I'd like to thank those who alerted the fic, and my one and only reviewer and beta, Comical Epiphanies, who did a wonderful work on this chapter ! Thank her as much as me ! :) And if you'd be so kind as to leave a review -always a pleasure. ^^

At twenty, Hermione Granger was perfectly happy.

Her studies, which were supposed to last four years, were going well. She was studying the international wizarding political system, aiming at working in the Foreign Affairs. Of course, being her, she took on several languages—she had always thought Hogwarts' curriculum lacked those—and adhered to an association defending Muggleborns' right to equality.

Her family was fine; her parents had recently moved to the countryside, growing tired of the toils of the city life, but they still had their dentist office, and although business was reduced, they managed well enough to be content. She had great friends whom she'd kept in touch with after Hogwarts, which was not a small feat in her book. She had been rewarded with the proof that they did care for her as much as she did them when they had all answered present for her 21st birthday.

Yet, there was one problem in Hermione's life.

Harry Potter.

During their school years, they had been competitors. Being regarded as the most intelligent student in class by far was rewarding, but at Hogwarts Hermione discovered that competing with someone equally smart could be far, far more interesting, pushing her past her boundaries and opening her to so many new things—as well as helping to keep her head cool. Of course, she had always been a little disappointed that he had never taken the competition as seriously as her. It was a strange concept that someone could naturally be uncompetitive. Then again, he saw her as immensely superior to him in intelligence, though for the life of her she couldn't figure out why.

For seven years, they had been close, but not exactly best friends. Despite a circle of loyal companions, Harry had never really seemed to have a best friend, and even now, Hermione knew he had secrets of his own that neither she nor the others had been told. Such as how he had managed to know advanced Muggle physics by third year. Or why he appeared so far away sometimes.

This slight distance, however, was not what bothered Hermione. He was entitled to his own secrets, after all, even though she wanted to know. No, her problem was different.

Dear Hermione,

I apologize for not coming to your birthday. I swear to you I tried every possible thing short of hexing my superior to get out of work early, and it actually worked. I was on my way to your apartment when someone reacted badly to a portkey and I had to take him to the emergency unit. The only guy on call tonight was an intern, and he wasn't qualified enough to handle it, so I had to step up.

I'm really, really sorry… Can I make it up to you sometime?

See you soon

-Harry.

His writing was a nigh-unreadable scrawl, which meant, as she had learned after years of knowing him, he had been in a hurry. No doubt he had sent it as soon as he had a few seconds to breathe. He was that kind; thinking of others when he should be thinking of himself.

Yet this was the third postponed meeting, and Hermione was starting to get the definite impression that he was avoiding her.

She had wracked her brains for something she had said that could have offended him, but she had come up short. She had written to Susan, Neville, Terry and Luna, asking them if he was behaving the same way with them, but despite their assurance that he was simply busy, she still felt… frustrated. Harry was—had always been—somewhat fascinating, the Boy-who-Lived, a Transfiguration genius—and yet, a hard worker, a modest, tolerant, unassuming boy whose lifelong ambition was to help people. He was the kind of person one only met once in a lifetime, or at least so Hermione thought. And all those years, when she had thought about how little they actually talked about personal things, like friends were supposed to, she had always figured it was alright, because she had time.

But now, time was running out because he was closing off.

It worried her.

There had been only two occasions when Harry had shut like that: the first time after Cedric died and the second after Sirius died. Had he lost someone close recently? She didn't think so; she would have been informed. The only reason she could think of was that he was simply no longer interested in being friends with her, and that set her mental alarms ringing despite the fact that she knew how perfectly irrational such fear was.

Perhaps he was simply busy.

But for some reason, the answer did not satisfy her.

Minerva McGonagall looked up as a student came up to her desk. Lina Trefold, a first-years who, despite having been sorted into Slytherin, was very shy. Minerva's expression softened as she saw the frightened girl. 'How may I help you, Miss Trefold?'

Lina's blue eyes flicked to her professor's face before her gaze dropped to Minerva's desk. 'I'd like to get help in Transfiguration,' she mumbled, and only the cat's sharp hearing allowed Minerva to make out the words.

It was true that Lina was not as gifted as other students in her class, but she did not seem to be struggling. But Minerva was not one to discard a student's plea for help. 'Well, what do you think is the problem with your Transfiguration?'

'It's just…I don't get it. I try to understand the manual, ma'am, I really do, but it's all gibberish to me. The others in my House, they're not doing so well either, and there's no Muggleborn to explain it to us…'

The manual was not very complicated in and of itself. Basically, it explained the best method of transfiguration before explaining first years' spells, formulas and wand movements. Before, most Pureblood-raised students had an advantage over Muggleborns in Transfiguration, for they were more familiar with magic and did not even think it was strange for an object's matter and shape to be altered. Now, however, with the publication of Harry's thesis, everything had changed. Since it involved delving into an object's inner formation—cells, molecules, and atoms—Muggleborns grasped it more easily than Purebloods. It was a strange paradox that people not raised in a magical environment would be more talented at a magical ability than their comrades and yet, such was magic. Chaotic, paradoxical, and beautiful.

Minerva remembered the boom Harry's thesis had created in the Transfiguration world. Most Masters had cried genius, acknowledging with wonder that the Boy-who-Lived's method did make Transfiguration easier, making it more precise and last longer. Others had reacted like old spoilsports , recoiling from Harry's work as if it were the devil's, clutching to their outdated beliefs like they were holy.

As for Minerva… Amazement had been her first reaction, though in retrospect, she shouldn't have been surprised, since Harry had already proved himself to be bright countless times. Along with that feeling had been excitement. She had felt like a first-year bouncing on her chair all over again, waiting to be taught something new. And if Minerva were completely honest with herself, there had been a slight—very slight—irritation, too. Irritation that they had all been outsmarted by a thirteen year old. And that she hadn't thought of it first.

Lina coughed, startling Minerva out of her thoughts. 'Very well, Miss Trefold. Would you like me to arrange remedial lessons for you?' She saw the hesitation on the girl's face. 'I'm sure you could pass that knowledge down to your comrades,' she added, knowing the Slytherin would never pass up such an opportunity. After all, being the only one to understand Transfiguration in one's year tended to give one some… influence on one's classmates. Despite the general belief, Minerva did have a notion on how a Slytherin mind worked. She fought a satisfied smile as Lina accepted.

Hopefully, that would rid the girl of her shyness, as well.

Severus Snape was busy making several potions.

That was not surprising in and of itself, such was his job after all, what with being the Potions Master of Hogwarts. But as it was, the potions were not for the infirmary's sake, nor for his own experiments—how long had it been since he had done anything truly for himself and himself alone? Influences and manipulations… Sometimes he had the impression of being a mere pawn in the war. Of having not one, but two masters, even if one of those was as benevolent as was possible for a man who had led, and won, not one but two wars.

He put his thoughts out of his head, turning instead to his potions' commissioner. Harry bloody Potter. The Boy-who-Lived. James Potter's son. But also—and perhaps above all, though Severus would never admit it—Lily's son.

He had been surprised when the boy was sorted into Hufflepuff, but he had grown to see that he did fit the House. Still, Severus had been all ready to assault and humiliate him verbally, as he had dreamed to do for ten years, yet when he had, Potter had caught him by surprise. When Snape had asked his infamous questions, not only had the boy answered right, proving that he had worked, but he had not been riled in the slightest. It wasn't self-control—no kid could clamp down anger so easily. No, the kid had simply not been offended. That had put out Severus, and when he had tried to bait him later in the year, well. The boy had been embarrassed, surely, but neither angry nor hateful towards his potions professor. He had taken everything with endless patience, riding it out like a broom ride. And perhaps even more mind-boggingly, Severus had discovered at the end of the year that Potter had somehow—how? how?—grown to respect him.

Respect him.

This, perhaps, was the greatest offense one had ever caused Severus.

After all, no one was allowed to make him feel ashamed.

In second year, he had settled to blatantly ignoring the boy, and the little smartass had taken it in stride as if it were a normal retrogression from vindictive to indifferent almost overnight.

Third year had changed quite a few things. First, Severus had discovered that Potter was not meek, as he had thought. He only reacted when something he truly cared about came up. Such as discrimination against werewolves. Severus had never seen him angrier than right after the class he had taught about werewolves when the smelly monthly canine had been "sick". He'd showed less emotion when Severus had insulted his parents, though that had been quite a moment too.

It had been right after this occasion that Potter had first confronted him, after all, with nothing less than an, "Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect, why do you dislike me so much?" Snape had been in a nasty mood, so he had answered nastily with something about James, he remembered, and about the boy thinking himself over the rules… The answer had been unexpected. "I'm sorry, sir, if I caused you to think this of me. I'll try not to make it happen in the future." A slight pause, and a flicker of hesitation in his green eyes. "As for my parents, sir, I don't know what happened between you, but let me apologize in their place. I think they'd like to do that if they did do wrong by you."

The discussion had served to open Snape's eyes to reality and he had become more and more interested in the boy who was so… so unlike anything he was expected to be. He had no aggressive streak, no warrior code, no death wish, no hunger for honor, nothing that would push him to go against Voldemort… Nothing except, perhaps, his kindness to others, and Sybil's prophecy.

The kid's one ambition was to be a doctor, for Merlin's sake!

But it had turned out exactly how the kid wanted, in the end, though Voldemort was still around.

Snape even ended up making potions for Potter's "top-secret" experiments, those he refused to tell anyone about, even his friends, apparently. Merlin only knew what they could be, a faster boil-curing remedy, perhaps, though after his third year tour de force, Snape somehow thought it would be something bigger. He was almost excited to see it but since "excited" was not a word that could ever be used to describe Severus Snape, he wasn't.

His agreeing to cooperate with Potter was a tacit agreement and peace treaty of sorts.

Besides, the brat paid well.

Snape was stooping over a cauldron of green boiling liquid—or green boiling mélasse, as such a degree of thickness was called—when he heard a familiar step in the corridor. "Oh, Merlin, not him," he thought, gazing regretfully at the potion in front of him. Ignorant to his less-than-respectful thoughts, the Headmaster of Hogwarts entered.

'Severus!' he greeted cheerfully, but then again, when was the old man not cheerful? 'How are you?'

'I am fine, Headmaster. Brewing a potion as you see,' he hurried to say. 'I'm actually very close to a crucial phase and would appreciate…'

'I'm afraid it cannot wait, Severus.'

"Not one moment of peace and quiet," Severus cursed mentally. 'What is it?' he asked a little briskly, but Albus either took no notice or decided not to show it. He could be as shrewd as a matchmaker.

The Headmaster's blue eyes were not twinkling as he looked over his half-moon, gold-rimmed glasses. He said only one word, but it meant everything.

'Trouble.'

Harry entered his flat, closing the door behind him before hanging the keys on a hook on the wall. He walked into the kitchen and made himself a hot pot of coffee—his only real vice—before sitting wearily at the table, staring absent-mindedly at the content of his mug.

On such days as this, when he had spent hours in the flurry of the hospital, the peace of his apartment caused his mind to blank out completely. Tonight, it was so quiet it echoed with hollowness inside of him; it took him a few moments before he could identify the feeling for what it was. Loneliness.

He was lonely.

He considered calling a friend, perhaps write to Neville or Hermione, then remembered that it was his muggle life. His spirits dropped. Even though he met many great colleagues and superiors, he had very few actual friends in the muggle world. Part of the reason was he had been very young when he was in high school or in med school. He really had one friend, Rufus, who had gone to Thailand to follow his dream job, leaving Harry alone under the grey sky of England. He wrote and called often, but sometimes, Harry wished he could just see him. Or another friend.

But he was afraid of what he might find if he went in search of his wizard friends.

Even after many years of leading a double life, he still didn't understand how it was possible. It just didn't fit. How was it that when he fell asleep in one of his lives, he woke up somewhere else, and not at the same time? Because of his busy schedules as a doctor and a healer, he often went by the limit of 24 hours, and yet, when he fell asleep, he irrevocably woke up at the time he was supposed to –be it 7am as in a usual day, or 3am because his pager had beeped.

He didn't understand. Were there two Harrys? And if so, what would happen were they to see each other? And what about the Dursleys?

Or did his mind travel to another universe? Was there, say, a witch Hermione somewhere out in this world, still a shy, slightly bossy know-it-all just because he had never saved her from the troll? Or had she developed differently? Been sorted into another house? Or perhaps she hadn't even been born a witch at all?

His mind grinding to a stop in sheer confusion, Harry sighed.

Better to just drink his coffee for now.