AN: Thank you all for your patience in waiting for the next chapter. It's a bit longer than usual, so hopefully that makes up somewhat for the hiatus. Thank you particularly to Cedar's Fire, whose flattering review kicked me into gear to get this chapter out.

Chapter 9: Praemia

Once she was decanting the blood replenisher into small vials, Snape pulled out a stack of parchment and began writing. She eyed him across the table, now gleaming with seven ruby red vials, and watched as his precise spiky script filled the page. After several minutes with the sound only of a scratching quill, his shoulder twitched.

"Yes?"

Hermione swallowed. "I'm finished, sir."

"Add them to the box behind you," he said without looking up. "Then make a second batch."

Hermione stared, even as her stomach plummeted. His letter had said that he'd secured a visit to see her parents. So what was she doing sat there making potions? Was this some sort of test? Did Snape want her to prove she could follow directions before she could have her reward? Was she to be Psyche, sorting out a million tiny pieces of grain, before she could have her freedom?

Duty must always win.

Was that his way of saying that the trip to see her parents had been canceled, yet again, for mysterious reasons she could not be privy to? Had the Order found out about the visit and deemed it unsafe? Her spine between her shoulder blades tingled.

What about the agreement? the justice-seeking side of herself wanted to demand. I said yes to helping the Order. I said yes to giving information on Harry. Her stomach twisted. She clenched her jaw shut. And all I'm doing is making potions?!

Across the table, Snape continued to write, his letters too small for her to read. Candlelight gleamed on his black hair, and his eyes stayed firmly fixed on his work. Even though he wrote steadily, she wondered whether he was really as oblivious to her as he seemed or merely waiting to see just when she'd explode.

Fine, she thought, fighting the urge to cross her arms and look down her nose at him. Test or no, I'll prove him wrong.

She stored the vials in the slotted box behind her, then relit the flame under her cauldron. She measured, sifted twice, poured, and stirred, keeping in mind all of his instructions. As she capped the second batch, her eyes darted up at him. He was frowning slightly at his page, tapping it with his wand and rewriting words in the newly empty spaces. When he gave no indication whatever of noticing her, she began a third batch.

She fell into a kind of trance as she brewed, irritation giving way to the kind of hyper focus she sought to maintain during study sessions. She noted the slightly smoother consistency and vibrance of color in this modified version. She was sure she'd never read about these changes in any textbook, so she could only assume they were changes Snape himself developed.

He is a Potions Master, she reminded herself. And then she began to wonder what all went into obtaining one's mastery in a branch of magic. She made a mental note to check the library at Hogwarts for information. Let's see, she thought. A mastery in Charms or in Arithmancy…?

As she wiped down the workspace for the third time, Snape cleared his throat.

"It is time."

"Time for what? Sir?" she added just quickly enough that it might have been one sentence.

He stood, rebuttoning some of the buttons of his frock coat which he had undone as he worked.

"Did you or did you not want to see your parents, Granger?"

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she squashed the instinct to grin. Whether the grin would be from excitement or from satisfaction, she didn't know.

She folded her washcloth hastily, scooted in her stool, and stood up straight behind it. Carefully, she clasped her hands in front of her, willing them to be still. "Yes, sir. Of course. Shall I get my things now?"

"If you would like to be on time," he said, not looking up as he straightened his scrolls of parchment. "Keep in mind I'll be bringing you back tomorrow. You haven't need of much."

"Yes, sir," she said again. "I'll only be a moment."

She hastened from the room, allowing a smile to spread on her face once it was averted from him.

If you want to be on time. So he had intended to take her all along. Maybe brewing the potions was a test or maybe the Order just needed potions. Why Snape had to be so cryptic about it, she didn't know, but the sudden desperation she felt to see her parents eclipsed her curiosity.

The ground floor landing was pitch black. She didn't know whether Mrs. Black could see light behind her heavy curtains, but she didn't want to risk it. Reaching out one hand, she felt her way along the hall, fingertips brushing the wallpaper and feet stepping as lightly as possible. Soon the wall disappeared, giving way to newly polished wooden poles, and she pulled herself up the staircase, counting the steps silently in her head.

When she slipped into her room, she stopped still. Ginny was sat at her desk, Hermione's notes on Harry's trial in her hands.

"Hello," Ginny said, leaning back in the chair and cocking her head slightly to the side in a way far too reminiscent of the twins. "And where have you been all this time?"

Hermione caught sight of the clock across the room. It was a quarter to midnight. She had been brewing potions with Snape for almost two hours.

"I–"

Ginny was looking at her with a small smile on her face. Hermione's mind went absolutely blank. She felt color rise in her face.

"Ginny–"

"Look," Ginny interrupted. "I won't ask any more questions as long as you agree to return the favor sometime. Deal?"

"Deal," Hermione agreed, relieved. "I, um…guess I'll have to return the favor twice. Can you cover for me?"

Ginny's eyebrows rose, clearly impressed. She leaned back in the chair, balancing on two legs. "Out past curfew with plans to break more rules? In a house this small?"

My, my, Miss Granger. What trouble are you up to now? she imagined Ginny saying. Hermione blinked. 'Miss Granger?'

"I'll be back before the end of the day tomorrow," Hermione said, stepping over to the wardrobe. She grabbed a folded pair of jeans and began stuffing them into the satchel hanging from the wardrobe door.

The legs of the chair hit the ground.

"So you are leaving!" Ginny gasped quietly. "Wow, where?"

"I don't have time." Hermione seized her toiletry bag off her bedside table and tossed it into the bag as well. "Listen, I'll tell you tomorrow, I promise. I'm late as it is. Oh–" She paused at the door. "Would you mind feeding Crooks?"

She left Ginny muttering something about how late could one be when it was already midnight. Keeping as quiet as possible was almost ruined when she made it to the ground floor landing and a hand closed on her arm.

"Come along," Snape's voice whispered above her head, and she felt herself being pulled to the front door.

The house was exactly how she left it.

The wind rustled the leaves of the bushes. The porch light glowed. The street was quiet.

Of course it is, she castigated herself. Snape told you it was fine. Did you really think Death Eaters had attacked and no one told you?

She glanced up at the man striding beside her. The light from the waning gibbous threw his face into harsh contrast: most of his face was white as a barn owl's, but bruiselike shadows graced his temple and filled the hollow of his cheek. Seeing now that he had kept his word after all, Hermione bit her bottom lip as a hint of shame crept over her.

You sound just like Harry and Ron, she scolded herself. Doubting Professor Snape at the smallest supposed evidence.

She set her chin firmly. From here on out, she would trust him, as always had been her instinct.

In almost no time, they were on the doorstep. A yellow-orange glow that would have looked radiant on her mother's face flooded Snape's and made it look sickly as he turned to look at her.

"Miss Granger," he said, and his voice was so quiet that she had to lean in a little to catch the words. "You cannot reveal anything to your parents about the…"

He trailed off, eyes sweeping across the street.

"I know, sir," she whispered back, and his eyes returned to hers.

"I will collect you tomorrow evening at five o'clock. Whatever the result is, I doubt your absence will be able to be ignored through dinner."

"Yes, sir," Hermione nodded. A short visit is better than no visit, she told herself.

Snape nodded and turned to go.

"Sir," Hermione said, and he half turned on the first stair. "Is there any chance… I don't mean to trouble you…"

"Spit it out, Granger," Snape said, eyes still scanning the street.

She took a breath. "I'd feel more comfortable if I knew there were wards," she said, swallowing down the uncomfortable feeling that she was being a burden.

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then nodded.

"Already done," he said. Then he turned, walked to the edge of the property, and disappeared.

A small smile spread into existence on her face. Then she, too, turned, and knocked on the door.

"It's done," Snape said upon entering the Headmaster's office.

The quill in Dumbledore's hand paused as he looked up.

"Good, thank you, Severus," he said, then returned to his letter. "You know, I still don't quite understand your insistence about this matter."

Snape raised an eyebrow as he seated himself opposite the older man. He had been so looking forward to having a well-earned rest after dropping the girl off. Now he saw that he would have to pay in inane conversations with Albus before he was to be dismissed.

"You act as if there's no compassion in the world," he said tiredly. "Even Minerva–"

"No, I understand that completely." The scratching of the quill stopped and Dumbledore fixed him with a probing gaze. "What I didn't realize is that it was so important to you."

Snape aborted his eye roll partway through and let his eyes rest on Fawkes, who had burst into flames only last week, and was cleaning his short feathers with what Snape knew would become a razor sharp beak.

"She is still a child," he said.

"I am aware," Albus said lightly.

"And when you've fashioned her into the weapon I know you already imagine her to be, her friends won't even recognize her anymore, let alone her parents."

"A weapon?" Albus said, brows raised. "What gives you the impression that I have such plans for Miss Granger?"

Snape fixed his eyes on the man. "It's what you did to me," he said, allowing only the barest hint of accusation to enter his voice.

"My dear boy–"

"Don't you my dear boy me," Snape said, voice hard. "We both know better than that."

Albus's pale blue eyes stared at him for a while. Severus thought he might see a bit of remorse in the downturn of the man's mouth, but Severus did know better than that. He had worked with the headmaster for over a decade. The time for being manipulated by grandfatherly sympathy was long gone.

Albus returned to his letter. Severus allowed his spine to relax, but experience should have told him it was too soon to let his guard down.

"It was your idea," Albus said quietly.

Severus watched as Albus folded the letter precisely and sealed it with his own seal.

It was, he could admit in the privacy of his head. And that was what unsettled him. Because he could object to Dumbledore's methods all he wanted, having been subject to them for years and having the hindsight to hate them, but he could now never claim not to be a hypocrite.

It was a bleary eyed Hermione Granger that made her way down to the kitchen the next morning.

To her astonishment, both parents had been awake and answered the door almost immediately after her knock. They had then pulled her inside, embraced her, and sat her on the sofa with a mug before peppering her with questions. Hermione had hidden her smile as she sipped her hot chocolate, wondering what the professor would think if he knew that her parents celebrated with the same drink he had given her not long ago.

"How is the potions program?" her father asked. "Are you learning a lot?"

"You must be," Helen said, a wry look on her face. "If you're only free past decent waking hours for a visit."

Richard smiled patiently and patted Helen's hand. "Your mother has been worried sick that you're running yourself ragged," he told Hermione.

"I have not been," her mother objected. "I just think it's unfair that it has to take up so much of your time. Summer is supposed to be for relaxing. It isn't too much work, is it, darling?"

"It's fine, mum," Hermione said. "Great, actually. I am learning a lot."

And she began to tell them as much as she could about the last couple weeks that was actually about potion making, sprinkling in a bit from what she had been reading to flesh her story out. The Grangers had sat up until three, when Richard claimed that he was "just resting" his eyes and Helen had smiled knowingly at her daughter.

"Happy you're home, darling," she said, kissing Hermione on the cheek and pulling Richard off the sofa.

Now, Hermione yawned widely as she entered the kitchen, then stopped dead in her tracks. Two women were sitting at the table.

"Surprise!" The woman opposite her mother threw up her hands and was out of her seat in a moment, flinging her arms around Hermione's shoulders.

"Aunt Rebecca!" Hermione gasped, feeling her spine squeeze until a vertebra popped. "What are you doing here?"

Aunt Rebecca withdrew, but still clutched Hermione's shoulders. Her hair fell in dark curtains down her face, and her full mouth pursed as she examined her niece.

"Well, don't sound too enthusiastic about my visit," she said. "When Helen called and said you'd be free of that magic Summer camp for a single day…" She shook her head, and the amethyst earrings dangling from her ears swayed. "I knew I had to book my flight immediately. Lucky thing I've got miles, that short notice."

"Sorry?" Hermione offered with a shrug. "It really is a busy program, not–" She laughed. "'Magic Summer camp.'"

"To-may-toe, to-mah-toe," Aunt Rebecca said, waving a hand.

"It's very prestigious," Helen said from the table, taking a sip of her tea.

"She's a Granger. Of course it is," Aunt Rebecca said, and she steered Hermione to the table. "Now, tell me all the important things I've missed. School's good?"

"School's good," Hermione nodded, selecting a meringue cookie from the box sitting in the center of the table. "Switzerland?"

"Slovakia," Aunt Rebecca corrected. "Good choice. I've been living off those for weeks. Summer magic camp?" She smiled impishly as Hermione laughed.

"Also good."

"Boys?"

"Harry and Ron are fine," Hermione said.

Aunt Rebecca poked her in the side. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Hermione's far too sensible to be thinking about dating," Richard Granger said, entering the room and pouring himself a cup of tea. "Isn't that right, dear?"

"Well, what about that fellow from that other school? Vladimir or something?" Aunt Rebecca asked.

"Oh, Viktor. We still talk," Hermione said, thinking of the half-finished letter sitting on her desk at Grimmauld.

The tea kettle clicked roughly back into place.

"You still talk?" Richard asked faintly.

"You know, I still haven't seen a picture of this guy," Rebecca said, shooting an accusatory look at Helen.

Her mother raised her hands, palms forward. "Don't look at me. I've never even seen him."

"You still talk?" Richard asked again.

Hermione sucked at a spot of sugar on her thumb. "I may have an old Prophet from last Summer," she said. "He played for the Quidditch World Cup, so his picture is probably in there somewhere."

"Ooh, an athlete," Aunt Rebecca said. "And here I was thinking you'd fall for the quiet, smart type."

"Oh, well, Viktor is pretty quiet. And smart," she added, feeling somewhat defensive. "We actually met in the library."

"What do you talk about?" Richard asked, sitting across from Hermione.

"Of course you met in the library. You are your mother's daughter." Aunt Rebecca laughed.

"Helen," Richard said. "Did you know they were talking?"

Helen smiled and patted Richard's shoulder. "Yes, dear."

"Dad, it's not a big deal," Hermione said, selecting another meringue.

"Not a big deal," he said, smiling in a somewhat manic way as he looked back and forth between everyone else. "My baby girl is writing letters to international sports stars twice her age, but it's not a big deal."

"For heaven's sake, he's not twice her age," Helen scoffed.

"He's only eighteen," Hermione said, then frowned. "Or nineteen."

"Eighteen, nineteen, what's the difference?" Richard grumbled under his breath.

Hermione laughed and reached out to clasp her father's hand.

"Daddy, calm down," she said, smiling. "Viktor and I aren't really seeing each other. It didn't seem to make sense, what with me being here and him being in Bulgaria. We're just friends."

"Friends is good," Richard said, enthusiastically grabbing hold of the word. "Friends are great. Just focus on having good friends right now, pumpkin."

Helen shook her head and took another sip of her tea.

"You know," Rebecca said. "I've heard Bulgarian men are very good at–"

But whatever Bulgarian men were good at, Hermione didn't find out, for her father immediately jumped up.

"Lovely weather today. Think I'll pop out to the garden."

Aunt Rebecca snickered as he escaped out the back door. "When is he going to realize that his daughter is almost sixteen?"

"Almost seventeen, actually," Hermione said, then flushed slightly. "What with the time-turner in third year."

"Magic," Aunt Rebecca said, shaking her head. "You've got magic at your fingertips and you use it to study more."

"What more would you expect from our Hermione? She's a hard worker," Helen said.

"Just like her parents."

Hermione smiled but said nothing.

After almost an hour of catching up on Aunt Rebecca's travels and telling her more about Hogwarts, Hermione slipped out the back door. Richard was kneeling by a garden bed with a pair of shears. He wiped at the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, simultaneously brushing aside his brunette waves.

"Hi, dad," she said, sitting cross legged in the grass beside him.

"Hey, pumpkin," he said, clipping a bright yellow tulip. "Thought your mum might want new flowers for the kitchen. What do you think?"

Hermione brushed her fingers over the soft petals of the tulips in a pile between them.

"They're lovely, dad."

Richard smiled tightly, then scanned the rest of the flowers. Neither said anything for a long moment, then he leaned back on his heels.

"Honey, you know you'll always be my little girl, right?"

A soft warmth flooded Hermione's chest. "Of course, dad."

"Even if you move out and get married and have kids of your own," he said, and then he cleared his throat. "Which won't happen until you're fifty, of course."

She smiled. "Of course."

Her father looked at her, and for a moment time stood still. The pleasant heat of the sun warmed her bare arms, the scent of roses filled her nose, and the peaceful comfort of being with her family made all of her worries about Harry and the war fade to a quiet buzzing in the back of her head.

"I suppose your aunt has some crazy shopping plans up her sleeve."

"We're to leave in twenty minutes," Hermione admitted.

Richard laughed. "Some things never change," he said, almost to himself.

"I like it that way," Hermione said, then, either by instinct or prompted by some desperation to keep this moment for as long as possible, she leaned forward and threw her arms around her father's shoulders. "I love you, dad," she said into the collar of his shirt. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of sunlight, dirt, and black tea.

Richard's arms tightened around her. "I love you, too, pumpkin." After a moment, he loosened his hold and smiled at her. "Go, get ready. Your aunt will rake me over the coals if I make you late."

There were many things that made Hermione happy. Purchasing new books and inhaling the smell of fresh ink was one. The satisfaction that flooded her veins when she mastered a spell was another. The first sip of perfectly made tea, the smell of sun-drenched grass, the low purr of Crookshanks as his back rose slowly up and down while he napped in her lap. What she didn't expect was that a perfectly normal, perfectly Muggle day could also make her happy.

Her parents had stayed up until the early hours of the morning with no invigoration draught. Her aunt had flown in, traveling for hours by plane not seconds by apparition. She, her aunt, and her mother had eaten lunch prepared by humans, not magic or house elves. And they had shopped, making purchases in pounds rather than galleons.

"You know, Hermione, I really do think you should have gotten that sweater," Aunt Rebecca was saying as they entered the house.

"I did get it," Hermione said, thinking of the burgundy cashmere at the bottom of the bag.

"No, the green one. It looked lovely with your eyes."

The sweater in question was several shades darker than emerald, but once at Hogwarts, everyone–Ron foremost of all–would comment that it was Slytherin colors. And while she could recognize that that was ridiculous, Hermione had a bit more self-preservation than that.

"I'd say Hermione got more than she expected," Helen said, hanging her purse up by the door.

"Rather," Hermione said shortly. What Helen didn't know is that while she went off in search of her second cup of caffeine for the day, Aunt Rebecca had pulled Hermione into a clothing shop filled with unmentionables.

"You're almost seventeen," Aunt Rebecca had said, looping her arm through her niece's. "It's about time you dressed like it."

"I wear uniforms all day, Aunt Rebecca," Hermione had protested, somewhat pink in the face. "No one's going to know what I've got on underneath."

"No, they probably won't. I've seen those uniforms. They're absolutely stuffy." Aunt Rebecca had sniffed. "But the important thing is that you will. Trust me, Hermione. It could be a secret to everyone but you, and it would still be a confidence boost. Consider this my aunt-ly wisdom for the year."

"If you say so," Hermione had said, and then made her selections as quickly as possible before Helen returned.

"I think Hermione will be all set for Hogsmeade weekends," Helen said, knowing that the strictures on uniform were relaxed for visits to the village.

"Hogwarts. Hogsmeade. Is there anything in your world not named after a pig?" Aunt Rebecca said, wrinkling her nose. "Oh, hello."

They had entered the living room to find that Richard Granger was not alone. Severus Snape looked up from his chair.

Hermione gaped and she dropped her shopping bags.

His chair? When did it become his chair? she asked herself. The sound of crumpled paper reached her ears and she bent down hastily to fix her shopping bag, careful to keep all the contents inside. She felt her face turn hot. She really hoped this was the sweater bag.

"Professor Snape," she addressed her hands. "You're early."

"I am afraid our…order was ready early," he said, and she watched as his eyes cut to her aunt.

"It's okay," Hermione said, standing up. "She knows about…well, me. Aunt Rebecca, this is Professor Snape."

"Professor?" Aunt Rebecca said. "You seem rather young to be a professor."

Oh, no, Hermione groaned internally. Aunt Rebecca always did have a slightly bizarre taste in men. And–Hermione did the math–their ages weren't too far apart, so it wasn't completely impossible that Aunt Rebecca might be interested. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, she thought in Professor Snape's direction.

"Youngest potions master in, what was it…" Richard turned to his wife. "A hundred and fifty years?"

Both her parents turned their faces toward Hermione, and she felt the warmth in her face reignite.

"A hundred and forty-seven," she mumbled.

Snape only stared at her for a moment, silent, and then he stood.

"And if your daughter has any intention of being the next, we really ought to be going. Miss Granger, collect your belongings."

Knowing a dismissal when she heard one, and eager to avoid any looks her aunt might be casting her way, she practically fled from the room.

Upstairs, she hastily gathered the sparse belongings she had brought with her. As she shoved her toothbrush into her toiletry bag, her hand hit glass and her fingers stilled. The jar containing Rita Skeeter was still there.

"You have some explaining to do," said a voice behind her.

Hermione jumped and zipped the bag shut, then shoved it down into her satchel and piled her clothes on top, hoping that would smother any sound the beetle might pick up.

"What are you talking about?" she asked her aunt, now biting her lip as she eyed her shopping. How was she supposed to pack all that without magic?

Aunt Rebecca seated herself on the bed and leaned back on her elbows, watching Hermione with a sharp gaze. "I specifically asked you about boys and you said absolutely nothing."

"I–what?"

"Professor Snap."

"Snape," Hermione corrected automatically.

"Whatever," Aunt Rebecca said, waving her fingers.

"I–" Hermione stopped looking at her clothes and crossed her arms as she observed her aunt. "I assumed," she said slowly. "That when you were asking about boys, you were asking about boys..hmm…" She pretended to think. "My own age?"

"Viktor's not your own age," she pointed out.

"He's not that much older than me," Hermione said.

"And Snape's not that much older than him, surely."

"Are…are you serious?" Hermione asked, a reflexive nervous smile breaking out on her face. She raised her eyebrows. "You do know this is Professor Snape we're talking about."

Aunt Rebecca shrugged. "He's cute."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Snape" and "cute" did not belong in the same sentence.

"I…don't know what to say to that," she said, giving up packing the bags as a lost cause and deciding to just carry them.

"Come on, Hermione. As an almost seventeen-year-old, it's about time you had a bad boy phase."

Hermione choked on a laugh. She was pretty sure that by "bad boy phase," her aunt did not mean "start a relationship with a man twice your age who has been a Death Eater for at least as long in service to a Dark Lord who wants to eradicate the world of all Muggles." Nor did that term quite acknowledge how sarcastic, insulting, biased, and downright cruel Snape could be at times. She shook her head. Maybe her dad was right. Maybe Aunt Rebecca was a little too ridiculous.

"Plus," her aunt continued. "He looks like he knows a thing or two."

"I'm not sure I want to know what that means." Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder.

"You know, I dated my professor once," Aunt Rebecca said conversationally.

"Yeah?" Hermione said, pulling her aunt off her bed by the arm. "And how did that go?"

The woman frowned. "Well, I didn't realize he was married at the time…"

"You're full of good advice today, Aunt Rebecca."

She continued to pester Hermione with whispered questions once they left the room and only stopped once they descended the stairs. Hermione's parents were waiting with sad smiles at the door. Snape stood a few feet away with arms held stiffly at his sides, the only sign of his discomfort.

"Have a good term at school, darling," Helen said, hugging Hermione.

"We're so glad you were able to visit. Write us, pumpkin," Richard added.

"Remember what I said," Aunt Rebecca said from her spot by the stairs.

"Which bit?" Hermione teased, pulling back from her mother's embrace. "I've already forgotten."

"Good strategy," Richard muttered.

Snape cleared his throat.

"Right. I'll see you at Christmas hols," she told her parents, then turned to Snape. If she had put stock in a single word her aunt had said upstairs, she would be pink in the face. But she only felt the strong desire to laugh. So she smiled and said, "Ready."

The moment their feet hit pavement again, Snape waved his wand over Hermione. A cloak unfurled itself into existence over her shoulders. She looked around and found herself in a dark alleyway.

"Knockturn?" she asked.

Snape nodded. "We need to choose a new disguise."

"Why?" Hermione asked, watching as he shrunk down her shopping bags, floated them into her satchel, and transfigured that into a small coin purse.

"It doesn't make sense for me to apprentice an old woman," he said, conjuring a mirror. He tapped his wand and the hair on her head became darker and straighter. With a horrifying jolt, Hermione wondered whether the interest of her aunt was not completely one-sided.

"No," he muttered. "We should change the color entirely."

"How about red?" Hermione asked.

"Definitely not," Snape said immediately. She raised her brows. He cleared his throat. "I'm surrounded by enough Weasleys as it is. What about…"

He tapped and she watched as her hair became a dark blonde similar to that of Seamus Finnegan. Then her eyes grew lighter, almost tawny in color. Freckles blossomed across her nose and cheeks.

"I look…monochromatic," she said, turning her head to examine her face at different angles.

"Less distinctive. Easier to blend in." He waved his wand and the mirror disappeared. "Now, for the rest of your identity. You grew up in Belgium. You attended Beauxbatons and graduated three years ago. You were working with Girard Blanc, but, after his unfortunate and untimely death a year and a half ago, sought another Master. Having worked with Monsieur Blanc in the past, I agreed to apprentice you as a favor to my late mentor. What details do you need to make this story convincing?"

Hermione's mouth had dropped open during the speech. She cleared her throat as Snape pierced her with his eyes.

"I'm a little familiar with Beauxbatons after last year, but I could do more research on that. Obviously, I'd need to know more about Monsieur Blanc…"

"I will provide that information in time," Snape said. "What else?"

"Parents," Hermione said. "And siblings, if any. And I think we should just make me be from France. My family went to Normandy once. I know a lot about the area."

"That will be fine. And…?"

Hermione's brow wrinkled. "And what?"

"Your name?" Judgment oozed in his tone. "Something easy that you will remember."

"Georgiana?" Hermione said, the name popping out in her mind as she'd just about finished Pride and Prejudice for the fourth time.

Snape sneered.

"Anne?" Hermione offered quickly.

Snape hesitated, then nodded. "You will work on your identity over the next few weeks. I don't believe I need to press upon you how important it is that no one know exactly what you are studying."

"Understood, sir."

"Good, now go collect our order."

"Our–"

"From Fawley's."

"By myself?" Hermione's voice came out much more high-pitched than she was anticipating.

Snape inhaled slowly in a way that Hermione took to indicate that he was trying to be patient. "I told Fawley I would send you to collect it. I can't very well show up myself. Consistency, Miss Granger."

"The second rule," she muttered under her breath. "Okay. How do I look?"

Snape raised a brow. "Completely ordinary. Now go."

Hermione squared her shoulders and, before she could allow herself to stall with more questions which would, no doubt, frustrate Snape further, walked purposefully to the end of the alley.

Figuring out where exactly she was took a few minutes, but shortly she found her way to Fawley's apothecary. It looked just as she remembered, complete with strange ingredients, neatly organized, and the gleaming tea set in the corner. A woman was waiting at the counter. She was standing so still that Hermione thought something in her must be restraining herself from drumming her fingers on the counter. Fawley immerged from the back, a bag in hand.

"Two mandrake feti," he said. "That's–"

"Yes, I know," said the woman, and she dropped a coin purse on the counter. "Good day."

The woman turned and Hermione had to bite her tongue. Narcissa Malfoy was stowing the package into her robes. She hesitated upon seeing Hermione–or rather, Hermione thought, Anne–then quickened her pace to the door. Hermione thought she spied a spot of color in her cheeks as she passed. There was a ring of a bell, and then the door shut.

"Can I help you?" Fawley called.

Hermione turned her head and approached the counter.

"Yes," she said. "I'm Anne. Anne…Dumas." You're supposed to be in disguise. Is choosing book references really going to secure your anonymity, Granger? "I'm Professor Snape's–"

"Ah, the apprentice," Fawley said. "Good to see you again. Properly."

He eyed the hood of her cloak, which hung down her back. She willed herself not to blush. Should she have worn it up again? For consistency? Oh well. Too late for that.

"I'll be back in a minute," Fawley said.

Hermione nodded and watched the man go. He did not, she noticed, offer her tea this time. She glanced over at the set, then back as Fawley returned.

"Here you are," he said, presenting her with a much smaller bag than last time.

"Thank you," she said. Then she glanced over at the tea set. "I don't suppose you could tell me how…"

"Ah," Fawley said, following her line of sight. "Many a customer has asked, but I have never given away the answer."

"So it's always a secret?" Hermione asked.

"I tell people if they guess correctly," Fawley said, leaning his arms on the counter. "Your Master Snape, for example, guessed rightly upon his second visit."

Hermione snorted. Of course he did.

"I'm sure you'll guess in no time," Fawley said. "Any apprentice of that man would be, I am sure, fairly brilliant."

Hermione was used to hearing such things–Ron told her she was brilliant about once a month, even if only for mundane reasons. But somehow, hearing the words from a complete stranger made her flush with pleasure. Especially if he thought her brilliance would make her a worthy apprentice to Snape. Because, all the qualities he possessed that she reflected upon during her conversation with her aunt being true, Hermione did not doubt it: Snape probably was a genius.

"Thank you, Mr. Fawley," she said.

As she made her way to the door, a jar of something glittering made her pause. It was, as the label below pronounced, a jar of jewel beetles. Her blood ran cold.

"Is there something else you need?" Fawley asked.

"No, no thank you."

She hastened to the door, then made a detour into the first alley. Looking around to ensure she was alone, she opened her coin purse and reached inside. She was elbow deep when she finally felt the cool metal lid of the jar. She pulled it out and immediately whispered, "Confundus." with her wand pointing at the beetle inside. The beetle swayed unsteadily, then stumbled and half fell against a twig.

"It's for your own good," Hermione whispered. And the Order's safety.

She unscrewed the jar and set it down behind a bin. Then she left, hoping she'd be able to navigate this labyrinth and find Snape easily.

AN: Yes, I know the "silly, somewhat scandalous aunt" is a bit of a trope, but I find it far too fun not to use. I'm hoping the family scenes felt very natural and homey. I wanted our Hermione to have a bit of a reprieve before we plunge into the crazy that is Hogwarts-with-Umbridge. Let me know your thoughts.:)