The hair tie was no match for her unruly curls that morning. Stress had exacerbated her hair condition and Hermione had little time to tame her mane into submission. Her fingers snagged in the kinks as she wound the rogue strands into a vague semblance of a bun. She grumbled as she glanced at the clock and hurriedly slipped her feet into her shoes before hurtling downstairs.

'Morning, dear.' Mrs Granger chirped as her daughter bustled into the living room. She shot her mother a terse smile in greeting as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

Allowing her mum to wedge a slice of toast between her lips, Hermione stepped towards the fireplace onto the hearth. The Ministry of Magic had agreed to bend the rules to connect the Grangers' home to the Floo Network despite the Muggle neighbourhood.

'Running late?'

Hermione nodded through a mouthful of toast.

'I really need to dash,' she groaned as she fumbled with her bag and tripped over the grate.

'Careful, dear! Take another piece of toast before you go.'

Hermione chewed hastily and swallowed as her mother held out the terracotta pot of Floo powder.

'Thanks, Mum,' said Hermione before throwing a handful of green powder into the flames. 'See you tonight.'

As she hurried through the Atrium, Hermione caught sight of her reflection in one of the glossy, black panels that framed the enchanted lift. To her horror, she spotted that several gravity-defying strands of hair had escaped from her bun and, to make matters worse, the lapels of her robes were peppered with crumbs and a black soot smeared the bridge of her nose.

But before she could smarten her appearance, the elevator doors opened and Hermione came face-to-face with Ronald Weasley and his new flame entwined in a passionate, and somewhat slobbery, embrace.

Ron's eyes flickered open as the lift pinged loudly. He pulled away from his companion as Hermione stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the Magical Law Enforcement floor. Raising his sleeve to his mouth, he scrubbed his lips while Hermione focused her attention on the enchanted elevator keypad.

'Nice day, outside,' he said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

Hermione gave him a sidelong glance and noticed the redness of his ears – a sure sign of his discomfort. The girl by his side adjusted her robes, keeping her eyes trained on the tips of her shoes. Like Ron, she was wearing the distinctive attire of an Auror and when the lift shuddered to a halt on Level Two, they both darted through the doors and along the corridor.

In the eleven years that had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, both Ron and Harry had rapidly ascended the ranks within the Auror Department and before long the duo had completely revolutionised the workings within the office. Hermione had joined her friends at the Ministry, upon the completion of her N.E.W.T. exams, working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where her attention to detail and diligent work ethic were greatly appreciated.

Her efforts to further the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare had been to no avail and the charity had failed to captivate the masses. During the aftermath of the war, journalists did not want to hear about her determination to reverse the poor working conditions and maltreatment of house-elves. Her friendship with Harry Potter, however, as well as her relationship with her school-mate and fellow war hero, Ron Weasley, received far more attention from the press.

An unfurled copy of The Daily Prophet lay on her desk when she entered her office. Hermione rolled her eyes and tossed the paper into the overflowing bin without so much as glancing at the headlines. 'GALLED GRANGER GETS HER JUST DESERTS' was stamped across the scrunched copy of yesterday's paper, which lay at the top of the pile.

Hermione lowered herself into the black leather chair, cracked with age and use, before reaching for the sheets of parchment stacked on her desk. She grumbled as her eyes scoured the first document.

'Seen the latest headline?'

Hermione lifted her head from the scroll as Harry strolled into her office.

'It's over there,' replied Hermione as she jerked her head towards the bin. 'Anything of interest?'

'Just Rita Skeeter's usual claptrap.'

'I wasn't too impressed with yesterday's title,' she said breezily as she withdrew her quill from her bag. 'Alliterative, true, but somewhat lacking. I think she's losing her touch.'

'Well, she'll run out of steam eventually.' Harry gazed out of the enchanted window. 'There are only so many adjectives that begin with the letter "G".'

For the past six months, the collapse of her relationship with Ron had been splattered across the pages of The Prophet. Rita Skeeter had not softened during her hiatus and her return to the editorial team was marked by her depiction of Ronald Weasley as an innocent victim to Hermione Granger's explosive and abusive temper.

'I don't know why people still read that drivel,' murmured Hermione as she dipped her quill in the ink well.

In recent weeks, Hermione had become an avid fan of The Quibbler – the only newspaper that did not deign to comment on her private life or her relationship with Ron.

The truth of their break-up being that, despite their long-standing friendship, their differences were endless. Out with the walls of Hogwarts, their incompatibility came to light and the cracks in their relationship began to show.

'People want to know what's happening in the world,' he said with a shrug, 'which, unfortunately, necessitates the reading of The Prophet.'

'You'd get more facts from Witch Weekly,' muttered Hermione.

Her attempts to file a complaint about the savage intrusion into her private life had sparked relentless retribution from Rita Skeeter, which meant a daily stream of vitriol intended to publicly shame and discredit her. Her attempts to follow through with her former threat were dismissed as she could find no conclusive evidence that Rita Skeeter was an unregistered Animagus.

'How's Ginny?'

'Tired,' replied Harry as he wearily wiped his forehead with the cuff of his robes. The pink scar on his brow had faded, but the faint lightning bolt did not fail to draw the attention of everyone who met him. 'The baby's up all night kicking.'

'When do you go on paternity leave?' asked Hermione.

'I don't know if I'll be able to,' he groaned. 'Work's mental, right now. Ron and I are totally swamped and yet he's too busy mooning over –' He trailed off as he glanced nervously at her.

Hermione blanched as he spoke and cleared her throat.

'Sorry, I shouldn't have –'

'Don't worry about it,' said Hermione, flashing him a brisk smile that seemed like more of a grimace than a grin.

'Anyway, speaking of work, I'd better get back,' griped Harry, checking the watch on his wrist, which had once belonged to Fabian Prewett. 'See you later.'

Hermione sighed as she returned her attention to the parchment in her hands.

Initially, working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had seemed like an exciting and challenging prospect. Harry's stories within his field had inspired her and Hermione longed to be given the responsibility of projects that would shape the future of the magical community. Many of the old wizarding laws were biased in favour of pure-bloods and in desperate need of reform.

But the regurgitating toilet report that lay on top of her work pile did not quite comply with the dream she had once clung to.

She magicked the document into the appropriate folder, but not before noticing the curve of her knee, peeping through a tear in her tights. Hermione chuntered as she pointed her wand at the ladder and knitted the threads together. Of all the times to bump into Ron and his new girlfriend, Hermione had hoped it would not have been the day she was dressed in holey tights and wearing toast crumbs on her coat.

The day ended in the same miserable note as it had begun and it was with great haste that Hermione left her office to return to the comfort of her home.

'Tea, pet?' asked Mrs Granger from the kitchen as Hermione stepped out of the fireplace. 'Mind you don't get ash all over the carpet.'

'Yes, Mum,' she replied as she carefully padded across the living room. Hermione winced with relief as she sank onto the sofa and unrolled her copy of The Quibbler.

Ron had got the flat and she had decided to move back in with her parents. Despite everything that had happened, her childhood home had hardly changed.

Hermione lowered the paper as she glanced at the framed photos along mantelpiece, which had been returned to their original place upon their return from Australia.

Ron had been an endless comfort during the trip, appeasing her fears that she would not be able to restore their memories. Reversing the spell had worked, but the happily-ever-after that Hermione had envisaged following their reunion and the end of the war had not been as easy. Harry and Ginny had married four years after the battle, but while they were making their way to the altar, Hermione and Ron's relationship had started to fray.

'I still can't get my head around it,' said her mother, shaking her head as she entered the lounge with a laden tea-tray.

Hermione looked at her enquiringly as she reached for her tea.

'The moving pictures,' she said, nodding to the latest edition of The Quibbler, which rested on her daughter's lap.

'Trust me, moving pictures aren't the strangest thing you would find in that paper.' Hermione blew gently on her tea. Xenophilius Lovegood's publications had not lost any of their eccentricity in the years following the war. If anything, they had grown distinctly more bizarre.

'Eat up, eat up,' urged her mother, pushing the plate of biscuits towards her. 'Dinner will be ready soon, but we'd better wait for your dad.'

'Double chocolate digestives,' said Hermione as she examined the assortment of sweet treats. 'You're a dentist, shouldn't you be discouraging sugary biscuits?'

'Well, I'd rather you didn't fade away to a shadow.'

'No danger there,' muttered Hermione as she wriggled uncomfortably on the sofa. In truth, her robes had begun to cling rather too snugly to her body in recent weeks.

'How was work?' asked Mrs Granger.

'Usual.' Hermione burnt her tongue on her tea as she took a sip. 'I bumped into Ron.'

'Did you speak to him?'

Shaking her head, Hermione reached for a biscuit.

'Nope, not spoken to him since I moved out,' she murmured as she dunked the digestive into her tea. 'He's going out with someone else.'

'How do you know?'

'Saw them,' she said through a mouthful of chocolate.

'Oh.' Mrs Granger glanced down at her hands clasped in her lap.

'I'm OK, Mum. Just tired,' said Hermione, sensing her mother's concern. 'Work's getting to me.'

'Perhaps...Maybe it's time you look for something else,' her mother said tentatively. 'You do work an awful lot and you don't seem to enjoy it.'

'It's just not what I had initially expected,' mumbled Hermione as she drank from her mug. 'I had hoped that I'd be doing something a bit more...important, I suppose. But working with Ron and the risk of bumping into him, especially now that he's –'

The hot tea washed through the rising lump in her throat.

'I need to get out of the Ministry,' said Hermione, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand.

'Maybe you could do something here? In our world, I mean,' Mrs Granger suggested.

'I think any Muggle employer would take one look at my qualifications and laugh,' she said with a chuckle. 'I don't think they'd favour my N.E.W.T. in Arithmancy over an A-level in Business Studies.'

The next morning, Hermione spent an extra fifteen minutes getting ready to avoid looking like she'd been attacked by the Whomping Willow.

At twenty-nine years old, she had changed very little since the war. The bags under her eyes had darkened and the lines on her forehead had deepened, but her bushy hair and freckled complexion remained exactly the same.

As she pulled on her robes, ignoring the tightness of the sleeves, Hermione spotted a familiar face peeping out of last week's copy of The Quibbler, which lay splayed open on the floor.

Professor McGonagall looked older than ever as she shook her head, frowning in dismay.

'HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY CALLS FOR ADDITIONAL SUPPORT AS CLASSROOM NUMBERS CONTINUE TO CLIMB

Twelve years after the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, teaching institutions are now faced with the result of the post-war baby boom. The global rise in population has put a massive strain on the UK's education system.

Hogwarts Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, issued a statement:

"Our staff are inundated with work due to the increase in class numbers. As well as marking, lesson-planning and corridor patrol duties, several teachers also have the responsibility of dealing with House matters. Our fellow European counterparts have reached maximum capacity, leaving Hogwarts to accept delegates from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute. The number of UK entrants has increased tenfold in the past few years and our teachers are in desperate need of additional support to assist in lesson-planning and marking."'

Hermione felt her heart thud in her chest as she sank onto her bed. The clock on her night stand ticked noisily, but she paid no heed to the Muggle contraption or the fact that nine o'clock was fast approaching as she stared at the newspaper.

'Hermione?' Her mother called. 'You're going to be late, dear.'

Her hand shook as she reached for her quill and parchment and scrawled a hasty letter to her former Head of House.

'What can I get for you, Miss – Oh my goodness!' Madam Rosmerta blinked as she stared at Hermione, oblivious the overflowing tankard she held under the tap. 'Miss Granger!'

Blushing, Hermione lowered her gaze. It was difficult to interpret the barmaid's astonishment.

'If it hadn't been for seeing you in the papers, I wouldn't have recognised you at all! Last time I saw you, you were just a girl!' The blonde witch's grin shifted to a slightly awkward grimace as she busied herself with cleaning the mess of spilt ale with her wand.

Hermione felt her own strained smile begin to waver. She did not need to employ Legilimency in order to understand the barmaid's thoughts. Through narrowed eyes, Hermione could see her own tired face staring out of the front page of The Daily Prophet, which rested atop the counter, with the words 'GREEN-EYED GRANGER REACTS TO EX'S NEW GIRLFRIEND, GUINEVERE' emblazoned across the top. Rita Skeeter's latest piece.

To her mortification, Hermione noted that the photo had been taken the same day that she had encountered Ron and his new girlfriend. The straggly bun, the sooty nose and the crumbs were all in plain sight.

'So, what can I get you?'

'Butterbeer, please,' said Hermione briskly, placing the coins on the counter. 'Is Professor McGonagall here yet?'

Madam Rosmerta shook her head as she filled a pint glass.

'Not yet, but she'll be along shortly. Take a seat and I'll tell her when she arrives,' she said cheerily, handing Hermione her drink.

'Thank you...and might I recommend The Quibbler? Far less mind-numbing than Rita Skeeter's daily tripe,' she added, shooting a dark glance at her own tired face.

Taking a seat beside the window, Hermione scooted along the bench to watch for McGonagall's arrival.

Aside from her Ministry co-workers, she had not been out in the wizarding community for many months now and, until now, Hermione had not considered the fact that many people would believe Rita's stories whole-heartedly.

Not everyone knew Rita Skeeter for what she was and Hermione had not forgotten the hate mail and the venom she had received in fourth year when she had been portrayed as Harry Potter's cheating girlfriend – another one of Rita's fabrications. But to be detested by the entire wizarding world was not exactly the making of a desirable candidate for employment.

'Miss Granger?'

In the eleven years that had passed, Minerva McGonagall's hair had turned completely white and Hermione observed the slight tremor in the older woman's fingers as she reached across the table to shake her hand. But aside from her white hair beneath the thick brim of her hat, the Headmistress appeared no different.

'It's good to see you again,' she said with a genuine smile as she unbuttoned her travelling cloak. 'You look well.'

The aftermath of the war had clearly taken its toll on the Headmistress, but her brisk manner had not changed and she wasted no time in getting down to the purpose of their meeting.

'I must confess I was quite surprised when I received your letter, Miss Granger. I understand you currently work at the Ministry. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, am I right?'

'Yes, I've been there for about ten years now, but I feel like...' Hermione trailed off as she considered how to phrase her desire to leave. 'I don't think law enforcement is the right career path for me.'

Professor McGonagall nodded.

'The Ministry isn't for everyone,' she said kindly. 'Certainly not for me nor Albus, either. He was always quite vocal about his objection to joining the Ministry.'

Hermione smiled at the faint grimace on the Headmistress's face and took a sip of her Butterbeer.

'So you'd like to return to Hogwarts as one of our faculty?'

'More than anything,' said Hermione. 'I'm sorry I'm so late in applying, I only found the article in The Quibbler a few days ago.'

Professor McGonagall nodded.

'Well, judging by your grades, you could go into just about any area of teaching that you wished. We have received a fair number of applicants, however, and there are only two teaching assistant positions available now.'

'In which subjects?' asked Hermione.

'Potions,' replied the Headmistress. 'And Care of Magical Creatures.'

After the war, Hagrid had continued to teach Care of Magical Creatures and as pleasant as it would be to see more of her friend, Hermione knew that his penchant for dangerous and illegal creatures would make work a living nightmare.

'But, as you did not pursue Care of Magical Creatures after your fifth year,' continued Professor McGonagall, 'I can only assume that Potions is the front-runner?'

'Who currently holds the Potions master position?'

Professor McGonagall glanced at her.

'Professor Snape, of course.'

'What?' Hermione's eyes widened as she stared at the Headmistress. Butterbeer slopped over the table as the tankard slipped from her grip.

She knew that he had survived. Several months after the battle, Harry had burst into the flat to inform them that Snape would make a full recovery. But, in recent years, Hermione had heard little news of the former Potions professor.

'He came back last year,' explained McGonagall. 'There was a brief mention of it in The Daily Prophet, I think...'

'Ah,' said Hermione with a grimace. 'I haven't read The Prophet for quite some time now. Not since Rita Skeeter resumed her career.'

'Yes,' replied Professor McGonagall as she lowered her gaze to her drink. 'I was sorry to hear about you and Mr Weasley.'

Hermione felt a faint flush of embarrassment to be discussing her love life with her former teacher.

'We just weren't particularly well-suited,' said Hermione as she drained the remains of her Butterbeer. 'Not that Rita Skeeter paints it that way.'

'I think many of The Prophet's readers have learnt to take Rita Skeeter's facts with a pinch of salt,' said Professor McGonagall icily.

Hermione could not help glancing towards the bar as Madam Rosmerta hoisted an empty barrel of mead onto the counter.

'I can't believe he came back,' Hermione pondered aloud, sitting back in her seat.

Only she and Ron were privy to the details of Snape's memories. Harry had told them about what he had seen in the Pensieve, but Hermione had her suspicions that, despite his candour, he had neglected to share every detail. She knew that Snape's allegiance to Voldemort had waned once the Dark Lord had decided to seek out the Potters' son. Snape had been the one to relate the particulars of the prophecy to his master, but he'd had no idea that his information would steer the Dark Lord towards the Potters.

Hermione and Ron had bombarded Harry with questions, but there were many gaps in the story that they had been forced to fill with their own suppositions and conjectures.

She surmised that Snape's sudden change of heart was the product of guilt. She knew that Harry's father and Snape had never been bosom buddies, but, she reasoned, that was not to say that Snape hadwanted his former classmate dead.

'Harry sent him countless owls – he was desperate to get in touch with him. He had hoped to see him at the Order of Merlin award ceremony.'

The Headmistress's lips curled into a knowing smile.

'Ah, yes,' she said. 'He was most adamant in his refusal to attend.'

'After everything he's been through...his injuries...I thought he would've opted for early retirement.'

'As did I,' admitted McGonagall. 'He spent several years recuperating. And then, two years ago, I received an owl from him, asking if he could take up his old post as Potions master.'

'Did he say why?'

'He said that if he did not find something to occupy him, he would finish what the snake had started.'

'I take it he hasn't changed much?'

'Not in the slightest.'

Hermione frowned. The thought of shadowing Professor Snape was about as tempting as the idea of helping Hagrid wrestle with Norwegian Ridgebacks.

Anxiety fluttered in her stomach as she recalled her earlier days inside the dungeon. She could remember the herbal scent of the classroom, the low growl of the Potions master's voice and the contemptuous smirk that surfaced on his lips when he criticised her. Even the memories made her stomach roil with nerves.

'We would love to have you on board,' said Professor McGonagall earnestly. 'There's no doubt about it, we need all the help we can get.'

Hermione thought of Ron and the twenty-year-old Auror apprentice and the monotony of her job and quickly dismissed the wave of apprehension that she felt about working alongside Professor Snape.

Over a decade had passed since she had sat inside the Potions classroom, under the watchful eye of the Potions master, she was not the same timid girl she had once been. She thought of the civility with which he interacted with the other teaching staff and Hermione concluded that, as a colleague, he would be far more agreeable.

'So, can we expect to see you at the start of term?'