A/N: Hi everyone. Thanks for your reviews on the last chapter, and please excuse the long note here while I do a little bit of justifying... The first thing to say is, give it time. I know I've rabbited on for 16,000 words by this point - but we've only covered about 24hrs in 'real' time. Hermione has gone through a hell of a lot, she's off-balance and unsure. She's not necessarily acting like her. Having said that (and this is purely my interpretation of the books) Hermione a very emotionally sensitive person. If something makes her angry, YES, she gets angry back, she hits Malfoy etc. But when she is strongly upset, this is not her response. At eleven, she runs to the girl's bathroom and cries during the Halloween feast. At seventeen, she spends months crying behind Ron's back. To my mind, Hermione is someone who internalizes her feelings, her upsets, until she figures it all out and decides what to do. Only then is she strong. You will all get the Hermione you know and love, but not in one day. Let her get there.

I really hope you can manage to stick with this story - the progression will be faster from the next chapter onwards. But I said at the start that this will be long, and I have a lot of plot to get in, so I don't want to rush. I think we're looking at around 100 chapters. Clues about various aspects of the plot have been given in each chapter, but you deliberately won't be able to make sense of it yet (I hope).

Anyway, sorry for the big long note. I really appreciate your feedback. On with the story!

~oOo~

Hermione awoke to a soft yellow light and the sound of her wand vibrating gently on the bedside table. It was a charm she was rather proud of, having perfected it some time ago in place of an alarm clock, and today as every other day it caused her to wake up with a relaxed sort of feeling.

Unfortunately, the events of the last few days didn't take long to filter through her consciousness and spoil the mood; nevertheless, she definitely felt better for the sleep. The bed was as comfy as any she had ever slept in, the covers were warm and the room was clean and airy, decorated in cream with gold motifs.

She rubbed her eyes and forced herself upright. The air was cold, which was just as well, for it persuaded her to seek out the shower as quickly as possible.

The bathroom resembled the one adjoined to the girl's dormitory in Gryffindor tower – plain but spacious, with a claw-footed bathtub, shower stall and sink complete with a mirrored cabinet. She found that the cabinet was stocked with soap, toothpaste and other similar items, which was just as well considering Death had not packed her anything of that nature.

Shedding her pyjamas (had Death really gone out and chosen her some pyjamas?), she retrieved a bar of soap and a glass bottle of something which looked a bit like shampoo, and went to turn the water on. It was heavenly. She didn't care if everyone in the school hated her, if she had to spend seven years in the same building as Voldemort, if everyone she knew was gone or no longer recognised her – she didn't care if the shampoo smelt funny and would inevitably make her hair uncontrollably frizzy. For just a few minutes, hot water and being clean was enough.

When she finally stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a large towel and returned to the bedroom, the first rays of sunlight were just appearing through the charmed windows. There was still half an hour until breakfast, so she took her time examining her clothes.

Apart from what she had been wearing yesterday, there were two grey skirts and another grey jumper, along with four more identical white shirts and six sets of underwear. There was also a dress, presumably intended for weekends. A second school robe and a slightly dressier pair of black shoes were right at the bottom of the trunk. Where did he get all this stuff from? The idea of Death sauntering down Oxford Street with a carrier bag from Marks & Spencer did quite a bit to brighten her disposition.

It was a reasonable assumption that the grey skirt and jumper was the current uniform, or at least what Death had intended her to wear during the week. She dutifully put it all on, and it felt odd without a tie. Probably get given one at breakfast.

There was no hairbrush in the bathroom cabinet or in her trunk, and she was just starting to panic when one appeared on the bedside table. She thanked the room profusely, just in case it could understand that too. Why would I ever go back to the dormitory? This is amazing!

Over the years, Hermione had got better at managing her hair, though the new shampoo wasn't really ideal. Since she didn't know how to do any of the styles that might be in fashion at the moment, she simply made a ponytail for practicality. It was hard to stop staring at herself in the mirror, her eleven-year old reflection creepily unfamiliar.

Making a snap decision, she pointed her wand at her teeth cautiously.

"Reducio."

That's better. With a final glance in the mirror, she declared herself ready to face the day.

Since she didn't know what lessons she would be having, she was forced to put all her books into her satchel. It was a bit of a squeeze. Next, she placed the hairbrush in her trunk – it wasn't really stealing, if she was going to bring it back, was it? Finally, she shrank and lightened the trunk again and placed it inside the satchel. Carrying all her belongings around with her was a hard habit to break.

As her hand rested on the doorknob, she remembered to disillusion herself in case there was someone outside. It didn't seem wise to let anyone know where she'd been, especially if they didn't know the room existed at all.

The corridor, at five to seven, was predictably vacant. She decided to descend a couple of floors before removing the disillusionment charm in an alcove with no portraits – just in case. Time had taught her that too much caution was never a bad thing, so she even chose the main stairway route down, remembering that she was not supposed to know about the shortcuts.

The clock in the entrance hall was just chiming seven as she passed. No sound came from the great hall, which was hardly surprising, as the only occupants turned out to be four professors in various states of alertness.

Professor Merrythought, who was pouring herself a cup of tea, sat beside a kindly-looking man dressed in black and yellow robes. On this man's other side sat Dumbledore – dressed in red and gold today – and on Dumbledore's other side was the young Slughorn. Surprisingly, he didn't look much different.

Hermione went reluctantly to the Ravenclaw table and sat down, unnoticed, where she had sat last night. She realised that the four professors were wearing house colours, and that probably explained why they were forced to be here right at the start of breakfast today. Professor Merrythought is my head of house. Perhaps things are looking up.

She was just about to pour herself some pumpkin juice when she realised that a small tawny owl was swooping towards her. It held out its leg, and she disengaged a muggle envelope, but the owl did not leave. 'Hermione', read the front of the envelope, in the same hand as the letter from yesterday. She suppressed the urge to sigh and instead opened it up, withdrawing a piece of muggle notepaper.

September 2nd, 1938

Dear Hermione,

I am sending this letter with our new owl, as Professor Tofty showed us, so I do hope it reaches you. I still don't understand why I can't use the regular post, or a telegram. Please keep the owl with you if possible – it's a nuisance here.

It was good of the Professor to come and collect you following the sad events of yesterday; we could never have got to King's Cross on time. I hope you can take comfort from having been with your father in his final moments.

I am afraid there is no money for a proper funeral. I have arranged a burial at the Sanatorium – I know he enjoyed the gardens while he was staying there, so I hope you approve.

I pray that you are settling in well and that you will work hard at your lessons. After your mother died, you were all your father had left, and he would not want to see you languishing in grief. Choose your friends carefully and the future will become brighter.

The passage of time will heal all wounds.

Your uncle,

John Granger

Well, at least I know the date now, she thought dispassionately. There was no time to further analyse the contents of the letter, for Professor Merrythought was making her way over.

"Good morning, dear," she said cheerfully, "you're up early." Hermione put on her best polite smile.

"Good morning, Professor," she said. A tie and a sheet of parchment appeared on the bench next to her.

"Congratulations on being sorted into Ravenclaw – I will be your Head of House, so it's me you come to if you have any problems. Do you think you can remember where my office is?" Hermione pretended to think for a second.

"Yes, Professor, thank you." She picked up the sheet of parchment. "Is this my timetable?"

Professor Merrythought nodded, before adding, "By chance, you're with me all morning. Double Defence Against the Dark Arts." This conveniently allowed Hermione to ascertain that today was a Friday.

"I'll… look forward to it," she replied, for lack of anything else to say. Professor Merrythought laughed.

"I'm sure you will, dear. Anyway, you enjoy your breakfast, and I'll be leading the class up to my room at 8.45 – or you can find your own way there." The customary pat on the shoulder, and the Professor was heading back to the staff table. Hermione noticed the man in yellow was smiling at her in a familiar sort of way, so she smiled back. He must be Professor Tofty – I wonder what he teaches?

As Hermione was finally starting her breakfast, the first few students shuffled sleepily into the hall. A couple of older Ravenclaws greeted her casually as they passed, which restored some of her faith in her new House. Across at the Slytherin table, Tom Riddle was by himself – he must have sat down while she wasn't looking. Tom was eating a piece of toast while reading a textbook he had propped against the fruit bowl, but looked up as she was staring at him. She quickly looked away and pretended to be very interested in her scrambled eggs.

Once she had had as much to eat as she felt was reasonable, she decided she would make her way to the defence classroom so as to start reading the textbook in peace. The tawny owl was still sat there, beginning to eye up the sausages.

"I need you to go to the owlery," she whispered. "I'll visit you later." Whether or not it understood, it hooted softly and flew away. She gathered up her satchel and walked out without looking at Tom.

Halfway up the marble staircase, she met Cassandra, Eva and Athena coming the other way. They started giggling as soon as they saw her, but she kept her face expressionless and pressed on past them.

"Hey Granger!" The irritating whine of Athena Parkinson forced her to turn around. "Sleep well last night?" Hermione blinked a couple of times, and pretended to be just noticing them.

"Oh, Athena, good morning! Yes – thank you for asking, it was lovely. I had a room to myself and everything." Hermione paused just long enough to properly appreciate the looks on their faces, then swept off. No witty retort followed her up the stairs, and she grinned smugly.

~oOo~

When Death woke up, he felt like… well… Death. He had not had a headache like this one in at least seven centuries. Never, never again was he going to try and out-drink himself – it was so far beyond stupid that there ought to be a new level of stupidity invented in his honour.

After a lengthy period of time, in which he determined that he could still feel all his limbs, he began to open his eyes very slowly. The light was dim through the trees but felt nearly blinding; he guessed it was well past dawn. He was alone, apart from the two bags of chocolate frogs. Bastard's gone off to work and just left me here!

It was pretty cold on the ground, and Death decided that – at his age – he had better get up sooner rather than later. There were various internal creaking and snapping sounds as he raised himself to his feet and he let out a strangled cry, followed by a colourful array of words in several obsolete languages. He limped all the way to the back door, fearing the repercussions if he were to try and apparate.

Inside, the smell of something frying made him want to vomit. He turned away from the kitchen, entered the sitting room and lowered himself gingerly into his chair by the fire (now just ashes).

"Nifty?" His throat was so scratchy that his voice was only a hoarse whisper.

Nifty appeared with a 'pop'.

"Y-yes Master?"

Nifty looked inordinately pleased to be called, and Death realised he was not the senior elf yet. He looked very young, and he wrung his ears nervously as he awaited his instructions.

"Oh, hello… Nifty. Yes. I just wondered if you could bring me a glass of water, and perhaps a headache potion." The poor elf looked quite worried. He nodded, ears flapping, and disappeared again.

Once he had swallowed the potion, he did begin to feel a bit better. The light was no longer painful, and the pounding in his ears had reduced. He sent Nifty away with a promise that he would have breakfast in a while, which seemed to please him.

Somehow, it came to Death's attention that there were two frog cards in his pocket. They were now a painful relic of the night before, but he re-examined them even so.

Dai Llewellyn, the chaser for the Caerphilly Catapults, has twice represented Wales at the World Cup. He is known for his spectacular flying style, including inventing the Sloth Grip Roll. In his spare time, Dai enjoys travelling and observing magical creatures in the wild.

Death stared at the picture. Last night, he hadn't recognised the man – but he probably wouldn't have recognised his own mother. As he passed the card to his other hand, the head was temporarily obscured, and suddenly he remembered. You're that bloke that got mauled by a chimaera! There wasn't too much of you left after that. I wonder if you still like observing magical creatures, now you're on the other side…

Remembering particularly exciting deaths always put him in a good mood. He finished off his glass of water and ambled out into the hall, where a plate of eggs and toast was waiting in his spot.

After he had eaten, he realised he had meant to send a letter to Hermione. He glanced at the grandfather clock, which read 9.05 – much too late. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, focussed, and opened his eyes again.

The grandfather clock now read 06.05 – perfect. The house was dark and quiet, and he made his way back through the sitting room to a room which served as his study. He lit the fire and the candles on his desk, pulled out some parchment, and got to work.

It was some time later, once he had transfigured the parchment into muggle paper and checked the letter for the tenth time, that he opened the window and called for an owl. The clicks and hoots issuing from his mouth sounded strange even after all these years, drifting through the window and out into the woodland.

The first to answer was a large barn owl, very dark in colour. It was rare but not unheard of, and Death chuckled. No way was he sending her a huge black owl; she would think him a theatrical idiot! He guided the creature back out into the night and it hooted its irritation.

The next to arrive was a tawny female, average in every way. The cheapest you would be able to buy in Diagon Alley. Perfect. A few hoots to check she wasn't leaving chicks in the nest.

You will be gone a long time, he said.

She clicked her beak impatiently.

Send me.

He attached the envelope to the owl's leg gently.

"Portus." A blue glow surrounded the letter. She took flight and, a moment later, vanished.

Death closed the window, sat back down in his desk chair and promptly dropped to sleep.

~oOo~

Tom Riddle opened his eyes just as the first spikes of the sun motif were appearing at the eastern edge of the charmed ceiling. He had spent half the night staring at the moon and the constellations moving above the bed, even though they were just pictures, for he had never really seen the night sky before. In London there were too many streetlamps.

There was no sound coming from any of the other beds; the heavy brocade hangings still drawn shut. He glanced at his wristwatch – 6.25. Time to get up.

Tom rose silently, picked up his clothes and padded to the bathroom. He would be up and gone before any of them realised, and that was just the way he wanted it.

Quickly, but precisely, his morning routine was completed. It was a skill learned from the orphanage; rise early, don't let them see you unless you are ready. Ready to present the correct image. Tom pulled at his collar, making sure it lay perfectly straight, and checked his hair one last time. He practiced his shy smile – the one the grown-ups all loved. The poor orphan boy, they would say, and he would let them. Let them pity him and underestimate him and never recognise the power within. Everyone would fall for the smiling serpent, for that was how the story always went.

Tom picked up his satchel (second hand, but he had chosen carefully) and added all his books, just in case. No one would ever say he wasn't prepared, ever say he didn't try the hardest, ever say that he was not the best. The rest of them, with their fancy clothes and their posh accents and their Daddy-this and Mummy-that… they would soon learn.

Today was a big day, because today he would be taught some real magic. So far he had seen trick flames, floating candles, hopping chocolate and a talking hat. He didn't think much of it. He was meant for so much more than that.

The door clicked shut behind him as he left the others still sleeping. 6.38. Good. The castle was very large and he intended to learn all of it as soon as possible – sooner. Now.

Corridor after corridor was deserted, the sound of snoring coming from every portrait, his footsteps light on the flagstones. Tom wandered the dungeons, cataloguing the turns and doors and statues, looking and truly seeing unlike so many others. Once he had committed the floor plan there to memory, he ascended silently to the entrance hall and on up the marble staircase. 6.49. Still no sign of anyone.

The first floor was much larger than the dungeons. There was no way he was going to learn it all this morning, so he settled for merely mapping out the perimeter, and even that was not as easy as it sounded. Fascinating. In the distance, a bell was chiming. 7.00. Time for breakfast. He retraced his steps to the marble staircase and descended unseen; it really was comically easy to avoid people here.

Just three Professors were sat at the staff table, including Dumbledore, who looked up as he entered and greeted him with a solemn nod of the head. It took him a second to decide how to react, so perhaps his smile was insincere, because Dumbledore continued to regard him coldly. It was troublesome, but he would win them all over in the end. The act must not slip.

The only other student present was the strange girl from yesterday – raised away from magic, judging by her clothes and the reaction of her housemates. It had not taken long for him to realise that all-magical families classed themselves as wildly superior to others. All Tom knew, with a certainty borne not only of arrogance, was that his magic was strong. His father's family must have been mighty, and once he discovered more, the others would beg to be near him. No longer Tom Riddle, poor orphan boy, but Tom Riddle, powerful son of a powerful House. They would forget all about his weak mother.

He took out a textbook at random from his satchel and stood it open in front of him; reading had always been a surefire way of ensuring no conversation with other people, while providing perfect cover for his subtle observations. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. He had already read it, of course. He buttered a piece of toast neatly, without looking at it.

The girl, whose name he couldn't remember, was talking to the Professor that she had been stood with yesterday. It didn't take a genius to deduce that the teachers in attendance had some sort of House affiliation. He was relieved to see that the one dressed in green was not Dumbledore.

She was staring at him – again – and not even subtly. It was unnerving, so after a while he looked up. She looked terrified, caught in the act, and pretended to examine her plate. Since he had never even spoken to her before, he found this reaction a bit surprising. At Hogwarts before everyone else, but not from a magical family. Up for breakfast at this time. You're not like the others. I'm watching you.

Not long after, the girl got up to leave. Her owl flew off at the same time, and he sneered internally at the thought that Mummy and Daddy had been checking on her quite so early. He took a sausage and some bacon now that there was nobody watching him – both were a rare novelty at the orphanage. He had just finished when a gaggle of voices became audible through the doorway.

Malfoy and Lestrange preceded Burke and Dolohov into the hall, the Fudge boy trailing along behind. The conversation faltered when they spotted him already at the table, and they took their places in silence.

They had laughed at him last night, when they were alone in the dormitory once the Head Boy had left. They had smirked, and sniggered, and gestured to his battered case and his 'muggle' shoes.

They were not laughing anymore.

~oOo~