Summary: [HG/SS] AU:Crack, Hermione wasn't supposed to get murdered by a troll. She was supposed to spur on Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and become their friend and thus keep them alive through multiple trials. All of Dumbledore's carefully laid out plans tank as Hermione Granger embraces a new life, thanks to none other than Severus Snape.

Beta Love: The Dragon and the Rose, Dutchgirl01, Flyby Commander Shepard

A/N: Inspiration is a strange creature. Why is it that it's so easy to start a story but a hundred times harder to finish it?

A Touch of Death

If you don't deal with your demons, they will deal with you,

and it's gonna hurt

— Nikki Sixx

As Severus Snape looked at the gore-soaked lavatory, he knew the troll had had his day—

A crumpled, bushy-haired body lay underneath the remains of a shattered sink, her wand still clutched in her small hand.

The troll had died, his innards expulsed with a messy, advanced level spell driven by panic and pain, but not before the brave little witch had paid the price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He knelt beside her, cradling her as she struggled to breathe. Her breaths came in short gasps as her eyes closed in pain.

Her time was nearing—

He could feel it in his bones.

The air chilled as his true form emerged— twisted talons and wings so large that they touched each side of the room. A wolf-like skull replaced his human one.

Time slowed.

Stopped.

She was looking at him, her eyes very wide.

Fear, most likely.

No—

Her tiny hands touched his skull-like face, wrapped around his mane of oily hair.

"Professor," she whispered. "You're so beautiful."

Beautiful?

"Will it hurt?" she asked, her head resting against his chest.

"No, child," he said quietly. "Not while you are with me."

"I'm glad you're with me, Professor," she said. Her breaths were coming slower, her diaphragm struggling to exchange the air she needed by force.

"I'm scared."

"You were very brave," he said, touching her cheek lightly with his thumb. What a waste of a young life, a soul. He truly regretted having been unkind to her. He regretted a great many things.

His vigil over Albus Dumbledore had led to one regret after another since the day he had died—

Tearing, scraping, biting—

Bleeding out of every orifice.

"You may pass into the next life, Severus, or you may serve a different sort of purpose— something lacking in the life you were given. This choice must be yours. I can only point the way. You must step toward it or away."

His master— his true master— would approve of Miss Granger.

Her soul was bright, her magic powerful. She was untrained, yet magic answered her call in her most desperate moments, even when her peers could not.

She had no peers.

She was alone— an island.

She tried desperately to fit in only to stand out among them as a swot and a know-it-all.

For all the good it had done her—

"You wish to save this soul?"

"It would be a great waste, Master, to let her pass."

A dark chuckle filled his mind. "Compassion from you, Severus. How rare."

The presence in his mind solidified. "You know the way. You know the words. But she must choose it herself—our Dark, underappreciated memory of life."

Severus pressed his skull-face to the small witch's pale face. "Death is no end, child, but it is not the path that all must choose. For some, there is Oblivion. For some there is the next life. For others there is the between, a place neither living nor dead. For a very few, there is one more option: to choose service to Him— the Great Balancer. He-Who-Walks-the-Lonely-Path."

"You may choose what Path you wish to take. The path beyond. The path to another life. The path to the End. The path where all choices remain— or the Path of Service to my Lord and Master."

Hermione's eyes were half-lidded, but a strange sort of calmness settled about her. "You chose Service."

Severus cocked his head. "Yes, child."

Her expression was serene.

"You're far older than you appear."

Severus frowned. How could she know?

She touched his bone-face, the warmth of her hands like the sun's radiance. "You're not alone anymore." She closed her eyes as she pressed her head against his. "I choose the Path of Service— with you."

A low, rumbling chuckle filled the lavatory as a dark mist began to seep out of the floor and walls.

"Breaaaathe in, my daughter," the voice rumbled. "Breaaathe it in… Your. New. Life."

The Dark vapour shot up her nostrils even as she breathed in. Her eyes rolled back into her head as her small body convulsed. Blackness spread swiftly throughout her veins and arteries, painting her pale skin black.

"For you are now the daughter of Death," the voice rumbled. "And none shall steal you away from me again."

Severus' ear twitched. Again? Surely he had heard that wrong.

He held Granger's body as the tendrils of the Underworld claimed every cell, every bit of energy, every spark of life and made it anew.

Her body shook violently and exploded into particles—

And the wisps of the Beyond wrapped around them and drew them back together, reforming, tightening, joining—wings, claws, fangs, and so many things not human—things that lived in the Hereafter and the low-and-below.

Things that twisted in the place between worlds, between spaces, between lives—

And Hermione Granger took her very first breath— reborn anew. "Severus," she whispered, the howls of the great hounds of the Underworld baying in whispers of her voice.

"Hermione," Severus replied, his eyes so very black. "Welcome Home."

Poppy called it attachment disorder.

Minerva called it a traumatic imprinting.

Albus kept trying to affix Hermione Granger back onto Gryffindor— to place her with the imbecilic Potter and Weasley, right where he had originally wanted her to be—

But none of them knew, not really.

There would be no return of that Hermione Granger— the impressionable, hand-waving, naive, little swot.

That Hermione Granger was dead.

Hermione— and it was so much more in the name than any of them could possibly say with a human tongue— had been reborn in blood into the Get of Death.

And Death was not letting her go.

All attempts to separate her from Snape's side and return her to Gryffindor made her lapse into a catatonic state—

But they could hardly know the truth.

Every time she was parted from his side, she lapsed back into the Realm of Death— learning, growing, evolving.

At his side, she was allowed a bit of her childhood returned.

It had been much the same for him back in the day after Lupin had murdered him.

He had laid for many long months in the Hogwarts infirmary where he was believed to be "almost dead."

But when he woke, Severus Snape had not been the boy he once was. He had lived years untold, learning the trade of his Service and how short-sighted he had been for so long.

They feared he would be a werewolf.

They feared he would die.

Most of all, Albus had feared that Lupin would be outed as a werewolf and that he would be blamed for it.

They feared Snape would rise as a werewolf and tear the school apart—

But Severus Snape the troubled boy had died, and death cures all ills.

What woke up in the infirmary bed had not been the same Severus Snape.

Dumbledore had managed to sweep it all under the rug, somehow, but at that point Snape didn't care anymore. He now served his true Master— and had a whole new purpose.

And a clueless Albus had played right into it— swearing Snape so easily into becoming his spy, his agent, his— slave.

And the Dark Lord only cared for power, and he hadn't lived long enough to do much else.

No, the true manipulator in the game was Albus, and his Lord and Master knew him as He-Who-Would-Control-Death.

That was what Albus truly wanted, after all— to bend time to his will and rewrite that which had once gone so horribly wrong.

Crash!

Severus looked over to find Hermione looking terribly guilty.

The gaudy old red vase that Albus had given him lay shattered to bits on the flagstone floor.

"Ten points to Slytherin, my dear, for ridding me of that Merlin-forsaken eyesore."

Hermione smiled toothily, all fangs and utter sheepishness as she folded up her wings.

It was really hard getting used to wings. He remembered taking out more than a few vases in his time.

And planters.

And bookshelves.

A few owls.

Nothing was safe, really.

At least Hermione had a safe place to learn such things— with him.

Oh, the irony of it all. Him as a safe place— hah.

Yet, he would make it so for her, for she was as bound as he was to their Lord and Master. Only she—

Was free.

Unbound to the petty whims of Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, she could do what he could not—

She could DO what he could only dream of while forced to live out the life of Severus Snape, the ex-Death Eater—

She leapt into his arms and laughed joyously, her wings flapping madly as she mastered teleportation, appearing and reappearing in a wisp of smoke.

She looked into his eyes with such wonder and eagerness.

A knock at the door sent her flapping away into her chambers, her wings taking out an antique silver candlestick on her way out.

Severus pinched his nose and sighed, opening the door.

"Minerva— how very expected of you."

"Severus," the feline Animagus greeted calmly. "How is she?"

"In her room, Minerva. Probably sticking her nose into a very large book," Severus said, gesturing to her quarters with a dismissive gesture.

Minerva sighed, sitting down uninvited.

"By all means, do make yourself at home," Severus snarked, his lip curling. Nosy old cat.

"Albus is still hoping she recovers enough to return to Gryffindor with her friends."

"What friends?" Severus asked, eyes narrowing.

Minerva's eyes widened. "Surely she does have some friends amongst her fellow housemates, Severus!"

It didn't take a mind reader to know that wasn't true, Severus knew. He'd seen that in his potions classes, as clear as daylight.

"Albus pushing his dreams upon you, Minerva? No, she does not," Severus said irritably. "She herself told me as much."

"I—" Minerva stared at her hand which was clawing absently on the chair's much-abused arm. "I had no idea, Severus."

Snape's lip curled. "Gryffindors are a mob, Minerva. They think quickly, rampage quicker, and make their decisions like a squall. Only the exceptional stand out in Gryffindor, and those tend to be the like of bullies or ostracised thinkers— which do you think she was? Or you, Minerva?"

Minerva, to her credit, was no fool. She had often had her eyes clouded by Albus, but he was an exceptionally practiced hand at such things. The elder witch seemed to slump in the chair. "I've failed her."

"No, Minerva," Severus replied quietly. "The house system failed her. The Sorting Hat failed her. Bigotry failed her. Expectation failed her, but not you. However, where the system has failed her, I will not. I will teach her everything she needs— one on one where she will flourish."

Minerva shook her head. "Surely you see that she is unnaturally attached to you, Severus."

"Are you implying I would do anything inappropriate with her?"

"No! Gods—" Minerva shook her head, aghast at the very idea. Then she slumped again. "I'm just saying that it was totally out of the blue. I mean—"

"No one affixes themselves to Severus Snape," he finished her thought, his voice heavily laden with bitterness.

"Severus, I didn't mean—"

"Get out, Minerva," he said stonily. "Come back when you no longer feel sorry for yourself that one of your beloved cubs actually might have chosen to be under my care."

"Severus, please," Minerva pleaded.

"Get. Out."

Minerva fled the room with heavy footsteps.

Severus sank down into the armchair, utterly weary of the fact that his accustomed role always seemed to place Minerva in a difficult position.

"Severus?" Hermione bounced back in, his name— his real name— singing with her real voice.

"Hn?" He turned, unable to keep the smile off his face as she held a lovely Hel-flower in her hand. It was gloriously fiery bloom that twinkled with magic.

She thrust the flower into his hands. "I made it for you!"

Something deep within his soul melted. "How about we go for a fly, hrm? We can plant it where no one will bother it."

Hermione brightened. "Okay!"

There was a time, so very long ago it seemed, when another bright, trusting witch wanted nothing more than to show him everything. But even she—

Lily had never touched him.

Hermione's simple yet generous touch was enough to heal something deep inside himself that he hadn't realised was still bleeding.

"I choose the Path of Service— with you."

Had he placed his faith in the wrong young witch? Was one so young able to make such critical decisions so early in life?

Soon, her childhood would fade, and the lessons she learned in the Netherworld when her eyes closed would seep into the here and now. She would be as he was— a Mortefilii— one of Death's "children."

But for now, he could give her a childhood— things he was never allowed. Protection he never had in life. Shelter that he was never given—

For Death had been the one to give it to him in the place between worlds as his body had lain on the edge of death, so he would in turn give it to her: a taste of mortality's gift before it was burned away.

Childhood for those like them was fairly short, but that didn't mean it couldn't be meaningful or memorable.

As her small hand clasped his, he realised that trust was real, and he had it at last.

Flying had two key points to instill in the learner: getting aloft and staying there.

Their wings were built for catching the wind and keeping their mass aloft. Once there, it was easy— getting there took some work, much like a goose trying to use a body of water as a runway to get itself aloft— or an albatross.

A drunken albatross.

Fortunately, magic helped them fling themselves off high places, and their magic was not squelched by jinxes and other such mortal rot.

At first, Hermione nervously clung to him like a baby bat, holding tight to his body as though one false move would send her tumbling off into the lake.

By the time an hour had passed, however, she was easily flipping and twirling around him, brushing her wings against his as she frolicked in the air— always making sure to touch him with a wing as she went by.

Hermione had learned how to cloak herself with an almost eerie ease— the tendrils of the Netherworld wisped around her at her beck and call with a natural grace he had lacked. He had had seven-odd years of experience with human magic to limit his boundaries, but she did not.

He told her she could, and she believed him.

Had he been anyone else, it would have been foolish, naive.

She trusted him, even before binding her fate to the Get of Death. How precious it was— how extraordinary.

She learned like no one he had ever taught. She was so eager, needing only the tiniest bit of approval to send her soaring into enthusiasm. There was no limit she heeded if only he would ask it of her.

How refreshing— such a soothing balm to his very soul.

And it wasn't that Death did not trust him, for of course He did. It wasn't that Death did not give fairly to him, for he gave much more than anyone could possibly believe. But Hermione gave something unexpected: faith.

She believed in him, even when his past was as checkered as it came, and by the gods above and below he would strive not to disappoint her.

She crowed and zoomed by him, her wings brushing against his with the lightest of touches. He smiled and gave chase.

Two could play at this game.

"Severus?"

"Hn?"

"Why does the Headmaster keep trying to get me to go back to Gryffindor Tower?"

Snape sighed, rubbing the space between his eyes. "He believes you are the key to keep Potter and his side-kick alive."

"If they'd stop breaking all the school rules, maybe they'd be in less danger."

Snape snorted. "There is that, but the Headmaster seems to think he needs your influence."

"They hate me."

"Hn. It happens."

"Did people hate you too, Severus?"

"Often if not always."

"I don't hate you."

"You are— an exception to the rule."

Hermione frowned. "The rules are stupid."

"Tut. There is nothing wrong with rules— some of them are simply inane."

Hermione smiled.

"Severus."

"Hn?"

"Do you think Father is happy with me?"

Snape snorted. "Of course He is."

"He hasn't told me what he wants of me."

Snape sighed. "Come here."

Hermione snuggled into him, sighing contentedly as his wings wrapped around her.

"Enjoy what life has for you for now, Hermione. Our Father's Will can wait until it is the right time. He allows you this. It is a gift. You will have a long time in His Service but only one childhood. You needn't rush it."

Hermione snuggled in closer. "You'll be here, right?"

Severus combed her bushy mane with his talons. "Always."

He found her cradling a dead owl near the owlry, and he felt her grief that the owl was so young and barely even fledged.

She sniffled, using her claws to dig a grave by hand, forgoing the use of wand or magic. She dragged the earth until it was in a neat pile and lay the poor owl in the hole, placed a small bunch of wildflowers over it and used a smooth stone from the shoreline for a marker.

"Honoured Lord Father," she whispered. "Please take this brave young owl into the beyond, for he has attempted flight far too soon. May his path to Your Domain be swift and peaceful."

She bowed her head, her talons moving across the owl's body, and the blue-white soul gathered there. "Peace be upon you, little friend," she said, and the ball of soul zoomed into the beyond with a soft whoosh.

She gently moved the earth into the hole and patted it down.

She said nothing more, but she walked right into his arms, trembling as her emotions flared. "It hurts."

He held her close. "You did very well."

She clung to his robes as his wings moved around her, pulling her tightly against his body.

He said nothing more, but she did not either. By the time they walked back to Hogwarts, her tears had dried but her grasp of her hand around his fingers remained like steel.

If anyone noticed, they did not dare say anything about it.

Flying lessons, at least on a broom, did not go well.

As hard as he tried to ease her into it, Hermione's unease with straddling a broom was already deeply seated.

The irony was thick considering how natural she was when using her wings.

She heard the snickering coming from the castle windows as they watched her, and she flushed with shame despite how hard she was trying to get the hang of it.

Bloody Gryffindors.

Why was it always Gryffindor that were the first to heckle?

Perhaps, he admitted, Slytherin would have been first had they not feared for their lives.

Apprenticeships were a sacred bond, and even the lowest Slytherin would never dare to insult the apprentice of a master— for to do so would bring the wrath of the master down on them.

That was something no one in Slytherin wanted, for it would have been completely and utterly sanctioned by the Ministry to magically wipe the floor with them.

And he would have— if he even suspected that any of her tears were because of a member of his house.

To take on an apprentice was to take them into your magic— to adopt them on a level where their magic was united with your own. Oh, but she was far closer than that— but none of them knew it, no. Let them believe it was some ancient human magic. Let them fear for his wrath for all the wrong reasons.

He wondered what the best approach to dealing with the hecklers—

Human ears would not have heard them.

Well— they wouldn't have heard the words quite as clearly as they did. He could hardly quote back what they whispered to each other ten stories up—

Bother—

He couldn't very well comfort her out here in front of Merlin and everyone, either. Too many eyes watching—

Just as Hermione was trying again to hover on her broom, Minerva's fury-filled Scottish tones echoed down from the high windows.

"You think that this is proper behaviour?" her voice seethed. "Standing around, whispering your petty little judgements to each other as you ridicule another student? Did you think that I would not notice? Do you think it is perfectly acceptable if they are not of your house? You would be wrong."

Minerva's voice took on the tone that was unmistakably furious. "Every single one of you loses ten points each for your ridicule and spite, and every single one of you will serve detention with Professor Snape for the next week, and if I hear even one more spiteful whisper like I heard today, I will add another week to everyone's punishment. Now all of you will immediately march yourselves back your dormitories until your next class. Get. Moving. Now,"

Hermione gave a whoop of glee as her broom took off like a jet, and she went shooting off over the lake.

Well, then, Snape thought with a knowing smirk. Nothing like a little justice to inspire her to fly.

He summoned his broom with one hand and took off after her.

Severus tried very, very hard not to cast a number of unforgiveables when Sybill Trelawney groped his arse as she proclaimed him to be the only one worthy of her attention.

"Remove your hand from my posterior at once, Professor," he hissed at the ridiculous shawl-swathed witch. Her bug-eyed amorous look was enough to curdle his dinner, and his dinner had been digested hours before.

"Oh, Sevvie-rus, don't be like that!" Sybill gushed drunkenly. "No one else is here. You don't have to pretend anymore!"

"You smell like the bottom of a sherry bottle," Snape snarled, jerking her hand off his rear with a sharp yank. "You're disgusting."

"Aww, Shevruss, you know I'm the only one who truly undershandsh you!" She fell upon him, her hands groping his arse from both sides.

"PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY!" Severus roared.

"Yessssshhh, my LOOOOVERRRR! Say my name with your shenshual Shyfferin voish!"

Suddenly the floor began to seep billowing clouds of black smoke, and it swirled and twisted around their feet. Dark canine shapes pulled themselves out of the floor, growling, snarling, seething—

Tendrilly shapes coagulated right on top of the snarling hell-beasts, eight legs and far too many eyes glowing, glowing an eerie yellow-green in the shadowy dark hallway.

Trelawney screamed in terror, falling flat on her arse as she scrambled backwards on her hands and rear. She rolled onto her belly and pushed herself up, struggling to rise and run—

Failing.

Flailing.

Shrieking at the top of her lungs

Pissing herself.

She ran, slamming into walls in her haste to flee as the hell-beasts bayed and their hell-spider jockeys gave chase.

And she ran.

And ran.

And kept on running far into the night.

Severus turned and walked into his quarters and closed the door behind him. Hermione stood there in her flannel pyjamas, toothbrush in hand and her mouth full of toothpaste suds.

"Too much?" she asked, her voice somewhat muffled by the toothpaste.

Severus tilted his head back and laughed out loud—

And laughed…

And laughed.

"No, my brilliant little witch," he purred. "You were absolutely perfect."

Hermione beamed at him, her mouth still full of suds, and then she scurried off to finish her nightly hygiene.

He neatly caught the poor candlestick that she had smacked with her wing and sent flying across the room.

Snape's smile was pure wicked satisfaction. "Oh, Albus. You have no idea what you have inadvertently unleashed upon the world with your twisted little schemes and manipulations. But for one loosed troll you let wander about a bit too long—my Lord and Master has gained both a daughter and a means to your own end. I do hope you're ready."

Severus extended his talons, petting one of the returned hell-beasts on the head. "I know I am." His tongue slid along his fangs.

End of Chapter One

A/N: Back to work *cry* Don't wanna! The Dragon and the Rose is back to slap me around and make my grammar heel. Praise her!