The skies were gray. Billions of snowflakes stacked over the ground in a thick blanket that enveloped everything. A smooth layer of whiteness, suffocating all but the most persistent of trees.

She found Harry standing outside, ignoring the bitter chill. A few snowflakes rested on his unruly hair. Once, the image would have been endearing, but now? Harry's hair had grown out wild and untamed. His face was rough with stubble and scabs. Even dressed in layers, his bones jutted out in sharp angles. His scar burned an angry red.

"Merry Christmas," said Hermione, shivering.

Harry snorted scathingly. He didn't even turn to look at her before saying, "Merry Christmas. Really. Do you see any merriness?"

Wonderful. Harry was becoming a Scrooge.

The crunch of ice came behind them as Ron approached. Ron's voice had a tone of forced cheer as he interjected, "I dunno, mate. Maybe the fact that all three of us, against the odds, are still alive and together?"

Harry turned with a slightly stricken expression. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words escaped.

"It's all good," Ron said quickly. He glanced once at Hermione. "We know you love us."

Harry's eyes flashed. Ron's words seemed to have revamped his torrent of anger. "I'm sick of this," he said, and kicked at the snow. "I'm so sick of the cold, hunger and bloody Death Eaters left and right. Why can't one of the other Order members do a damn thing for once? Maybe we should go—flee the country, whatever. Let them deal with this mess."

"You don't mean that," said Ron.

Harry looked down. "No, I don't."

"We can probably head back to Grimmauld for a couple of days," Hermione offered practically. "We'll meet up with McGonagall and Kingsley to figure out a better strategy. Ginny will probably be there too, Harry. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

"She shouldn't," Harry muttered. "It isn't safe."

Ron stared at him. "If you haven't noticed, Harry, none of us have been safe for quite a while."

"Well, we would all be safer if we stopped running around on a fool's mission!" Harry shouted. "What have we accomplished in the past year? Nothing! While the Death Eaters are brainwashing the entire population!"

The incident last week had gotten to him, Hermione thought with a wince. Harry had been spotted in Diagon Alley and subsequently, mass panic had been incited. People running around and pointing at him and screaming. They had taken great care not to be spotted again, but Harry couldn't bear the fact that out there, there were people who thought him more of a monster than Voldemort.

"What was Dumbledore thinking, anyway?" Harry said angrily. "Hiding the prophecy and horcruxes for so long, and not even telling us about them until he's dying! If we'd worked sooner, then Riddle wouldn't have had time to hide them again!"

"Or if you were more careful," Ron said slowly.

"How could I be more careful?" Harry demanded. "I should just walk around with my eyes closed, is that it, Ron? Tom Riddle looked through my eyes and saw a horcrux; he's spying on us all right now, I bet!" With that, Harry stormed off into the trees. Ron made to follow, but Hermione stopped him.

"He's getting worse," she said.

"Harry? Yeah, he is." Ron looked at her blankly. "I don't know what to do, Hermione. Everyone says he listens best to me, but I don't think that's true anymore."

"He's angry," Hermione said quietly. "So angry. The fear and the pressure and the expectations are breaking him. Damn it, Ron." She wanted to cry. "Do we even remember what it's like to not be afraid all the time?"

Ron faltered. "Is Harry right? Dumbledore . . ."

"Dumbledore isn't the one sleeping in a tent in the middle of winter!" Hermione snapped, more fiercely than she'd intended. "Dumbledore isn't the one scrounging for mushrooms and fishing in ice everyday so he can eat."

It was a mark of how much Ron had changed that all he did was stare at her helplessly. "But what else are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know."

"It's so strange that you don't have all the answers," Ron said, then winced. "I didn't mean it like that, Hermione. Hermione?"

"We've all changed, Ron," Hermione said. She tried to smile, but couldn't quite hide the bitterness. "And we will continue changing."

Hermione Dagworth-Granger opened her eyes.

Another dream. Another memory. Another line to the blank sheet that was her past.

Memories were a tricky thing. Sometimes, they were nagging holes in your mind that you knew were missing. Other times, you didn't know they had been gone until they came back.

A haze of blurriness, and before that, nothing. Faded behind the invisible barrier that separated her two lives. Sometimes it was barely there, other times, as thick and solid as a wall. She remembered Harry and Ron; the longing for them was so potent it ached. She could envision perfectly the image of Harry's green eyes, Ron's grin.

She remembered the Death Eaters and Voldemort.

The last stages of the war.

Death.

She had been Hermione Granger once. Muggleborn. Bright, inquisitive student. Terrified teenager. War rebel. Leader of the Order of the Phoenix. Undesirable Number One.

Someone useful.

She slid out of bed, pushing back the coarse blankets. Her bare feet hit the freezing floor. It was always cold here, no matter what Mrs. Figg tried. It was like Grimmauld Place had been. A prison. But instead of headquarters, she was trapped in Dumbledore's Orphanage for Half-Bloods.

Hermione stared at the water-stained mirror in the tiny bathroom connected to the tiny room. A slip of a girl stared back, swallowed by a mass of curly hair. Unblemished skin stood where angry scars should have been. Unfamiliar eyes watched intently—dark; a mark of the pureblood who was her father in this new life.

Hugh Dagworth-Granger. A stranger. A mystery.

"Who am I?" she said aloud. Was she the same person? Did she want to be the same person?

Hermione remembered far too much. She had stories of years and years that a girl of nine had no right to know. But not enough. Never enough.

She retained her hunger for books. Books about complex, theoretic magic. Books about the darkest of curses. Books about history. They were books that her younger self would have found fascinating. Would have poured over for hours. She still did that. But not for learning.

For war.

The war was the power that kept her gears going. The fire burning within her that hungered for vengeance. It was her secret. And that was the most vital part.

Hermione Dagworth-Granger moved to the door, her eyes distant and Occluded. One more day in the orphanage. One more day of biding her time.

But so it was that time seemed determined to follow a certain course, finally reaching its hold into even the most unchanging community of wizarding folk. Dumbledore's Orphanage—where every day was the same until you grew old enough to leave—seemed to finally be pushing out of its isolation.

Rumors began to circulate, flying panicked mouths into equally panicked ears. Bad news. Good news. Mixed news.

"Did you hear?"

"About the orphanage—"

"Who said that?"

"We heard about it from Hogwarts. It's going to happen this summer."

Hermione listened to the rattling of spilled words. Truth and lies. Contradictions. The orphans whispered their theories. The reasons.

There wasn't enough money. Dumbledore had angered the Minister. The Ministry didn't want wizarding children raised by a squib. Someone's parents had been found as traitors and everyone was being punished. There was even a rumor about the return of Voldemort, whatever that meant.

Either way, the news was clear.

Dumbledore's Orphanage was shutting down. It terrified everyone.

It went on for days and people grew more and more nervous. Just when the tensions had reached their boiling point, Mrs. Figg made an announcement at dinner. Hermione thought she looked like she'd rather be anywhere else, standing up there under all the accusing stares, but secrets were hard to keep. Especially when half of the residents you were trying to keep a secret from had access to the information network at Hogwarts. Mrs. Figg's voice was tired as she confirmed the news.

"What's going to happen?" Hannah Abbot asked from her seat to the right. "Will we have to go to Umbridge?" Hermione felt sorry for the blond girl. Hannah was the closest thing she had to a friend; they had lived here together, and Hermione sometimes acted as an almost-mentor even though physically, she was only a few months older.

"Perhaps," Hermione said. But to soften the blow, she offered, "Maybe Mrs. Figg will find alternative arrangements.

Hannah didn't believe that. "She'll never make it past the Ministry," the girl whispered, starting to shake. "Oh Merlin, we're going to Umbridge. I've heard she makes people sleep in rows on the floor and whips them when they do accidental magic."

That wasn't far from the truth, from what Hermione knew about Umbridge. She was worse than a large portion of Death Eaters. Most Death Eaters didn't like torturing children; most weren't sadists either. Hermione's fingers curled.

It was almost enough to make Hermione briefly consider taking Hannah with her when she fled. Hermione certainly had no intention of subjecting herself to Umbridge. Dumbledore's Orphanage had been a decently . . . safe place to grow and learn, but there was no need to confine herself if there wasn't refuge. Except for Hogwarts. But Hogwarts was different.

She discarded the idea immediately. Taking Hannah would . . . change her plans a great deal and at the heart of the matter, she didn't want the burden of caring for someone else.

"Hannah, you'll be fine," Hermione said with a confidence she didn't feel. "You can stay with the older boys. You're friends with Jales and Huxley, aren't you? They know magic. They can protect you."

"What about you?" Hannah said. "You have to come too."

"Of course," Hermione lied. "I'll stay with you. Besides, we aren't . . . Muggleborns. Umbridge wouldn't dare hurt us." She felt so foolish saying that, but there was no point in frightening the girl.

Hannah perked up. "Oh yeah." She began chattering with the girl on her other side. Hermione felt sick.

After dinner, she tried to relax. She was only somewhat successful. There were a few rooms in the orphanage where the children could gather around to talk, play, read, draw. Away from Hannah's fearful face, curled up with a book in the corner, Hermione could almost pretend to be normal.

Almost.

Bedtime came far too quickly, and Hermione lingered, attracting a few curious glances. It was fifteen minutes later before she heard the hobbled footsteps of an old lady approaching.

"Mrs. Figg?"

Mrs. Figg turned with a sort of startled expression. The squib looked very tired. "Yes, Hermione dear? Was there something you needed?"

Hermione tried to give off the impression of a worried, uncertain child. "I was just wondering . . . about why the headmaster is letting the Ministry have us."

"Oh, child," Mrs. Figg sighed, and she suddenly seemed very frail. "The headmaster tries his best, but he is not infallible. The Ministry will do what they want." She straightened, attempting a smile. "But think on the bright side. It will be better for you lot to be raised by wizarding folk."

"I don't want to be raised by wizarding folk," Hermione muttered, hoping her tone matched that of a churlish child. "The Ministry is being prejudiced and narrow-minded. We have Miss Benkins to teach us about magic."

"Oh, Hermione." Mrs. Figg patted her on the shoulder. "A girl as bright as you needs more exposure than what Miss Benkins can give. It won't be so bad, you see. Just think about how many new books there'll be."

Hermione highly doubted Umbridge would have any books (Ministry drivel didn't count). The thought of that woman possessing knowledge of any sort was just short of mind-blowing. But no point in prodding Mrs. Figg further. Any more, and it would be suspicious. Hermione had established her persona as curious and wise beyond her years but even that had its limits.

Instead, she went with a more innocuous question. "Do you know when it's happening?"

Mrs. Figg hesitated. "Sometime during July. There will be a . . . transition period."

Hermione nodded. That gave her enough time to prepare and draw up a course of action. She opened her mouth to thank Mrs. Figg, but hesitated. There was something she had been wondering for a while. Sometimes, Mrs. Figg seemed to tug at her, it was like she had known the old squib before.

"Mrs. Figg? What are you going to do when we're gone?"

Mrs. Figg looked surprised. "Well, I've always been needed here . . ." her gaze turned thoughtful. "Hmm, I haven't thought of that in years. I suppose I wouldn't mind adopting a few kneazles."

"I wish we could have cats here," Hermione agreed. She liked cats—she thought she did, at least. Had she had a cat in her previous life? She didn't remember, but it was a nice thing to think about. A fluffy companion to guard against the monsters.

Mrs. Figg smiled. "Cats. Kneazles are no ordinary cats. They're incredibly intelligent, even those who are only half. They're picky too—a nice judge of character. My mother used to raise strays when I was in primary school. Those kneazles were loyal—they would walk me to school everyday. I think a kneazle would make a good pet for you. They'd be a good companion for Hogwarts."

"That would be wonderful," Hermione said a bit wistfully. Unfortunately, it was unlikely she'd ever have the time to indulge in anything but an owl.

"I'll see if I can get the money when time comes," Mrs. Figg said brightening. "We usually have enough to buy a couple of owls each year. Kneazles don't cost too much more . . ." She trailed off, looking stricken. "I mean—surely the Ministry will be able to afford pets for you."

Umbridge. With a cat. The thought made Hermione shudder.

Mrs. Figg saw her movement and mistook it for something different. "Oh, Hermione, don't you worry too much. The Ministry takes in orphans and Muggleborns for their own safety. You'll be looked after well, and it won't be long until you go to Hogwarts like all other magical children."

"Yes, Mrs. Figg." Her mind was already far away. When would be the best time to make an escape?

Back in her small room, Hermione sorted through her stash of items. A small sack of galleons she had swiped. Her copy of The Dark Lord's War: A Recent History that she had bought from one of their infrequent trips to Diagon Alley. A bundle of clothing. A tattered cloak.

And a faded photograph of a brown-haired man with dark eyes and a quick smile. "Hugh Dagworth-Granger, 1979" was written in jagged letters across the back. The photo was creased from the folding and touching of a girl who tried and failed to figure him out.

Hermione thought about going through The Dark Lord's War again, but decided that if Mrs. Figg saw her light open at this time, she'd really be in trouble. Grimacing, she turned off the lights, resigning herself to a restless night of sleep.

The dream started in a hauntingly familiar estate full of great walls and vivid gardens. It was a home of pride and the place of nightmares. Malfoy Manor. The gardens were still green, she saw, and there were a few stray flowers, trampled though they were. Hermione marked it as the first year of the war, when she had been eighteen.

Bellatrix Lestrange was in the drawing room; the room that would become her lair. Her cackle was red, a splash of color that painted the floor. Elegant, blood-crusted hands moved a quick-silver knife that carved the word MUDBLOOD into her arm. There was only the burning sensation of the curse knife and white noise. Ron was screaming, wasn't he? He had been screaming.

"You'll always be a mudblood," Bellatrix whispered tauntingly. "Never good enough, never strong enough. Always failing." A slash of the blade. "But you've forgotten, haven't you?" Swick. Swick. The knife dancing away among the rivers of crimson. Pain. She tried to scream, there was something cold at her throat that promised something worse.

Wait. No. That hadn't happened. She knew this memory. Bellatrix had been looking for the Sword of Gryffindor, but Bellatrix wasn't even asking about the sword at all? She silently begged Bellatrix to ask, to do something familiar, but the madwoman only leaned closer.

"You don't know anything about our world," Bellatrix cooed. "You don't know our traditions, our history. But you come in acting like you can change everything. The blood-traitor, Potter. At least they belong."

Not real. Not real.

Bella's eyes were wild in the light. "Let this be a reminder, little mudblood. You think you've escaped, but you haven't. Time is ticking. Tick tick tick tick . . ." Her voice slurred and faded, replaced by the faint ticking sounds of a real clock.

A single chime sang in the distance. It was the sound of a symphony of bells, all ringing together their pure tones. A thousand cries of the sobs and laughter of people who had lived and died.

One.

Hermione jolted awake, a scream frozen in her throat. Her heart pounded. She pressed her fists against her chest and tried to breathe. Her head spun dizzily even though she was lying down and she thought she might throw up. Wherewherewhereami? Calm. She needed to calm down.

Rough fabric, the wall. Darkness, but clear of magic. Stale air. She was still at the orphanage.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. She forced up her fractured Occlumency walls, pushing the dream back into the dark recesses of her mind. Her pulse gradually slowed and she took a breath. It was then that she felt a pain on her left arm.

"Lumos."

A pale glow extended out from her fingertips. She looked down, dread curdling in her guts.

It couldn't be—

Her arm was covered in blood. She wiped it gingerly on her shirt, mindful of the wound. As she cleared the skin, she was able to make out the shape of the raw incisions. Eight letters. Eight jagged, hateful letters.

Mudblood.

Her breath caught. How? She recognized the letters. It was Bellatrix's handwork. She even saw the small upwards hook in the "b" where Bellatrix's knife had slipped. But Bellatrix wasn't here. She was in Azkaban. And there was no way this Bellatrix had even heard of Hermione. There was no way she could have done this.

But it was Bellatrix's work. Every last detail, the positioning, the shape, the size of the word. It couldn't have been achieved so exactly except by magic.

Had Bellatrix Lestrange reached across death to attack her? Or—

"Bad things happen to people who mess with time."

"Time is ticking. Tick tick tick tick. . ."

Focus. The wound. Her shirt was already soaked through. Soon the faint throbbing would intensify into stabbing. She would begin to feel faint from blood loss. It had been—was—a cursed wound, meaning it wouldn't close on its own. It would bleed and bleed until there was nothing left to bleed. What would Hannah do if she walked into Hermione's room the next day and found her lying dead in a pool of blood?

Her fingers itched for her wand. There was a spell that could stymie bleeding—even dark magic cursed bleeding—but it was difficult enough that the chances of success with an unfamiliar wand was pretty much close to zero, never mind trying it wandless.

Dittany then, only there was no dittany at the orphanage any more; they'd ran out a few months ago and Mrs. Figg didn't have the funds to buy more.

Fuck.

Her mind hit dead end after dead end. No money, no wand, no one to help. Mrs. Figg would send her to St. Mungo's, which was a solution, but brought a host of its own problems. That was clear from the list she had made; the list to win the war.

At the top. Number one: remain unnoticed.

A cursed wound bearing the words MUDBLOOD would bring all sorts of notice.

She had no choice.

Hermione had once helped Fleur with a ritual; a complicated one involving blood magic and runes. It had been for someone—she couldn't remember who—who'd been dying that they couldn't afford to lose. Drawing the wrong runes could probably kill her, but the blood loss would kill her.

She began tracing them out. Healing. Sacrifice. Exchange. She worked from the one instance of first-hand experience she'd had and the image in a book she'd read later.

Done. Messy and splattered, but close enough. Should she do it?

You can't afford to be indecisive.

She took a deep breath and guided the magic in. It required quite a bit of control. Luckily, that was something she did not lack. The runes glowed gold.

There was a blinding flash and a shocking blast of heat on her arm. When she could finally see again, she saw the blood had been burned off the floor. She lifted her arm. The blood was gone there too and so were the raw incisions. All that remained was a white scar, much lighter than the red-purple one that had remained the first time.

She began laughing. It was the kind of laugh that came from something so unfunny that it was almost funny. A secret joke, unbeknownst to everyone except her.

It was beginning again.

The very next day, Mrs. Figg took them out to Diagon Alley. A rare excursion, as Mrs. Figg usually didn't have the time or energy to spare. She likely still didn't, but Hermione suspected she wanted to distract them all from the impending doom that was coming in the form of Umbridge.

The younger orphans—Hermione unfortunately included—were assigned to the watch of the older ones. As luck would have it, Hermione's chaperones of the day consisted of a pair of mooning teenagers who couldn't wait to get away from their charge. Hermione grinned as she ducked into a different street. The two were so busy goggling over broomsticks they didn't even notice.

She made her way to the edges of Knockturn Alley just near Borgin and Burkes where a battered little shop hid. An old man with stained yellow teeth watched through the cracked windows as she let herself in through the creaking door. The air inside was thick with dust and smelled of moldy paper. Bookshelves were filled with books—about dark magic mostly—and more books were stacked on the floor. A few crates were scattered about, stuffed full of parchment.

"What do you want, girl?" the old shopkeeper asked, peering at her suspiciously. She couldn't blame him—from her appearance at least, she was far too young to be wandering around in his shop. He was however a shady enough sort that he wouldn't report her, she hoped.

"You keep old newspapers, don't you?" she said. "The Daily Prophet?"

He grunted, waving his wand to summon a few of the crates. They thudded to the ground in front of her, releasing a thick cloud of dust. "I've got some. How far back are you wanting?"

"Halloween of 1981."

He stared at her with a calculating glint she didn't like. "Interested in the disappearance of the Dark Lord, are you?" He shoved a crate at her. "It's somewhere in there. That'll be a sickle each."

Expensive, but not unexpected. "I'd also like a few books on time magic, please."

As he rose to fetch them, she riffled through the crate, searching until she found the right one. It wasn't too difficult, there seemed to be quite a few copies for that day.

The old shopkeeper returned with an armful of books and set them before her. She scanned the covers; it was quite a wide assortment. There were outlandish theories, a few studies that weren't relevant to what she was looking for, and even a children's book. The last book read Closed Loops and Open: The Consequences of Messing with Time.

"I'll take that one, and this newspaper," she said.

"Ten galleons. And a sickle for that paper."

She paid, then left hurriedly, seeking the more familiar lanes of Diagon. Once she was in range of Broomstix, she opened the paper. The bold headline was right on the front page.

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DEFEATED?

You-Know-Who's attacks have incited great fear around our community. A user of dark magics, he targets mainly Muggleborns and Muggle-rights supporters, usually leaving nothing but death and destruction. However, as of yesterday, it has been discovered that the infamous Dark Lord may not be completely undefeatable. Aurors have discovered a wand lying abandoned in the ruins of the Potters' home in Godric's Hollow. The wandmaker Garrick Ollivander has confirmed that the wand belongs to You-Know-Who. Aurors are still investigating, but You-Know-Who's wand has been retrieved and secured.

His attack did not come without casualties, however. Lily Potter (21), was found dead from the Killing Curse. Multiple Killing Curses on You-Know-Who's wand confirms he was the murderer. Her one-year-old son, Harry Potter, was found mostly unharmed with only a small cut from the falling rubble. He is currently in custody of his father, James Potter.

Multiple neighbours, including one Bathilda Bagshot, reported sightings of a wizard who was most likely You-Know-Who fleeing. Bagshot is the author of Hogwarts: A History. One of our reporters interviewed her and was unable to retrieve anything of substance besides "he was running like the Dementors were after him. Didn't use a fleck of magic either; just took off into the trees."

It is speculated that Lily Potter tried to fight and was the one to scare You-Know-Who off. The damage to the house is from a blasting spell, likely cast by Mrs. Potter in her panic. Possibly, the commotion caused You-Know-Who to flee, though there is no explanation for him leaving his wand.

It has also been since revealed that the incident in Godric's Hollow is connected to the attack in Muggle London that happened just a few hours afterward. In yesterday's paper, you may remember three Muggles were killed and an additional nine injured by a magic-induced explosion. At the time, there were two wizards at the scene: Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black. Both had their wands drawn in preparation of a duel, but were interrupted by the timely arrival of James Potter who Apparated in and cast a shield charm just in time to negate the worst of the damage.

Potter claimed that it was Pettigrew that caused the explosion. An examination of Pettigrew's wand confirms this. The reason Black gives for his presence is that the Potters should have never been found by You-Know-Who as they were protected by the Fidelius Charm. Pettigrew was their secret-keeper. In conclusion, Pettigrew must have betrayed them to You-Know-Who.

A warning to the public! Pettigrew is currently on the run. He is a dangerous individual; wanted for murder and suspected of being a Death Eater. Potter and Black have also reported Pettigrew to be a rat animagus. If you see any suspicious rats or wizards resembling Pettigrew (image shown below), please notify Magical Law Enforcement immediately.

Hermione was so distracted upon returning that she almost didn't notice the black-robed visitor waiting outside Dumbledore's Orphanage for Half-Bloods. Even from a distance, Hermione could see the sallow skin, glittering eyes and lank hair that hung in a curtain around the man's face.

Severus Snape.

The last Hermione remembered of Snape, he had turned from a cruel bastard of a teacher into a despicable murderer. A despicable murderer who had then revealed that he had acted on Dumbledore's orders and was actually still a spy for the Order.

He had died for their cause; killed for betrayal or as punishment or by accident, she didn't remember. That was the day Draco had defected.

This Snape was so similar, with black eyes that seemed to bore right into her and a sneer that could have ripped a student to shreds. He was visibly younger, and more on the scrawny side than unhealthily skinny but she could see the beginnings of scars on his barely visible arms and wondered how long he had already spent being tortured by Voldemort so that the Order might win.

Spy or not, the world already thought him a Death Eater traitor. Mrs. Figg faltered upon seeing him, immediately put herself forward to put herself between him and the orphans. Her voice was more hostile than Hermione had ever heard it. "Professor . . . Snape! What can I do for you?"

The Hogwarts-aged orphans visibly grimaced. They seemed to share Mrs. Figg's dislike, though it was more of a wariness than outright hatred. Most of them grimaced, and a few ducked down like they were trying to avoid Snape's wrath even here.

"Arabella." Snape inclined his head.

"Do you have business here?" Mrs. Figg said. She looked like she was chewing on a lemon. "If you need to contact a . . . mutual acquaintance, there are better places to look. This is an orphanage."

"Rest assured, I know where I am. My business happens to take place right here." Snape smiled a little twisted smile. "I've come to inquire about adoption."

Mrs. Figg went utterly still. "Adoption. . .? Did Albus send you?"

"If you're asking if he knows of my presence here, yes he does," Snape said with a sneer. "If you're asking whether he's sent a charitable host to rescue this raggled lot, then no, he has not."

"So on your own volition, you wish to adopt children?" asked Mrs. Figg, lips growing thinner. She glanced in their direction uneasily. Clearly, she knew what he was on about.

"A child," Snape corrected. He turned and—to her great shock—stared directly at Hermione. She could feel his gaze burning into her skin. She hunched her shoulders, wishing he would look away. His next words stopped her right in her tracks. "My cousin's daughter."

"We'll talk in private, Professor," Mrs. Figg said. She sounded uncommonly angry. "The rest of you, Miss. Benkins is in charge whilst I'm gone. If I hear of anyone misbehaving, you'll wish that a month with the house-elves was all you got." That caused a rustle. The house-elves would make you help out with cleaning—in an extremely overbearing way—and also lecture you until you wished your ears would fall off.

Hermione waited a few seconds before she hastily disillusioned herself—wandlessly and with some effort—and followed. She crept up to the thick door where she was able to make out their words.

"The girl is named Hermione, I believe," Snape was saying. "Hermione Dagworth-Granger, daughter of Hugh Dagworth-Granger. Her father Hugh and I shared a grandmother."

"There's no denying your have blood relation," Mrs. Figg said, sounding annoyed. "But blood is not the only thing that makes a family. I'm more concerned with your capability of caring for a child. Your previous . . . associations give me much doubt."

"My having been a Death Eater?" Snape asked acidly. "Come on, we both know what you meant. I was acquitted for that, if you recall, in front of the Wizengamot with Dumbledore himself speaking in my favor. Or have you lost trust in him as well? It was a folly of my youth, one I am not much inclined to discuss."

"Acquitted or not, I would be hard pressed to trust children with someone who has held Death Eater ideologies—"

"Might I remind you I'm a half-blood myself?" Snape's voice could have frozen ice. "I have never shared in their ideologies"—he made a noise similar to a growl—"and I haven't started. My reasons for joining are none of your business; at the time, the Death Eaters certainly offered more than murder and torture."

Mrs. Figg's reply was scathing. "A murderer—"

"I've done much for the Order that you know of, and then some," Snape hissed.

This must have hit in the right spot, for when Mrs. Figg spoke again, she was more subdued. "Why did you leave Hermione to the orphanage, only to return now? I assume you were aware of your cousin's death?"

Snape scoffed. "If you hate me now, you'd have hated me worse, then. A young man fresh with loss and trauma would have made an exceedingly poor guardian."

"And you make a better one now?"

"Come now, Arabella," Snape said bitingly. "Surely she'd be better off with me than at Umbridge's. Must we continue with this ridiculous farce? You dislike me, and I am not particularly fond of you. Are you going to let your prejudices blind you? Must we call Albus over? We both know I will not hurt the girl. "

"I see. I'd like to see his letter now, if you don't mind." There was a rustling of paper as Snape handed it over, then a long pause as she read the contents. Hermione pressed her lips together. Dumbledore was a general—he always had ulterior motives. He would not have given Snape a letter for free. Did he somehow suspect her of being something other than a nine-year-old child?

When Mrs. Figg spoke again, bitterness flared clear in her voice. "The headmaster has made a convincing argument. I suppose he gets his way again. Like always."

And that was how Hermione found herself standing at the Apparition point with her meager bundle consisting of clothes, two books, a newspaper and a photograph.

"Miss Dagworth-Granger," Snape said formally, reaching to take her hand.

"Professor Snape," she returned.

"Severus," he corrected.

As his fingers wrapped around hers, he leaned forward to stare into her eyes. Hermione tensed, immediately slamming her shields in place, but then paused when she didn't feel the probe of Legilimency. It could be that he was truly just looking, but for whatever reason, she could only begin to imagine. Was it like how he saw Lily's eyes in Harry's face—did he see Hugh Dagworth-Granger's in her's?

Mrs. Figg was watching them proceed with unease clear on her face.

Hermione was not sorry to be leaving—she wished Mrs. Figg would not worry—but she could only think about her plans and how everything changed.

Sn—Severus was a walking combination of opportunity. He was a spy in the Death Eater ranks, important to Dumbledore and high in the Order. He had known Lily, and had a connection to Harry no matter how much the Marauders might hate him. He also worked at Hogwarts and was brilliant with dueling, mind magic and potions.

An invaluable piece in the war. Second only to Harry.

Hermione wondered if she could save him. She had to be able to save him.

She thought Snape deserved a chance to live.

A/N: I would like it very much if you wonderful readers dropped a review every now and then. Please? 'Til next time. —Igni