A/N: No, I do not in fact possess the self-control to refrain from the title 'Granger Danger'. Thanks for asking.

This is a slightly dystopian Wizarding world AU. Magic is passed only through the direct line. With little to tie them together, there's an ever-widening schism between the magical and nonmagical societies. Muggles are looked down upon, halfbloods are rare, and Muggleborn witches and wizards are unheard of.

Except for one.

"Granger, sir, Hermione Granger."

"Merlin's beard, are you really?"

Hermione smiled wanly at this question; it was one she was used to. Seven years in the magical world should have made her immune to such inquiries, but each time it pounded harder into her skull. Are you really? Are you really? Who are you?

"Yes, sir."

"Well, well. It's good to have you with us, Granger. Impressive N.E.W.T. scores, some of the best I've seen…I think you'll fit right in. Come with me and you'll be assigned a mentor."

Hermione followed the thin, graying wizard down the corridor, wondering what it meant to "fit right in." Realizing that Ainsley was still talking, she transferred her attention to the words.

"…and training lasts six months, as of course you know; after that you'll be given your first assignment. Now, who to place you with…Dawlish is one of our best, of course, but a little busy at the mo…Tonks is still rather new, so I think…ah, yes…"

Hermione nodded at the short, blonde witch as they passed, letting her mind drift again from Ainsley's monologue. It was a stupid charade; she knew perfectly well that her appointed mentor would have been under discussion from the moment they received her application; perhaps before. It would surprise her if he or she hadn't been handpicked by Dumbledore himself. As they drew further down the corridor she felt her steps slowing almost before Ainsley's did. Waiting outside one of the offices was a middle-aged African wizard whose impassive features gave the impression of immense…steadiness. He seemed to radiate calm, and Hermione felt herself liking him at once. The realization made her start, fingers itching to curl around the wand in her pocket. Trust, in her experience, very rarely led to anything good.

The wizard stepped forward and introduced himself, cutting Ainsley off mid-ramble.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

Hermione shook the proffered hand, filing away the details of his firm grip, the way his eyes passed across her face and rested on her eyes, not her scar. Noting his significance; how many Aurors of ordinary rank could get away with interrupting the deputy Department head?

"Hermione Granger," she said, taking his cue and cutting out the middleman. The old wizard fluttered between them, looking rather disgruntled.

"Yes, as I was saying, Kingsley will be your mentor—"

"And I prefer to begin as soon as possible," said Shacklebolt, bowing. "If you will excuse us, sir, I will be happy to relate any details that remain to be filled in from your excellent preliminary explanations. Miss Granger?"

With another nod to Ainsley, Hermione followed her new mentor into a spacious but rather bare office, noting with some gratification that it sported two desks pushed against the walls, rather than the single large, ornate desk that adorned most of the offices.

"Yes," said Kingsley, following her gaze. "We won't spend much time here, I'm afraid, but research is as much a part of the job as field work. I'm told you prefer to be in on it."

"Whenever possible," returned Hermione calmly, tracing the walls with her eyes, trying to sense, as Dumbledore had taught her, the glimmer of protective spells. She turned to Kingsley.

"You mentioned further details I should know?"

His wand was in his hand before she could react; she barely had time to duck before a curse shattered the plaster of the wall behind her. Hermione rolled, plunging a hand into her pocket, and felt a stinging hex graze her face. A red streak of light flew from her own wand in response, but she ducked behind a desk before she could see whether it had hit. There was no answering thud.

"Protego!" she cried, jumping back with her wand pointed blindly at the corner opposite the door: the position she assumed Kingsley would have taken up, from which a hex could be angled to hit behind the desk. He surprised her again, however, vaulting the second desk while firing another hex, which missed, and her Shield Charm hit him a glancing blow in the shoulder. Stupefy! she thought again, too late: her legs were buckling beneath her, ensnared in thick ropes, and as she brought her wand down to free them, it flew out of her hand. Kingsley leaned against the wall, panting slightly.

"Not bad." He tossed back her wand.

"Relashio." Hermione stood gingerly as the ropes fell away. Probably she ought to be shocked or angry, but all she could feel was adrenaline pouring through her veins—so welcome after two weeks spent at home enduring anecdotes about impacted molars that she couldn't restrain a grin. Nor did she lower her wand, however.

Kingsley answered her unspoken question. "You asked for the details of the job."

"Are you the good cop or the bad cop?" she asked sarcastically, rubbing at the welts on her legs. To her surprise he grinned, getting the joke.

"You have a Muggle parent," she said blankly, then blushed. She hardly knew the man, and certainly had no right to inquire into his parentage. But Shacklebolt didn't take offense.

"My dad," he said, flashing a white-toothed smile that glowed in his dark face. "Grew up with a foot in either world."

Hermione nodded, not knowing what to say. If having two Muggle parents was unheard of, having one was still rare. It seemed that she and this Kingsley Shacklebolt had more in common than she had supposed…and her thoughts drifted back to Dumbledore.

Her mentor was reading her mind again. "It's one of the reasons they gave me the job."

"Brilliant," said Hermione drily. "We can watch Doctor Who and reminisce about…calculators and ballpoint pens."

"Dentistry," Shacklebolt threw in casually. Hermione briefly considered hexing him again. If he caught on to this, Kingsley didn't show it. Good.

Learn to think quickly, and without the accompanying gestures and bodily cues.

Dumbledore leaned back against a tree at the Forest's edge.

To any experienced duelist, your body is an open book. Don't shift your weight, don't tauten your muscles, make no movement with your wand hand until you are…ready.

And she was ducking and rolling by the time the red flash shot toward her, coming up on one knee with pine needles entangled in her hair, and aiming at the tall silver-haired figure when another red bolt caught her in the chest…

Ennervate.

Hermione's head ached, but her hand moved of its own accord, slashing downward through the air. Dumbledore deflected the hex with a lightning stroke and smiled down at her.

Excellent, Miss Granger. Though, of course, any real enemy would have taken the opportunity to divest you of your weapon before waking you…

Hermione sat, groaning, she had sprawled back over a tree root into the Forest itself, and could feel the impression of every twig and stone in her back. Never fast enough.

Your speed was impressive, but your direction was quite obvious. We were talking of body language, said Dumbledore conversationally. I think it is time to move on to a new phase of your training. In this discipline, some of your old friends will make far better mentors than I.

Hermione had no time to open her mouth to frame the question before a heavy, sliding weight dropped from one of the branches over her head and a soft chuckle came from behind.

They sssay one good turn desservesss another, Misss Granger…

"Dumbledore said you had good teachers." Kingsley's voice broke into her thoughts.

"Yes," replied Hermione cautiously. "Some of the best."

"Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration. Severus Snape, Potions master," Shacklebolt ticked them off on his fingers. Hermione nodded. "Rolanda Hooch, flight instructor…"

The one discipline in which Hermione's natural skill did not shine through. Merely because she had none. Hundreds of hours dodging and swooping through the Forest had changed that. The 'Forbidden' Forest—Hermione always had to stifle a laugh at the name. Merlin knew she'd spent almost as much time there as she had in the castle. And more than once it had showed.

Madam Pomfrey, private physician, she thought ironically.

It had been worth every scratch, however. This would be, too. She'd made her own decision, in theory anyway. Graduate a year early, and then a full course of Auror training with a few classes at St. Mungo's on the side. Dumbledore had given his rare nod of approval and gone along as though he hadn't planned it all out years before. Still, it would all be worth it, if by some miracle she got out of this war alive and with a chance at a normal life.

Normal—Hermione Granger barely knew the meaning of the word. But she had a feeling that if it resembled the inside of her head—a lot less combat training and a lot more curling up with a book on magical theory in her own little version of Ravenclaw tower—then it would be all right with her.

It wasn't as though she'd asked to be the Chosen One.