Severus had gone again. She didn't know where, exactly, though she had suspicions as to why. He was doing work with Dumbledore, very important work, and perhaps with Harry, too, though she couldn't say how often they saw one another. Sometimes she tried to picture Harry, how he must be now. Was his picture all over the papers? She didn't know. She hadn't seen a newspaper in—well. Years, she supposed. Were his eyes still that bright green? Had his jaw grown sharper? She couldn't remember the details of him, not exactly, and when she tried to everything just got fuzzy and confusing and suddenly she wasn't sure if she properly remembered anything about him at all. And it was so hard to imagine him as he had been without seeing Ron at his side.

And that wouldn't do at all.

Severus had gone again. She wished he would come back. He was not particularly pleasant company, but he was always thoughtful and interesting, and she liked hearing the sounds of him moving about.

Perhaps she ought to get a pet. Surely he wouldn't oppose to a well-behaved dog? Or a cat? She would ask him, she decided, when he returned. And she would make sure to take care of all its needs; he wouldn't have to worry at all. And Tonks would love it, too, she was certain.

She would ask Tonks as well, then. When she returned. Hermione didn't know where Tonks had gone, either; merely that she needed to go "out" for just a little bit and Hermione would be alright on her own, surely?

Hermione had agreed. After all, Tonks had gone "out" more times than Hermione could count, and nothing bad had ever happened. It was just more time alone and she had got very good at that. And why shouldn't Tonks have important things to do outside? More important than watching a teenager? Hermione didn't mind. She wouldn't tell Severus, of course; he would just get angry. Sometimes she thought he still saw her as the eleven-year-old walking into his first-year potions class.

But that was so long ago. She was sixteen now, after all, and she'd changed, even if he couldn't see it.

Tonks had been gone for at least two hours, now, and Hermione was losing hope that she'd return for lunch. There was something particularly tragic about eating on one's own, Hermione thought, but nevertheless she climbed to her feet and tossed her notepad onto the sofa. She'd never been very good at drawing. Even with all these instructional books, she had a hunch it would be a lost cause.

Cooking, however, she was decently well at, and she contemplated her lunch with as much seriousness as one might ponder—well, something important. Stocks? She'd never really understood economics.

But a complicated recipe could consume an entire afternoon if she chose right, and she was in the mood to lose herself.

That changed, however, when the doorbell rang.

Ding-dong!

Every part of her stopped, flooded with some unnameable emotion. Was this fear?

Ding-dong!

She remembered when Tonks had ordered takeaway whilst Severus was away, their little secret, and how the chime had echoed through every crevice of the house, thrilling.

How many seconds had it been? Had they given up on an answer?

Perhaps this was another takeaway. Maybe Tonks thought it was a joke! After all, why would anyone come here?

Ding-dong!

Hermione didn't jump this time, though she continued to stare at the door as though it might provide an answer.

You are never to answer the door. Do you understand?

Yes, sir.

But she'd been so young then. So small.

The Order—Minerva—Professor McGonagall and allies from Hogwarts have their own means of travelling here. Trust no-one who does not come through the fireplace.

Yes, sir.

But what if it was just a kindly neighbour in need of sugar? Or a policeman come to alert her of something dangerous—an unexploded bomb found in the park?

Knock-knock!

She really must answer the door.

Her legs felt curiously numb as she approached it, ever cautious. The heavy wooden thing remained as innocuous as ever and she took comfort in how sturdy it was. She would keep a tight hold on the knob and slam it onto anyone who might wish her harm.

The little peephole was high enough that she had to stand on her toes to look through it. On the other side stood a young man dressed in a postal delivery uniform. He had kind eyes and looked remarkably patient, she thought, for someone who had rung the bell three times.

A gust of spring air hit her as she pulled open the door just enough for him to see her face. "Hello?"

"Good morning! Sorry to have disturbed you. Do you live here?"

Am I allowed to say yes? But what if I say no! Isn't that more confusing? "Y-yes."

"I have a delivery for this address." For the first time, Hermione saw the large box behind him. It looked perhaps the size of a chest of drawers. Had Tonks ordered her a surprise? This man didn't seem confused like the one who had brought the piano, though Tonks had been present for that.

"Oh."

His expression turned sweet. Maybe he thought she was intimidated by the size of it. "I can bring it in for you, don't worry. If you'll just hold open the door..?"

Hermione couldn't very well turn him away, so she obediently pulled the door fully open and held it there while he wheeled in the box on a little metal dolly.

"Where would you like it?"

How should I know? I don't even know what it is! But she knew she shouldn't let him too far in the house, so she directed him to the sitting room where he heaved it onto the rug by Severus' armchair. Hermione watched him from the doorway, arms crossed across her body as if that might make her invisible.

There's a man in my house. Boy? He looks my age…

What if Tonks comes back? Or Severus? She trembled a little at the thought. She hoped this man couldn't see it.

"There you go," he declared and brushed his hands down the thighs of his work trousers. Then he turned to her, and Hermione was struck by the overwhelming sensation of being seen. His head tilted to the side as he looked her up and down and her heart galloped. What did he see in her, this Muggle boy who knew nothing of her?

She held her breath.

"Pardon, but… Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, and Hermione thought the lilt of his voice and the colour of his vowels did indeed remind her of someone. "Hang on—were you at Traviata last week?"

Was I at— "Yes!"

"That's it! You're the girl by the toilets—with the wobbly champagne." He grinned at her so warmly that Hermione wasn't sure if her cheeks stung from being known as the girl by the toilets or by the sheer force of his attention.

"I'm so sorry," she said, and suddenly all her fear faded away and the words came pouring out faster than she could think them. "I was terribly distracted—and there were so many people!—and the line for the loo was so long that I got a bit lost and I'm really sorry—I'll—did it ruin your clothes?—I'm so—"

"Hey! I promise you I've spilled more champagne on my own jacket than you ever could. Really, darling, don't fret. You were one of the most delightful parts of my evening, in fact." His smile filled her with delicious warmth. "I'm Jerome, by the way."

"I'm H-Hermione."

You are never to reveal your true name.

"'Hermione'? That's lovely. Latin?"

"Greek, actually."

"Ah. Apologies."

"N-no worries."

They fell into a silence; Hermione couldn't work out whether it was awkward or not. Jerome politely looked around the room whilst she desperately warred with herself. Tonks could return at any moment. He needed to go.

She really wanted him to stay.

"You don't live here on your own, do you?"

"No, I—er—I have housemates. They're—erm—out at the moment."

He nodded, accepting her lies without question. Hermione was immensely proud of herself. She was, after all, handling this very well.

"You a student as well?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Me too."

She steeled herself, ready to politely end this interaction and see him out. Instead, what she said was, "Would you like some biscuits?"

His face brightened and she knew that whatever punishment she might face for this would be worth it.

They went to the kitchen, Hermione's lunch plans now forgotten, and she searched for the best biscuit packet in the cupboard. "Would you like tea as well?"

"I would love to, but I've more deliveries to do. Perhaps another time?"

Another time.

Nevertheless, she placed the half-empty packet of biscuits (the nicest she could find) on the table and pulled one out for the sake of having something to do with her hands. It would be rude to stare, surely, but the agility of his hands as he plucked a chocolate biscuit and brought it to his mouth enchanted her. His fingers were so slim and long. Everything about him was lithe, like a panther, maybe. And even though his face was soft with youth, she could see the sharp angles that would define his features as he got older. What colour were his eyes, she wondered? How could she look without exposing herself? She imagined they might be blue. It would complement his coppery-brown hair nicely.

She fancied she'd known him for ages, that he came 'round for biscuits all the time. That Tonks and Severus allowed him in, seeing as Hermione was now old enough to be trusted with such things. She'd known Jerome all of five minutes, but she knew they could be the very best of friends. Everything about him was familiar and safe; if she believed in reincarnation, she might have said they'd known each other in another life. It was his voice, the way he moved, the quirk of his lips when he smiled… And those looks! Like he knew her, too, and was waiting for either of them to work it out…

Of course, she didn't believe in reincarnation. But she liked to think about it. It was much easier to think that people who didn't have a very good life or died too young, like Ron, might get another go.

But it wasn't real, of course, and she probably didn't know this boy any better than any other Muggle on the street.

Jerome. Jerome who goes to the theatre and delivers parcels and is very kind and likes chocolate biscuits. He'd already eaten three. Was his job so taxing? Maybe she should offer him something more filling.

"So, Hermione, what did you think of Traviata?"

"Oh! It was—it was lovely. Marvellous." She swallowed the half-chewed chocolate still in her mouth. "You? What did you think?"

"Quite good. Will I see you at the premiere next week?"

She felt something cold ooze into her heart. "Premiere?"

"The new Wagner production. God, I can never remember the names, but I'll certainly need the company. Six hours? Christ."

"Oh, er, I don't think I have tickets for that one… yet…" Perhaps she could, though. Perhaps she could ask that Minerva come 'round for tea tomorrow and drop the suggestion—

"Well, if your plans change, do try and find me. I'll be in the Grand Tier again."

"Oh, right. Will do."

"I understand, though. I've got an exam this week myself." He finished the last half of his biscuit and, to her horror and dismay, stood up. She'd been silly, of course, to expect him to stay at all, but the prospect of his leaving made her more upset than she'd felt in a long time. Why couldn't she have insisted on tea? Nevertheless, she made to stand as well, to see him out like a proper hostess.

Instead, she tripped on her own chair and fell directly into his front. He caught her easily, his long and lean arms wrapping around her back while she yelped and flailed to find balance. Every part of her burned, pure molten heat moving through her in waves, and she was certain he could feel every bit of it.

"Careful! You alright there?"

"Yes! I'm fine! Sorry!" She missed his touch from the second she leapt out of his hold.

He merely chuckled and followed her to the door. "Promise me you'll be careful, Hermione. I won't always be able to catch you."

No, not always. But sometimes? "I promise. Thank you, Jerome, for—er—the box and the biscuits and—and the conversation." The wind caught his hair. His smile was warmer than the spring sunshine, and she could see his eyes were brilliant green. "It was really nice to spend time with you."

"The feeling is mutual, Hermione. I hope I'll be able to catch you at the theatre again—this time I'll hold your champagne." And then he winked at her and she wanted him to stay so badly she almost cried.

But such things were not to be, of course, and she closed the door before she could do something silly like watch him disappear down the street.

Lunch was sorted by way of toast, and though Hermione wanted to wait until Tonks arrived before unveiling the mysterious gift, it had been hours since she'd gone and there was no sign she'd return anytime soon.

Would Tonks be disappointed if Hermione opened it on her own? Hermione thought this rather unlikely, seeing as Tonks had made sure, it seemed, to be out when the thing was delivered.

Mind made up, Hermione strode to the lounge with purpose. She found the box exactly where Jerome had left it for her, except—had it grown bigger? It had barely been shoulder-height when he brought it in, but now it reached well above her head.

Then again, she'd been so distracted, so who was to say?

The tape was more industrial than her fingers could manage, so she brought a small knife from the kitchen and set to work carefully carving the cardboard away from whatever lay beneath. It was straightforward, if frustrating work, and Hermione did her best to be patient. Had anything this exciting happened in—ever? She ripped off a chunk of cardboard and found dark wood beneath.

Is it another instrument? This tall, though—an upright organ? What on Earth am I supposed to do with one of those!

Onwards she went, climbing and jumping to tear bits of cardboard away from the top and grunting when tape got stuck to her arm. All in all, it was slow and irritating work, and when she found herself standing before an immense wardrobe, she wasn't sure it had been worth it.

It didn't even look like a new wardrobe, either; the varnish had faded and there were scrapes and indents in places. It seemed old, too, like it had lived through much more than she ever would. She did a lap, assessing it from all angles, and found absolutely nothing remarkable.

She was a little disappointed. It was only natural, after all, though her curiosity was nowhere near satisfied. Why on Earth would Tonks want this? Hermione didn't think they lacked any furniture, and even if they did, surely this monstrosity was to none of their tastes.

Well, maybe Severus', but she doubted he would order a shoddy old cabinet via Muggle post.

Tonks was still out, though. And maybe this was all part of her plan? Maybe the real prize was inside—more theatre tickets, or an ice cream machine—

But when she opened it, she found nothing. Just more dark wooden panels and the smell of musk and dust.

It's just furniture. Maybe Severus needs it for his bedroom. Who would put a present in a cupboard? Honestly…

It had been a stupid thought and she had better tidy up the cardboard scraps before Tonks returned.

But really—no way the box had been this big when Jerome had delivered it. The wardrobe stood well above her, and she suspected she could easily fit inside.

And why not, really? After meeting him, nothing else would hold her interest today. Might make a nasty surprise for Tonks, too, to think Hermione had disappeared only for her to jump out from an old wardrobe!

The bottom of it was only a few inches above the ground, supported on its ornamental legs, and didn't even creak when Hermione gave it her full weight. It really was quite tall inside; she didn't even need to stoop.

The door bumped her bum as it shut behind her and then all knew was darkness and silence.

When he had pled fealty to Dumbledore all those years ago, Severus had never imagined it would turn into this. Like the rest of the world, the Order was burning, barely held together by the leadership of an old wizard hidden away for his own safety, and the manic power of an entire generation of children-turned-soldiers who didn't remember what it was like not feel afraid. No-one that young should know what it is to watch one's peers die, and there was not a single person Severus could name who had not seen it a dozen times over.

Except Hermione.

Today more than most, entering the house may as well have been entering another universe. The warmth welcomed him, though it was stuffier than usual. Maybe Hermione hadn't noticed. He'd open a window. She liked the fresh air after it rained.

"Evening, Snape!" called Nymphadora from somewhere within the house. Probably the kitchen, if the sound of food in her mouth was any indication.

"Nymphadora."

His cloak away, he went to the lounge in hopes of a drink and the sort of quiet that could only be found in this place where the war did not exist.

Instead, he found a massive piece of furniture.

"Tonks!"

She bounded into the room, half-eaten sandwich in hand. "Yeah? Wow! Mixing up the décor, are we?"

"Where is Hermione." It was not a question. His voice seeped into the room like oil.

"I-in her room."

Down the corridor—up the stairs—before he even knew he was moving—his footsteps too loud on the carpet—how had he not noticed? The quiet?

He wanted to be paranoid. He wanted to find her on her bed, reading, laughing at his paranoia.

Severus saw himself pull open the door and wondered why he didn't use his wand. That would be more efficient, would it not? But it didn't matter, because her bed was unmade and empty, and he had never actually felt her absence before, not since she'd been placed in his care.

He hummed incantations, low and monotonous, searching for her presence within the house whilst he returned to the ground floor. Nymphadora had gone very pale. She was still holding her sandwich, which he thought very foolish. As a student, she'd never taken him seriously, and now as an Auror, a soldier, she didn't respect, didn't grasp the extent of what he did to save all their sorry lives.

"She's—she's not there?"

He didn't interrupt his chant to answer; there were more rooms to search. He went to the kitchen. If Hermione had hurt herself and fallen, perhaps, he would find her. He knew all the spells she would need.

"I—I didn't see her, but I assumed she was in her room…" Tonks had begun to ramble. "She likes to spend time there when you aren't home, you know? To read, I assume…"

The kitchen held nothing of interest for him any longer. He moved to the corridor. Perhaps she had left through the door—been afraid of something and fled—

"I-I—Fuck, Snape, look I'm—I went out. I shouldn't have done, but I-I've done it before and Hermione was fine!" Well, that explained the odd activity he detected around the door. "No-one can get in here and she's not stupid! She's never needed me to protect her here—"

"Leave." He had exhausted the rest of the house. The large cabinet was the most notable thing in the lounge, of course, but he diligently searched the rest first, probing every crevice with magic.

"W-what?"

"Leave, Nymphadora. And do not return."

If she said anything, he did not listen. It was not important, and the shutting of the door said enough of her guilt.

Severus stood alone in the room with naught but the Vanishing Cabinet for company. The shreds of its box on the floor had no markings, no labels of any kind. So obviously suspicious, and she had fallen for it.

It was not until he opened it that he realised how much hope he had left. She could have been inside, hiding, or caught in some magical loop he could have freed her from. But she wasn't. It was empty and cold, and every part of him ached and stung with shattering fear.

He was her protector. This damaged, lonely child caught in a conflict she didn't understand. Keeping her safe was his duty, and it was possibly the only one that he did not question, that he was certain would not damage his soul or condemn him. It had, perhaps, been his only source of redemption.

But he had failed it. The simplest, most important job in the world. Keep her hidden. Keep her safe. Shelter her whilst the world tore itself apart, so that she might be alive when it was put back together again.

Keep her hidden.

Keep her safe.

And she was gone.