Chapter Text
Monday, September 1st, 1997
In a howl of wind and flood of rain, the countryside passed in a blur.
The Hogwarts Express rattled softly as it sped toward Hogsmeade Station and an uncertain future.
Hermione Granger watched the green hills roll into Villages before those Villages were curtained by ancient woodlands, dark and ominous beneath a sky the colour of worn parchment, heavy with the promise of yet more rain to come.
She watched without really seeing any of it. The glass of the window cool and calming against her temple and the gentle buzz of conversation coming in and out of comprehension as thoughts flicked through her mind faster than she could really process them.
Across from her, she was vaguely aware that Harry and Ron were arguing, again.
“All I’m saying is, Malfoy should’ve been expelled years ago!” Ron said, kicking his feet up onto the seat opposite him.
“He murdered Professor Dumbledore, Ron.” Harry replied, dragging a hand frustratedly through his wild black hair.
“Exactly!”
“He should be in Azkaban!” Harry sounded exasperated now.
“Well, yeah, that too.” Ron said, still somewhat missing the point.
Harry shook his head, and Hermione turned her attention back to the window, this was the same argument she’d been tuning in and out of for the past fortnight, ever since she’d arrived at the Burrow.
Her fingers drifted unconsciously to the centre of her chest where the ache answered immediately.
Dull. Familiar. Worsening with every passing day.
The curse scar that remained from her run in with Antonin Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries in her fifth year had never truly healed. Madam Pompfrey had called it remarkable. Professor Dumbledore had called it fortunate.
Hermione, privately, thought both descriptions fell immensely short.
Remarkable things did not ache when you were tired, or sad or afraid.
Fortunate things did not wake you in the middle of the night with fever.
Remembering herself, she lowered her hand before either of her friends noticed.
It was a habit the war was slowly teaching all of them. Hide what hurts, don’t let them see your scars or weaknesses or pain.
The compartment door slid open, pulling Hermione abruptly from her thoughts and the window, now framing a dark evening sky.
Ginny, Neville and Luna stepped inside and Hermione felt the tightness in her chest ease slightly. For a moment, allowing herself to pretend the year ahead of them could be the same as any other.
Then, Ron opened his mouth,
“I still don’t understand how Snape kept his job.”
“Professor Snape, Ron.” Hermione said reflexively.
He snorted, rolling his eyes.
“He wasn’t even in the castle when it happened, Ron. We’ve been over this.” She continued, despite knowing it was pointless.
Hermione’s eyes drifted to Harry as she spoke, she knew that silently, he agreed with Ron. The distrust that had been sown in their first year still pulsed through him like venom, but he didn’t say anything.
“Doesn’t mean I trust him.” Ron said, mulishly.
“Me either.” Ginny agreed, settling into the seat beside Harry.
Hermione looked away. The rolling hills had returned and outside a flock of birds took flight from a distant field, barely visible against the darkening sky. Inside the compartment, the conversation continued.
Professor Snape. Professor Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy. The Astronomy Tower. Murder. Death Eaters. Voldemort.
The same subjects that seemed to occupy every conversation now, because the war had stolen so much. It was impossible to talk about Quidditch or classes or Hogsmeade weekends because in comparison, they just seemed meaningless, empty.
The only thing they had to cling to was uncertainty. News that unfolded and facts that changed before anything could really settle. All they knew going into the new school year was that two new Professors would be joining the staff.
Professor McGonagall might have been appointed Headmistress, but that didn’t mean Voldemort didn’t have a stronghold on the board of Governors already. Two Death Eaters, Alecto and Amycus Carrow, would be patrolling the halls, sitting at the high table and assigning detentions to anyone who dared look at them the wrong way. Hermione shivered at the thought.
The compartment rattled softly as the train rounded a bend and Hermione looked around for the first time since leaving Platform 9 ¾. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna. Every face familiar, every face beloved, but something felt wrong. She couldn’t place it right away, and so it lingered, unnamed at the edge of her mind as the conversation drifted elsewhere and the train drew nearer to Hogsmeade station.
And then it hit her. The train was quieter than normal, slightly more empty. It felt sombre, like it was rattling toward some distant funeral and silently she wondered, how long it would be before the others realised she was the only Muggle born returning to Hogwarts that year.
Professor McGonagall had written to dozens of families over the summer. Carefully. Privately. Urging Muggle-born students to not return for their own safety.
All had listened.
Hermione knew this because Professor McGonagall had gone so far as to pay her a visit; not to urge her to stay away, but instead, to encourage her to come back, despite the fact she would be the only Muggle-born student to do so.
And, Hermione had done just that, of course.
Professor McGonagall had explained the danger, the uncertainty, the fact that Hogwarts would not remain safe forever. She also explained that Hermione was needed in the castle. She couldn’t say more, not there, in Hermione’s parents living room, but she hadn’t needed to.
Hermione knew she had to return. She had to fight.
Her chest ached again, this time for an entirely different reason as her mind drifted back to her parents living room.
Her parents.
Gone. Safe, and alive, but gone. And with no memory of their only daughter.
And no one in the compartment knew, none of them could know.
Only Professor McGonagall, who Hermione was thankful, did not question her motives or reasoning.
She carefully tucked the memory of that conversation away again. It would have to remain a wound she did not touch, not until the war was over and they were safe, if they were safe.
The Sorting Hat sang of storms and gathering shadows. Old loyalties and new betrayals. It wasn’t direct about anything in particular, it never was, but it hinted at the trust that would be tested beneath darkening skies, and of wounds that would remember long after the offending blades had been removed.
The Great Hall listened in uneasy silence. Even the newest students seemed subdued and when the song ended, no applause followed. Just a few carrying whispers swept the hall before the Sorting began.
Hermione barely paid attention as the new students, of which there weren’t many, were sorted into their houses.
Instead, she allowed her eyes to wander across the staff table.
Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, Professor Slughorn..
The unfamiliar faces of Alecto and Amycus Carrow, Headmistress McGonagall and…
Professor Snape.
His black eyes were already on her, Hermione blinked. Professor Snape did not.
For a long moment they simply looked at one another across the hall.
Hermione looked away first, a knot beginning to form in her stomach.
He looked angry.
She couldn’t bring herself to eat much as the feeling of unease lingered heavily throughout the feast, eventually relenting only to be replaced by exhaustion.
She watched the Prefects of each house rise to direct the younger students to their waiting beds, and the older students reach for friends they hadn’t yet seen.
A vague feeling of relief flooded her system as she thought of the Head Girl badge she’d returned to Professor McGonagall almost as soon as it had arrived by Owl at the start of the Summer break.
She hadn’t needed the additional responsibilities, especially if she were planning to leave at a moment's notice with Harry and Ron. She wasn’t certain of much, but the fact that they would likely have to flee the school and soon, was something she felt deep in her bones.
The thought of standing before the school, especially in front of the younger students, pretending everything was normal, made her feel sick. The thought of then abandoning those students, no matter how noble their pursuits may be, made her feel sicker still.
The sound of a bench scraping against the flagstone floor pulled her from her thoughts, beside her Ron and Harry were muttering about the following morning's classes and Hermione couldn’t help but smile to herself. It might be one of the last times the two grumbled about inconsequential things, things that didn’t really matter. She felt the smile fade from her face as she looked around the great hall.
She really was the only Muggle-born remaining.
The thought made her feel exposed, visible, vulnerable. As though a target had been painted on her back.
“Miss Granger”
The deep voice cut cleanly through her thoughts and she startled.
Conversations around her faltered and died as heads turned to see what business Professor Snape, of all people, had at Gryffindor table.
She looked up at him, he looked visibly annoyed.
As usual.
“The Headmistress would like a word.” he paused.
“Come with me.”
Hermione glanced briefly at Harry and Ron before standing, they both looked equally suspicious.
As soon as she was on her feet he turned and swept from the hall, Hermione struggling to keep up.
Neither spoke as the spiral staircase that led to the Headmistress’s office wound silently up through the castle. Hermione wasn’t sure what annoyed her more, his silence or the fact that she could practically feel his irritation radiating outward, like heat from a fire.
What could she have possibly done?
Nothing, as far as she knew.
Yet he looked as though someone had sentenced him to hard labour.
The thought almost made her smile.
She watched as the wooden door of the Headmistress’s office came into full view for only a moment before being flung open by Professor Snape, without so much as a single knock to announce their arrival.
Professor McGonagall sat behind the desk and without so much as a glance up she gestured to them.
“Sit.” She said, as she finished the letter she was writing.
As Hermione tentatively sat in one of the seats opposite Professor McGonagall’s desk she looked up to find that several of the portraits slept softly on the walls around the office, one did not.
Hermione eyed the portrait of Professor Dumbledore warily. A surge of entirely irrational annoyance rose up inside her. What are you up to? She thought as the old Wizard averted his gaze.
Infuriating.
“Miss Granger” Professor McGonagall finally spoke.
It was at this moment that Hermione realised that Professor Snape remained standing, arms folded, expression thunderous as he glared out the window into the darkness of the grounds.
Oh, Hermione though. This is why he’s angry, whatever this is. He already knows why we’re here, and he doesn’t like it.
Strangely, the realisation seemed to calm her.
She turned her attention back to the Headmistress who had been studying her.
“There is something we need to discuss…” The way her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence made the knot that had formed in Hermione’s stomach during the Sorting twist uncomfortably.
“Professor Dumbledore left instructions in case of his death. Instructions that The Order has decided need to be carried out, as soon as possible.”
Where her stomach had twisted before, now it tightened. The feeling of anxiety intensifying.
“By whom?” She asked, sounding steadier than she felt.
“Professor Snape” McGonagall answered, and Hermione’s stomach finally dropped. She knew what this was about, she knew what the late Headmaster intended him to do. The old man could not get Harry and Professor Snape to work together in life, but perhaps in death they could be guilted by his final wishes and memory.
But Hermione knew it was pointless, she knew Harry too well. He would not, could not, work with Professor Snape in any way that might be considered productive or helpful to the Order. How could Prof—
“And yourself.” McGonagall cut off her inner monologue.
What? She hadn’t expected this.
Silence pressed awkwardly in on her as her gaze shifted from Professor McGonagall to Professor Snape.
His expression suggested he found the arrangement every bit as irritating as he might have if he’d been tasked with working alongside Harry.
“What exactly are the instructions Professor Dumbledore has left for us?” Hermione asked, dragging her eyes away from him at last.
Professor McGonagall looked at her for a moment, clearly measuring her response before speaking.
“That, I cannot tell you. Yet.”
“Then what am I doing here now?” Hermione asked, confused.
“Deciding whether or not you will help The Order.” Professor Snape replied.
“Without knowing what it is exactly that I’m agreeing to?” She asked, exasperatedly.
“Yes” both professors replied in unison.
“Well, that does sound like something Professor Dumbledore would do.” Hermione said, more to herself than anyone else.
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Professor McGonagall’s mouth.
Hermione chanced another glance at Professor Snape, who was now looking profoundly unimpressed with the Headmistress.
The same annoyance she had felt when her eyes first settled on the portrait of Professor Dumbledore began to rise once again.
“This is why you didn’t tell me to stay away.” Hermione stated, because she knew it was a fact.
Professor McGonagall’s expression softened slightly.
“Stay away?”
“With the other Muggle-borns.”
A long silence followed these words, then:
“Yes.” The Headmistress replied, not lowering her gaze from Hermione’s even though she had the distinct impression that she wished to do so.
Hermione appreciated the candour, but the answer landed harder than she had expected.
“Professor Dumbledore chose you because he knew we would need someone capable, someone trustworthy, someone–”
“Willing” Hermione interrupted, thinking about the limited resources available to the Order, as well as the fact that there simply weren’t many members for them to choose from.
And, on top of it all, someone who would agree to work alongside Professor Snape. Notorious bat of the dungeons.
“Unfortunately, Miss Granger, you are one of the two people Professor Dumbledore left with this task.”
At this Hermione glanced up to find the portrait of the Late Headmaster now empty.
Part of her wanted to feel honoured that she was being trusted with, whatever this was. Another part of her felt suddenly very tired.
When she finally answered, her voice was steady.
“I’ll do it.” She paused, allowing the headmistress to sit in her relief for only a moment before continuing.
“What do you need me to do.”
Professor McGonagall exchanged a glance with Professor Snape and then said:
“Help us win this war.”
Somewhere, deep within the castle, beneath stone and centuries and secrets, something ancient awaited her arrival, she just didn’t know it yet.
Several minutes and no clearer answers later, the office door opened once more and Hermione followed Professor Snape back onto the spiral staircase.
Neither spoke. The Castle seemed to shift around them, ancient and watchful, as they moved back into now deserted corridors.
“Tonight, 11pm” he said, his expression remaining unreadable.
“Where?” Hermione asked.
“That will become apparent.” He replied, cryptically, before sweeping away in the opposite direction.
Hermione stood alone at the foot of the stairs that would lead her back to her friends and the warmth of the common room, watching as he retreated. Feeling just as confused as when she’d first sat down in the Headmistress’s office.
For the first time since boarding the train, she felt the distinct and unsettling sensation that her life had just changed.
She only wished she knew how.