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A/N: I just had to post the real first chapter right away! I have some great ideas for this story and I'm much happier with my writing! I hope you enjoy it! Please leave a review!

"You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you."

― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Chapter One – A Familiar Face

Consciousness returned very slowly to Hermione. The first thing she knew was pain. Every muscle in her body ached with physical exertion, and there was a sharp sting coming from the general area of her laceration. She was lying on a very soft bed, underneath soft silk sheets and a very heavy comforter. Her upper back and head were propped up with pillows, and the linens had a very pleasant scent to them. Scent, that was the sense that returned to her next. There was a faint smell of antiseptic over the even fainter smell of blood. She could smell coffee and tea from somewhere to her left, but overwhelmingly, she could smell the linens. It was a soft mixture of sandalwood and other herbs that she couldn't quite place, but it was entirely comforting. Sound came next; there must have been a window in the room, for she could hear a heavy rain beating against it, accompanied by gusting winds. In the distance she could hear china clinking, and the sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears. Finally, with some difficulty and a lot of blurriness, her sight returned.

To say she was right about the window would be an understatement – she was extremely correct about the window, for it took up an entire wall. Her brow furrowed in confusion – she knew what this house had looked like, and it certainly didn't have windows like that. And if it did, it would look directly into the adjacent house, rather than a large forest. The room was simple, but extremely elegant and very cozy. The silk sheets were a beautiful hunter green, Hermione's favorite color, with a deep black duvet. There was an end table on the left side of the bed, but it was bare, save for an outdated alarm clock and a glass of water. The ground was beautiful – it looked like cherry hardwood, and was polished to perfection. The walls were a soft cream color, with that same cherry colored trim. Was this the same house she had slammed against for sanctuary? This room reflected far more comfort that anyone in the dodgy end of Cokesworth would be able to afford. Shrugging her shoulders, she reached for the glass of water and sipped delicately, coating her dry throat. Just how long had she been asleep? And who was her savior?

Determined to investigate, Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed as gingerly as she could. Her wound smarted, and she pressed her hand against it instinctively. Her eyes widened as she looked down at herself as realized something was off. She was wearing silk robes yesterday, and the shirt she was wearing was most definitely not the shirt she had on underneath her robes. The shirt she was wearing instead was a white oxford – recently pressed by the look of it. She could feel the tell-tale tingle of a shrinking charm within the garment and shivered. This was a man's shirt. A man had undressed her. She peeked inside and sighed with relief up realizing that her undergarments were still on and unmoved. At least she still had that dignity. She also took this time to inspect her wound more carefully. It was completely covered in surgical gauze, but underneath that she could feel some kind of ointment and a pulling sensation. Neosporin and stitches? Was she in a muggle home? No, that couldn't be, because then where did the shrinking charm come from? Eyes narrowed, Hermione pushed herself the rest of the way off the bed and padded slowly across the room and exiting through the only door.

She found herself on the landing of a narrow staircase made out of the same wood that was in the previous room. As she descended, she took in the artwork on the walls. There were no personal photographs, no family portraits, no newspaper clippings to give the owner of the house away. Instead they were beautiful paintings of flowers and forests and cliffs and every type of nature Hermione could have imagined. One picture, however, made Hermione stop in her tracks. It was a beautiful reproduction of Van Gogh's Sunflowers, and was nearly identical to the original she had seen in an art museum with her parents so many years ago. This was no mere print, but rather a real painting, with a few personal touches added in here and there. In the bottom left hand corner, in small black lettering, were two initials. E.P.

The sound of china clinking brought Hermione out of her reverie and she continued walking down the stairs, following the sound in the direction of what looked like a small kitchen. With a deep breath, Hermione pushed the door open and stepped inside, but froze at the sight before her.

A guttural scream escaped her lips as she looked into the eyes of no other than Severus Snape.

"Merlin, woman, would you stop that!"

Hermione's scream ceased as she grabbed a knife from the counter and braced herself against the kitchen door.

"Who are you?!" She screamed.

The man held his hands up and approached Hermione slowly, with even, measured steps.

"My name is Severus Snape. I was your Potions Professor at Hogwarts."

"I know who Severus Snape was!" She roared, shaking the knife in the imposter's direction. "He died! I watched him die! Who are you? Are you one of them? Why did you patch me up? WHY DID YOU UNDRESS ME?"

Snape winced at the screeching quality that Hermione's voice had taken on and took a few steps back, rolling up the left sleeve on his jumper. The Dark Mark lay there, grey and faded against pale white skin. He then grabbed the collar of the jumper and pulled it down, turning his head to reveal two large silvery scars.

"Nagini's bite…" Hermione breathed. "What…How…What?!"

Hermione walked to the dining room table, never turning her back on what appeared to be a very good imposter of Professor Snape, and sunk into one of the chairs. She kept her grip tight on the knife as she took in her former professor. Without the heavy billowing robes, he was far less frightening. He wore a pair of black slacks and a light gray jumper, but no shoes. Black socks were all the separated his feet from the cold tile floor of the kitchen. He definitely lives in the house, then, for if he didn't, he would have his shoes on, ready to run. But is he Snape? The nose was the same, the eyes were the same. His hair was cut very traditionally: short on the sides, longer on top, parted to the left. Seeing him without the greasy locks down to his shoulders took years on him – he looked younger than he had ever looked when he was her teacher. He definitely looked like Snape, but how to be sure?"

"If you really are Severus Snape," she said slowly, "What did you say to me in my third year that made me run off crying?"

Something flashed in Snape's eyes. Anger? Regret? Annoyance?

"I see no difference." His words were slow, deliberate, and precise. Entirely Snape-like. Hermione set the knife down on the dining room table and placed her head in her hands.

"I should probably press further, but my head hurts too much to care. You have some explaining to do," she grumbled.

Snape crossed the room and sat down in a chair opposite Hermione, folding his hands in front of him.

"Indeed. But that can come later. How are you feeling?"

Hermione lifted her head and raised an eyebrow at Snape.

"You almost had me fooled. Now I know you're not Snape."

He raised an eyebrow back and continued speaking as if she hadn't said a word.

"You had a fairly nasty injury there. A six inch laceration, hex induced, which rejected any and all healing charms that I tried. Even ones of my own creation. Impressive, to say the least." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee.

"Yes, fascinating. It hurt like hell. How much longer do the stitches need to stay in?"

"If you lie low and don't move around too much? I could take them out in ten days. Twelve, tops. I'll change the dressing this evening and I can get a better idea of how it's been healing. You were out for two days, by the way. Near-fatal blood loss. Just what kind of trouble did you get into? From what I thought I knew, you were leading a rather quiet life at Hogwarts."

"How do you know about that?"

"I make the odd trip to Diagon Alley. Under disguise, of course. I read the Daily Prophet."

Hermione hummed noncommittally. "I volunteer during the summer hols. I like to keep busy. Normally I just do filing or research, but Harry needed an expert on memory charms, so I went with him to question this family…I don't really know what happened from there. We were ambushed. I got hit with some hexes, so did Harry, and we ran off in different directions to separate them."

"Why didn't you just apparate away?"

"Apparently," she said with a grimace, "Someone has figured out a locally-cast anti-apparation charm. I'll have to put creating a counter-curse on my list of personal projects."

Snape frowned and rubbed his chin.

"I believe I could give you a name on that one. Lucius Malfoy created a hex that served a similar purpose. It exhausted the witch or wizard's muscles, leaving them unable to apparate. I trust you are feeling plenty of fatigue?" Hermione nodded. "Then you were either attacked by Master Malfoy, or he has taught someone else his tricks. I'm more inclined to believe the former."

"Then how was I able to run for so long? If it exhausted my muscles, that is."

"The body is an amazing thing, Miss Granger. You would be surprised what one is capable of with enough adrenaline in their system. Take right now, for example. You woke up and immediately came bounding down here, threatened me with a knife, and told me what happened to you. You should still be unconscious. I can already see your eyelids beginning to droop, and you keep rolling your back to wake yourself up. Your adrenaline has worn off again, Miss Granger."

He was right. Staying awake was becoming more and more difficult by the second, and her muscles had gone from being sore to being in fiery pain. Her eyes met his, expecting to see judgment, but being pleasantly surprised. His eyes were soft and compassionate, with a touch of concern in there as well. She frowned to herself. Absolutely nothing made sense right now. A rejuvenated Snape? An alive Snape? An alive Snape who was helping her? And yet, in her exhaustion, she found herself completely unable to care.

"You are, of course, more than welcome to go upstairs and sleep again. It's only just noon. I'll return this evening to wake you up before we change your dressing, and then you can sleep again. I think you'll find that you'll feel much better tomorrow."

Hermione nodded and stood up from the table, her face emotionless as she turned from the kitchen and began to walk up the stairs once again. As she slipped under the soft covers once again, she tried desperately to replay what had just happened, but her brain wouldn't have it. What she needed right now was sleep, and it was sleep she would get.

When he wakes me up, she thought decidedly, I'll demand answers. I will. I will know what happened.

A/N: I hope you liked it! Please review!