Despite the lingering warmth of September, the dungeons were cold and draughty and the ornate furnishings of the Gryffindor common room seemed like a distant memory.

Inside her chambers, the living room, kitchen and bedroom were crammed into a single space with a door leading to a separate room, where Hermione found a grimy bathtub and toilet that no amount of magic could properly clean.

The leaky tap and the whistling gale as well as the bitter pangs of nostalgia rendered sleep impossible. Tossing and turning, Hermione spent the night huddled under a thin duvet, shivering as the springs of the worn mattress prodded her spine. She longed for the plush four-poster she had slept in as a student and the thick burgundy curtains of the dormitory, which blocked any breeze that filtered through the gaps in the window frame.

Hermione cast her mind back to the months of endless camping during their hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes. Even the old tent that had once belonged to Mr Weasley's coworker had offered cosier accommodation than her new chambers.

She thought that if Snape's private quarters even remotely resembled her own, his foul temper seemed extremely justified.

'Hermione!'

'Morning, Neville.' Hermione managed a wan smile as she trudged up the steep staircase to greet her friend.

'Are you OK?' His cheery expression shifted to concern as his gaze lingered on the dark circles under her eyes.

'I didn't sleep too well,' she replied with a slight shiver. The warming spell she had cast had worn off several times throughout the night. 'The rooms in the dungeon are baltic!'

'I can imagine. I always hated having to go down there for Potions,' he said with a shudder.

'Did you sleep OK?'

'Yeah, I'm on the ground floor near the greenhouses,' he chirped as they entered the Great Hall. 'It's warm and dry so I can't complain.'

They separated as they reached the High Table and Neville exchanged warm pleasantries with Professor Sprout before taking a seat by her side.

Hermione, on the other hand, did not receive so much as a 'hello' as she sat to the left of Professor Snape.

Granules of sugar glittered as she sifted several spoonfuls onto her hot cereal warmed her stomach and Hermione moaned with relief as her body ceased to chitter.

'Do you want to go over the lesson plans for today?' Hermione asked tentatively, turning in her chair to face him. His long hair hung dangled in front of his face, obscuring his expression.

'Not particularly.' His pale fingers hooked around the stem of his glass.

'Well, I'd like to have some idea of what we'll be doing this morning.'

'I beg your pardon? We won't be doing anything,' he replied tartly.

'Then what am I meant to do?'

He gave her a withering look over the rim of his cup.

'You can sit at the back and observe.' Snape placed the heavy goblet on the table with a loud thunk. 'I have a double class with the first-year Slytherins and Gryffindors in the morning. During the latter half of the lesson, I will permit you to do the rounds and offer assistance if I am otherwise occupied. Afterwards, you can organise the store cupboards during the sixth-year double period.'

'Well, to be honest, the N.E.W.T. work is a bit fresher in my mind. I might be of some use!' supplied Hermione helpfully.

She faltered as she glanced at his frosty expression.

'I think not, Miss Granger.'

Hermione tried to conceal the disappointment on her face as she glanced along the High Table.

Neville and Professor Sprout were absorbed in their lesson plans, poring over countless sheafs of parchment and loudly discussing the progress of the Mandrake plants. The other learning assistants were similarly engaged, deep in discussion with their partnering teachers.

Hermione glanced morosely at her own mentor as he drained his goblet and dabbed his lips with his napkin, keeping his gaze averted from her own. He then rose abruptly from the table, leaving Hermione to finish her porridge in silence.

The classroom was filled to maximum capacity and Professor Snape had been forced to summon additional desks and equipment for the multitude of first-years. Hermione sat agape at the sheer number of students, which accounted for only half of the year group.

His introductory speech was identical to the one he had given during her first ever Potions lesson. As before, the eager attentiveness of the students quickly evaporated. Few teachers possessed the power to silence a room with a mere sentence, but Snape was certainly one of them. The first-years swallowed nervously, afraid to make eye contact with the formidable Potions master, as he growled instructions.

Hermione noted that his Slytherin favouritism had not lessened over the years as he directed most of his acerbic remarks towards the maroon-clad group at the back of the classroom.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' he shouted brusquely. Hermione's head snapped round to face him, forgetting that she was no longer under his charge as his pupil. His arms were folded underneath his heavy cloak and his pale lips thinned as he loured at the mass of students. 'Begin! You have one hour.'

The first-years rose from their stools, sharing the same startled looks of bewilderment and fear. One boy, who strongly resembled eleven-year-old Neville, could not control the shaking of his legs.

Peering over the shoulder of one of the Gryffindors, Hermione's eyes scanned the page detailing the brewing directions for the healing potion that Professor Snape had allocated.

Salamander blood

Two drops of Flobberworm mucus

One stewed Mandrake

Ten Lionfish spines

Drops of Honeywater

Unicorn horn

Moondew drops...

Her brow furrowed as she cast her mind back to her first ever Potions lesson, but she could not recall having brewed that particular potion. If memory served, she was certain that Wiggenweld potion was part of the second-year syllabus.

Hermione glanced enquiringly at the Potions master as he lingered by the Slytherin table.

'Erm, Miss? Could – could you help me?' Neville's doppelgänger looked at her pleadingly. 'I – I can't light a fire under my cauldron,' he stuttered as his wand hand drooped to his side. 'The spell won't work.'

'What's your name?' she asked.

'I'm Harry,' he replied timidly.

Hermione suppressed a smile. She hoped that not many wizarding families had taken to naming their sons after the Chosen One or life would become very confusing, indeed.

'No need to look so crestfallen,' she said reassuringly, 'it's easy once you know what you're doing. Repeat after me, no wands...Incendio.'

Harry did as he was bid and once she was satisfied with his enunciation, Hermione urged him to try again using his wand.

The boy's hand trembled as he pointed his wand at the cauldron, but as he uttered the incantation, a jet of flames erupted from the tip.

'It worked!' he cried in surprise. His lips split into a wide beam.

Hermione felt a surge of satisfaction and pride as Harry rejoiced in his achievement. His gratitude was greater than that which Snape had shown her so far. The man in question was busy barking criticism and scathing insults as he prowled between the desks occupied by the Gryffindor first-years.

Looking around the room, Hermione spotted that the students seemed to be working in pairs, which Snape normally forbade, but given the cramped working conditions and the size of the class, it was easy for the pupils to work together unnoticed.

She overheard a smattering of whispered German and French among the students, which she assumed could only be the delegates from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons.

'What is this?' Snape demanded. His glare was directed at a thin, freckled girl whose nervous gaze flickered between the Potions master and her cauldron.

'W – Wiggenweld potion, sir.'

'No, this is black gunk,' he scorned. 'Where's the rest of your salamander blood?'

'I used it all, sir.' The girl's face turned white and her eyes sparkled with tears.

Hermione felt a pang of empathy for the young girl as Snape bellowed at her. The surrounding students ducked their heads as he shouted for fear of catching his eye.

'Ten points from Gryffindor,' he muttered. 'For sheer stupidity.'

The young Gryffindor brushed her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve as Snape stormed across the classroom towards another group of petrified students.

Harry also seemed shaken by the Potions master's foul temper and his voice trembled as he asked, 'And now d – do I add the salamander blood?'

The contents of his cauldron began to bubble and Hermione gave him an encouraging nod.

'That's enough for now,' she interjected as Harry poured the contents of the phial into the cauldron. 'Now, give it a stir.'

Slowly, the potion began to turn red, brightening in colour with every movement.

'Now for a counter-clockwise stir.'

'And then add more blood?' he asked, glancing round at her.

Hermione inclined her head.

She opened her mouth to elaborate, but before she could speak, thin fingers clamped around her bicep and forcibly dragged her into a corner of the room.

'What do you think you are doing?' His tone was light and menacing.

'Helping,' she replied simply.

She could sense the simmering anger emanate from the Potions master as he scowled at her.

'From where I was standing, it looked like you were telling that boy exactly what to do. That is the opposite of helpful and the opposite of teaching –'

'Whereas your method of bullying and intimidation seems far more successful,' she snapped.

'How do you suppose they learn if they have someone doing all the work for them?'

'Well, it doesn't help that you're assigning second-year work! This is far too advanced,' she insisted. 'Half of them will have never even seen a potion before, never mind attempting to brew one.'

'Thirty points from Gryffindor,' he announced.

'Why do you persist with this vendetta against Gryffindor? Are you deliberately trying to turn the students against me?'

'Teaching is not a popularity contest, as you'll soon learn.'

'You can't deduct House points for my supposed error.'

'I think you'll find that I can, Miss Granger,' he said coldly.

True enough, as they left the dungeons at lunchtime, Hermione glanced upwards to see that Gryffindor's hourglass was almost bare except for a mere handful of rubies.

'Did you really have to punish the whole House?' she asked despairingly as she counted the red jewels.

'Until you learn, Miss Granger,' Snape sneered before marching ahead towards the Great Hall, leaving Hermione to gaze forlornly at the empty hourglass.

She avoided the High Table at lunchtime and chose to spend the hour wandering the grounds.

Years ago, Harry and Ron would have been by her side to comfort her and remind her that Snape was nothing but a bitter, snide and resentful old man. She thought of all the times that she had defended the Potions master during the endless slagging he had received. Hermione could not understand why she had exhausted so much energy and time, when he truly did not merit it. His efforts as a double-agent and a spy had earned her eternal respect and gratitude, but it was difficult to like someone who seemed to actively enjoy being so disagreeable.

As she strolled along, she spied several of the trio's old haunts by the lake, under the shadowed cloisters and beside the staircase leading to the Owlery. Not for the first time since her arrival, Hermione wondered if coming back had been a wise decision. Her return had opened old wounds and reminded her of all that she had lost and all that had once been.

The castle had not changed at all despite the extensive damage that it had been subjected to during the battle. Its magically restored foundations and structures looked no different from before. But if she closed her eyes, Hermione could visualise the carnage and warfare that had taken place over ten years ago on those very grounds.

As she crossed the courtyard, she saw Lavender Brown's ashen face as Fenrir Greyback launched forward and sank his yellow teeth into her throat. Her own scream echoed in her mind as she hurled a spell at the werewolf's back.

Antonin Dolohov staggered backwards onto the paved ground as Firenze reared and bucked his hooves. The Death Eater retaliated with a curse that slashed the centaur's left flank as Professor Flitwick scurried forward to resume the duel.

Ginny's red hair flashed as she ran across the quadrangle towards the thick of the fray with Aberforth Dumbledore by her side. His deep, booming voice echoed into the night as he stunned Augustus Rookwood.

The grief of their losses had abated with time and the comfort and companionship that she had received from Ron had eased her own sorrow. But amid the familiar surroundings of Hogwarts, Hermione felt his absence more than ever and the painful war memories were beginning to surface.

Hermione swallowed thickly as she paced across the stone walkway. The scar on her neck felt tight and itchy whenever she remembered the events of the war. It had faded over the years, but the wound where Bellatrix had held the knife to her throat had not vanished entirely. The cut was made by the same weapon that had killed Dobby, moments after he had rescued them from Malfoy Manor.

The clock chimed above, stirring her from her train of thought. Hermione shivered as she wound her scarf tightly around her neck, concealing the pink laceration from sight, and returned to the castle.

'Late,' snarled Professor Snape as Hermione hurried through the door of the classroom. 'Get to work. You have two hours to organise that cupboard,' he ordered, pointing his finger at the storage unit where the ingredients and potion-making apparatus were kept.

The N.E.W.T. students filed into the room and waited for their teacher to administer instructions as Hermione planted a stool beside the store cupboard and began arranging the various jars.

'Had it not been for the Headmistress's input, only "Outstanding" students would be here in this class. Even at that, I am uncertain if any of you possess the predisposition or the skill to succeed at this level. N.E.W.T. Potions goes beyond the ability to read and follow instructions, which any dunderhead is capable of doing –'

Hermione rolled her eyes as she listened to his diatribe. She felt a rush of thankfulness for having avoided N.E.W.T. Potions under his tutelage.

Professor Slughorn had stayed on after the war to teach and although Hermione's potion-making had never quite surpassed that of the Prince, who happened to be standing on the other side of the classroom, Professor Slughorn had been satisfied with the results her work had yielded.

To her dismay, she had failed to achieve an 'Outstanding', but given the post-war circumstances and the fact she had received 'Outstanding's in the most of her N.E.W.T.s, she had not been too disappointed.

'Don't place the rat spleen with the Ashwinder eggs, you fool!'

Hermione jumped at the sound of his voice as his hot breath brushed against the back of her neck. Her foot slipped as she wobbled precariously on the stool. In an attempt to regain her balance, her hand shot into the air and hit the shelf and, before she could pull her wand from her pocket, half a dozen glass jars fell to the stone floor and smashed.

Her eyes widened as she stared down at the shattered remnants of the glass phials and their contents.

'I – I'm sorry,' she gasped. 'I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to –'

'You idiot,' he barked.

'It was an –'

'Do you realise how valuable those ingredients were?'

'I'll replace them,' she replied meekly.

Snape arched his eyebrow as he looked at her with contempt.

'The contents of those jars cost more than you'll make in a lifetime.'

'It was a mistake, I –'

'And you expect me to share my workload with a ham-fisted five-year-old?'

'Well, you startled me!' she said defensively. 'Don't creep up behind me like that.'

'Get out,' he growled.

'But, I haven't finished,' she murmured. 'At least, let me clean up a bit –'

'Now!'

Hermione burrowed under the thin covers of her bed, blood pounding in her ears as she swallowed the bout of tears that threatened to trickle down her cheeks. Anger and humiliation consumed her as she replayed the events of the day in her head.

There was no way to placate the irritable Potions master, who seemed hell-bent on breaking her. Regardless of her attitude or her actions, nothing she did or said could lessen his hostility towards her.

She received no word from him requesting her assistance and Hermione felt a growing sense of despair form in the pit of her stomach. If she decided to call it quits, she would have nowhere else to go. The Ministry would be reluctant to take her back, which vastly reduced her career options, not to mention the fact that Professor Snape would be unlikely to provide a glowing reference.

As dinnertime approached, Hermione contemplated calling a house-elf to avoid facing the ire of the Potions master, but her moral compass would not permit her. Despite the evident joy that the creatures took from serving the Hogwarts students and staff, as she had witnessed during her fourth year, the whole system seemed little different from slavery.

She waited in her chambers until she was certain that most of the staff and students had finished their tea before venturing along the chilly dungeon corridor. Her stomach rumbled noisily as she passed the staff room on her way towards the Great Hall.

'I don't need an assistant,' he snapped. His voice wafted through the open door of the staff lounge like thick smoke. 'Least of all, an insufferable little girl with no experience or natural aptitude for potion-making.'

Hermione was in no doubt of the identity of the speaker or his subject. She stopped in her tracks and slipped behind the door to listen to the argument unfurl. Through the thin gap, she discerned the long, cascading robes of the Potions master.

'Come now, Severus,' tisked Professor McGonagall.

'Minerva –'

'You've got forty N.E.W.T. students, seventy O.W.L. students...not to mention the countless swarms of first and second-years,' she said, clasping a hand to her forehead as if the thought made her dizzy. 'Don't tell me you're managing to keep up with it all. Filius's pile of marking is almost taller than he is!'

'Well, I would be perfectly capable of managing my duties had I not been given the laborious task of...babysitting,' he drawled.

'She's here to help you, Severus!' McGonagall cried in exasperation. 'Give her some of your marking! Let her plan some of your classes! She's a smart girl – you don't need to hold her hand – she's perfectly capable of marking some essays and preparing first-year work.'

'I will do no such thing,' he sniffed. 'She's not sufficiently qualified or capable of doing the job.'

'Nonsense.'

'Her understanding of the subject is minimal –'

'With an "Exceeds Expectations" at N.E.W.T. level?' she asked dryly.

'I'm not doubting her memory skills, though any simpleton can memorise words from a textbook...As a potioneer, however, she lacks the potential.'

'I'm the sure the first-year syllabus is within her understanding.'

'You would be surprised,' he muttered. 'She will never understand the true intricacies and art of potion-making and it is futile to try. I refuse to waste another decade on a pointless endeavour.'

'You're being ridiculous, Severus,' she scoffed.

'Am I, Minerva? Did I tell you what happened this afternoon?'

Hermione groaned as she recalled the disastrous incident.

'...smashing several Ashwinder eggs along with –'

'We all make mistakes, Severus.' McGonagall cut through his rant. 'Especially in a new job...'

'Yet you think she's competent enough to take on my workload?'

'Perhaps not the senior levels – all in good time – but for now let her deal with the younger years. Give her some tips. We all have mishaps!' she exclaimed shrilly. 'I remember when you did your apprenticeship under Horace. You knocked over an entire rack of glass phials, destroying Galleons worth of supplies.'

'I was not to blame for that incident,' he hissed in mortification. 'Horace snuck up behind me and I inadvertently struck the shelf.'

'Because you've never been known to creep up on people...' she said teasingly. 'What about the time you set fire to the sleeve of his robes and nearly burnt the school down? Not to mention poor Horace...'

Covering her mouth, Hermione stifled the gasp that escaped from her lips. It was impossible to imagine the version of Snape that McGonagall depicted.

Professor Snape turned scarlet as the former Transfiguration teacher suppressed a smirk.

'What I'm saying is that she's not a little girl anymore, Severus, and she isn't your student. If you think you can bully her into leaving then you've got another thing coming. You don't intimidate her that much.'

Hermione felt a rush of warmth towards the Headmistress.

'We will see.'

'Just remember, Severus,' she said gravely as she assumed the thunderous expression that she frequently adopted when dealing with particularly bothersome students. 'If it hadn't been for her, you would not be standing here today.' Her strong, Scottish brogue ricocheted off the poky staff room walls.

The silence that followed was deafening and Hermione had little time to get out of the way as the staff room door was flung open with unnecessary force.

Ducking out of sight, she hid behind a suit of armour and watched as Professor Snape stalked along the corridor. She could easily visualise his tight-lipped expression and pale, burning fury.

Her fingers trembled as she tucked her frizzy hair behind her ears.

Now, she knew for certain.

If there was one thing that Snape resented, with regard to his resurrection, it was the fact that he owed it to Harry Potter and his band of simpering idiots.