'I can't believe you are leaving.'

Hermione felt her stomach drop as she glanced over her shoulder. But, to her dismay, she did not see the familiar mop of red hair standing in the doorway.

'Hi, Harry,' she said, before returning to the task of magicking the contents of her desk drawers into a box.

'This has all happened so quickly,' he said, shaking his head. 'You're not leaving because of...'

Hermione exhaled slowly and turned to face him.

'I just think it's time for a change of pace.'

They stood in silence as Harry lowered his eyes to the teal carpet. His dragon hide boots scuffed against the patterned flooring.

'I've not been a very good friend lately, have I?' he mumbled. 'I should've come to see you more often...to check you were OK.'

'Harry,' she began as she felt a rush of guilt. 'I know you're completely bogged down with work and you have a baby on the way! I don't expect you to be getting involved in things between Ron and me, especially when you've got so much on your plate already.'

'Nonetheless...' murmured Harry.

'Ginny wrote to me a few days ago,' said Hermione brightly. She had been relieved to hear from the red-haired mother-to-be, knowing that her break-up with Ron had not affected their friendship. 'She says she's housebound with morning sickness and that Mrs Weasley insists on ramming as many home remedies down her neck as possible.'

'That's not the half of it,' said Harry, rolling his eyes. 'She's practically moved in! She's burnt the arse out of my cauldron by brewing various anti-sickness concoctions day and night.' He glanced up at her. 'Anyway, Ginny said she's pleased for you. She thinks you'll make a marvellous teacher. Are you looking forward to going back?'

For the first time, Hermione gave him a genuine smile. She didn't think of it as going 'back', she thought of it as going home. Her parents' London house and the flat she had shared with Ron had all been called 'home' at brief points in her life, but none had ever compared to the enchanted castle and the feeling that she got when she passed through its endless halls and corridors.

'I really am.'

'What will you be doing?' he asked.

Hermione shrugged.

'Scrubbing cauldrons by hand, knowing what Snape's like...' she muttered.

'Snape?'

'I'm to be the new Potions teaching assistant.'

Harry opened his mouth to speak.

'And before you ask,' snapped Hermione, raising her palm. 'I am not going to spend every waking moment harassing him to reply to your letters. It'll be hard enough working as his assistant without badgering him about answering your owls.'

'I wasn't going to,' Harry replied indignantly. 'I've gathered he's not interested in getting in touch.'

'Why do you want to speak to him so badly?' she asked as her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her wand hand fell to her side as she looked at him.

'I...' he began sheepishly. 'I just want to thank him, that's all. For everything he did.'

Hermione was not convinced.

'I know you're not telling me something.'

'I've told you everything I know,' he retorted. Hermione noted his reluctance to look at her despite his gruff tone.

'Oh, come off it. You're a terrible liar.'

'I wouldn't keep anything from you and Ron, but Snape is entitled to his privacy and secrets. Besides...' Harry glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. 'He's been through enough without having his past splattered across the daily newspaper.'

Hermione relented; however, she could not shake off the niggling curiosity that she felt. But she did not pursue the subject and, instead, administered Harry with the laborious task of humphing boxes to the door of her office as she settled behind her desk to complete her paperwork.

'Can't I use magic?' he asked, panting heavily. His glasses slipped from the bridge of his nose, which was slick with sweat.

'Not with your shoddy wandwork, Mr Potter,' she replied teasingly.

'Levitation is first-year magic! You're forgetting that my shoddy wandwork saved you from being bludgeoned by a fully-grown mountain troll!'

'And I'm ever so grateful. But if you break anything in those boxes, you'll need more than one of Mrs Weasley's home remedies to cure you,' she threatened.

'Can't you do it, then?' he asked as his knees buckled under the weight of the box he was carrying.

'I'm busy,' she replied as she finished scribbling on a piece of parchment. 'I need to write a letter to my successor and to the Minister and deal with all the rest of this bureaucratic nonsense.' She gestured to the stack of documents that littered her desk.

'Ron's gutted you're leaving,' said Harry after a long pause. His eyes were fixed on the box at his feet while Hermione concentrated on the paper in her hands.

'Yes, he must be positively devastated,' she muttered.

'He wanted to come by and see you,' insisted Harry. 'But he thought...well...he remembered the bird attack in sixth year.'

'Good.'

'Hermione, he –'

'Look, Harry, I don't bear Ron any ill will,' Hermione confessed, lowering her quill. 'It was never going to work. But the fact he's now seeing someone else and what with The Daily Prophet's relentless depictions of me as a –'

'Ron's tried everything to get Rita to stop,' he assured her, 'but you know what she's like.'

'It's all just a bit too raw, at the moment.'

In a matter of days, Hermione had gutted her room in search of her old trunk and school stationery. Her supplies were in great need of replenishment; the ink had dried and her quills were bare and featherless and so she was forced to borrow Hedwig in order to place an order with Flourish and Blotts. Settling her affairs at the Ministry had consumed so much of her time that she had not found a moment to spare for a trip to Diagon Alley.

The combination of anxiety and excitement seemed to heighten with every passing moment and the last few days of August seemed to drag in.

'What time do you need to be at King's Cross?' asked her mother on the morning of the first of September.

'No need,' said Hermione with a reassuring smile. 'I'll Apparate.'

'Are you sure? Your father took the day off work, I think he was rather looking forward to seeing you off,' said Mrs Granger. 'Like old times.'

'Teachers are now encouraged to Apparate because of the rise in students,' said Hermione as she hauled her trunk into the living room. 'They've enlarged the Hogwarts Express as much as possible, but even magic has its limits.'

Hermione recalled the first time she had ever stepped onto Platform 9 ¾. Through the fug of thick grey smoke, billowing across the platform, she had glimpsed the gleaming, red body of the Hogwarts Express. To her eleven-year-old self, it had seemed gigantic and, even twenty years later, Hermione struggled to imagine an even larger version of the train.

'You OK, dear?' asked Mr Granger as he entered the living room.

'You really didn't have to take the day off work,' said Hermione as her father wrapped his arms around her. She rubbed her face against the rough fibres of his worn jumper. 'It's not as if it's my first day of school.'

'Well, it'll be your first time on the other side of the desk,' said her father. 'And I'll bet that's a whole lot harder.'

'That's true,' she replied, biting her lip. Despite everything she had faced, Hermione could not expel the nervousness that she felt.

'But you'll do brilliantly,' said her father. 'As always.'

Her mother stepped towards them and placed her hands on Hermione's shoulders.

'I'd better get going,' said Hermione, reaching for her trunk.

She withdrew her wand from her pocket and prepared herself for the sickening, squeezing sensation of Apparition.

The ground felt gravelly and uneven beneath her feet and when she looked around, Hermione noticed that she was standing in the village of Hogsmeade. In the distance, she could discern the hoops of the Hogwarts Quidditch field.

'Hermione?'

She spun on the spot to see Neville Longbottom standing several feet from her.

'Neville! What are you doing here?'

Hermione laughed as he dropped his suitcase and hurried forward to embrace her.

'It's nice to see a familiar face,' he admitted with a grin. 'I was a bit worried when I took the job...Thought it'd be like first year all over again. Except worse without Trevor.'

'Herbology, I take it?' asked Hermione as she stooped to pick up her trunk.

Neville nodded, swinging his case as he walked.

'And you? What subject did you get?'

'Potions.'

Neville's suitcase slipped from his hand and tumbled onto the ground, spilling its contents along the path.

'With Snape?'

Hermione nodded.

'You're brave,' said Neville reverently as he hastily stuffed his quills and parchment into the case. 'I'd rather have another round with the snake than work as Snape's assistant.'

'Thanks, Neville,' said Hermione dryly.

She thoroughly enjoyed the stroll towards the castle as Neville regaled her with tales of his grandmother and his life since the battle. But the absence of Harry and Ron grieved her.

They passed by Hagrid's hut, which had been fully repaired and a thin wisp of smoke billowed from the crooked chimney. Hermione realised that she would greatly miss the afternoons that the trio had spent inside his hut – despite Hagrid's infamous home baking and aptly-named rock cakes.

The lake glittered in the light of the sun and Hermione watched as a familiar form scampered across the grassy bank. Witherwings the hippogriff lowered his head to lap at the edge of the lake and warily eyed the huge tentacle emerging from the surface of the water.

'And I saw Seamus the other day,' continued Neville as they approached the castle. 'He's doing well.'

'How's his mum?'

Neville pulled a face. Seamus's outspoken mother had a fierce belief in everything that The Daily Prophet printed, which had done little to curry favour with Seamus's classmates, particularly during their fifth year.

'I've hardly seen anyone since Ron and I split up,' Hermione replied guiltily as she trudged up the stone steps that led towards the castle's huge, oak doors. 'The Prophet hasn't helped matters.'

'Just ignore what Rita Skeeter writes,' said Neville. 'You should hear what my gran has to say about her. She calls her an evil, little –'

The hunched form of Argus Filch seemed even smaller as he stood in the enormous doorway of the Entrance Hall. As they drew nearer, Hermione saw that he had not changed out of his old, patched robes and the surly expression remained exactly the same, but the bald patch on the crown of his head had grown larger in recent years.

'Leave your trunks by the stairs and go on up to the Great Hall,' he grumbled. His whiskered jowls quivered as he spoke.

Glancing at Neville, Hermione smiled as she saw the grown man beside her transform into an eleven-year-old boy again. Along with Snape, Mr Filch had never been one of his favourites.

Hermione spied the scabby tail of Mrs Norris as the cat pawed the caretaker's legs. The old man stooped to scratch at its scrawny body as Hermione and Neville ascended the stone steps.

The Great Hall seemed bigger without the students and Hermione guessed that the four House tables had been enlarged to accommodate the new arrivals. The Hogwarts Express was due in an hour, but it would take Hagrid slightly longer to organise the horde of first-years and ferry them across the water.

The enchanted, starry ceiling glittered above their heads in the glow of the floating candles. After so long in the brightly-lit headquarters of the Ministry, which seemed more akin to Muggle offices than the central hub of the magical community, Hermione revelled in her surroundings.

'Neville! Over here,' called Professor Sprout from the far end of the staff table, waving towards them. Neville smiled and gave Hermione an awkward nod before heading towards the Herbology teacher.

The High Table had been magically extended to make room for the additional members of staff. Hermione spotted the pointed hat of Professor Sinistra and the corkscrew curls of Professor Trelawney, but her heart stopped when she glimpsed the familiar black hair that seemed to blend into his cloak.

The floorboards of the raised platform creaked as she took a tentative step towards Professor Snape.

'Good evening, sir,' she said, forcing the cheeriness into her voice. 'It's a pleasure to see you again.'

'Well, you haven't changed one bit,' he muttered irritably without looking at her. He drank from his goblet as his eyes fixed on the huge oak door of the Great Hall.

'Likewise,' said Hermione as she lowered herself into the chair on his left. 'But a little sweetness of temper would have been an improvement,' she mumbled under her breath.

His head snapped round to face her and Hermione looked into the face of the man she had not seen for eleven years. Despite the time that had passed and his close brush with death, Severus Snape had changed very little. His dark hair was threaded with strands of grey and the creases around his eyes had deepened, but the wrinkles undoubtedly had more to do with his deep scowl, which was pointed in her direction, than his age.

'After all, I am here to help you,' she finished. She could not tear her eyes away from him. The last time she had seen the Potions master, his unconscious body had been swarmed by a group of Healers who had attempted – and, evidently, succeeded – to revive him.

'I fail to see how a Ministry gnat could be of any service to me.'

She lowered her eyes to the gleaming cutlery in front of her. She did not know what she had been expecting, but the swift return of his cold and callous demeanour unsettled her.

'To help you with your marking and your lesson plans and –'

'What experience do you have in potion-making, Miss Granger?'

Hermione did not miss the implied student-teacher dynamic that he forced into the conversation by use of her surname.

'Hermione, please,' she said politely. 'And I'll call you –'

'Professor Snape,' he cut through her. 'I think that's only appropriate given your...position. Now, Miss Granger, regale me with your accomplishments as a potioneer.'

'Well, I have seven years of magical education in Potions. An 'Outstanding' in my O.W.L. as well as an 'Exceeds Expectations' in my N.E.W.T.'

'I am aware. What else?'

'Pardon?'

'Obligatory school-level qualifications,' he replied with a sigh, 'which – I might add – you obtained over a decade ago, do not entitle you to the position of Potions teacher...or assistant.'

Hermione blushed as she glanced at her empty plate.

'You have never worked in an apothecary nor brewed a potion since leaving this school, nor have you published any journals or literature on the subject. Do tell me what makes you think you are suitable for the post or does your arrogance know no bounds?'

'I've worked at the Ministry for over ten years, which might not be relevant to this position, but it shows that I am dedicated and hard-working. I – I might not know everything about Potions, but I am willing to learn everything that I need to know and I doubt any of my former teachers or colleagues would deny that I am intelligent.'

'From what I remember, despite your...invaluable ability to retain large chunks of prose in your head, you lack natural talent in the subject. What is more, your skills as a potioneer do not extend beyond mediocrity.'

'Well, my grades show –'

'Nothing,' he sneered. 'Ten years have passed since you were at school. Your grades count for nothing.'

Hermione felt an unsettling mix of fury and shame rise in her throat as he continued to deride her. The humiliation stung more than anything.

'The Ministry may have valued your memory skills or perhaps it was your popularity with the press that swayed your employers. Regardless, neither of which will get you very far in this line of work.'

'You're quite mistaken if you think I used anything other than my qualifications and skills to advance my position,' she replied as her cheeks glowed with mortification.

'Really?' His raised eyebrow complemented the dryness of his tone. 'That seems unlikely. After all this time, your personal affairs continue to create quite a stir. You seem to be The Daily Prophet's most precious commodity.'

'If you had read any of the articles, you would know that I'm not portrayed in a particularly flattering light.'

'And I thought that there was no such thing as bad publicity,' he said with a wry smile. 'I believe that was one of Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite expressions. You ought to watch that you do not go the same way as he did. After all, without your memory, what would you be?' He smirked as he drank from his goblet.

Hermione's knuckles blanched as she gripped the edge of the table.

'You'll find no limelight here, Miss Granger,' he drawled. 'It's a low-profile job. I doubt whether your ego could handle it. I advise you to return to the Ministry with your bureaucratic procedures and reports, where you belong.'

'I'm done with the Ministry, Professor,' said Hermione airily. 'Besides, I've come to help.'

'As I have already told you, I do not need an assistant.'

At that moment, the students filed into the Great Hall. As the chattering hordes of pupils bounced into the room and took their places at their tables, Hermione understood Professor McGonagall's concerns. She gave Professor Snape a sidelong glance and watched as he pursed his pale lips and silently counted the onslaught of bodies scuttling to their seats.

'On the contrary, Professor, I really think you do.'

The Hall was jam-packed with students and once the Sorting had taken place, there seemed to be little room for anything else. As the last student scampered towards the Hufflepuff table, Professor McGonagall vanished the rickety stool and the worn Sorting Hat with a flick of her wand.

'To all new students, first-years and the delegates from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, welcome to Hogwarts. To our older students, welcome back! You'll notice many new additions to staffing this year,' announced the Headmistress.

As she glanced along the High Table, Hermione realised that, aside from Neville, she did not recognise any of the other teaching assistants. Hagrid caught her eye and gave her a friendly wave, upending a jug of wine in the process. For a moment, she contemplated shifting to the empty seat beside Hagrid to ask about the Care of Magical Creatures assistant vacancy.

'...if you'd like to stand,' finished Professor McGonagall.

Hermione felt her legs tremble as she rose to her feet. Eyes drifted between her and Neville and she flushed furiously. To her horror, she caught sight of several whispered exchanges between students and she realised that many among them would be avid readers of The Daily Prophet.

Nevertheless, she received the loudest applause when the Headmistress introduced her and Hermione felt the corners of her lips lift slightly. Professor Snape, on the other hand, made no sign of acknowledgement and when the crowd clapped for Hermione, he merely folded his hands together.

They ate in silence and as she looked around at the chattering students and the animated conversations between the staff, Hermione could not help but feel slightly dejected. Her dining companion paid her little heed and answered her questions with a pointed silence. Every so often, she peeped at him and watched as he ate and drank all the while keeping his eyes trained on the wall ahead.

Throughout the meal, Hermione reminisced about her days as a student, wishing she could sit at the Gryffindor table with Harry and Ron again. But it was a painful train of thought, which she hastily pushed to the side as she concentrated on finishing her dessert.

Her eyes flickered to her right as Snape reached for the jug of pouring cream and, as his hand curled around the handle, Hermione spotted a familiar pink spot below his knuckle.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she wondered if he knew where the mark had come from and if he knew that she was the one responsible. She whipped her head to the side so that he would not catch her staring. His usual manner and cold greeting suggested that he was not aware of the source of the mark.

But her blood ran cold as she considered the alternative possibility that he knew exactly what had happened in the Shrieking Shack. The pre-war Snape that she knew would have been furious to learn that he was indebted to a member of the Golden Trio and it seemed that the war had had little effect on Snape's temperament.

Perhaps he thought that the secret that Harry guarded had been distributed amongst his former students, which would explain his frosty treatment of her, Hermione mused, as well as his refusal to respond to Harry's letters. She felt her brain begin to pulsate in her skull as she mulled over the various possibilities and, for the second time that night, she wished she was sitting beside Hagrid. Even Divination with Professor Trelawney was beginning to seem preferable.

When the Sorting Feast had finished, Hermione felt a wistful pang as she watched the students head towards Gryffindor Tower in the wake of the House prefects. Instead, she was destined to follow Professor Snape to the dungeons with a rising sense of regret the further they descended.

'Your rooms are in here,' he muttered as they stopped outside one of the doors leading off from the corridor. 'If you need anything –'

Hermione raised her head to look at him and wondered if she was about to receive the first shred of kindness from him since she had arrived.