November came to Hogwarts, winding its icy tendrils through every hallway, corner, and hiding-place. In years gone by, the majestic sight of the castle blanketed in snow had inspired a festive feeling among the residents, but now- it seemed to many- the bleak winter landscape was merely a reflection of the growing unease within the wizarding world. Even the owls up in their high tower huddled together for comfort, and Crookshanks no longer bothered to antagonize other familiars, preferring instead to spend his days curled by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, hissing at anyone who dared to approach.

Even Hagrid, usually so full of good cheer, was not immune to the gloom. He'd taken to skulking about in the forest, muttering to himself miserably, and seemed perpetually to be covered in cuts and bruises. Standing beside Harry and Ron in a small clearing in the forest, Hermione watched him warily, wondering what strange and dangerous beast the Magical Creatures Professor had in store for them today. With the looming threat of inspection by the High Inquisitor, she fervently hoped that it was nothing more interesting than a Pygmy Puff.

But, of course, Hagrid decided to show them Thestrals. Neville's face contracted in disgust and terror, as he watched what to everyone else looked like a shank of meat disappearing into thin air as the horse-like creature consumed it. She knew that Harry could see it too.

"Righ', now, who can tell me why some o' yeh can see 'em an' some can't?" Hagrid asked, and as if of its own volition, Hermione's hand shot up.

After all these years, it was like an involuntary twitch, like a little game she played with professors; they'd ask a question, deliberately looking in the other direction, but of course hers would be the only hand in the air. And then, "very good , five points to Gryffindor" on and on, every day, ad nauseum.

Was this really her life? Watching the rubies fall in the hourglass, marking the days on the study calendar, rewriting essays until they spilled off the parchment…

"The only people who can see Thestrals," she said, "are people who have seen death."

Behind her, Parvati and Lavender gasped.

Unbidden came a memory of the old pub on the corner by her house, the one her parents went to when neither had the time nor inclination to cook, which was often. Her mum always got a glass of white wine, her dad always got chicken pie and Hermione would always steal bits of crust when he wasn't looking. She loved that dank, decrepit, dirty-glass pub as if she'd been raised in it - and almost wished she could be there now.

Would they ever go back? Would she ever again watch the regulars drowning their sorrows? Tune out her parents endlessly debating procedures, gossiping about patients, complaining about the NHS? Fall asleep, neck askew, propped up against the paneling in the booth? Oh how she'd hated it then, and oh, how she missed it now.

Her mother was always going on about dental hygiene and eating well, foisting all sorts of health-foods upon them, making up diet schedules - and always breaking them, always relenting - taking her for ice cream at one o'clock in the morning.

After a fight, when she was feeling guilty, her mum would get her a sundae, with bananas, cherries, caramel sauce - the works. And their fights were frequent, vicious. It was a type of hatred felt only for those one loved intensely - burning bright and dying away in the span of a single moment.

One of the worst had taken place the summer before third-year. Two letters came: the first was a notice from the Ministry about the escape of "deranged murderer" Sirius Black, and the second was a permission slip for the use of a Time-Turner. Reiterating to her muggle family just how dangerous and utterly strange her magical life had become; and it was no use to argue that these were merely dark days.

That time, Hermione recalled, she'd exploded the china cabinet in the dining room, obliterating every beautiful porcelain cup that once belonged to her grandmother.

Hours later, there came a tentative knock on her door.

"Hermione..."

"Go away," she'd hissed. "I h-hate you."

"Hermione, please…" Her mother entered - eyes wandering the room, which had been torn asunder by magic - but made no comment.

"No! Y-you s-s-said that you wish I'd never b-been born. You said I was a f-freak!" Hermione hiccuped, hiding her tear-stained face.

Silence. Then she felt the pressure of a hand on her back.

"I'm sorry, but you just make me so frustrated…" Quiet, barely a breath.

"I don't hate you, " she said. "You are my child. You are the reason I live. And I love you so, so much..."

And Hermione held on to that love, believed in it fervently, remembered it every time she felt terrified or sick or worthless. Every time she dreamt about the road and the fog and the blood on the gravel and her mother's still, glassy eyes reflecting the sky…

She hadn't watched her die. No, that she had been spared. Instead, Mrs. Granger had died alone in a hospital bed while her husband and daughter downed a miserable lunch in the visitor's lounge, and now, many months later, Hermione couldn't see Thestrals. It had to be a good sign, didn't it? It had to mean that there was a sliver of a chance for things to change.

A soft, saccharine "hem, hem" drew Hermione out of her thoughts, and she groaned inwardly. Her eyes caught Harry's, who scowled faintly, as thought to say "What is she doing here?"

"Inspection," Hermione whispered. Damn the woman and her insufferable bigotry! she railed mutely. Who is she to vilify "half-breeds" when she has the charm of a goblin, the looks of a troll, and the intelligence of a Blast-Ended Skrewt?

"Well, the truth, Professor Umbridge, is that my parents have had to hire a tutor for me… you see, they're concerned that I will never pass my Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. with, um, the quality of the instruction here…" Pansy Parkinson was explaining in her high pitched voice, a touch too enthusiastic. Beside her, Draco Malfoy was nodding along with utmost self-importance.

"Only too right! My father - he's on the Board of Governors, as I'm sure you know, Professor - has been trying to convince Dumbledore to find a replacement, but there's only so much he can do," Malfoy drawled, sneaking malicious looks at the three Gryffindors. "That's why he's so supportive of you-"

"Wanker," Ron snarled under his breath.

"Just like his Death Eater dad," Harry whispered with equal vitriol.

His Death Eater dad who has the Minister wrapped around his gilded little finger, Hermione thought bitterly.

In some ways, the Wizarding world was very similar to the Muggle one, and government corruption was certainly one obvious parallel. Just like his muggle counterparts, Fudge was willing to use the public's fear to limit freedoms: sending Umbridge to tyrannize Hogwarts, censoring the press, and extending the oversight and control of magical creatures of all kinds.

It wouldn't surprise her in the least if, due to the Ministry's decades-old persecution, Voldemort won over the goblins, the werewolves, the vampires, the dementors, and others (he already had the giants, according to Hagrid).The house-elves were evidently not considered worth converting, by either side, so servile and wretched were they. Even those, like Ron, who put no stock in blood-status, still held prejudice against non-humans.

The great irony of the Voldemort's ideology was that the wizarding world was not hindered by the Muggle one - no, it was completely dependent upon it. Wizards benefitted from muggle infrastructure, muggle technology, muggle inventions, even muggle clothing. It was a deeply-entrenched (but vehemently-denied) parasitic relationship, mirrored perhaps in the muggle institution of imperialism. And Voldemort - did he truly believe that Muggles were a hazard, or did he merely capitalize on prejudices for the attainment of his own nefarious agenda?

How much better would it be if she, Hermione Granger, could be the one to lead the wizarding world into a different era - one characterized by fairness, peace, and equality among humans and creatures, Muggle-borns and purebloods?

First, if I could only get people to join S.P.E.W. and help make more hats so all the house elves could be free…

These reflections carried Hermione through the rest of her classes, dinner, and an idle hour watching Quidditch practice. By the time she made it back to Gryffindor tower, trailed by Ron, Ginny and Harry who were deep in discussion about this year's Hufflepuff line-up, Hermione had already planned the legislation she would need to introduce to the Wizengamot in the next several decades.

Just as they approached the portrait of the fat lady, it swung open and a couple of tiny first-years rushed out, one of whom was bright purple and seemed disoriented, being lead by the other, who clutched at her mouth, not quite able to conceal a tongue which was spotted and about a foot longer than it needed to be.

"Come on, Ron!" Hermione growled, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him through to the common room, where his brothers sat whispering in the corner, an abundance of colourful candies spread before them.

"You two!" she accused with a shaking finger.

"Reckon she's talking to us, George?" Fred quipped.

"Oh, no, I think she'd be a bit more obvious if she was."

"I - you - can't believe -" she stuttered in incoherent rage. Ron, seeing an opening, took his chance to slink off to the dormitory, clearly unwilling to participate in scolding his brothers.

"My dear Hermione, perhaps we can interest you in a Fainting Fancy?" Fred asked superciliously, and his brother explained: "One of the side-effects is a feeling of relaxation! I mean, after you regain consciousness." They grinned at her, looking as innocent as can be.

But this was too much for the beleaguered Prefect. "What in the name of Merlin is WRONG WITH YOU TWO?!" she demanded, pitch rising to glass-shattering decibels. "What did you do to those poor first years?" Without waiting for a response, she continued:"Don't tell me, it doesn't matter. Didn't I already tell you NOT to experiment on them? Didn't I tell you I was going to confiscate your entire stash and write to your mother if I caught you at it again? Well, guess what-" she declared, and with a brisk wave of her wand, vanished the entire spread of Skiving Snackboxes on the table.

Then she turned on her heel and stalked away towards the portrait.

"Where are you going?" George asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

"Owlery," came the icy reply.

"Oh, bleeding basilisks - Hermione, WAIT!"

The twins ran up to her, blocking her exit. "There must be something we can do to convince you!" George pleaded.

"It's not like we mean any harm, I swear, we always try to heal them, but you've got to understand, we need to think about our business-" Fred continued.

"And our family, especially with what's going on at the Ministry, if dad loses his job…"

"Please Mione…"

"We are on our proverbial knees here!"

Crossing her arms, Hermione glared at them through narrowed eyes. "If I let you off, you'll never learn your lesson."

The twin's faces, gazing at her so hopefully just a moment before, both fell.

"However," she held up her hand, "IF you swear to never ever experiment on a Hogwarts student again, and IF you can prove to me that what you're selling has no dangerous side-effects then I MIGHT return to you only those products that I consider safe."

The twins nodded their assent, relieved, but she was not finished.

"Additionally, you will not promote, advertise, or sell Skiving Snackboxes on these grounds, or I WILL write to your mother. Also...I want you to teach me to apparate."

Flabbergasted at this last request, Fred stared at her. "You want us," he signalled himself and his brother with a thumb,"to teach you?"

Hermione nodded. "How to apparate."

"But you can't get a license until next year!"

"Nevertheless, I need to learn now."

"But why?"

"Because, George, in case you two have been too busy poisoning students to notice," she lectured," we are on the verge of war. One of us needs to be able to do it if Harry runs into trouble this year. And I have no doubt at all that he will."

Yes, that was the reason, though it wasn't the full reason, or even the primary one, God help her. But that tone of self-righteous irritation came as easy as breathing to Hermione (after all these years of practice) so the half-truth passed unnoticed.

"We're clear on that part, but why us?" Fred asked.

"Well," Hermione began reluctantly, "you two are actually quite... talented. But, you seem uninterested in applying that talent to anything really serious."

"Au contraire, my dear Hermione, there is nothing more serious than skiving off lessons."

All she could do was roll her eyes at the pair of them, standing there grinning at her like a couple of devilish little pixies.

"Now, I am going to go do my rounds" she informed them in a rather McGonagall-esque tone, "and when I get back I better not find you two getting into any trouble. Clear?"

"Like the Great Lake on a sunny day!" George said, and Hermione, though looking less than satisfied with this response, clambered out of the portrait hole.

It would have been the end of her sparkling reputation to admit it, but rounds didn't really include much rounding anymore. She was supposed to be prowling the hallways looking for rule-breakers necking in dark corners, but the nightly patrols had quickly deteriorated into illicit excursions into the Restricted Section and the Room of Requirement, intermittent meetings with Cho, and endless research. She kept trying convince herself that she did all this because time was running short , but really, it was because she couldn't sleep anymore.

Lately, a new task had been added to her list: sensing magical energy, like the Ravenclaw had shown her. But it wasn't her own energy she was trying to sense - no, that she was entirely unable to do for whatever reason - but that of others.

It was tedious work. For a week she meditated in different parts of the castle, trying to feel….something. Trying to reach out with her aura and grasp the tendrils of other energies. On the third night, she'd felt a slight tug on her senses, and following it, discovered only Mrs. Norris, sitting proudly by an enormous dead mouse. Since neither the cat nor the mouse could be said to possess magical energy, this could hardly be classed a success. Night four again brought her before the contemptuous gaze of Filch's familiar, and on night five, she'd been drawn to Peeves finger-painting mustaches onto some portraits. Night six had thrown her in the ignominious path of Severus Snape, who deducted 20 points for "certain future complicity in the crimes of Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter." And on night seven, she'd merely fallen asleep in the Divination courtyard, only to wake in the twilight hours, frozen and stiff-limbed.

Outside the portrait-hole, she stood pondering her destination tonight: maybe it would be the third floor, where the library was located, or the fifth, favored by many a teenage couple. Approaching the moving staircase, she was annoyed to see the flight shift toward another landing, effectively leaving her stranded.

"Come back!" she called, fully aware that the insensate stone was about as likely to follow her commands as Harry at his most obstinate.

But even the Boy Who Lived could occasionally be prevailed upon to see reason, so perhaps it was not so shocking that the stairs paused, mid-air, and with an excruciating grind, shifted back towards her.

"Thank-you," she whispered in bewilderment, dashing down before the stairs had a chance to change their minds.

Did stairs have minds? Or a singular Mind? She was halfway down the next flight before the significance of that thought crashed through to the forefront of her consciousness. Stairs. Sentience. Castle. Magic.

Feeling the ineffable sensation of an oncoming epiphany, Hermione stopped short, clutching at the railing for support. For a moment, time seemed to slow to a crawl...and then she felt it. Thrumming underneath her fingers as steady and sure as a heartbeat. The castle's magic.

Now that she sensed its even hum, she wondered how she'd never noticed before. It's essence was old, comforting, protective...as though the castle sensed the vulnerability of its occupants and wanted to shelter them from harm.

Giddy with her discovery, Hermione clutched the stone harder and pleaded: "Help me see, help me understand."

Nothing came at first. She shut her eyes, breathed deep, and asked again, trying to communicate her honesty, her good intentions, and her wish to learn. Long moments passed, and the mere wisp of an image began to form in her mind, an image of connectedness, continuity, currents moving in circles…

Oh.

Oh.

Something Cho said came back to her.

Magical energy is the only thing that is eternal; it merely finds a temporary home in us, and all other living things…

Of course. Everything, everyone, was connected through magic. It moved from source to source through time - connecting - linking it all. Tuning in once more to the thrum of the castle's energies, she concentrated hard on feeling for some distinct frequency, some specific locus.

There was something...something directly below where she stood! And it was strong.

Sweet merciful Circe, progress at last!

Nary a thought to spare for prudence or house-points, Hermione dashed down, breathlessly taking the stairs two at a time. She was almost there, could almost taste the sweetness of success…she dashed down the corridor, half blind...

..and crashed straight into none other than Albus Dumbledore.

"Oh! Headmaster!" Hermione gasped, horrified. Just like an icy wave, reality came crashing back. The giddiness of discovery was gone. She was just a silly schoolgirl, running about after curfew in a school menaced by Dolores Umbridge, in a world menaced by Lord Voldemort.

"Ah, Miss Granger," the Headmaster greeted placidly, as though she hadn't nearly felled him a moment ago. "Good evening."

"I - I'm so sorry sir! I wasn't looking where I was going!"

"No matter, no matter. I, too, was once young and filled with boundless energy." His small smile was all amusement and his robes were a particularly garish shade of lilac. Hermione felt his magic - the same she'd felt a minute ago, but now much stronger - envelop her, smothering her senses. Had it always been like this? Why had she never noticed?

Twining his fingers through the ends of his beard, Dumbledore observed her minutely.

"Forgive me for prying, but is there something which troubles you, Miss Granger?" For the briefest of seconds, his hand rested upon her shoulder, filling her with warmth and reassurance.

Her mouth was already half-open, poised to spill every deep, dark secret of her little heart - and since when did she have deep, dark secrets? - when she thought the better of it, and pressed her lips together firmly. Her admiration for and faith in the Headmaster had always been enormous, and though she desperately wanted to put her troubles in his hands like a child, she couldn't bear to lose his good opinion.

Instead she said, vague, but truthful enough: "I feel that… things are not going well."

Looking up, she watched him sigh, and the sound was bone-weary. "I am afraid that I cannot...disagree. These are indeed dark times, Miss Granger, but you must always remember, that where love and friendship live, hope lives also."

"Yes, sir," she agreed solemnly. "It's just that...everything is so overwhelming."

"I have always found the courage shown by yourself and your friends to be a source of great inspiration," he continued. "And while it pains me greatly to see such burdens placed on shoulders so young, it is certain that you have many trials still ahead. In many ways, Harry relies on you to be his guiding star, and I have the utmost faith that you will not lead him astray."

"Of course, sir," Hermione breathed, flattered beyond measure by his praise. "I will do my best!"

"I have no doubt, my dear. Now, perhaps it would be best to retire for the night before we incur the notice of Mrs. Norris, hmm?" he quipped, and Hermione, feeling inordinately chipper, bid goodnight and headed towards the Gryffindor common room.

Dumbledore watched her retreating back in contemplation.

"In some circles, it is considered impolite to eavesdrop," he said suddenly, though to the casual observer, the hall was empty.

"And in some others, it is considered unethical to manipulate students," came the biting response, as Severus Snape emerged from a shadowed alcove where a suit of armour had hidden his presence. "But your ability to produce extravagant platitudes at the drop of a hat is really quite impressive, Albus. Do all Gryffindors share that particular talent, or is something acquired with age?"

"Ah, Severus, must you always take the dim view of things?"

"Yes," the Potions Master responded sulkily, crossing his arms and trying to pretend as though he wasn't embarrassed to have been caught. In truth, much of his time was spent skulking around in the shadows, trying to catch rulebreakers unawares. He'd been on the verge of a satisfying confrontation with that irritating chit, Granger (which would have certainly catapulted Slytherin back into first-place in the running for the House-cup) when the Headmaster had beaten him to it.

"Then you disagree with my comments? You believe that Harry does not seek counsel from Miss Granger?"

Snape could tell that the Headmaster was humoring him, the old goat.

"Oh, I have no doubt that Potter takes advice from any number of his dim-witted classmates, but my objection is on Miss Granger's behalf."

"Truly?" Dumbledore asked with a small smile.

"Of girl can barely contain her overwhelming urge to bestow upon us the fruits of her vast intellect - at every possible opportunity - as it is. I'm not convinced that her ego could afford to be any more overblown without causing permanent damage - "

"Some might say the same about you, you great bat," McGonagall interrupted, rounding the corner and approaching the wizards in all her tartan glory. "And with more reason."

"Ah, the lioness graces us with her presence at last, and just in time to defend her cubs! No need to trouble yourself, Minerva; one can hardly accuse the Headmaster of failing to favor his own house."

But the lioness in question refused to indulge him, having long grown accustomed to Snape's contrarian nature. She merely raised a single sardonic eyebrow, reminding the younger wizard that she had been intimidating students since long before he was born. With far fewer theatrics, one might add.

"I have been searching for you two," she said, unsmiling.

"What news, Minerva?" Dumbledore demanded, voice now void of all levity. As he studied the Transfiguration Professor, he could see that her face was drawn and tired.

"It is as we suspected," she said. "The Dementors no longer follow the Ministry. I am afraid…" she shuddered, "I am afraid that a revolt is imminent."