like Malfoy, though appropriate, was unsettling. But she knew she could not be the only one, for it was statistically impossible for every bigot to be sorted into one house, especially one renowned for its cunning – though also the one to which Crabbe and Goyle, who were neither, had belonged.

Having said good night to Regulus, Hermione followed her, down more steps until they reached a little space it would been overly generous to describe as a room, with two passageways branching out into opposite direction.

"The other side's for the boys," said Camelia, heading left.

They walked to the end of the passageway to the door marked 'Seventh Year', which Hermione expected to lead to her new dormitory. Instead, she found herself in another room, with three doors. At one side, the cases with the belongings of the students had been placed.

"We sleep two to a room rather than in dormitories like the other houses," said Camelia, and smiled at her, and indicated one. "Shall we?"

Hermione saw no reason to disagree, and so they picked up their belongings and entered one.

It was very green and smaller than the dormitories she was used to or the room she had slept in recently, but there was room enough for two large four-poster beds, a wardrobe and a large desk. There was also a little window, but one glance at it told Hermione that she would not be airing the room any time soon.

As they had both been up early, Camelia because of the train and Hermione because she was conscious that the error had left her with much less time than intended, it did not take long for them to wash and go to bed. But though it did not take long for Camelia to fall asleep, Hermione tossed and turned, sleepless, long after she had heard her companion's breathing even out. The sound of swishing water outside disturbed her, but when she had cast a silencing charm, the unnatural stillness distressed her even more.

She kept taking her wand out from under her pillow to use its light to check the time, but still it seemed as though sleep would never come and the night would never end.

Eventually, Hermione gave up and reached for a book, which usually helped, but she found instead that her mind was too troubled to concentrate, and that her eyelids were heavy and drooping. But when she once again tried to sleep, she was unsuccessful.

She got up then, wincing when her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, and made her way over to the window. The water was dark like the sea at storm, but in spite of this, Hermione could see occasional ripples of movement.

Sybil Trelawney would have deemed this night an ill omen, prophesied Hermione's failure and her doom. But Hermione Granger had not believed in fortune-telling since she was a child asking to have her fortune read at a local fair. Her father, used to dealing with his determined daughter, had not refused. Instead, he had simply handed her a book on the techniques employed and after she had devoured it, so eagerly at first and then with much disappointment, had asked if she was still so desperate.

But still, Hermione had had some hope for wizarding Divination, the frenzied words that had doomed the Potters, but it had let her down just the same, and with her, her friends, Dumbledore, and all those who had trusted in the prophesy.

She did not know how long she stood there, not quite thinking, only that when she at last made her way to bed again and drifted off, it was closer to morning than evening.