DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The owl's arrival woke her up just before dawn. She was not really surprised to see it. Ever since that ill-fated article was published, owls had been bombarding her at all times of the day. True, most were commissions, she had not been so busy since NEWTs, but really, she thought, this was getting a little ridiculous. Still, somehow she knew that Violet would skin her alive should she decide to go on a long-term vacation just now. Sighing, she pulled a slightly tattered blue shawl around her to ward against the gray chill of the morning. She was awake, there really was no help for it, so she might as well do something useful.

By the time the tea kettle was happily boiling and Hermione has turned her thoughts back to the small brown owl at the window, he had been joined by a larger pompous-looking white one. With a pang, she thought of Hedwig. Memories of Hogwarts had been intruding into her daily life more and more often, it seemed. Shaking her head, she waved her wand and the window opened.

"Here we go," she murmured collecting the letters and sending the owls back on their way. Throughout the morning, she collected an assortment of letters, notes, and even two small packages. She put them all aside unopened, to wait her lunch break, when she would look at them properly.

She was having trouble with a piece. Although the magic danced from her fingertips and the image of what she wanted to create burned brightly in her mind, she just could not seem to get the clay to do what she wanted. So she was in a less than charming mood when she finally allowed a break and sat down to lunch and the morning's mail. The first two letters were more commission requests; the second from a wizard who was signed himself as a prince no less. She decided not to accept that commission; that last thing she wanted was more publicity. The third letter proved to be from an overconfident young wizard offering himself as an apprentice.

"Fat chance," snorted Hermione before she murmured the charm to send the letter up in a puff of smoke and fire. "Really, I swear you claim to be a recluse and every arrogant young fool thinks he or she is just the one to be your chosen protégé and your public face to the world! Ah Crookshanks, we don't need any of them do we? Fine, stay over there by the door and ignore me, silly cat. I don't want to share any of my milk anyway."

When not even the enticement of milk seemed to move the cat, she turned back to her stack of mail. The corner of a card sticking out half-way down the pile caught her attention. It was made from an extremely heavy cream paper and bore a ragged edge, which had been dyed a rich black. Her eyes widened and a slight gasp escaped her lips as she scanned the elegant script.

She was so absorbed in the letter that she did not notice the tall figure standing just behind her. Embarrassed by her lack of response he cleared his throat again. "Excuse me Miss Gran... James, Jane James?"

With a startled cry, Hermione rounded on the disheveled young wizard. Before he could utter a word of explanation, her wand was pressed into the hollow of his throat.

"Who are you, and what in the name of all the gods who ever walked are you doing here?" she asked, her voice frosty.

"Miss James," he started swallowing loudly. "I have been looking for you for years. Ever since Neville... You are her aren't you? You're Hermione Granger."

"You still have not told me who you are." Hermione pointed out, once it became clear that her was not going to continue. She was surprised by how level her voice sounded. She had not released the pressure on her wand or, she was sure, it would be shaking in her hand. He knew her.

"Paul. I am Paul Listman. Please, we need you. I think we could have a chance if you would only listen to me. Please, just hear me out, I won't betray you. Please."

Slowly, Hermione lowered her wand. He would think it was his earnest plea which had won her over, but she knew better. As he stood there in his old robe with the barely-concealed tattered sleeves and fierce desperation, he looked more like Ron than her heart could take, despite his brown hair and swarthy skin.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, him already turning into the next room.

"Hum... yeah, thanks," he answered. His surprise at the abrupt change of topic and tone was evident in his voice.

"Sit, sit," her voice instructed briskly from inside the dim kitchen. She was glad to have the distance between them, no point in letting him see the tears she felt threatening. "You mentioned Neville Longbottom. I am assuming you are with what is left of the resistance?"

"Yes, I was in Paris when he fell. It was a terrible day. They say it will go down as the last of the Dark Lord's wars for Western Europe, but we all think of it as the first battle of the resistance. From Neville's mistakes we will launch the Wars of the Resistance," he spoke while craning his neck, trying to get a better glimpse of the legendary best friend of Harry Potter now that she was no longer threatening him.

"Yet there have been no more 'Wars of Resistance', as you called them." It came out harsher than she had expected, but it hurt her more than she would have thought to hear Neville's fight and death spoken of so callously. After Harry fell, Molly Weasley had grabbed her, and a portkey was shoved into her numb hands. Mercifully, she does not remember anything else until waking to find Neville had also escaped and was offering her a restorative potion. He said she had been raving half-mad about Voldemort's eyes finding her and burning. She left with her parents for the States the next day. It was there that she heard of Neville death in Paris. The scattered remains of the old Dumbledore's Army joined with the few members of the Order and the remaining Aurors. Uniting under Neville's leadership, they made their stand in the streets of Paris herself. And they died there. To the best of her knowledge, Hermione was the last of those old groups to draw breath. This, she knew, was why a young idealistic wizard called Paul was now sitting in her study waiting for her to bring him tea and hope.

With a sigh, she realized two truths simultaneously: the tea was boiling, and he had started talking about his glorious resistance again.

At least the boy has passion, she mused as she brought the steaming water and mugs into the study, a little overzealous but he defiantly believes in his cause. For a moment, she allowed a small, wistful smile; 'the boy' as she thought of him, was barely two years younger than her twenty-two years. When did she start to feel old?

Suddenly she stopped cold. Just a few centimeters from his left hand sat the letter she had been reading when he walked in. Its black edging seemed to absorb all light, like a dark hole in her room. Under no circumstances could she allow him to see that letter.

"I know that it is quaint, but I much prefer a cup of tea made in the muggle fashion. Something subtle about the flavor changes when you use magic, I think. Plus I love to watch the color change as it gets steep. Would you like to see?" Carefully, she set the glass down on his right side, hoping she was masking the panic she felt.

"Oh... hum... yes, thank you." Watching him carefully, she moved into the chair closest to the letter. Making sure he was politely looking into his glass of tea, she smoothly slipped the letter into a fold in her robe.

"Hum...? I'm sorry, I thought I heard something, what did you say?" Hermione asked with a self-deprecating smile.

"Oh, I didn't hear anything. Do you want me to go check it out?" With a movement from Hermione's hand he sat back down. "Well, I was saying that we really need to act fast now. We have spies inside that say his most recent attempt failed, but he is funneling all of his energies into achieving true immortality. It is only a matter of time, now.

With a start, Hermione realized she was unconsciously fingering the note in her pocket. Disgusted with herself, she clasped both hands in her lap so tightly her fingernails bit into her skin.

"Once he becomes truly immortal, no one will be able to touch him, or restrain him. Not a muggle blade or the strongest spell will have any effect. It will all be his and all dependent on his whim, or boredom," whispered Paul, as if talking about such a future was too horrible to speak aloud.

"Yes, I see," she said with a touch more irritation than she actually felt. She felt a numb and worried. "But what does this have to do with me. No, I see that too. What exactly are you asking of me?"

"Help us. Your name alone is power, but your intelligence, you skill, is the missing weapon we need. You could find the chinks in his armor and you could figure out how to exploit them. I am not saying you have to be a public figure, or even a leader, although both can be yours if you wish. Just help us, no one but I need ever know where you are or what name you are living under. Just let me say 'Hermione Granger is working with us', and let her brilliance really be working with us," he said the words coming in an intense rush which Hermione allowed to wash over her.

"I will think on it," she murmured.

"That is all I can ask of you today," he said, gently patting her hand, relieved that the conversation was finally under his control. "I have bothered you for far to long and will go. If you wish to get in touch with me, for any reason, owl Pierre LeBon."

"Yes, thank you. I will remember." He was gone before she could rise to say goodbye. For a long time, she sat staring into the empty space he had inhabited. She realized a part of her had been waiting for him to come. She had been waiting for one side or the other to come and find her. She always had known that this house, this career, was a temporary sanctuary at best.

The shadows had gathered in the corners of her room before she moved to take the note out of her robe. In the dim light, only the signature was clearly visible:

Regards,

Lord Voldemort.