This is probably about the half way point. Possibly...

The Great Hall – September 1998

Ron was glaring at her. Still. Solidly now for the entire length of the Welcoming Feast. And eating. Glaring and eating.

For ten days he'd said not one word to her. Not one. So much for remaining friends.

Perhaps…once they got back into the routine of lessons and homework and the always-loved quidditch practice some of his ire would ease back. She couldn't love him. Not the way he wanted. The dark thought twitched at the back of her mind that Ron would realise he was a war-hero. And with being a hero, came certain…perks.

She'd already spied more than one seventh year girl sliding him an interested look.

Hermione toyed with the remains of her cheesecake, before laying the fork across her plate. It vanished a moment later. She stared at the ancient table, gouged and scratching over centuries of ravenous children. Shouldn't she be more…upset by her breakup? For years, she'd idled away more than one afternoon imagining herself to be Hermione Weasley…

A prick of pain stabbed into her left wrist. She rubbed it with her thumb. Bloody thing. Why it didn't like Ron, she couldn't say. Yes, he could be immature, and his manners were…lacking, and while he was loyal…it was only to a point—

All right, she could see why he wasn't worthy. Irritating, know-it-all spell.

Hermione pushed back a sigh —determined not to think about the magic that was leading her around by the nose— and picked up her mug. Resting her elbows on the long table she sipped her tea and willed her thoughts to float. To find peace.

As always, she felt…at home in Hogwarts as she did nowhere else.

And it was lovely to be back in the Great Hall, even though it brought with it the noise and clatter of hundreds of children. But there, more clearly than she'd ever felt before, amongst the safe and familiar, the warmth of ancient magic enfolded her. Stones worn by the touch of countless students…all of it had returned, rebuilt by the castle itself in a few frantic weeks.

There were changes, though. She could feel them, a rub against her skin, and the knowledge there that Myrtle's lavatory had been completely refurbished, the staff room had much-improved chairs, but…that there was a strangeness to the wards. Were the stronger? She had Charms first thing. She was certain Professor Flitwick would know.

Hermione risked a glance up at the High Table, to the dark form of the glowering Headmaster. Candlelight gleamed around him, shrouding him in gold. Her belly clenched at the intimate knowledge she had of his power, his strength.

A soft huff escaped her. Though she could never hope to find the courage to approach him. Her mind would be glass to the finest legilimens still living and would burst her shrewish thoughts about a certain auror right at him-

"He won't speak to me."

Hermione glanced back at Harry, who was working his way through his ninth, possibly tenth, rather fat profiterole. She feigned ignorance. "Who? The Headmaster?" She huffed a laugh. "Are you surprised, Harry? You made a talk to you a condition of his freedom." She shook her head. "I told you…"

Harry muttered under his breath, drove his spoon too hard against his plate, splurging cream and chocolate. He scooped the gooey mess around onto his spoon and stuffed the lot into his mouth. He was taking etiquette lessons from Ron again. She was simply relieved to have stopped eating.

He swallowed. "I know, but I was desperate." He frowned at his plate. "Why won't he tell me about my mum? I just want to know more about her. And he knew her."

Hermione's lips pinched together. She was not dwelling on how well Severus Snape might have known Lily Evans. "You have Remus. He was in her House." She shook her head. "Professor Snape gave you his memories."

"And took them back."

"Merlin, Harry. He doesn't owe you a bloody thing. Not now." She wiped her hand over her face. "And you can't charge at a man like Snape and expect results. It will take time. Possibly years."

Harry's frown was deeper. Perhaps she should take her own advice… Tame her urge to throw herself at the man. "Harry…we have time again. It's slowed to a crawl. Nothing is urgent."

She hissed and her mug clattered to the table, splashing hot tea over the rim.

Her wrists were on fire. Again. Oh for fuck's sake what now?

She yanked at her sleeve and the exposed circle flared a brilliant gold against her skin, a lick of chasing flame that boiled her blood. Fuck. Both wrists. It was both. They'd never given her this much pain. Not since the first scoring of them into her flesh. What was this?

Had she spoken too soon? Yes, her luck. Her luck all over—

Harry –and others— were staring at her. "Hermione what the hell are those?"

The clatter of plates and the scrape of the heavy High Table against the flagstones jerked all attention away from her…and to a staggering Professor Trelawney.

A growl broke from the Divination Professor's gaping mouth and a voice not her own broke free,

"Magic gained and magic lost.

Defend this sacred ground in the Four Circles of Sumer.

And magic lost is magic gained,

When the Four becomes One."

And with that, Trelawney flopped back into the startled arms of the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Tansome.

The Great Hall erupted and Hermione slumped against the table, her head tucked into the curve of her arms. Prophecies. What was it with the wizarding world and bloody prophecies? She growled, her belly in a tight knot. Couldn't everyone just gradually work stuff out for themselves…? What was wrong with that?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

It was her. Of course it was. Two shining Circles of Sumer were burning merrily on her skin for everyone to see...

"I will have silence!"

Severus' voice boomed across the din and silence hit hard. He might be a hero of the last wizarding war, but he was still a dark and fearsome wizard. And everyone did what he said.

"Miss Granger, report to my office."

Which now, obviously, included her.

Fuck.

And snamione is go! ;-)