Chapter One: White Heather

21 December 2001

Dear Professor Snape,

Perhaps I should no longer call you that. You haven't been my teacher for four years. I don't know how I would refer to you if not by that old, familiar title. I call the rest of my former teachers by their first names, but I'm not sure I could ever call you Severus. I have to laugh when I imagine your reaction to such familiarity. We never were familiar, the two of us.

I suppose it doesn't matter what I call you. You can hardly care anymore. You're dead. Probably.

Horace Slughorn is dead as well (definitely). His passing is much more recent than yours: the lingering effects of a curse he took during the Battle of Hogwarts. Since I was in my second year of being his apprentice, I'm covering his classes for the remainder of the year—and only the remainder of the year. I'm not coming back next autumn. Following your lesson plans and helping the students limp along through their OWLs and NEWTs is fine, but as you know, I have no real talent for Potions. I can follow directions, but I lack that creative spark and instinct. I've spent the past two years trying to prove otherwise. It's time to stop lying to myself. Time to find out what I really want to do with the rest of my life. Also, if I am forced to endure another term of trying to prevent students from causing fatal explosions, I may end up murdering the lot of them.

Minerva has taken me along on interviews to offer my opinion of my potential replacements. So far, none have been suitable. The other day, I found myself thinking that one applicant's fingers were too short and stubby, his hair too light. As my objections had nothing to do with his skill, I was forced to face the truth: I could not imagine him as Potions Master of Hogwarts simply because he is not you.

I don't know why I continue to write these letters. I don't know why I keep desperately searching for you in the face of every tall man with dark hair. Perhaps because your survival remains an unanswered question, and you know how I've always felt about those.

It's not as if you would be pleased to know I mourn you. You would sneer and call me sentimental or mawkish or—worst of all in your eyes—Gryffindor. You would give me that glare you always shot my way when I waved my hand in the air and sought your attention and approval. That glare is so wrapped up in my introduction to the magical world. It's hardly any wonder that Hogwarts doesn't feel like Hogwarts without it.

Yes, yes, I know. Typical, sentimental Gryffindor. Sorry, sir.

This has gone well beyond the zero inches of parchment I'm sure you would have requested if you'd had a say in the matter. As always, I hope you are at peace.

And thank you, with all my heart, for everything.

—Hermione Granger

The low winter sun glinted off of the grey stone memorial as Hermione approached, letter in hand. The breeze that whipped her curls around her face stung her cheeks and made summer feel years away.

Hermione stopped in front of the place where her former professor's name was etched above his list of (possibly) posthumous honours. In that spot, propped up against the stone, were the bloody lilies.

Literally bloody. Red spelled out accusations such as murderer or traitor on the white and pink petals. The memorial had long ago been charmed to protect it from being vandalised. One person had chosen to circumnavigate the charms by placing his hateful graffiti on the flowers that shared Harry's mum's name. It had caught on.

Hermione snorted. Three years since Snape's (likely) death, and still the bouquets were all those who wished his name struck from the memorial thought to leave. She might not have truly known him, but she knew enough to be certain he would have loathed their lack of originality more than their intended insults.

Except, perhaps, for the petals that said coward. He'd never been able to tolerate that particular lie.

Hermione transfigured her letter for Professor Snape into a sprig of white heather. Something that flourished in acidic conditions. It was for luck and protection, unless her memory failed her. If she could, she would offer him protection from the hordes of lily bearers. Not that he'd ever needed her protection. It had always been the other way around.

"Hello, Granger," a familiar, drawling voice said.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Hermione gave him a brusque nod. "Malfoy."

Draco moved to her side and gave a drooping lily blossom a nudge with his polished shoe. "Unimaginative." He stared at Hermione's offering of heather with an inscrutable expression. "How often do you come to visit?"

"More often than he'd like, I'm sure."

"Once is more often than he'd like most people to visit him." Hands in his pockets, Draco smirked at her. It wasn't the icy, calculating smirk of old. He smirked like he knew her.

She'd caught him doing that, once or twice, when they'd met in Diagon Alley. Sometimes he gave her a curt nod and moved on, barely able to make eye contact. That had made the most sense; she could see why he'd struggle to face her after the events at his family's home. A few times he'd glared at her as if he'd had the breath knocked out of him and replaced by pure anger. Once, at a charity ball in aid of war orphans, he had asked her to dance. He ran hot and cold, and she didn't understand what made him flip back and forth.

Hermione shrugged to herself. She'd stopped trying to work out his motivations in their sixth year.

"It's unfortunate that his nose was forever captured in stone," Draco said, pointing to the engraved portrait of Snape.

Hermione scowled. "There was nothing wrong with his nose."

"If you say so."

Crossing to the far end of the wall, Draco traced his fingers over the letters of Charity Burbage's name. He'd seen Professor Burbage die, hadn't he? Something about the former Muggle Studies professor had come up at his trial. Hermione couldn't remember the details—if she'd ever known them to begin with. Those days were all a grief-soaked blur.

Draco conjured a bunch of yellow zinnias and tucked them safely beneath Professor Burbage's name. Somehow, the moment seemed too intimate to watch. Hermione looked away and occupied herself with vanishing the lilies.

"I guess I'll see you at the Ministry this evening," she said once every last petal was gone, eager to make her escape.

Draco studied her for a moment before giving his response. "Yes." He cleared his throat when his voice came out rough and choked. "I wouldn't miss it. Later, Granger."

As Hermione strode back towards the battle-hardened castle, she didn't see Draco bend to cast Finite Incantatem on her bouquet. With a smile that would have looked fond on anyone else's mouth, he read her letter.

Parvati waved at Hermione as the latter wandered into the Hospital Wing. In spite of flicking her wand over a young Hufflepuff who had somehow managed to grow himself a sixth finger on his left hand, Parvati was already wearing floaty, deep purple dress robes.

"Are you looking forward to the ball?" Hermione asked with a chuckle.

"I'm looking forward to a break," Parvati said. "There you are, Mister Emerson. In the future, I would advise against performing unfamiliar charms with your non-wand hand. Try to refrain from undoing my work on your way back to your common room."

The boy scurried away, flexing the repaired hand. Parvati's gaze followed him with an exasperated expression that was so like Madam Pomfrey, it almost made Hermione laugh.

Madam Pomfrey herself came striding out of her office and regarded her apprentice with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Lovely robes, Parvati. I hope you've charmed them to repel vomit and blood if you're going to wear them for the rest of the afternoon."

Parvati gave an airy wave of her hand. "This isn't my first day. Of course I did."

"I knew I'd trained you well. Hello, Hermione." Madam Pomfrey tutted. "You're looking a bit peaky, dear. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine, thanks. I just came to check your stock levels," Hermione said. "How are you doing on Pepperup?"

"A little low now that cold season is in full-swing, but I'm perfectly capable of brewing more myself. Go on, off to your quarters with you. Take a nice bath, eat a proper meal, and try to relax for a while."

Relaxing when her future was entirely undecided was not in the offing. Getting her pulse below a hundred beats per minute when she didn't know what direction her career would take was equally out of the question. Hermione would attempt the long bath and the food—preferably with the company of a thick book that had nothing to do with Potions.

"Toast doesn't count as a proper meal, for the record," Parvati said.

Hermione grinned. "I'll go, but only because I cannot stand here and listen to such lies."

The enormous bathtub was Hermione's favourite part of Snape's quarters. She still thought of the rooms as his. No one else had inhabited them between his residence and hers. Slughorn had demanded larger rooms. The Carrows had been put up in the chambers for visiting professors near the Headmaster's office. Hermione could understand why he'd wanted to place those two where he could have kept a closer eye on them.

A swish of Hermione's wand sent water flowing from the taps. Unscented. She'd had enough of scent that day. The path down to the dungeons had been a minefield of students who thought perfume that assaulted nearby people was the perfect accompaniment to formal attire.

As she shrugged free from her outer robes, something in the pocket made a thunk against the tile floor. Strange.

Using her wand, just to be safe, she levitated the mystery object out of the folds of black fabric. It was a small book—not much bigger than her hand—bound in a silver cover that had tarnished with age. A phoenix decorated the front, its intricate tail feathers wrapping around the side in a latch that held the book shut. Hermione had never seen it before.

Ginny's misadventures with books from unknown sources sprang to mind. As the current Defence teacher, Bill and his years of experience as a Curse Breaker were only a Patronus away. In spite of knowing it would take a matter of minutes to find Bill in the castle, Hermione began casting her own diagnostic spells. Suppressing her curiosity had never been her strong suit.

Spell after spell revealed nothing malicious about the book. Hermione frowned. Taking it to Bill for a second opinion was the prudent thing to do, but she trusted her own spellwork, didn't she?

She risked a glancing touch with a fingertip. Nothing. Working her thumbnail beneath the catch, she let the book flap open. A sharp tug pulled at her heart. Everything swirled into whiteness and screeching and squeezing.

When Hermione stumbled onto something solid and was finally able to refocus, only one thing had changed about her surroundings: a pale man who bore a striking resemblance to a young Severus Snape stood at the sink with a towel slung low around his waist, looking ready to kill her on the spot. Hermione barely heard his deep baritone over the roaring in her ears.

Notes: My beta for this fic is the wonderful Vitellia. I messed around with this chapter a little after she returned it to me; any errors are all mine. I'm aiming for weekly updates with this fic, likely on Thursdays.