A/N: I've been reading SS/HG for years and recently decided to try to write the story I would most want to read. This is cross-posted at ao3.

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Chapter 1: Disillusioned

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The man down the row was Disillusioned. She realized this after the third time she attempted to look directly at his face only to have her eyes somehow slide away in disinterest.

He was tall, and his hair was an unremarkable brown. Beyond that, she couldn't be certain of any of his features. The Disillusionment Charm was too masterfully cast; it would have been more than enough to deter the wandering eye of any curious Muggle.

But Hermione Granger was not a Muggle.

She shelved the book she had been holding and glanced his way for the fourth time. The man had turned around.

Hermione studied the back of his head. Curiously, the charm didn't object. She watched as he chose a thick book from high on the shelf, trying to catch the title printed on the spine. Perhaps this would give her some clue as to who he was.

She already had a few ideas. The only witches and wizards who needed to use Disillusionment Charms in public were the one who could be recognized. Like her. Everyday witches didn't need to take Polyjuice Potion every time they left the safety of their home.

Today, Hermione wore the face of the woman who had sat next to her on the bus last Tuesday. The hair the woman had left behind was sleek and blonde; the antithesis of Hermione Granger.

The man closed the book with a snap and replaced it on the shelf. He turned and looked suddenly, directly into her eyes.

Hermione couldn't tell if it was nerves or the effects of the charm which caused her to immediately look away. An echo of Legilimency probed at the border of her mind.

She felt his eyes on her as she turned the corner to the next row.

It was almost unfathomable that there was another wizard or witch in the tiny village of Dunkeld. Hermione had lived here for almost a year now without a whisper of anyone magical. Her blood sang with the prospect of another so close.

But she must tread carefully; she had heard rumors of witches and wizards being turned in to the Muggle authorities by their fellows.

Perhaps it was safer just to leave.

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Hermione realized after about two blocks that he was following her. Her hands shoved themselves deeper into the pockets of her tweed jacket, feet careful as she increased her pace.

Red leaves whipped into a tornado on the pavement ahead of her. She had two options: evasion or confrontation. A twisting, unfamiliar path home might do the trick, but confrontation could lead to answers, an ally. Or an enemy.

She bit her lip, dry skin cracking.

In the end curiosity won out.

She halted in the middle of the bridge across the River Tay, turned into the cold wind that pulled at the long, pale hair that was not hers.

He stopped at the end of the bridge, 100 meters from her, and watched her warily. She struggled to keep her eyes on his face; it was like looking through a particularly warped glass window. It hurt her head.

Still the man didn't move. He watched silently, clearly gathering information. Dry leaves blew across the road between them.

Abruptly, he seemed to make up his mind, and started towards her, each step measured and careful as he neared where she stood in the middle of the bridge. He stopped an arm's length away. Hermione's eyes ached with the effort of keeping them on his face.

A stab of pain arched through her temples as his Legilimency struck her mind. She submitted willingly, bravely, curiosity surging through her veins.

"Granger," he said simply, after a startlingly short amount of time in her head. He had just skimmed the surface of her mind.

The River Tay coursed beneath them. The wind whipped her hair in her face as she calculated, staring resolutely at his intangible, elusive face.

Then she asked, "What was the name of the house elf at Number 12 Grimmauld Place?"

He huffed in annoyance.

"I'll show you who I am, Granger. But not here."

The man strode past her in the direction they had been walking. After a beat, he turned, "Kreacher."

But Hermione was already following.

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The man led her to the cathedral ruin along the banks of the river; the trees still filled with rustling gold leaves, the gravestones jutting up from springy green grass.

In the lengthening shadows of the nave he murmured, "Finite Incantatem."

She already knew what his true face would be. Perhaps she had known since she felt that first hint of Legilimency in the bookshop.

It was still a shock to see the black brows drawn over hooded eyes, the pale, narrow face.

The face of a dead man who was very much alive.

"Professor." Her voice echoed strangely in the space.

"Granger," he returned.

She drank in the sight of his face. A face that belonged to another world, another life, long forgotten.

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