AN: Please Read and Review, I know that the Mudblood's daughter saga must seem never ending, and you just want it all to be over by now, but it's still nice to hear your opinions...

The Mudblood's Daughter and the Vanishing Cabinet

Hermione could feel her mother's eyes on her, as she picked at her food, feeling less and less hungry under her gaze. Finally, she just put her fork down, and looked into the hazel eyes of her mother. There was a look of worry on Jean Granger's face, and also suspicion. "Is something the matter, mother?" Hermione asked, unable to hide the edge in her voice, and Jean gently placed her knife and fork on either side of her food-laden placed, watching Hermione cautiously.

"No dear, of course not. You just... look different, that is all," Jean replied. This type of conversation was typical of the Granger's now. After Hermione had met Charissa in Hermione fourth year, and Hermione had discovered what she had forgotten, her relationship with her mother, more than her father, had become more strained. Hermione frowned, but nodded. Jean bit her lip, before she spoke. "Have you heard from Charissa recently?" Jean queried.

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed, wonderingwhy her mother was asking about her niece. "Yes... I got a letter from her the other night. Grandfather passed away early yesterday morning, Grandmother is very upset," Hermione whispered the last part. She watched her mother for a reaction, but the woman barely flinched, picking up her knife and fork and keepingher eyes trained on her plate. John Granger watched her as well. The man's dark brown hair was receding, and peppered with gray. He was slightly rounded, yet his eyes were gentle as he looked at his wife, but she just stayed stoic. Hermione sighed, and stood. "Excuse me. I am going to bed, I feel awfully tired," she said.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," John stated, and Hermione smiled, pressinga soft kiss onto his stubbly, red cheek, and swayingfrom the dining room of her small suburban home. The creme walls provided no comfort for her, how shocked she was at her mothers lack of reaction about Abbrox's death.

Normally she felt at home within the confines of her home, the pictures of smiling people lining the walls, the warmth that always seemed to radiate welcoming and gentle. Now she felt stifled by the heat, the smiling pictures felt fake, and unnatural with their eerily still forms, not moving like the ones she normally saw at Hogwarts. She didn't feel safe, she felt trapped, trapped in the lie spun by her mother when she was a child.

She closed her bedroom door restingthe back of her head against the white painted wood, and looking around her room. The plain walls reflected herself, the old, patchwork quilt on the bed made by her Grannie on her dad's side. Her two bookshelves on either side of the window, and the shelves up the wall her door was on were piled high with books, and on the wall above her bed where three pictures, one of the Weasley's, one of the Golden Trio and one of her family.

Her room was basic, with only her wardrobe, bedside table and chest of drawers as furniture other than her bed and bookshelves. Her parents had never believed in excess, something that Hermione surmised was part of Jean's insistencethat she doesn't have anything to do with money, or the Hallow's family at all. Exhausted, she stripped down from her Christmas dress, which was a simple red number, and pulled on her bunny pyjamas. She clambered under her covers, and the minute her head hit the pillow, she fell into an uneven slumber.

Hermia. That was her identity, that was what McGonnagle had decided. Hermia King. A visiting professor from Beauxbaxton's sent to observe the Transfiguration classes. She had to stay out of the way as much as possible, to avoid changing anything that had happened in the past. The problem was there was so much she would change if she had the chance, and she actually for once, did. The only problem is, she didn't know how it would affect the future. Her main wish though, was to prevent Dumbledore's death.

But that couldn't happen. Releasing an angry groan, she fisted her hair, head against the feather filled pillow tiredly. Her thoughts were too haywire for her too sleep, and all she could think of was that she could fix everything, yet also ruin it. If she tried to change it, then what would happen to Narca-Jane? Scorpius and Abraxus? Her marriage? There was too much too risk.

Huffing, she sat up, swingingher legs around the side of the bed and placing her feet in the slippers provided by McGonnagle. Her nightgown was plain, floor-length and white, with a high lace necklineand short sleeves. The sort of nightgown her Grannie used to wear. Grabbing the dressing gown, a fuzzy pink thing that reminded her of Molly Weasley, that was slightly too large, she pulled it over her shoulder and did up the sash. Creeping over to the door, she opened it slowly, before emerging fully and treading down the corridor, her wand clasped in her hand.

She turned right, went down two flights of the Grand Staircase, not panicking when they started to move, and emerged at the first floor Arithmacyclassrooms. Hermia turned, frowning and went down the next flight, coming out on the ground floor and near the staff room. A cold chill whipped through her spine, and she shuddered. A sudden slimy drawl caused her to jump and spin on her heel. "I do not believe you are supposed to be here, Professor King, if that is, in fact, your name," the deep, unmistakable voice of Severus Snape said, and Hermia swallowed, looking at him.

"Professor Snape! I'm sorry, I was just hungry, and I..." Hermia trailed off, realising that she didn't have to explain herself to Snape any more, even if she was in 1996, she wasn't the same age. "Actually, I was wondering if you could direct me in the direction of the kitchens, Professor. I am afraid that I am going to get dreadfully lost, and that would be terrible."

Snape staredher suspiciously with beady, black eyes down his hooked nose, before he gestured down the corridor. "Take the door to the right of the main staircase in the Entrance Hall. Continue down the corridor to the portrait of fruit and tickle the pear. It will become a handle. The Elves will serve you," he informed her, and Hermia beamed at him courteously, before turning in the Entrance Hall's direction. She stopped, and looked back at him.

"Would you care to join me, Professor Snape?" she offered, and he rose a slimy eyebrow. "I mean, you must be hungry, if you are up as well, correct?" she asked, challenging his motives. Snape nearly glowered at her, before he nodded his acquiesce. Hermia grinned, as he began to stalk toward the Entrance hall, slow enough to allow her to follow.

"Professor Snape, if you do not mind me prying, but what is your opinion of Professor Dumbledore? I have heard he is a great, kind man, and I have yet to meet him," Hermia pried, looking at him slyly. If there was anythign she had got from Draco over the last few years of marriage, it was how to lie, and hide your true motives. She had always wondered about Snape, and his alliegence, and even more why he had such an alliegence to Dumbledore. If Harry had ever found out, he hadn't shared it once.

"Dumbledore is... he is a good wizard," Snape replied, his tone clipped and Hermia regarded him silently, before nodding and looking away.

"Yes, I am sure he is," she stated.

Charissa Hallows sat at her Grandmother's bedside, the frail, aged woman trembling in her four-poster mahogany bed. Cassadria had once been a woman of great power and influence, yet here she lay, fallen and weak, like a withered flower cut down before it's time. The lady croaked slightly, and Charissa reached to the bedside table, and poured a silver goblet full of water. "Would you like some water, Grandmother?" she asked, careful to keep her voice gentle, and quiet. The woman rose a han wearily, shaking it, and Charissa sighed.

After setting the glass back down, she stood, her dressing gowns hem brushing against the dark-wood floor under her feet. The entire room was dar, only dimnly lit by a single candle on the bedside table. It's curtains, a thick, rich red satin were drawn heavily, as well as the curtains along three sides of the bed. All the furniture was dark, mahogany and powerful, the fabrics thick red satin that gave the room an even darker, more solemn atmosphere.

At the centre of it all was Cassadria, looking like a lone angel among the darkness, her grey hair fanned around her head, her skin a sickly, mottled grey and her eyes blindly searching through the darkness for the blurry figure of her granddaughter. Charissa prodded over to the window, pushing open the curtain a tad and peering out into the night.

"Cass-andra? Are... y-you... th-ere?" Cassadria whimpered, her voice breaking often. Charissa closed her eyes, clenching her fists and taking a deep breath, before pasting a smile on her face, and going back to her seat beside her grand-mother's bed. She clasped Cassadria's hand in her own, anger and sadness peircing her heart.

"Mother," Charissa said, stiffly. Charissa was used to this now, after the Cancer that had gripped her grandmother had mastasized to her brain, she had deteriorated mentally, rapidly. It had been really difficult, especially with how ill her grandfather was as well, before he passed the night before. He had died from Dragon Pox, horrifically. So many people she loved were gone now, her mother and father, her sister and brother, her grandfather. How long was it until she lost her grandmother as well?

"I... I am... tired... dear... Leave me... be..." Cassadria croaked, and Charissa sighed heavily, before she replied 'Goodnight' and pressed a kiss onto the wrinkled woman's forehead. She turned, her nightcoat and nightgown swishing around her ankles, before she lifted the candle, striding from the room, and down the never ending corridors that haunted the Hallow's mansion.

It never felt safe, not after she had found her parents bodies in her mothers living room. She never went near the East Wing now, eating in the first Reception Room on the West Wing instead. There were twenty seven bedrooms in the Hallows Mansion, and she tried to sleep as far away from the room they had slept in as possible.

"Charissa! There you are!" a snap caused her to jump, and she spun, her heart hammering in her chest as she saw Narcissa Malfoy treading the wooden floors towards her. The woman was a far cry from the one she had once called her aunt. Her eyes were flitting around, and she huddled into herself, her rich green robes heavy on her slender frame, her beauty darkened by worry and fatigue. Charissa let her head fall momentarily, before lifting her head and gazing at her frantic looking Aunt.

"What is it, Narcissa?" she breathed weakly, not even caring how Narcissa had gained access to the Mansion. Narcissa looked at her apprehensivily, before she spoke.

"I need your help."