A/N: So...something new. Multi-chapter. Written for the SSHG Promptfest on LiveJournal.

The title is (obviously) derived from its musical inspiration. It was a fun (and sometimes nerve-wracking) challenge to undertake. Hopefully it's enjoyable. You will find certain characters, parts of the storyline, and even dialogue appropriately mirroring the original, as well as new characters and scenes intended to offer a 'fresh twist'. Additional information on my prompt can be found below.

As always, your feedback is greatly appreciated. Without your thoughts, it isn't worth sharing. Thanks to my beta, Brittny, for her immeasurable help.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. The Sound of Music is copyrighted to and belongs to Rodgers & Hammerstein. I'm just playing in their sandboxes. No money, just fun. Artwork was created for this story by the lovely, talented Jamie. Many, many thanks to her!

LJ Fest: SSHG Prompt Fest
Prompter: toblass
Creator: CRMediaGal
Beta(s): Brittny
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Mild Language
Prompt: The Scottish Hills are alive, with the sound of...magic? AU version of SS/HG loosely based on The Sound of Music.

The Sound of Magic

Chapter 1

"I go to the hills when my heart is lonely..."

Madame Olympe Maxime gave a resigned shake of her head and turned away from the intricate glass window in her office that looked out upon a breath-taking small portion of the majestic Pyrenees Mountains. The view was enough to make one's heart sing, its beauty otherworldly, even to those of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, who held the luxury of gazing upon the mountains' majesty on a regular basis.

In all her decades as acting Headmistress to the French-based wizarding school, Madame Maxime had never tired of the mountains. They were an intricate part of the school's landscape, each tied to the other's long-standing history, and appreciating them today should have been like any other day—only, one of her recently graduated students-turned staffers was missing in action. She had never shown in the Dining Chamber at dinner, and, as Madame Maxime later uncovered, no one had spotted neither nose nor hair of her since that morning.

That was a tad disconcerting but not unexpected. The young witch, as exceptionally smart as she may be—and she was one of the brightest witches Madame Maxime had ever had the good fortune to know—was prone to wandering off fairly frequently. She had a reputation for being a loner, a dreamer, and had been so ever since her arrival at Beauxbatons as an overeager eleven-year old girl. She hadn't made many friends or taken to socialising much outside of her studies. Instead, she concealed her plain face, thirsty brown eyes, and button nose behind thick tomes and grossly overwrought, bushy hair. To the witch's credit, at least her tresses and general appearance had improved since that early painful transition from girl to womanhood.

And perhaps even more is about to change... Madame Maxime slumped into the enormous marble chair behind her elaborately-carved desk that was two sizes larger than the average human's, proudly displaying Abraxan horses' wings at either front. After sitting quietly and reflectively for a short time, Madame Maxime extracted her wand, waved her hand in the air, and transmitted a message by way of her Abraxan Patronus. "Gaspard," she addressed in her thick French accent, "retrieve Hermione Granger, would you? I believe you will find her at her usual spot on the hill. I have a proposition for her."

The Patronus neighed, soared through the headmistress's window, and disappeared into the mountains, where the school's gamekeeper, no doubt, was busily fetching any lingering students out past curfew back to their appropriate bunks.

Hermione sighed contentedly, appreciating the gentle mountain breeze that ruffled her frizzy curls. The silence that greeted her ears was heavenly. She treasured this tranquil spot at the top of the hill, about a one-mile trek from the Academy's front gates. The hills were her solitude, her sanctuary, where she had often retreated during her school days to centre herself after an intense bout of studying; or when she simply needed to escape the trite social confinements of student life. That had transcended to adulthood constraints as well, such as the tedious meal conversations at the head table and intense Quidditch bets between professors.

At one time, Hermione had despised her parents—well, mostly her mother—for sending her here. She had initially been accepted into Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry back home in England but, upon further thorough inspection of her options, Helen Granger had determined that Beauxbatons would be a 'better fit' for her daughter. Her husband, David, had offered little rebuttal, but both he and his shrewd daughter knew what Mrs Granger was up to.

Helen's hopes of Beauxbatons improving Hermione's breeding probably fell short of expectations, but the school ihad/i polished upon a great deal of her propriety and general bossiness. She was still labelled 'swotty' by some of her peers and a 'plain Jane' by most, but Hermione Granger had also cultivated better care of her once unruly mane, was able to apply basic makeup techniques, and now properly chewed with her mouth closed.

Today, Hermione was a graduate and on the cusp of change. She had spent the summer following the end of her studies trying to determine her next academic steps, though retreating to her favourite spot on the hill hadn't yet presented her with a solution. Madame Maxime had been kind enough to offer her a summer post overseeing the Academy library, but that would soon be drawing to a close. Hermione was running out of options and time, the stress of not knowing where she might wind up next leading her more and more to the hillsides for guidance.

Maybe you should just go home, her conscience too often concluded; but why? She was no longer homesick for England and revered the French countryside that had been her personal playground for the past seven years. It would be nice to see Mum and Dad, you know...

"Hermione!" came a wheezing shout from behind her, startling Hermione out of her deep thoughts. Gaspard, the elderly school gamekeeper with long, coarse grey hair and wise, brown eyes, was trudging towards her on foot. His outdoor attire—an assortment of browns and greens that easily blended with the landscape—was unmistakable to Hermione, even with the light of dusk fading fast behind the mountain tops. His eyes normally smiled whenever they greeted the young witch but, this evening, they appeared disgruntled at finding her here. He sighed as he reached her, removed his mackinaw hat, and used it to dab beads of sweat from his forehead. "Madame Maxime wants to see you."

Hermione blinked, surprised. "Now?"

"No, next week," Gaspard practically growled before shooing her in the opposite direction. "Off with you! Go!"

"All right, all right!" she consented, chuckling under her breath as she led the way back down the hillside, with a griping Gaspard trailing far behind.

"A governess?"

"You're offended?" Madame Maxime raised her thick eyebrows, and Hermione's cheeks flushed red.

"Well, it wasn't exactly what I had in mind for my future, Madame Maxime..."

"Consider it a stepping stone, Hermione. You are still toying with the idea of becoming a professor, aren't you?"

"I'm considering it, yes, but..." Hermione didn't understand how playing babysitter to a group of wizarding children was somehow going to better prepare her for academic life, if she even chose to pursue that course.

"Hermione," said Madame Maxime, issuing patience as she patted the worn correspondence laying unfurled on top of her desk; it was smaller than her half-giant-sized hand, "I think you may feel more enticed by this offer with a few more details about the post, such as who you would be working for." Hermione furrowed her brow, waiting, so Madame Maxime divulged with an unexpected question, "Are you familiar with Severus Snape?"

Hermione's brown eyes widened, conveying an instant recognition of the name, though mostly from hearsay. Severus Snape? "You mean...the Death Eater?" she slowly responded, sounding both unnerved and suspicious.

"Former Death Eater, Hermione. You don't think I would be so precarious with your life as to allow you to work for the latter, would you?"

"No, of course not, Madame Maxime."

"Very good." Madame Maxime raised her chin and began to explain, "The post runs from this September to September next—" before she was promptly interrupted by a loud gasp.

"September?" Hermione gaped at the headmistress, her mind clearly muddling over the proposition now in front of her. It would require a year-long commitment, and if she didn't care for it... You'd be wasting the next year of your life!

Madame Maxime merely nodded. "Yes. For seven children."

"Seven children?"

Madame Maxime eyed over her former student more carefully. "Do you not like children, Hermione?"

"Oh, I... Well, yes," Hermione confided, though her mouth was still hanging open, "but seven?" Somehow, she couldn't visualise Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater-turned Hogwarts professor, being a father of seven children. Who would marry and bed such a man who carried his rather notorious reputation to begin with? Then again, what exactly do you even know about him to be so sure, Hermione? her conscience reasoned, shutting her up.

"Are you up for the challenge, my dear?"

Inwardly, Hermione wrestled the matter, weighing the pros and cons in her head. She was hard-pressed to resist, what with Madame Maxime so gently but determinedly testing her resolve, and the idea of meeting the infamous Severus Snape was admittedly a tempting offer. Still, a governess? A conflicted sort of frown settled upon Hermione's lips as she quietly conceded, "Very well, Madame Maxime. I'll accept."

"Wonderful!" Madame Maxime beamed from ear to ear. "I will write to Professor Snape and let him know that he may expect you tomorrow."

So soon? Hermione swallowed hard as the headmistress scooped up her white, feathered quill, snatched a fresh piece of parchment from inside one of her desk drawers, and was about to pen her reply. "Madame Maxime?" she piped up, her voice soft and restrained. The headmistress's quill halted as a drip of ink splotched the top of the empty parchment. "May I ask why the professor is suddenly in need of a governess at this time?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the particulars, Hermione; only that he has been alone with the children for sometime, poor man, and is seeking help."

"But why not choose from a selection of governesses back in England? Surely, there must be plenty of options?"

"Professor Snape wants someone of academic standing. The children will need to learn to hone and harness their magic, you see."

Hermione stared on, perplexed. "And there is no one in England who could meet those demands?"

"Professor Snape is quite selective. There have been a few governesses, but they seem to come and go rather quickly and have not been well-suited for the job, which is why the professor reached out to me. You immediately came to mind."

None of this sounds too promising... Hermione lowered her eyes, thinking. "I see."

Sensing that Madame Maxime had nothing further to offer her on the peculiar post, Hermione finally rose out of her chair and bowed her head. She felt suddenly unsteady on her feet but proceeded to the door, intent to return to her rooms to collect her belongings.

Returning home was suddenly a lot closer than Hermione ever thought possible.

Oh...bugger.

Hermione, a bit winded from her hike to the front gates, ogled the impressive sight before her widened eyes, her face pressed in between the iron bars to better admire Severus Snape's enormous, ostentatious estate. The grand white house was simple in its design but stately, nonetheless; it was, by far, the most massive home Hermione had ever laid eyes on.

A circular, stone-covered driveway and equally colossal trees shaded much of its front, along with an array of blooms that stretched to both sides of the house. Hermione recognised them as some kind of foreign flower not native to the country; but she passed over their particulars quickly, in search of any staff who might come out to let her in.

After a minute or two, it became apparent to Hermione that she would have to see herself in. The nervous witch sucked in a shaky breath and struggled to pull back the front gates on her own, managing just to squeeze herself in between without crushing her ribs in the process. The gates clattered and clanged shut behind her. Hermione cringed. Her spine tingled as well, sensing the invisible magical barriers she had crossed over as she stepped onto the property. She suspected that they were probably alerting whoever was within that a stranger was approaching the house, so she heightened her pace to the towering front doors, brushing back her wind-whipped curls and smoothing her outfit as she scurried along.

You can do this, Hermione, she repeated to herself, having been encouraging her anxieties since the beginning of her short Apparition journey that morning. She had stopped only once while en route to admire the splendour of the dramatic Scottish hillsides, falling strangely in love with the rather ominous, brooding countryside the closer and closer she ventured towards her destination. She wished there was time to stop over in London and visit with her parents first, but, with Madame Maxime and Professor Snape counting on her to be prompt, there was no room for error or delay.

You can do this, Hermione. Exude confidence and you'll be just fine. Remember: he's an ex-Death Eater. Ex!

Hermione arrived at the front iron-clad doors and, still, no one came out to greet her. Perhaps the professor had no staff? That seemed odd but, not wishing to dawdle any longer, Hermione puffed up her chest and rang the doorbell. Her curious eyes darted momentarily towards the exquisite flowerbeds to her right and left, squinting to make out their unique trimmings.

Edelweiss? Strange... Said flower, adorned with lovely white petals and small, yellow spikelet-florets, normally only grew at high altitudes in the Alps, not in the brutal Scottish highlands. There appeared to be an enchantment covering the beds to keep them from dying off in what Hermione surmised must be regularly treacherous weather conditions. It was a peculiar but enticing choice of a flower as well and sparked Hermione's growing interest in the professor. It hardly seems fitting to the personality of a reformed Death Eater...

Suddenly, the heavy doors creaked open, yanking Hermione from her thoughts. She straightened as a considerably older gentleman with a thin, perfectly-shaped moustache, slicked back dark hair, and long, burgundy-coloured wizarding robes materialised in the doorway, without glimmer of a smile at meeting her.

"Erm, hello, Professor?" chanced Hermione, cursing herself for sounding so painfully bubbly right at the off. She reminded herself that it was essential to make a solid first impression and shoved down the reservations that were prickling at the back of her mind. She forced a smile, but when the aged wizard sharply looked her up and down, either appalled or indifferent to her oversized jumper and wool, plaited skirt ensemble, her confidence depleted like air being let out of a balloon. He didn't say anything to her, prompting Hermione to speak up again, though nervously, "I - I'm Hermione Granger, the new governess."

"And I'm the old butler, Miss Granger," he acknowledged slowly.

Oh, bugger. Hermione chewed her inner cheek to keep from kicking the stone step. "My apologies, sir. How do you do?" She offered the butler her hand but he reared back, peering down at it as though it was a dangerous object. Hermione awkwardly withdrew her hand.

"Yes, well," he gradually replied, "come in." He didn't hold the door for her to enter but, instead, glided out of sight, leaving Hermione to pick up her suitcase, close the hefty door behind her, and stagger to keep up.

Luckily, they didn't have to walk far. The unnamed butler ushered Hermione directly into an expansive entryway, with lavish wood flooring and the highest ceilings in a home she had ever seen. She wasn't certain if they were enchanted to be such a height or not, but the massive crystal chandelier fixture glimmering from the centre of the ceiling took Hermione's breath away.

She was busily eying the grandeur of the room, along with two imposing staircases on either side of her, when the butler abruptly reminded Hermione that she wasn't alone. "Wait here," he commanded and disappeared through a painted door on the opposite end of the room.

Once alone, Hermione plopped her suitcase down with a sigh of relief and moseyed about the large space, intrigued by the moving portraits along the walls, many of whom she could only assume were former house owners or dedicated workers of the estate. They whispered behind covered mouths and fans whilst staring down at her. One elderly woman with a pinned bun, large, pointed nose, and bulky necklace rudely pointed at Hermione directly, and her jarring glare conveyed to the witch that she didn't approve of her attire, causing Hermione to blush to her roots and fumble to the closest door she could access. She bolted through to the other side, where darkness met her sight.

Hermione strained her eyes to make out her surroundings. This room was even larger than the last, decorated in gold garnishing and surrounded by mirrors. A ballroom? she realised with pleasant surprise. An actual ballroom?

Hermione could hardly believe it. She was distracted by all the classy, old-worldly decor, gaping at the wonderment of such a unique space from another time, when she unexpectedly caught sight of herself in one of the nearby mirrors. Her aroused expression immediately flopped upside down. Dear Merlin... She was a complete mess. Her curls were static after being thrashed about by the Scottish wind, and she had been in such a stir to get herself ready and on the road that morning that she had neglected to spruce up her face with an ounce of makeup. She was grossly pale and, as far as she was concerned, unpresentable. Oh, bugger.

Hermione stepped closer to the mirror and frowned, spotting debris nestled within her disarrayed, expanded mop. She was just beginning to detangle a leaf embedded in a few of her knotted curls when the door she had entered through flew open, sending her twirling around and toppling backwards against the glass. Her heart plunged into the pit of her stomach at the intimidating sight of a tall, lanky male figure standing rigidly by the door, one hand clasped to the knob. He cleared his throat, his register low and foreboding, and directed Hermione out of the ballroom with a short, curt toss of his head.

Hermione obeyed without questioning and hurried back to the entryway, blushing with embarrassment as she bypassed the stern individual whom she could only surmise was the professor himself. His daunting, tense posture, exceptionally ashen complexion, and remarkably dark hair and attire, consisting of flowing, black robes, a handsome frock coat, and a cravat, practically screamed 'former Death Eater'.

Hermione eased back into the centre of the room, eyes fully absorbed and engrossed as Severus Snape seamlessly shut the ballroom door behind him and drifted towards her. His mannerisms resembled a cat—or, perhaps, a prowling, full-fledged panther was more suitable a comparison—suave and unassuming, as well as unmistakably threatening. His eyes were narrow, midnight in hue, the lines upon his face razor-edged and fierce. He also had an incredibly large, hooked nose that was curiously imposing and dramatic. His stringy, limp hair, too, was raven and draped rather handsomely over his shoulders; but he, himself, wasn't handsome at all. Severus Snape was something else entirely—something Hermione couldn't yet determine—and unlike anyone of the opposite sex whom she had ever encountered before in her short life. His presence was both exciting and nerve-wracking to behold, and Hermione swallowed hard as he approached her.

"Certain rooms in this house are not to be disturbed," he breathed lowly, richly, his piercing eyes boring heavily into Hermione's with such invasion that she couldn't prevent her bright flush of a response. "Do you understand?"

"Um... Yes, Professor," she returned, striving to reclaim her voice and self-assurance.

"Good." He started to slink around her but Hermione's entire form followed his noiseless footsteps. He threw back his shoulders, blinking at her with a mixture of uncertainty and offence. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

Realising that she was, in fact, ogling him, Hermione blushed scarlet. "Forgive me," she stammered, "but you don't look much like a..." Luckily, Hermione stopped herself before the words 'former Death Eater' touched her lips. Oh, bugger! she huffed to herself, annoyed with her ignorant blunder.

Supposedly sensing what had been on the tip of her tongue, Severus Snape's thin lips coiled into a sneer; the result should have been terrifying, and yet, Hermione was rather intrigued by it. "And you don't look much like a governess, Miss...Granger."

"Hermione, sir," she politely suggested, wishing to steer the conversation in a positive direction.

"Quite." Severus Snape didn't seem interested in improving matters. He eyed her long and hard for what felt like an age and then gestured to her with a swivel of his right index finger. "Turn around."

Puzzled, Hermione did as the professor instructed, feeling sorely self-conscious once she was through. The professor's sharp scowl didn't help in alleviating her insecurities.

"No, this won't do at all," he determined with a small t'sk, giving a particular nod to the debris still lodged in her wind-swept curls. "They'll eat you alive."

Hermione blinked hard. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"The children, of course." He stepped back, removing something silver and small from inside one of his coat pockets. "Please clean yourself up at once before you meet them."

"With all due respect, sir," Hermione found herself challenging on the spot, a sudden heat swelling in her chest, "I think what I'm wearing is perfectly suitable for meeting them."

Severus Snape's return stare was both critical and strangely suggestive. There seemed to be almost a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, though Hermione couldn't be sure. Regardless, it was entirely unhelpful. After a stifling pause, he brought his hands behind his back and replied coolly, "Very well, Miss Granger. If you already know what you're up against then be my guest.

"Now then," he hastily carried on, his deep register taking on an air of authority that had Hermione unconsciously straightening her posture; he began to pace back and forth before her, "you are the twelfth governess to look after my children. I hope you'll be an improvement over the last."

"Erm, the last?" Hermione prodded, the same scruples as before creeping into her conscience and, she suspected, onto her wary-looking face.

"The last governess lasted only two hours. A horribly incompetent woman," he added under his breath, with bite, though Hermione didn't overhear.

"Sir, what exactly is wrong with the children?"

Severus Snape turned towards her with such speed that Hermione started, and his accompanying glare was scathing. "There's absolutely nothing 'wrong' with the children," he snapped at her, drawing closer. "Their past governesses, however... They were entirely lacking in the ability to control the children and to discipline them accordingly, with which this household can't function otherwise.

"These children are special, Miss Granger. They're gifted witches and wizards but they have also been cast out by wizarding society. It's why they live here. They've all been under my care for many years—some I've had with me since they were babies—and they need discipline in order to thrive. They need a steady hand; a stable household in which to grow. Stability and regulation are crucial to the operation of this house. You understand?"

"I think so..."

Hermione fell quiet. From what she was gathering (and taken aback by), it sounded like the children weren't the professor's biological offspring at all. Yet, he had deemed them 'special' and spoke of them with a fatherly fondness that, despite his hardened exterior, was irrefutable. Hermione determined she would need to uncover more on their backgrounds and how they had come to be in Severus Snape's care but, for the time being, she smartly held her tongue, allowing the professor to rattle off his long list of rules.

"Madame Maxime tells me you were an exceptional student at Beauxbatons Academy in all subject areas?" Hermione beamed with pride at that, unable to prevent the sudden appreciation for her old headmistress, though Severus Snape projected no mirroring amazement. "You will need to carefully sharpen their wizarding skills, Miss Granger. Practicing magic outside of a school setting is normally forbidden in this country, but there are exceptions that have been made specifically for these children as they do not—and will not—attend a wizarding school in the foreseeable future. Therefore, it's imperative that they keep up with the studies and skill sets of their peers."

"Never?" Hermione blurted out, unable to withhold her surprise.

Severus Snape's response was nonchalant, and yet, firm and resolved. "The reasons are private, Miss Granger, and not of your concern. That is why you're here: to help rear and guide them forward, personally and academically. Do you intend to do so; or have I just wasted my valuable time?"

"I... No, sir. Of course I want to help—"

"Very well," he swiftly cut her off. After staring at her carefully, Severus Snape dictated to Hermione, whilst walking around her in a circle, "Studying and lectures are from nine to five Monday through Friday, with one hour for lunch and two half hour breaks for snacks and to recharge their energies. Curfew is at seven o'clock sharp and bedtime is to be strictly observed at nine. No exceptions."

"Sir, um, when do they play?"

Severus Snape ignored Hermione and recited further protocols, "You will ensure that they speak and act with the utmost decorum. I won't have any foolishness or clamour or blatant disruptions in this house."

"Sir—"

"No foolish wand waving or use of magic outside of their direct studies either, do you hear? The last thing we need are any unnecessary screw ups that have the potential to land someone in St Mungo's."

"Yes, sir!"

Severus Snape whipped his head around, his returning gaze as sour as when Hermione had first arrived. Hermione wasn't sure what she had done to warrant such scrutiny, but she ignored it and smiled respectfully back. In truth, Hermione thought all of the professor's rules a bit much, but she made sure not to show any humour about it in his presence. He was undoubtedly prideful and she might lose this position before it even had the potential to begin.

"Now then," he concluded, with a sharp clearing of his throat, "I shall introduce you."

With a graceful flurry of his robes, Severus Snape turned his back and extended his hand into the air. A magical whistle that had been burrowed between his fingers hovered in the air and then let forth the most alarming, obnoxious screeches Hermione had ever heard. It sent her leaping back a foot or two and covering her ears with her hands.

Seconds later, there came the thunderous pounding of feet on the second level. Bodies popped out from behind closed doors, slammed them shut, and marched down the two dividing staircases. Hermione watched in utter bewilderment as the emergence of six children stomped into the centre of the room, where they clamoured to a halt and stood at attention like a group of soldiers.

One spot was vacant, however, and Hermione spotted the missing child in question when she slowly crept into the room, carrying a book in her hands that conveniently hid her face from the nose down. When the whistle ceased, she raised her eyes, startled out of the engrossed material in her hands. The professor came stalking up to her, snatched the book from her grasp, and wordlessly pointed to her empty place in the queue. She hastened forward and made to copy the other children's military-style stance.

The children were lined up in what appeared to be sequential order, from oldest to youngest. Severus Snape gestured for Hermione to pay attention as he instructed the magic whistle to present each of the children using their individual signals, all of which Hermione found objectionable, not to mention confusing. At each distinct call, one of the children swept forward at the whistle's command, offered forth his or her name, and fell back into formation like some (ridiculous) military drill.

Forgetting the whistle—or as much as her ringing ears would allow—Hermione made a point of memorising the children's names and faces. There was Liesl, the eldest child with a fair face and brown, sweeping shoulder-length curls; Friedrich, the eldest boy, with short, tight blond curls and striking blue eyes; Louisa, also a blonde, with wavy tresses and particularly mischievous eyes; Kurt, the youngest of the boys, with a roughish grin and a notable bowl-style haircut; Brigitta, the one who had missed the professor's call earlier, with long, black hair and hazel eyes that were wiser than their years; Marta, with brown hair, bangs, and a seemingly sweet disposition; and the youngest of them all, Gretl, with curly blonde locks and a shy but open face who failed to give her name.

By the time their introductions were through, Hermione was staring on, overwhelmed but charmed by each one of them. The children certainly seemed child-like in some respects, yet reserved and undemonstrative on the surface. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if their emotionless display was on account of the professor's militia-like fashion of running his household; or if, because of whatever their personal circumstances were, the children were growing up faster than they should.

Severus Snape disrupted the quietude that followed, and Hermione's inner musings, by stating in conclusion, "Miss Granger, these are my children." Hermione didn't miss the underlying warmth and affection to the professor's tone nor the slight smile that formed at the corners of his tight mouth. It didn't match the children's stiff stances or their lack of expression—at least, as far as first impressions went.

"This is your new governess," he informed the children's inquisitive faces, "Miss Hermione Granger. She will be overseeing your studies, and I'm counting on all of you to bring her up to speed on what you know.

"Miss Granger," he continued, with an acute turn of his head, "when I or the children need to call for you, here is your signal."

"Oh, that's hardly necessary, Professor—"

It was too late. Severus Snape gave a circular wave of his wrist and the whistle began to screech again. Hermione threw up her hands in protest. "I'm sorry, sir! No!"

The whistle went silent, but Severus Snape rebutted, "Miss Granger, this is a large house and the whistle saves valuable time."

"Why not just use your Patronus to message me, if you need to? I'd much prefer that to a—"

Severus Snape cut her off with a disagreeable hiss. "The whistle has proven a much faster and more effective tool, Miss Granger. I must insist."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I must insist otherwise! Whistles are for dogs, cats, and other animals, not for people! It would be utterly degrading to me to answer to one."

Severus Snape angled his head, and a grim line formed between his eyes. Hermione held her breath, wondering if she had just managed to sack herself. "Miss Granger," he breathed through flared nostrils, speaking deliberately slow, "were you this much of an objectionable nuisance at the Academy?"

Hermione knew she ought to be enraged but, instead, she smiled and shook her head. "Oh, yes, Professor. I'd argue that I was much worse."

Severus Snape said nothing to that. His lips formed a taut bind, and a hushed bout of snickering echoed from where the children stood. The professor seized the whistle from the air and, with an aggravated huff, held it out to Hermione to take. "Well, you are not the boss in this house, Miss Granger. You will take the whistle and do as I've instructed. You can make up your own call, if you'd prefer. Take it. Go on. The children can help you."

With much reluctance, and a disapproving frown, Hermione accepted the magical whistle into her possession. She had absolutely no intention of using it, however. A couple of the children giggled under their breaths, inspecting their new bold governess with intrigue and a covert wickedness that Hermione wondered was going to either work to her advantage or against her.

Then, to Hermione's added distress, Severus Snape abruptly made to excuse himself. Hermione tapped the whistle, which sailed into the air and whistled at her wordless command. Severus Snape swooped around, his sable locks settling like curtains around his harsh-looking face.

"Ahhh, I was wondering what your signal was, sir," Hermione said with a most daring grin that the professor didn't extend. He sneered most unpleasantly back at her.

"You shall call me Professor Snape."

With that, the professor swooped out of the room in a sea of black, billowing robes, leaving Hermione alone with the children. Her immediate, panic-driven reaction was to call him back, but her conscience stepped in before her nerves could get the better of her. You can do this, Hermione, it reminded her once more. Exude confidence, remember? Don't let them see that you're nervous.

The giggling in the room intensified as soon as Severus Snape was out of sight. Casting her attention back to the children, Hermione had a sudden understanding why they were laughing: the children were whispering to each other and pointing full-on at her head; or, rather, the leaves and debris still lodged in her untamed curls.

Hermione rolled her eyes and tried to ignore their tittering. The tension in the air was uncomfortable and the jumper Hermione wore now felt exceedingly heavy and itchy. She tugged at the collar and stepped forward, clearing her throat to earn their attention, and the children quieted.

Noting the military stances still in play, Hermione shook her head and smiled. "At ease?" They obeyed that command, though merely by spreading their legs apart and bringing their hands together in front of them. They didn't fully relax. "Erm, all right then... Shall we get started?"

Hermione wrung her hands together, stretching her smile as her hopeful eyes roved over each child's face. The younger ones seemed genuinely fascinated with her, but the elder ones outright glared or stared on with an air of disinterest.

Oh, bugger... You've got your work cut out for you, Hermione.

Then again, Hermione Granger wasn't prone to stepping down from a challenge.

A/N #2: Here we go...