Harbinger
By Bambu
All disclaimers and author's notes may be found in the Prologue.
~o0o~
Epilogue: In which the future is at hand.
Hermione levitated the portrait of Bridget Wenlock into place between the windows overlooking the courtyard.
"What a tranquil view." Bridget said, peering out from her canvas. The portrait eagerly took in her new surroundings, some of which gleamed as a result of nature's kiss, as sunlight streamed into the room, or a little humanly applied beeswax, granting a soft shine to centuries' old desks and chairs.
"I hope you'll be happy here," Hermione replied while making infinitesimal adjustments to the frame so it would hang level and centered between the windows. She was impeded in her efforts by the castle's own construction which didn't lend itself to symmetry.
"I'm sure I shall be. It's very kind of you to include Jabir's portrait. We've become such good friends; I would have missed him otherwise." Bridget referred to the portrait of Jabir ibn Hayyan, the famous Persian Alchemist, whose portrait Hermione had hung directly across from the famous Arithmancer. Jabir's portrait was empty, but he had gone to visit Nicolas Flamel in the dungeons.
"It was my pleasure." Hermione stood beneath the gilt frame, facing her classroom – her very own classroom – and grinned happily before she continued putting the final touches on the room's décor.
Once Vector had left Britain – following the dictates of a cleverly implanted Suggestive Charm - Hogwarts' new headmistress had done a bit of judicious housekeeping to welcome her newest member of the staff. McGonagall had switched the location of the Muggle Studies and Arithmancy classes so that Arithmancy was now comfortably nestled between History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Hermione had been in residence for three weeks, but her lesson plans had been in place within two weeks of meeting privately with Kingsley and handing in her letter of resignation. What he had said then, she still blushed to remember.
She had practically floated into John Dawlish's office after that meeting. It might have been petty, but she had thoroughly relished the look on Dawlish's face when she mentioned how much she looked forward to teaching his niece, about whom she had heard so much. The man had practically swooned.
Snickering in a thoroughly unladylike manner, Hermione appraised her unusual floor plan. There were seven rows of desks, three in each, arrayed in a semi-circle around a central point where her podium would stand shortly. The configuration was touted for its harmonizing and generative qualities in The Secret Alchemist by Perenelle Flamel. Hermione had adapted it immediately. In fact, that was one portrait she had been unable to acquire for her walls. Perenelle refused to leave her husband's side, but had promised to stop by from time-to-time.
Beyond the student seating, and in the far corner of the room, was the door leading to Hermione's office. It had once been a broom cupboard. However, the castle had been obliging when the headmistress had asked, shifting two walls to make room for a desk and chair, two bookshelves, and guest seating.
There was no fireplace. Instead, Argus Filch had unearthed a pot-bellied stove from somewhere in the castle, its flue magically connecting to the ceiling above. The stove vented beautifully, with only a curl of smoke escaping every now and then. Filch promised it would produce enough heat to keep the small room comfortable even in the depths of winter.
Hermione kept a fanciful kettle, in the shape of a dragon – honoring Hagrid's ever-ready hospitality – atop the stove, and a number of her colleagues had taken to stopping by for a spot of tea.
The only members of the staff who had remained in constant residence during the long summer had been McGonagall, whose new duties would keep her at the school all year round, her new Deputy Head, Pomona Sprout, who had been civil to Hermione, but not terribly welcoming. In addition to the two witches, the other heads of house, Flitwick and Slughorn, and a newly appointed head of Gryffindor, Charlie Weasley, had remained throughout the summer, although each had taken short holidays in rotation. Charlie, as had become customary after the war, would be the staff member returning with the students on the Hogwarts Express that afternoon.
Just thinking about the students' arrival caused a frisson of nerves to prickle along the length of Hermione's spine. I'm as ready as I can possibly be was a refrain which seemed to run on a perpetual thought-loop in her head. She was sure the words had been engraved on the insides of her eyelids when she woke that morning.
In preparation of the coming term, Hermione had read each of her students' files. That was the source of her niggling disquiet. Fortunately, Susannah Dawlish and Martin Edgecombe were seventh years, both scheduled to take N.E.W.T. level Arithmancy. Dawlish planned on being an Auror and Edgecombe had aspirations of working for Gringotts' International. In order to do so, they would need top marks in Hermione's class, and in fact, she counted on their ambition to stem the tide of their malice.
Putting aside the thought of nine months of antagonism to look forward to, Hermione flourished her wand and levitated the last portrait into the air. She followed it across the long room, to the short wall at the far end. The subject of this canvas didn't move and didn't speak being entirely Muggle.
Hermione had taken Kingsley's advice to heart, and she would begin as she meant to continue. Mathematics had much in common with Arithmancy, and no study of numbers was complete without a passing familiarity of geometry.
As she situated the painting of Euclid of Alexandria, Hermione thought about the small collection of Muggle references to be found in the low bookshelf running the length of the wall. On top of the case, Euclid's book, The Elements, sat prominently. Also to be found were Geometry and Experience and Ether and Relativity, both by Albert Einstein, as well as works by Thomas Hobbes, Sir Isaac Newton, and Thales of Miletus. Of course, The New Theory of Numerology and Numerology and Gramatica had equal pride of place.
Threading her wand through her thick braid, Hermione grabbed the podium standing to the side of the semi-circle of desks. Moving it was the last task on her list, aside from meet Harry and Ron for lunch at Three Broomsticks and get ready for Welcoming Feast.
As Kingsley had promised, Harry and a small, hand-picked team were ensconced in the Shrieking Shack as Hogsmeade's Office of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry accepted the position before the Minister finished making the offer.
Within twenty-four hours, the newly promoted Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement and his team had applied their do-it-yourself skills toward renovating the Shrieking Shack. What had taken Harry and Hermione three months at Grimmauld Place took only three days at the dilapidated shack.
Harry enticed Roger Davies and Philip Jones to join him, along with four junior Aurors just graduating from the training program. Roger had been so enthusiastic he had practically re-built the notorious building from the ground up, sealing the passage between it and Hogwarts in the process.
While Harry's promotion had been gratifying, it hadn't brought the incandescent joy to his face the birth of his and Ginny's second son had. They had christened the baby Albus Severus, much to Snape's chagrin. No one called him Little Al, instead he was called Rus.
Hermione grunted as she maneuvered the heavy podium across the stone floor, and then she flushed with deep embarrassment when a familiar drawling voice asked, "Are you a witch or not? Wingardium Leviosa!"
The heavy podium rose six inches and hovered, waiting to be directed as Severus Snape, dressed to impress, entered the classroom, his wand held in his long-fingered grasp. "Where would you like it?"
She wouldn't look at him, instead walking to the center spot which she had marked that morning with chalk. "Here, please."
The podium obeyed his silent commands docilely and moved into position exactly as directed. His footsteps sounded loud in the room, accompanied by the soft susurration of his teaching robes sweeping across the stones. Hermione finally looked up, but there was nothing of condemnation in his expression.
"To this day," he said casually, "I prefer to shave the Muggle way."
Her eyes examined the smooth skin of his face, and her fingers itched to explore its texture, but she flexed her fingers instead, and listened to the rest of his comment.
"Never be embarrassed because you straddle both worlds, Hermione. It gives you greater adaptability, and it will bring you the respect you deserve."
"Thank you, Severus," she said softly, touched by his encouragement.
"Are you ready?" he asked, stepping next to her at the podium.
"For lunch or the students?"
"Both. Either."
"I'm starved—" there was a small furrow between her brows, where worry lines would make their mark in another two or three decades, "—and I fervently hope so."
One long finger pressed beneath her chin, raising her face so he could look into her eyes. "That it matters enough for you to doubt yourself shows a degree of dedication many would envy. Your students choose to take this course because they have an interest in it, and you, who are boundlessly enthusiastic, will undoubtedly inspire rabid devotion."
"Thank you, I think."
Since mid-February, their awareness of one another had simmered like Amortentia's third stage of brewing. Unlike the potion, which remained in stasis indefinitely, Hermione's and Snape's attraction had grown into something more than a potion-enhanced lust, despite what Horace Slughorn had to say on the topic of love potions.
At that moment, when Hermione's feelings were so accessible, and Snape was reading her eyes as if they were the index to her soul, she leaned toward him.
Never breaking eye contact with her, he bent his head, and between one ragged breath and the next, their lips met. It was nothing more than a gossamer brush, a test if you will, but then she uttered a small sound; a moan, perhaps, or possibly a whine.
It worked like a spur on an unbroken filly. In the next second, Hermione was in Snape's arms, her eyelashes brushing against her cheeks and her mouth fastened upon his. Curiously enough, there was no awkward bumping of noses, no seductive flicking of the tongue at the seam of her mouth asking for an invitation. In their place was an exploration of interest, a testing of stimuli … to the resultant satisfaction of each.
When they ended their kiss, it was with a gentle, chaste press of lips, and a resting of one brow against another.
"We will be late."
The timbre of his voice was soft, low, and unleashed a curl of desire deep within Hermione's womb. She held onto his arm for balance. "I should be ready to leave in a moment."
Then Hermione turned from him to survey her domain. It was exactly as she had imagined. This, she thought, was where she would make her mark in the world. She would teach her students flexibility and how to stretch their minds, discarding their preconceptions. She would introduce them to the strengths Muggle-borns brought into the wizarding world. She would encourage them not to exclude, but to include and embrace broader concepts. She would start one small step at a time.
It was possible she had learned patience. She nodded to herself. "To answer that latter question again, yes, I think I am ready."
"As do I." Snape offered her his arm, and she tucked her hand at the bend of his elbow, just as she had done for the past week. They descended the short staircase leading to a side door and out into the late summer sunshine.
"I'm sorry I was running a bit late."
"I sent my Patronus ahead." Snape covered her fingers with his free hand. "Weasley is already there."
She mock-groaned. "He'll already have ordered for us. You'd think Ron would grow tired of Madam Rosmerta's cottage pie by now."
"Cottage pie?" Snape looked at her darkly. "Next time we're going Muggle. I wanted curry."
Terribly amused, Hermione teased, "I think Harry's corrupted you."
There would never be a more defining moment to illustrate the differences between wartime and post-war Snape, because he said, "You may be right," with no umbrage at all.
To their right, high above the Forbidden Forest, a rare Snidget reached the apogee of its flight, the sunlight glinting gold off its widespread wings.
~o0o~
Finite
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