The TEP Academy, Edinburgh

3rd September 1994

The North Wing of The TEP Academy foyer had been reserved for the students of Melpomene House since 1902. There was a small library on the ground floor which was circular and cold, and the fire hadn't worked in years; flames of vanilla paper and broken leather sitting astride the paperbacks, collecting dust. It was beautiful and haunting and where the Portland stone fell away from the wall, it smelt like scholarship and tradition; a pocket full of chambers stuffed tight with stars.

Tiny windows embellished with corbels had been left ajar by the caretaker over the summer and the common rooms' sweet incense and pungent leather had since been replaced by the stale fragrance of Edinburgh's drunken debauchery; a cavity of misadventure gnawing at the Penelope Blue bones of it - teeth of mahogany and velvet and gold. There were bookcases galore - and trophies too - and where the ceiling fell away from the sky, the floorboards appeared to shimmer beneath the dusky-pink dome of the city; dust-eddies floating across the big, empty square in the middle of the room.

It was there that Hermione Granger stood - suspended between lives - and feeling strangely as though she had fallen into the parts of the night sky where there were no stars and even fewer dreams. The pre-established circle of Melpomene students' that Hermione had met over the summer all possessed a certain kind of prominence; a name that could be wielded as currency or a family tapestry that stretched around the world twice over, and they – unlike Hermione – knew which Professors needed to have their egos stroked or their pedestals polished in order to clinch a respectable grade. The fact that Hermione was a scholarship student automatically meant that she was going to have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. Add to that Hermione's status as a transfer student and she was a shoo-in for extra ridicule should she fail to adhere to the standards kept here.

The syllabus back home had been nothing short of excellent, which was perhaps why she was able to secure a transfer in the first place, but there were few schools could match The TEP Academies tenacity for success. Its illustrious reputation was glossy and bright and had brought many a rival to their knees over the years; so much so that Hermione could feel a noose tightening around her neck, whispering 'fraud' over and over again. She didn't possess the name, the calibre, or the self-righteousness the school seemed to demand from its students. The noose slipped lower and lower with every step that she took towards the fireplace until it became itchy and tight.

She circled the room once, skipping her fingers across the shelves. When she returned to the fireplace, she started to search the Honours Board for the few names that would mean something to her here: one of which being her new roommates.

Hermione boarded with Draco Malfoy: a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed scholar who possessed more bravado than one of Elton John's hovering hairpieces. They rented a single-storey cottage down by the water, and the incredibly tiny snug doubled as Draco's gallery as well as a cosy, if not slightly impractical, library for Hermione. Since they had so little room for anything they did not strictly need, many of Hermione's books - the ones that did not necessitate a second read - were swiftly returned up the hill to The Last Bookstore and the vast majority of Draco's artwork sat beside a pop-up stool across from the canal, being flogged for peanuts.

The second name she searched for belonged to one Ms Renee Freeman.

Hermione strongly suspected that her birth mothers' affiliation with the University had had a hand in her acceptance. Renee had had an affair with her father in the late nineties and subscribed to the university in it's prime, that much Hermione understood to be true. But she had likely been a scholarship student too, and her tenure had been short-lived, because as far as Hermione could surmise from the sketchy articles fed to her by her father, Freeman had neither graduated nor continued to pursue a career in the arts. She had, however, been talented. There was no way she would have been granted access to a university of such calibre if that hadn't had been the case and there was no feasible explanation for Hermione's swift acceptance other than the influential weight of someone else's' reputation.

So, it was likely, Hermione thought, as she stared at the portraits on the wall, that her mother had been schooled alongside some of the Professors. Perhaps they would know more about Hermione's origins than she did? Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe, if Renee had been a scholarship student like Hermione, she wouldn't have been worth a second glance. It was entirely possible that Hermione was the reason she hadn't graduated. Was it possible to perform a pirouette whilst pregnant? Hermione hoped to never find out.

Hermione circled the room again, stopping next to a photograph of the faculty. It was dated 1992 and it took only a momentary glance for Hermione to seek out the quirky professor that had attended her audition. Draco had recounted numerous stories over the summer, many of which included the Academy's wonderous alumni and the wide array of colourful professors that could be found there, including their vitriolic – if not partly alcoholic – Head of House: Professor Black.

Draco had favourably described the infallible Professor as 'unafraid of a little controversy,' and 'more than capable of through each new syllabus on a ruthless tirade of constant crudeness and cruelty,' and Hermione hadn't been overly encouraged by that, but the admiration in his account of the Professor seemed to imply that she ought to have been. He had amended his narrative upon seeing the look of concern on Hermione's face, adding that although Black did possess a brilliant flair for the dramatics – a huge source of entertainment for those seniors permitted to join Musical Performance, the crème de la crème of the curriculum - she wasthe consummate professional when it came to delivering a gut-curdling one-liner and those, he thought, Hermione would enjoy. 'Comic prowess is part of the unexpected genius of her' he had said giddily as if that erased the wickedness of teaching style. Just don't laugh, he'd warned. She won't like that.

The Professor hadn't seemed all that intimidating, Hermione thought, remembering the woman who had sat in on her entrance exam. With her kind smile and bright eyes, she looked nothing but warm in the faculty photograph. In fact, Hermione remembered distinctly that it felt nice to perform under her eye. The impertinence of the Professor's gaze and the contrast of her mature heart against the shiny newness of Hermione's had captured the student's imagination in a big way. The Professor hadn't been generous in her interaction, but she had been present. Hermione knew there wasn't a hair on her head that the Professor had not zoned in on and to be seen like that - like she'd been waiting for Hermione all her life - had not been easy to forget.

The Professor was efficient and polite, dropping into the auditions with a tight-lipped smile and a quiet deposition and although she'd been exuberant (at times) – and even unpredictable, perhaps – she had not been deranged or cruel. When the stressful period had finallyended, and the final round of auditions had been wrapped up, the Professor had surprised them all by gleefully upending her chair and storming out of the auditorium clapping her hands over her head in approval; her wavy, light-auburn bob-cut swinging around her neck as she went.

The entry exam had gone smoothly enough and everything Draco had told her about the Professor appeared to be distantly true; but still, Hermione found that she didn't particularly fear the onslaught of her inevitable rejection. In fact, Hermione had been elevated by it and she'd pushed herself even harder to be better; to gain the Professor's respect; to draw her in and make her think. Hermione basked in the tiny tick of a smile she received in her last audition because as fleeting as it was, it was hard-earned, and she dined out on the pride it gave her for weeks afterward.

Draco's description and Hermione's experience of the Professor didn't quite seem to align. It nagged on Hermione's conscious, because they didn't form a whole. But alas, her curiosity would soon be stated because she too had been assigned to Melephone House and therefore Professor Black would soon have every opportunity to show Hermione exactly who she was.

Hermione turned this strange anomaly over in her head as she waited, hoping she hadn't been terribly naïve. Her fingers climbed nervously over the ladder of her ribcage as she remembered home and its distance; the scratchy edges of a lengthy scar reminding her of what she'd left behind. She turned back to the plush Honour's Board that hung above the open hearth. Beneath various illustrations read the words:

Lux, Scientia Et Ultio

Light, Knowledge and Vengeance.

That must be the house motto, Hermione thought, testing it with her tongue. It didn't roll the way it should've, so she turned her attention towards memorising the different factions and their corresponding illustrations instead.

Suddenly, a sinfully smooth tut, tut, tut broke her out of her reverie.

"Well pet, I must say I'm flattered." The Professor purred, running a polished nail over the back of a well-worn armchair. If she was surprised to see Hermione standing by the fire, her face gave nothing away. "But I'm not sure here and now is the place to go for round two."

Hermione stared blankly at the Professor, words sticking like molasses to the roof of her mouth. "I didn't know…. Hold on, wait. You're a professor here?"

"No. I just like to hang around in the common room for kicks, pet."

"Jesus – "Hermione laughed. A sharp pang reverberated down the length of her ribs like a child plucking at a xylophone and her hand flew up to press against it, then fluttered away as if caught doing something it shouldn't. The Professor moved forward quickly, something like concern tugging on the corner of her painted lips. "I'm sorry," Hermione said, backing away. The Professor halted immediately. "I was told to wait here for Professor Black. I must've been shown the wrong house. Do you know where I might be able to find her?"

"You're here, pet." The Professor said, tilting her head with a slow smile. "Welcome to Melephone House."

Hermione's stomach sank immediately. "You mean, you're Professor Black?"

"The one and only."

"B-but, that can't be right. I've met Professor Black and…well, she wasn't you." Hermione said numbly, decidedly floored. She looked back and forth over her shoulder, pointing uselessly at the faculty photograph on the mantle. Her mind was scrambling to assemble the pieces she needed to put the invisible puzzle together, but it was decidedly lacking in the basics: namely, the corners. She was missing more than just the innards of this mystery. "You weren't in my audition."

The way Hermione's voice sharpened poised the statement like a question and the Professor shrugged, finger's skipping over a nearby bookshelf. "Don't you think you'd remember if I was?"

There was a small flinch as Hermione stepped forward, sunlight tripping over her cheekbones in one solid block of amber and the momentary scrunch of the Professor's brow - the way her lips immediately twitched as if desperate to ask her a question – and the slight flex of her finger's as they curled around a bicep as if to ground herself - weren't missed by her newest recruit. Hermione clamped her mouth shut and waited, thinking twice about voicing her confusion. The tension in the room was creeping up the walls and Hermione's breath was urgent when it came, but she forced the confession to fit between the gap between her teeth, head shaking softly from side to side as she admitted:

"You wouldn't be easy to forget."

Her voice was cool; the mutable Scottish flexion bending her syllables until they were flat and hard to decipher.

"You've tried." The Professor said plainly. It wasn't a question or even an observation; it was a confession tugged into the light and held there, waiting for Hermione to wrap her fingers around it and pull it back into the darkness. "True or false?"

"True."

False.

"I see."

Hermione shuffled nervously on the tatty, thread-bare rug, feeling considerably inadequate beneath the steely eyes of her new Professor. Could she see through her? She heard the tap of her stilettos – shiny like beetles - and tensed, but then she felt the analysing touch of the Professor's fingertips trace over her jaw and relented, allowing the woman's fingers to clasp at her chin and tilt it upwards, the action deliberate and assertive. The accord of the Professor's perfume hung in the air around them: voluptuous notes of Cashmeran wood and Sambac jasmine sinking into the very bones of her, permanent and right and Hermione couldn't imagine ever smelling perfume like that again. It made her heartache. It still clung to her clothes: the ones she'd been wearing the night they almost died.

She realised then, when her heavily mascaraed eyes rose slowly to meet the scrutinising hardness of her teachers stare, that the Professor was only a few inches taller than her, and that was only because her heels were far more daring than Hermione could ever bring herself to dance in.

"I didn't realise you were a dancer." Professor Black said, eyeing the heels in Hermione's hand. She paused, considering the girl with an impenetrable stare. When she spoke, it was murmured against the shadows, pushed against the darkness; never to be found again. Then she jolted Hermione's face away from hers, stepping backward with a look of disdain. "I think I liked you better when I thought you were a stray cat."

"Would you have called me"

"Excuse me?"

"Would you have called me? If you'd have known that I was a dancer?"

"How is that relevant?" The Professor asked, her mouth turning into a snarl.

Hermione knew she was balancing on the edge, but somewhere beneath the stubbornness, there were real, hurt feelings at stake that needed to be addressed and given half a chance, Hermione wanted them to be addressed now, before they entered the classroom.

She'd saved this Professor from jumping into the heavens once, which was bloody typical really, because she'd almost kissed her once, too.

"Either way, stray cat, or dancer, you didn't call me. So now that I'm here, what difference does it really make to you?"

"It doesn't. I wouldn't have called."

She would have.

Hermione could see it hanging there in the space between them: the twist of tides in her gold-flecked eyes betraying her thoughts, just for a moment. One moment to many.

"I see," Hermione said, eyeing the soft bruise on the Professor's neck. She flicked her tongue over her teeth to wipe the frustration away.

"We very rarely accept transfers," Professor Black declared; her eyes narrowed. She wiggled the clipboard in her hands, a glimmer of her resolve returning. Her swift departure from Hermione's line of conversation was a stark reminder of who was in control now. "Glasgow has a great programme."

"It does." Hermione agreed tersely.

"And a very good reputation..." The Professor mused, wriggling her brow. "In fact, their Musical Performance department is one of the few that we consider to be our true competition."

"I learned a lot from my time there."

"And yet you left-"

"I had no choice."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"I wanted to learn from the best of the best."

"Bullshit. No one transfers in their third year."

"It wasn't planned, but – "

"You had to." Professor Black interrupted, apparently unimpressed. "So, what did you do? Kill someone?"

"What? No! Of course not." Hermione balked, scowling hard now. If the Professor's intuition was this good, Hermione was going to be in for a hell of a ride. Hermione hadn't killed anyone butleaving her hometown hadn't exactly been a choice either. She pressed her fingers against the sore patch over her ribs, praying hard that her poker face would not abandon her in her time of need and that this 'Professor' would never stumble across the real reason for her untimely transfer. "I would never, ever hurt anyone. Not intentionally, anyway. But perhaps if they asked for it -"

"Watch your step there, kid." Professor Black warned, shoving the clipboard into Hermione's stomach. The girl swallowed; the motion flexing the muscles in her throat. She folded her arms around the clipboard, as if it could shield her from view, and felt its sharp corners dig into the bruised purple of her stomach. "I don't want to know how you wound up here or why..." The professor cocked a brow and Hermione could have sworn she heard imaginary shots being fired. "What I do want to know is, can you hold your own? This is my house," Black said, gesturing to the Honours Board. "And Melpomene House is reserved for the best of the best. I will accept nothing less. Failure to adhere to my rules means failure to complete the course – no exceptions. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor. Quite."

The Professor circled her once, zeroing in on all the little ways in which the girl shoved the life of the street into her palms. She had little gashes and scratches littering her jaw and they clawed down her throat to peek out from underneath her leotard, marring her youthful flesh with puckered lines of pink and mauve. Most of them, small and freshly earned, were healing slowly. One, however, just above her brow, was still an open wound, the torn skin bound by dried blood.

Bella wanted to touch it; to press her thumbprint against it and feel it smear across her temple. She wanted to reach out and ask: What are you hiding, pet? But she didn't. She turned away instead; her lungs filled with Hermione's perfume and her mind preoccupied with the abrasiveness of her skin. She smiled; briefly wondering if the girl already knew how to play with fire, but then the smile slipped and faded away indefinitely when she remembered that she herself was made of paper. Still, when 'Hermione' wasn't soccer-punching her in the stomach, she was quite a pretty little thing to behold. Bella almost felt guilty for not having memorised the girls' face before.

"By being assigned here, you represent me." She said, considering Hermione's angular features. "You're the first scholarship student in twenty years to do so; so, make no mistake, we will crush you to get the role ourselves. But we are also family. We get through it together and we celebrate each other when there is big news, so don't. Fuck. It. Up. You'll never get a chance like this again." Hermione squinted back at her, and the Professor smiled. "The other houses are watching…and so I am."

"I understand," Hermione said, running her fingertips over the invisible welts around her neck.

Tiny dots of light fell from the window above Hermione, and they shattered in tiny constellations around her; an anomaly in a room full of tradition. There was a splinter of wholeness about her; a sharp, unknown edge that the Professor wanted to press her tongue against – drag her teeth across - and bite down. Her eyes were like meteors as they flicked over Professor Black's face, oddly captivating in the dim, pink light of the dawn and when the Professor stepped away, apparently appeased by what she found, her head titled comically and a small, satisfied grin sugared her full lips.

The Professor halted for a moment, seemingly thrown off stride and then said:

"Pet?"

"Yes?"

"Start fucking walking."