A/N: For clarity, I will be referring to both Harry and Hermione by the name associated with whichever form they are wearing at the time. Remember, Harry = Hadrian and Hermione = Helena.
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When the boy who had been Harry Potter awoke it was morning. Groaning at the soreness of all his muscles, he blearily tried to remember what chores Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had had him doing yesterday to make his whole body ache so much. But no, the bed was far too comfortable and the bedding far too thick for him to be at Privet Drive.
Memories of the previous afternoon returned in a rush, and Hadrian sat up in bed with a start. He reached towards the bedside table for his glasses, confused not to find them, before realizing with shock that he didn't need glasses at all. Looking around, he saw that the bed and bedding were almost identical to those in Gryffindor tower, but this was not a dormitory room. It was a single bedroom, though not the one he'd been staying in since the end of term, either. The furniture was all solid oak: nightstand, dresser, wardrobe, bookshelf, desk. An armchair in one corner was upholstered in scarlet, matching the carpet, and on closer inspection the seat of the desk chair was upholstered to match. The room was curiously devoid of décor, as if it were meant to be personalized but didn't have an occupant. The overall effect was far less elegant than the guest room where he had been staying since term ended, but far more comfortable to his sensibilities.
His—Harry Potter's—trunk was against one wall. The books the headmaster had given him were piled on the dresser, along with what looked like a change of clothes, a black leather satchel, and—strangely—several quills that he recognized as having come from his trunk.
Peering over the side of the bed and seeing the sky blue slippers neatly aligned, Hadrian swung his legs out and slid his feet into the slippers. After making the bed (a habit long ago instilled by Aunt Petunia), he peered out the window. There was not much of a view, since there was a roof slanting upwards a stone wall perhaps 5 meters away, with a flying buttress blocking part of the view. But the color and detail of the stonework reassured him that he was still at Hogwarts, if in a room he'd never seen before.
Satisfied at having at least some idea where he was, Hadrian turned to the pile of clothes on the dresser. They were new, and rather like a school uniform, though there was no crest embroidered anywhere that he could see, nor any school tie. There were navy slacks, a white button-down collared shirt, and a soft grey V-neck sweater. There was even a pair of black leather loafers at the bottom of the pile. The underwear and socks were new and definitely Muggle in manufacture, both 3-packs.
Well, they were far nicer than anything he'd ever been given by the Dursleys, if rather formal for his taste. Hadrian stared at the clothes, wondering if he ought to get dressed in them.
Happily, he was saved from indecision by a knock at the door.
"Come in," he called, turning towards the door.
Dumbledore entered, smiling as usual. "I see that you're awake, my boy. Excellent, excellent. How are you feeling?"
"Er, a bit sore, Sir, but fine." Hadrian started at the sound of his own voice. It was boyish, but somehow still richer and smoother than Harry's voice had ever been. He suspected immediately that it would sound very like Snape's when he was older, if hopefully less harsh.
Dumbledore's smile widened at the sound of that voice, thinking how like and yet unlike young Severus's it sounded. "Your sister is still asleep," he informed Hadrian, "though I expect she will wake sometime in the next hour or so."
"My sister?" Hadrian asked blankly.
"Ah." Dumbledore withdrew a slip of parchment from a pocket in his robes, handing it to the boy. "I believe this will help."
Hadrian unfolded the parchment and read:
Hadrian Walter Snape is the same person as Harry James Potter.
Helena Marlene Snape is the same person as Hermione Jean Granger.
The handwriting was very round and slightly messy, and certainly did not belong to either Dumbledore, Snape, or Hermione.
Immediately upon reading it, Hadrian found himself remembering Hermione's presence during the previous afternoon's events, which he had inexplicably failed to remember. Or perhaps not so inexplicably, he realized, remembering the scrap of paper in Dumbledore's handwriting that he'd been shown to learn the location of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.
"You used the Fidelius Charm?" he asked Dumbledore.
"Very good, my boy. We did indeed—it seemed prudent. Though as I'm sure I need not remind you, such charms are not entirely foolproof."
Hadrian nodded. At the very least, it would be much harder to give himself away by accident. He also realized that it gave him some insurance against Snape handing them over to Voldemort, and sighed in relief.
"Who's the Secret Keeper?" he asked, curious.
"Ms. Tonks."
Well, that was all right then. Hadrian had always liked Tonks, and he trusted her, too.
Dumbledore peered at him from over the top of his spectacles. "Would you like to get washed up? I can show you to the loo, if you like."
"Yes please," Hadrian responded immediately, suddenly conscious of the pressure on his bladder. Grabbing pile of clothes, Hadrian followed the headmaster from the room.
#
Upon entering the bathroom, Hadrian focused all his attention on the business of relieving his bladder, keeping his gaze downwards to avoid catching a view of himself in a mirror.
Still looking down, he ran a hot bath, as the headmaster had suggested that a bath might ease his sore muscles. After undressing as quickly as possible, he eased himself into the hot water and felt his leg muscles relax into the warmth. Hadrian lay back and enjoyed the sensation, grateful to the headmaster for the suggestion and wondering why he'd never thought to do such a thing before. Of course, the Dursleys never would have let him relax in a hot bath—it would have violated their firm principle of never allowing Harry anything that might make him happy—but he could have done this after Quidditch if only he'd thought of it.
When at last the bath water began to grow cold—and Hadrian's fingers had grown quite wrinkled—he reluctantly levered himself out of the bath. Unthinkingly he looked up as he reached for a towel, and caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Hadrian stood dripping onto the bathmat as he stared, the towel he held in one hand entirely forgotten. Stood taking in the hair (already greasy—why hadn't he thought to wash it?), taking in the nose that dominated his horrified face.
He looked like a miniature Snape.
No, that wasn't quite fair. He looked like a miniature Snape with a pointier chin and a sprinkling of freckles. Ugh.
Putting the towel back he stepped towards the shower, checking that it contained shampoo. Finding that it did, he got inside and determinedly began to wash his hair. Just because he looked exactly like Snape didn't mean he had to copy Snape's bad hygiene, he told himself firmly.
As he toweled himself off afterwards, he examined himself in the mirror again. Freshly washed his hair didn't look quite so bad—in fact it was almost wavy—and the resemblance was slightly weaker. Very slightly.
The rest of his body hadn't changed too much, that he could tell. He was still thin and wiry, with narrow shoulders, narrower hips, and muscles that were lean but strong. His fingers and toes were longer and thinner, but at least his penis appeared pretty much the same. (Shuddering, he decided that he did not want to ever know if it looked anything like Snape's.)
As he put on his socks and underwear, Hadrian decided that while his extra height would be a disadvantage as a Seeker, his build was still excellent for a Seeker and adequate for a Chaser—definitely not Beater or Keeper material.
Wondering whether Dumbledore and Snape would allow him to keep playing Quidditch occupied his mind as he finished dressing and returned to his room. The possibility that he would not be allowed to play filled him with anxiety, but even so it was better than contemplating his new reflection.
# # #
While Hadrian soaked his aching muscles in the bath, the girl who had been Hermione Granger was waking up.
Hermione Granger had never done the kinds of physically demanding chores that Harry Potter's relatives expected of him, nor had she endured any high-intensity Quidditch practices, the two sets of experiences that had prepared Hadrian for the all-over ache that he felt upon waking. Nor had Hermione Granger ever endured a nasty bout of flu, which might have felt similar; she had always been unusually healthy, to the point that when she first found out she was a witch she had initially assumed that witches and wizards must not get sick like normal people.
In short, the girl who had been Hermione Granger had absolutely no preparation for the way her entire body hurt when she first woke up as Helena Snape.
In the moment she came to consciousness, she immediately wished she hadn't. Every fiber of her body hurt, including muscles she hadn't realized she had.
"Uhhhhhnnnnn," she groaned, opening her eyes but otherwise not moving. Even her eyelids hurt, she noted with consternation.
Her eyes were greeted by an expanse of scarlet directly overhead: the top of a canopy bed, with a wood and white plaster ceiling off to either side. For a moment she thought she was in her room in Gryffindor tower, but she quickly realized that couldn't be right. She never slept with the curtains open—who would, sharing a room with Parvati and Lavender?—and term was over for the year. Besides—the thought hit her with the force of a bludger—she wasn't Hermione Granger this morning.
That must be why her body hurt so much. Closing her eyes again, Helena tried to figure out why transformation via the adoption ritual was so much more draining than transformation via polyjuice.
Her mind was not moving at full speed, but even so it took her only a moment to remember that the magical and physical toll of a magical effect was directly proportional to the durability of the transformation. That would be it. Everything hurt so much because this transformation was effectively permanent, lasting until she undertook magical action to reverse it.
Comprehension did not bring relief from pain, but it did help her feel slightly more in control of the situation. Groaning, she levered herself into a sitting position and then scooted to lean against the head of the bed. Even these slight maneuvers were quite taxing, though she was rewarded for them with a position from which it was possible to survey the room.
She looked around at a room that was the mirror of Hadrian's, had she but known it. Like him, she was comforted by the sturdy oak and Gryffindor scarlet, and by the sight of her—which is to say, Hermione Granger's—trunk against one wall, between the empty bookshelf and a window. The books piled on the dresser—her own copies of the books Dumbledore had given to Harry the week before—were new to her, and as always she felt a small frisson of pleasure at the sight of books she had not yet read. She tried to read the spines from her place in the bed, but the only title large enough to make out from this distance was Magical Plants of Ireland.
Hermione Granger had always been driven by curiosity, particularly curiosity about things found in books. Becoming Helena Snape had not changed this essential fact. Wanting to see what the other books were was one of the few things that had the power to propel her out of bed at that moment, and propel her it did.
Slipping her feet into the blue slippers waiting by the bed, she slowly stood up and shuffled her way around the bed and over to the dresser, muscles protesting at every motion. Up close, the other books proved to be Ireland's Most Magical Creatures, A History of Wizarding Ireland, A Wizard's Guide to Magical Cork, and Principles of Magical Warding.
Helena felt her fingers itching to grasp one of the books—preferably the book on history or the book on warding—and settle into the armchair with it, and thought perhaps she might do so after she had finished inspecting her surroundings.
She turned next to the pile of clothes next to the books. She found a knee-length navy pleated skirt, a long-sleeved white button-down shirt, and a grey wool V-neck cardigan. Not quite a school uniform, but bland enough to blend in quite easily. Underneath she found other items, still (thankfully) in packaging: three pairs of white knee socks, a 3-pack of white underwear, and two white sports bras. She wondered who had thought of the last, for she could not imagine that the headmaster would know enough to have picked sports bras, which were ideal because they fit much less exactly than regular bras—she had no idea at all what bra size she now wore, save that it had to be considerably smaller than before. There was also a pair of black leather Mary Jane's—like the clothes, shoes that would blend in in both the Muggle and magical worlds—and a black leather satchel.
Satisfied that the clothes appeared unexceptionable, Helena turned to look out the window—too well trained by now not to ascertain her surroundings. As the room was next door to Hadrian's, her windows held nearly the same view: a roof slanting upwards from a stone wall, with flying buttresses interrupting at intervals. Having seen the view from the window seat the previous afternoon, she was able to guess that this bedroom was more or less beneath the headmaster's chambers.
As if the thought of Dumbledore had summoned him, she heard a knock at the door.
"Come in, please," she called, realizing as he entered that he must have placed an alarm spell to notify him when she got out of bed.
"Helena, child, it is good to see you awake." He pulled out the same folded parchment he had shown to Hadrian, murmuring as he did so, "I believe this may be of some assistance."
Unfolding it she read:
Hadrian Walter Snape is the same person as Harry James Potter.
Helena Marlene Snape is the same person as Hermione Jean Granger.
As she read, details of the previous afternoon suddenly became clear—as Harry's presence inserted itself into previously incomplete memories. How interesting, she thought, to experience the Fidelius Charm in action.
Helena examined the handwriting and deduced that it must belong to Tonks, since it clearly wasn't Dumbledore's or Snape's, and it would be foolish to make a dying woman a Secret Keeper, since the secret would be so greatly loosened upon her death.
"Tonks is our Secret Keeper, Sir?" she asked, seeking confirmation.
"So she is." He smiled, pleased to see that her mind was as sharp as ever. "Now, would I be correct in assuming that you would like to use the facilities and perhaps take a nice long soak?"
"Yes, please," she said fervently. A hot bath sounded heavenly, now that he suggested it.
"I'm afraid your brother is currently occupying the main bath on this level, but if you don't mind I'd be happy to show you to the nursery bath."
"The nursery bath?" she asked.
"This level holds the family quarters attached to the headmaster's chambers," Dumbledore explained. "They've been shut up for quite some time—it's been well over a century since there was a headmaster or headmistress with a family at the school—but the House Elves have kept them up marvelously, and the plumbing was updated along with the rest of the castle's. They're also some of the most private and protected rooms in the school, which makes them ideal for the purpose—we will leave your old things here, and the castle will recognize these rooms as belonging to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger."
Exiting the room, he pointed down the corridor to the left, saying, "the main bath—the one Hadrian is using—is the last door opposite," before turning to the right and leading her to the door at the end of the corridor. He opened this door, which led into the nursery.
The room was done entirely in white, with frills and lace covering every available surface, and a surfeit of ribbons and rosettes accenting those. It was, Helena thought, the most hideously sentimental Victorian room she had ever seen… and it was lovely after a fashion, though she doubted she'd ever have any desire to linger in it beyond a few minutes.
The headmaster pointed her to a door in the right-hand wall and left her, telling her not to rush, but to come up to his office when she was ready.
Helena crossed to the bathroom with trepidation, wondering what kind of bathroom would be attached to such a nursery.
She was relieved to find a relatively normal bathroom, done entirely in white tile, with a large white claw foot tub; a white porcelain sink set into a large white-painted wooden vanity with yellow ducks stenciled on the cabinet doors; an old-fashioned white porcelain toilet (with the water tank near the ceiling and a long chain dangling from it for flushing); and a cheerful bright yellow bath mat and matching yellow towels.
But she was barely conscious of these details, entirely arrested by the reflection in the mirror above the sink.
The first thing she noticed was her hair. Hermione Granger had never woken up without needing to brush—or better, comb—her hair, because her curls always tangled themselves while she slept. Even her mother had compared Hermione's wild hair to a bird's nest when it was unbrushed. Helena Snape had straight black hair that just barely turned under at the tips. It was also, she noted with wonder, completely devoid of tangles, despite being quite thick. Mesmerized, she picked up a strand of hair and let it fall, noting with amazement that it fell exactly back into place (and with distaste that it was already slightly oily near the roots). It also looked longer that Hermione Granger's hair ever had, falling to the middle of her back—but of course it would seem longer since it didn't curl.
Framed by the straight black hair was a face that could not accurately be described as pretty, though with time it might perhaps grow to be handsome. Perhaps.
Like her brother, Helena Snape had strong brows, high cheekbones, and a rather thin face—a stark contrast from the roundness of Hermione Granger's. While the bridge of her nose was as arched as her father's and her brother's, her nose was also thin like her mother's, and so did not dominate her face in the same way. Her coloring was all her mother's: pale skin with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose and blue-grey eyes.
Altogether, the reflection appeared far less warm and welcoming than Hermione's face always had. Even when she smiled tentatively at herself, there was a fierceness visible, something guarded and implacable that had not been apparent on Hermione's face even at her most stubborn. Physically, Helena Snape was obviously younger than Hermione had been: wire thin, with narrow hips and without the curves that Hermione's breasts, hips, and buttocks had created. Yet somehow her face managed to look older, and not just from the exhaustion written upon it.
Stepping closer to the mirror, Helena opened her mouth and examined her new teeth. She was dismayed but not surprised to find that they were quite crooked. Oh well. There were spells that could be used to straighten teeth—Madame Pomfrey could almost certainly perform them, if it wasn't deemed too risky for her to ask.
She ran the bath and undressed, curiously examining the rest of her new body in the mirror. She was so engrossed with her inspection that she barely noticed the ducks painted on the tiles surrounding the bath, though she was quite conscious of how wonderful the hot water felt on her aching muscles.
# # #
Bath complete, Helena dressed quickly, marveling anew at the ease of dealing with her newly straight hair. Crossing quickly through the nursery, she turned into the hallway, only to stop before an open door immediately to her left.
"Ha—Hadrian!" she called out, delighted to see him.
"Her—Helena!" he returned, turning and seeing his sister for the first time.
She flew over to him and tackled him in a tight hug. Hadrian noted happily that her hugs felt the same as ever, except that her hair no longer filled his face.
Stepping back, they examined each other.
Helena had seen Hadrian's new face briefly, of course, right before undergoing the adoption ceremony herself, so his face was in many ways less of a surprise to her than hers was to him. But it had been easy to imagine Harry's bright green eyes behind Hadrian's eyelids while he slept. Awake, Hadrian's dark eyes warred with his nose for domination of his face, making him look more Snape than ever.
Hadrian's first thought was that Helena looked much less Snapeish than he did. He wondered briefly which of them was more unlucky: him for looking so like Snape, or her for having to look at him. Finally he decided that it didn't matter: they were both unlucky to have Snape as their new father, and would be even more unlucky to attend Hogwarts as Snape's children.
After a few moments, both recognized the similarities between their faces: dark hair, pale skin, freckles, high cheekbones, and the same heavy brows adorned both faces. The brother scowled, surprising a low chuckle out of the sister.
"Sorry!" she apologized insincerely. "You look so much like Snape when you scowl, it's just too much."
At this he scowled all the harder. "Glad you find it funny," he bit out sulkily.
"You'd be laughing up a storm if it were me," she responded, accurately if unkindly. "At least your face hasn't sprouted cat fur."
"I think that might be preferable," he muttered back.
"Only because it didn't happen to you," she insisted. "You have no idea how itchy it was."
At this he finally grinned, not so much conceding the point as caught up in memories of their previous escapades.
"Dumbledore said I should go upstairs to his office when I was finished in the bath," she cut into his thoughts. "I expect he meant both of us. I've just got to stow my night things in my room, and then I'm ready if you are."
"Might as well," Hadrian agreed, hoping he'd have a chance to ask Dumbledore about Quidditch when Snape wasn't around.
