Part 1

I am not pretty…never have been, never will be; there are times when I wish I were. Of course, I am not ugly, either. All my features are in proportion, despite the fact my breasts have begun to sag a bit. I have very nice eyes, I think, out of all my features, and nicely shaped lips. Honey or amber would be the closest word for my eyes, and my lips? Lips like a china doll's, pouting, plump and perfect. But for all those qualities, do I get asked out on a Saturday night? Absolutely not.

Everyone calls me Jane, although it is only my middle name, but somehow, after the War, the name stuck. I had encouraged it at first, the plainness of my middle name as compared to the weight of history my first name implied. Hermione Granger, war hero; Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's best friend; Hermione Granger, the brains of the Golden Trio…I began to hate my name. So, when I went to work in the Department of Mysteries, I asked my few co-workers to call me Jane, explaining that I did not want any sort of special treatment for my part in the War. Ten years had passed, and most everyone I knew called me Jane, there are some exceptions, of course.

My life since the first few years after the War, had been quiet, and I have arranged it meticulously so. My face had been splashed over the pages of the Daily Prophet far too many times; wild speculations about my life and my love life, were becoming more and more ridiculous as the months passed. I had left my parents to continue to live in Australia in anonymous safety. Mum and Dad had come to love the people and the climate in their town. Besides, all of their acquaintances in Britain had been Oblivated and could not even remember the Grangers had a dental practice… As for me, I stayed at the Burrow for a time, ignoring owls, ignoring Harry and Ginny's poorly concealed flirting, and ignoring Ron.

Ron…I had given in for two months to his advances. Our relationship was awkward, rushed, and unnatural to me. In the end, we parted on shaky terms, and I started on my way to a life of obscurity. That had been over eight years ago, and I have never returned to the Burrow or spoken to any of the Weasleys since. Occasionally, I will get Muggle postcards by owl from Ron. Ron travels extensively, part of an international organisation to rout any Dark activities following Voldemort's demise. It is a luxurious job, compared to mine. After Voldemort, many Dark organisations came to light, and ever since Ron has been on many adventures, many life-threatening adventures. I, for one, am glad to be done with it all.

As for the hero of the Trio, the last time I had seen Harry Potter was at his wedding to Ginny Weasley at the Burrow soon after Ginny finished her last year and passed her exams. By that time I had already begun to pull away from the life I had known. I had respectfully declined Ginny's invitation to be a bridesmaid, and I had slipped out of the reception early, dodging reporters, old schoolmates, and surviving Order members. I discreetly Floo'ed home, and stripped out of my dress robes, going to my desk to record the day and further my plans to remove myself from that world.

When I went through the interviews to begin working for the Ministry I had to submit to the Wizarding world's version of a psychological screening. The Healer was an ancient man who had screened thousands of Ministry employees, and I was relieved when my name did not stir any unnecessary notice due to recent events. After several hours of answering questions about my life, how I felt in particular about the War and Ministry regulations, the Healer sat back in chair and regarded me with yellowed eyes.

'Miss Granger, your aversion to interaction with society is disturbing. Obviously, you realise that this attitude is a reaction to the events of the past three years and your involvement in the War. However as disturbing the post-traumatic stress may be, you are of sound mind. The hurdles you have overcome have strengthened you, and your achievements in the academic field are extraordinary. That being said, I will not contest that you are well suited for the position in the Department of Mysteries…'

The Healer conducted me to the head of the Department of Mysteries, gentleman named Alexander Roux, and I quickly became the youngest Unspeakable in Ministry history. And that was that. It was one of the first steps toward a life of privacy. The next step came when I took up residence in the only existing Wizard-made structure inside the boundaries of the Forbidden Forest.

My home was an ancient hunter's cottage, nearly forgotten by the Wizarding world, but well-known to Hagrid. It had been Hagrid who had given me the cottage, after my asking him if there was place, a private place, where I would not be bothered by the press—they had left him alone, and so I hoped he could impart his method. Hagrid did not realise that I was asking for a place to live, thinking I only needed a place to escape. When I came to the cottage, however, I had all of my possessions in the pocket of a enchanted coat, and Crookshanks in his basket, dangling from my hand.

The cottage was set in a small clearing, only old wards keeping the Forest from devouring it completely in bracken and trees. It was an earth and wood structure, what seemed more like a Hobbit-hole to me than a cottage. There was only a few windows crusted with dust peering to the outside, and the wide door was low so that one would have to stoop to enter. Rising from the top of the earthen roof was a small stone chimney with vines growing over the rock. I remembered thinking that I had perhaps been too hasty to pile my entire life in my pockets and hands. I had already let my tiny flat in London for this broken-down cottage.

I stepped across the weak ward boundary, noticing immediately that the sun seemed brighter inside the small plot of land surrounding the cottage. I set the basket down at the door, noticing that the enchantments had kept the overgrown grass of what I would eventually call the garden from choking out the few flagstones that led to the door. I drew my wand, out of habit, and pushed against the red painted door, the wood as strong as it would have been when it was placed in the entrance centuries ago. The door opened with a low whine and I looked inside what was to be my new home.

Dust and cobwebs littered the main chamber, but with a quick flick of my wand, the room was cleaned and freshened, even the windows of diamond glass panes scrubbed. The quality of light that came in through the windows was marvelous: warm, and homey. There was a small kitchen in the back of the cottage, sparkling after another Charm, a stone island counter in the middle of the kitchen, a small cooking fire in the back, and to my surprise, a low back entrance to the cottage, looking out into the Forest. The smallest room was an ancient water closet, which also submitted to cleaning. But perhaps the loveliest room was the bedroom, which made me wonder if the cottage had been hunter's hovel or a lover's bower. The bed was much larger than any I had ever had, built into the wall so that one could only enter by one side. The opposite side of the bed was graced with a wide window of similar diamond glass panes, looking out into the deep shade of the Forest. An oak wardrobe took up most the space of the room besides the bed, carved with beautiful figures of animals of the forest, centaurs, Thestrals, and unicorns.

I breathed fast and heavy, so excited by what I saw that I had totally forgotten about Crookshanks and his pathetic mewls from the basket on the doorstep. I flicked my wand from one place to another, clearing the flue of the main fireplace and the smaller kitchen fire. I opened all the windows and let the air inside, I restored all the wood planking that held the low ceiling up, rescrubbed the stone floors, and I managed to squeeze another window, albeit small, into the water closet as well as updating the fixtures inside so that it was no longer a closet, but a proper bathroom with a sink and stone tub. It was then I let Crookshanks out, welcoming him to our new home. The animal took to the place immediately, curling up on an ancient chair before the cold fireplace.

The rest of that day, I fortified the wards around the cottage and tamed the grass so that it seemed someone cared. I unpacked my pockets, transfiguring the furniture as I saw fit, find no visible evidence left behind by a previous occupant. I began working the wards to make the cottage Unplottable, which expended a great deal of energy. I set up anti-Apparition wards as my last bit of work, before settling down before the fireplace and thinking of what I would have to do next.

And so, my life as a recluse began. Over the next few years my cottage was a piece of heaven in the Forbidden Forest. I made a point to know my 'neighbours,' the centaurs, and made a peace with them for being the only human living in the forests. I was allowed to move as I pleased as long as I did not disturb their herds or bring any attention from the outside world. The centaurs found me odd, but tolerated me and my magic. They did not know where the cottage was due to the wards, but knew to avoid that particular clearing although they could not see the cottage or the smoke from the chimneys.

I started a garden, herbs at first, then potion ingredients, then vegetables. I began exploring the Forest, finding, to my amusement, an old path leading directly towards Hogwarts. Who had made the path, and when, was a mystery, but it led underground and into the dungeons of Hogwarts. It was a hidden path, and I could see that it had not been used in many years, decades perhaps, but it became my personal path back to the world.

I had my Floo connected, and using my celebrity, although I hate to think of my life in that manner, I had my Floo unlisted, and connected for calls only. I was the only person keyed to use the Floo to travel, and any attempt by an outside party would direct them to the Leaky Cauldron or to the Ministry. It was like Muggle caller ID, in a sense, but it made me feel a bit safer. Post still came by owl, but with no address to send the letter to, only clever owls found the cottage; all others went to Hagrid's Hut or to Hogwarts where I would pick mail up on the weekends. I no longer subscribed to the Daily Prophet; I no longer cared. I went to work every day, Floo-ing directed to the ninth level, and when my day was done, I would Floo home, never seeing the upper levels of the Ministry except on rare occasions.

That has been my life: avoiding the masses. The only people I saw are those at work, those who call me Jane. The only people who still called me Hermione were Ron (in his notes), Hagrid, Minerva McGonagall, and Albus Dumbledore's portrait. I usually visited Hogwarts weekly, usually on the weekends to gather my post, and I usually had tea with Hagrid, or dinner with Minerva and Dumbledore in her office. I frequented the library late at night with the Grey Lady a.k.a. Helena Ravenclaw, and together we read. My late night visits had garnered me a reputation as a ghost among some students, and the castle ghosts bolstered the rumour for their own amusements. I supposed I could have been considered a ghost by the way I moved about Hogwarts, knowing all the secret passages, seen one place and then appearing in another. I had been seen on the grounds, near the lake, near the tombs of Dumbledore and Severus Snape, near Hagrid's Hut, near the Whomping Willow. I had even been sighted around the Shrieking Shack, but I know that bit of information is pure fiction.

Actually much about me those days was fiction. Hagrid informed me one winter day that the Prophet was running a series of articles about Harry and his defeat of Voldemort. Several photos surfaced, it seemed, of the last moments of the battle where Harry, Ron, and I were locked in an embrace of relief. I did not bother to look when Hagrid tried passing the paper to me. Hagrid had great, glittering tears in his eyes, but I only gazed out the window and to the lake beyond.

It seemed that Harry had decided to lead a life of obscurity, the Prophet had said. Harry had not been seen in years, and his wife Ginny was also unreachable for comments on the upcoming tenth anniversary of Voldemort's fall. When Hagrid told me of what the Prophet wrote, I did not think much of it. Harry had always wanted to lead a normal life, outside of the spotlight of any news venue. And it seemed he had…

It was February and in May it would have been ten years since that day… I do not think about it as often after so much time, and even though I traversed Hogwarts on a regular basis, the memories of what happened there did not torment me. I made myself walk along the paths I had taken that day…back to the Room of Requirement, back to the Shrieking Shack, back to the Great Hall. There were no lingering memories of the devastation, only the tombs of the two greatest Headmasters I had the pleasure of knowing in my lifetime. When I felt particularly maudlin about my life, I stopped by Snape's tomb, and sat against it, looking out at the Black Lake. No portrait had been painted of Severus Snape, but at times I could still hear his voice in my head, berating me, as always. As for the other headmaster, I only had Albus' portrait to talk to, and more often than not, we talk about my work in the Time Room.

Work.

I was glad it is over for me, for the day. It had been a long week, and I had several days off, at my request. I needed to find a new familiar, Crookshanks finally having left me earlier in that week. I felt no grief at his passing; he had been old, and he had been good company, but it had been his time… Time… I felt another sigh forming as I stripped out of my Unspeakable robes and hung them on the back of my office door, shrugging into my heavy coat. Stepping out into the black marble corridor, the office door melting back into the stone, I heard someone bid me a good weekend, and I raised my hand in thanks in the direction of the voice. I did not want to have to think about being nice to a co-worker at that moment. I could only feel a knot of dread in my stomach at the thought of going to Diagon Alley and to Magical Menagerie. I had to go out into the public.

My coat, one of my prized possessions, would shield me, perhaps. I stuffed my hands into the pockets, the left pocket Charmed to be bottomless. I could feel my change purse there, my wand, a packet of tissues, a few phials of Pepper-up, the latest book I have been reading, several quills and bottles of ink, smaller collection phials, a couple Sickles, Ron's last postcard, a pair of clean socks balled up, a parcel of clean clothes, a coupon for a free cone of ice cream at Fortescues' several years expired, and lastly, an emergency Portkey to the gates of Hogwarts. Hagrid had given me the coat years ago, not long before he realised that I had taken up residence at the cottage. It had been his coat when he was a boy, and on me, it looked like a heavy leather duster. It was waterproof, warm, and able to be Transfigured into anything I wanted it to be.

As I went toward the ninth-level Floo, making sure that everyone had left before me, I Transfigured the coat into a heavy dark grey cloak with a hood that effectively obscured my face and features. The only part that did not Transfigure was the bottomless pocket, which was hidden on the inside of the cloak where I could easily reach it.

I was satisfied, and immediately Floo'ed to the Leaky Cauldron. No one bothered to look up, for it was far too busy inside the establishment to notice a new arrival. Some of my dread lessened, and I moved quickly out the back, through the archway and into the crowded street. Was being able to weave through a crowd unnoticed a true talent, I wondered, making eye contact with no one, keeping my eyes to my boots on the street?

I squeezed into the Magical Menagerie and paused. Despite the cages of kittens and other cute animals outside the windows, the shop was relatively empty. It was not a holiday, and students were at school. I was not sure if I liked the fact the store was nearly empty or not. The few customers, milling about the cages, I did not recognise, so I ventured forward.

Ravens, some owls, rats (Merlin forbid!), Puffskeins, none of which I was hoping to buy. In one corner were a couple cages of cats, not kittens, mind, but kittens that had not bought before their cuteness gave out. That thought appealed to me, for some reason, and I went toward the languid felines, keeping an eye out for any orange, familiar fur ball.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

I tried not to reveal how startled I was when the proprietress with the thick black rimmed glasses stepped in front of me, blocking my path. I had half the mind to hex her, but remembered that I had to maintain some sense of social decorum.

"Those cats there, they are for sale?" I said with a bend of my head in the direction of the cages.

"Those old things? I would give them to you if you want. Too old to be cute anymore, none of the students wanted them in the fall…" the older woman cackled, making my hand begin to reach for my wand at the sheer improper volume of her voice.

Tut, tut, Jane…I heard a voice in my head drawl…Severus Snape's voice…

"I have just lost a dear familiar, very dear, too old to be cute," I managed to get out between my teeth.

The older woman stepped back, and I wondered if I had been too forceful. Maybe she recognised my voice; surely she couldn't see my face…could she?

"There's a couple half-Kneazles in the bunch, they are quite popular pets nowadays."

I blinked, taken aback. "Why's that?"

"Oh, a long time ago I sold that Granger girl one…it was mentioned in the Prophet when they did a profile about her a year or so ago…and ever since…well…"

I wanted to start laughing, to throw my head back and howl. I had become a trend for girls, it seemed, or at least Crookshanks had. I suddenly wondered how that old half-cat would feel about that…and I missed him.

"Interesting," I said, swallowing my thoughts. "I shall look at these."

The older woman finally moved away, calling back to let her know if I needed anything. I did not answer, but stood before the cages and the six animals inside, gazed back lazily, unperturbed. I pulled the hood back a bit to look in their eyes, some yellow, some green…but one half-Kneazle looked back at me with curious eyes, curious grey eyes. I focused on the half-Kneazle with the odd eyes and bent lower.

The half-Kneazle was barely a kitten, and how in the world no one would consider it cute, was anyone's guess. It was a male half-Kneazle, grey eyes, grey fur, marked more like a Siamese cat. Its fur was not as long as many of the other cats, but I knew immediately it was truly half-Kneazle. When I had first found Crooks, the connection had been immediate, sudden, and unexpected. I had almost forgotten.

I smiled as the cat stretched on his side and stood, coming to the door the cage, sticking his grey nose between the bars.

"Hello there, what is your name?" I asked softly, having asked the same to Crooks all those years ago.

I leaned closer, only recoiling as a clawed paw smacked the tip of my nose, not scratching me, but swatting at me playfully. I stifled a laugh as I poked at the outstretched paw, feeling only the tips of its claws in my fingertip.

"Want to live with an old, ugly witch?" I asked softly, reaching through the bars with my other hand to scratch behind the cat's ear.

A tiny meow was all it took. I pulled the half-Kneazle from his cage and cradled him in my arms. When his nose touched mine, I knew.

I paid only ten Sickles. If it had not been so cheap, I would have found it an outrage. This half-Kneazle was worth far more, but I did not complain. I carried my new familiar in my arms, my fingers finding his short coat soft and silky, so different from Crooks… This animal was slimmer, more suited for pouncing on a mouse than lying about in armchairs.

I knew I couldn't take him through the Floo, so I Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts, moving quickly onto the grounds just as the sun was setting. The grounds were snowy and frozen, and I half expected to see students outside playing, throwing snowballs, but there was no one about. Even in the Entry Hall, I met no one, but I could hear voices in the Great Hall, and knew everyone was tucked into a warm, hearty meal.

Making my way to the dungeons, I pulled my wand and cast a Lumos to light the way. My new familiar was gazing about, but did not struggle or make a noise. Deeper and deeper I moved, possibly being only one of a few to ever travel so deep. Finally, I came to a wet statue of a large troll, half life-size and stained with mildew. It was behind the troll that I would find the path home. At the light of my wand and a low utterance of my password 'girl's bathroom,' I was in the tunnel leading out and into the Forbidden Forest.

With a steady pace, it is a good hour's walk from Hogwarts to the cottage. It would take longer walking in the dark, since it was not a good idea walking about the Forbidden Forest with a lit wand. So I started, first, ending the Transfiguration of my coat so that I could tuck my new familiar inside the normal pocket where he could be warmer.

Snow littered the old path, but as the moon began to rise with its face half hidden, the path was a trail of silver through the dark trees. My breath came out in ghostly white puffs as I climbed a steep bank, the roots of a nearby tree my only foot hold. I was nearly home.

Coming upon the clearing, I felt a familiar sensation of magic: the wards I had placed to keep intruders from coming to the edge of the garden. I paused, glancing down at the animal in my pocket that was peering up with Sickle-like eyes. I stepped through the invisible barrier, letting the magic recognise me and the animal. My boots landed on the snow-covered grass and the wards seemed to breathe a sigh—the Mistress of the plot was home.

Quickly, I moved inside the cottage, locking the door behind me and pointing my wand to the fire so that it raged to spread heat through the small cottage. I set the cat, it being half-cat as well half-Kneazle in the armchair before the fire, as I doffed my coat and hung it on a peg attached to a support beam between the main room and the kitchen. I tucked my wand under my arm and went to the cupboards, a cooler in one, to pull out a bottle of milk. Soon I placed a saucer of warm cream on the hook rug before the fire and the cat jumped down and sniffed, before lapping at his meal. I sat in the now vacant chair and watched the cat.

"What should I call you?" I asked aloud, more to myself than to the cat.

As if in response, the cat looked up and regarded me for a moment, its silver eyes coolly assessing me and apparently finding me satisfactory. I grinned.

"Malfoy. You just gave me one of those glances…and you did not call me a Mudblood…" I laughed softly, resting my head on my fist, watching the cat lap up the milk.

"Malfoy. I haven't thought about him in a long time…"

The cat mewled softly, finished with his meal, and leapt up into my lap. I stroked his grey fur until he curled up in my lap to nap.

"I cannot remember the last time I saw that ferret. It doesn't matter though…he's probably enjoying some silly little life of prejudice and decadence…" I whispered, looking into the fire.

There were so many people I had not thought about in a long time. There were even those I had forgotten completely. When Hagrid mentioned names, it would take a long while for me to remember who they were… Maybe it was a good thing I was forgetting.

Malfoy, the cat, was proving to be a wonderful familiar, and perhaps that was due, in part, to his youth. Crooks was not young when I found him, and he was never as playful or so much company as Malfoy.

Malfoy liked the garden, and he liked stalking the wood mice, but never to kill, only to threaten. He watched me read, or curled up on my feet as I lounge on the fainting couch I installed two years ago against the wall near the fire. When I slept, he slept in the crook of my body whichever way I laid. He liked cream in the mornings, as much as I liked coffee, and for dinner, a can of tuna or salmon.

I was glad my new familiar had settled into my home so easily. The day came that I would be leaving him home alone, and I explained to him that many days would be spent alone. The cat only gazed at me coolly and glanced away in a haughty manner that just proved that I named him well.

I had two more days off. A warm snap allowed me to move about the Forest a bit, to gather some things I had promised for Professor Slughorn, things that the old man did not have the strength or bravery to acquire on his own from the Forest. I did not mind, Horace gave me books, books I would not have been able to acquire from the Library or from the Ministry. That day it is to gather aquatic moss from the many brooks in the Forest, used in various potions, but most prominently in Horace's version of a sleeping draught.

I dressed in my favourite pair of fatigue pants, thermal undershirt, oversized green jumper, American military issue mountain boots, and my old coat. Bidding Malfoy a goodbye, I left the domain of my home for the domain of the Forest.

In February, the sun rarely shone down through the thick branches of the trees, so there was thick snow on the ground. The wind was not so cold in the shelter of the Forest, but my cheeks and nose were cold and most likely red. The brooks were not frozen, but a month before, it would have been difficult to get Horace his moss. I left the path to places that perhaps I only knew, perhaps the being only human who knew such places. There were so many invisible lines in the forest, and I knew them all after so many years. There were places I did not go, and there were places that I often meet centaurs that would speak with me from time to time. I had to go near one of those invisible lines, and as I did, the brook in sight, I heard a whistle.

I must not move when I hear this call, so I froze mid-step and pulled my hands from my pockets. I could feel their eyes upon me; I could feel that they knew who I was and that I was unarmed. Two long whistles sounded after what seemed like minutes and I bowed slowly, pointing to the brook nearby. I was free to go.

After the War, no real effort had been made to soothe relations between the centaurs and Wizarding kind. The centaurs had been so helpful during the Last Battle, and only Firenze and a few others kept in constant contact with the Ministry. I, on the other hand, as a human, kept in contact with the centaurs, not as a Ministry representative, but as a concerned citizen of the Forest. It was an agreement made soon after I moved into the cottage—I would keep the centaurs apprised of the Ministry's intentions regarding the Forest and they would keep me apprised of any unusual movements in the Forest. For years there had been peace.

I stooped next to the brook and drew out a few empty phials from my bottomless pocket, uncorking the first of four and filling it with water. I dove my right hand into the freezing brook to grasp a clump of moss on the bottom. I repeated this process until all of my phials were full, and shoved them down into my pocket again as I rose. Glancing about, I bowed shortly again, and retraced my steps to the path.

It was a tedious process, at times, gathering stores for Horace. I pretended not to know what the ingredients were for. I never entered his office either, although every time I came by, he would ask. When he first realised who was stealing by his dungeon office door he pinned me down one night, demanding to know why I was in Hogwarts…did the Headmistress know? I explained myself, and then posed a thinly veiled threat that my comings and goings in Hogwarts not become public knowledge lest some unsavory details of his past be splashed across the front pages of the Prophet.

Horace called me 'downright Slytherin'…and I took it as a compliment.

It was not quite midday when I went into the underground passage. I wondered if I would be able to catch Minerva without being seen by the students. It was a weekday, and at midday most students would be at lunch, so perhaps…

Past the troll statue and through the dark I moved. There had been times, such as this one, that I did not need a wand to light my way. Every step had become habit.

There were no students about when I came to Horace's office door, knocking four times in slow succession so that he knew who was at the door. This way of knocking had also become habit.

When the door opened, it was to find a flustered Slughorn whose eyes were rimmed in red.

"Miss Granger, my dear girl, have you got the moss?"

I nodded, studying Horace's flushed face.

"You need to come in, my dear, this time you must!"

I frowned. Horace was always adamant that I come and have tea, but the tremor in his voice, the redness of his eyes, made me step inside, a knot tightening in my stomach. Something was not right.

I pulled out the phials before I got lost in my ruminations at Horace's condition and pressed them into his meaty hand. He thanked me quickly, setting the moss on his neat desk before ordering me toward the fireplace.

"Take the Floo to the Headmistress' office, quickly my dear!"

I blinked as Horace pressed a jar of Floo powder into my hand and shoved me toward the fire. I manoeuvred quickly and called for the Headmistress's office, twisting out into the room, finding almost all the professors, Hagrid, Arthur Weasley, and Neville Longbottom standing about the circular room. Whatever conversation had been going on stopped as all eyes fell upon me.

I had been tricked, I was sure of it. Was this some sort of intervention? How dare Horace Slughorn!

All of this slid through my mind, and immediately out of it.

"Hermione…"

I winced at the sound of 'that' name coming from Neville Longbottom, the Herbology Professor and deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts. He had grown into a handsome man, I had to admit, but I knew that he and Luna Lovegood had been a couple, albeit unmarried, on and off for the past ten years. I had not seen Neville since Harry and Ginny's wedding, making it clear to Minerva and Hagrid that I did not want Neville knowing I was coming in and out of Hogwarts.

Neville came forward, stretching out his hands toward me, and I, as silly as it seem, recoiled as if he were coming to attack me. My movement did not go unnoticed by the other professors, or by Arthur Weasley who moved next, calling me Jane, and not Hermione.

"Jane, my dear, it is good to see you…" he began.

Of course, Arthur would know that everyone called me Jane; he still worked at the Ministry and surely had seen the memos with my name…

At the sound of my name, my middle name, I relaxed slightly. Arthur had aged, but his face was still as kind as it had always been. I suddenly wondered why he was here…at Hogwarts.

"I wish the circumstances could be better, my dear…"

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly suspicious.

Hagrid blew his nose on a tablecloth sized handkerchief and look at me with watery eyes. He shook his great head and I felt my stomach plummet. I began looking around…Flitwick was there, Sinistra, Horace was in Floo-ing up behind me, causing me to step forward into the room…Neville, Hagrid, even Trelawney and Hooch.

"It's Minerva. She's…" Arthur began, resting his hands on my shoulders, staring me in the eye.

I shrugged him off, perhaps a bit too violently, and moved towards the stairs leading up to the private chambers of the Headmistress. But a voice stopped me in my tracks…

"She's gone, Miss Granger…early this morning. When she did not come down for breakfast, I had Dilys go up into the heath painting in her bedroom and check…"

It was the voice of Albus Dumbledore, his portrait hanging just beside the Headmistress's desk.

"How?" I asked, shock starting to penetrate the defences I had laid in my mind.

Albus shook his head and pulled his glasses from his pencil thin nose. "Uncertain. Poppy is up there now, preparing the…the body."

The hand I had laid on the brass banister of the stairs fell limply to my side. Suddenly the eyes that were upon me did not matter, and I felt myself begin to fall. I did not faint, but it was Hagrid who caught me from falling completely. I could hear some of the professors voice their concern, and I heard Neville begin to usher them out of the office, telling all of them to forget they saw me and tell nothing to the students, as he would make an announcement over dinner.

Hagrid held me tight before setting me on a chair…and I realised it was Minerva's chair, behind her desk…

"You alright, 'Mione?" Hagrid asked softly.

I couldn't move as I looked up at Hagrid, Neville, and Arthur. I felt like I was seventeen again, small and weak. So many of the old emotions washed over me that I felt nauseous.

"I was going to send an owl…" Hagrid started, but stopped, looking down into my face. I can only imagine what he saw.

It was a few more quiet moments before I could speak, and when I did, I was surprised at the venom that spewed from my mouth.

"Why are you here, Arthur?"

The men that stood around the desk glanced at each other, even Albus stiffened in his portrait, and I knew…I knew it was not just about Minerva. The old suspicious began to awaken, and I swallowed my own vomit.

Albus had said 'uncertain.'

Minerva was old, I knew, but not so old in Wizarding terms.

"There has been an incident, Jane…" Arthur began, glancing quickly to Albus. "Harry is missing."

I blinked once, twice. Those words meant nothing to me.

"Don't you read the paper, Hermione?" Neville asked, and I instinctually winced again. It was not just the mention of my name, but the tone Neville used.

"I do not, Neville."

My words came out thick, and I shoved my hand into my bottomless pocket and found a phial of Pepper Up. I tried to ignore the look Neville and Arthur shared as I downed the potion, but I noted that look in the back of my mind. The potion coursed through me, and I immediate felt better, my mind not as sluggish, and my stomach not as tense.

Minerva was dead, and I had to keep it together.

"Two days ago, Harry escaped from St. Mungo's. He injured at Healer, resulting in the Healer's death. No one has been able to track him, until today."

Arthur's voice was taut, as if barely able to contain some intense emotion. I narrowed my eyes…reading the space between the words.

"He was here?"

"We believe so. The authorities have been called, but we wanted to investigate first before they were called."

I closed my eyes and rubbed a hand over my face.

"Why was Harry at St. Mungo's, Arthur?"

My voice was calm, too calm, and when I opened my eyes, I could see that all four men, three living, one made of oil, were staring at me with fear in their eyes. I remembered these sorts of eyes, I remembered them when they looked at me at Order meetings, after the Last Battle when I advised that Voldemort's body be disposed of and stasis Charms be put on others so that the Aurors could sort out who had killed whom… It was the fear they had for me because I had not collapsed into a puddle of emotional goo. It was the fear they had for my strategic and, at times, cold frame of mind.

This was something I had been trying for a decade to avoid.

Our pasts always catch up with us, Jane…Severus Snape's voice said in a dark corner of my brain, the name 'Jane' spat out.

"Ron did not tell you?" Arthur breathed, running a hand through his thinning red hair. It was a question not really posed toward me, I knew. It was a type of accusation.

"Ron and I have not spoken in person for years, Arthur, and what contacts I have with him are through postcards. This fact is partly my own fault…" I conceded softly. "So, tell me what Ron didn't."

Perhaps it was the fact I was sitting in Minerva's chair, or perhaps it was my growing irritation that I had been discovered by so many people when I had relished my life of relative solitude…I didn't know…but I felt magic in my voice, and it burned my throat.

"A year after the wedding, Harry began displaying strange behaviours…" Arthur started. "It only got worse as time went on. Molly and I thought it was depression, post-traumatic stress, something manageable with potions."

I frowned, deeply. I could feel my face contorting.

"But it wasn't."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Once Harry struck Ginny, and that was the beginning of the end. Everything snowballed from that moment. He stopped going to work, and eventually he was suspended from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Ron tried to talk to Harry, but Harry wouldn't come out of his study. When the elves could no longer force Harry to eat or bathe, St. Mungo's was called."

I sighed. I could see it in my mind. Harry hitting Ginny, Ginny returning the Burrow, distraught…Ron going to the Potter house and trying to break down the door…Kreacher trying to bully or denigrate Harry to eat and bathe…and Harry…and Harry…

What was Harry doing?

"St. Mungo's evaluated Harry and declared him insane."

My body lurched, and before I could stop it, I was laughing. I couldn't stop it, I couldn't control the laughter that poured from me, and I couldn't stop the tears leaking out of the corner of my eyes. They all stared at me, horrified, even Albus…

Harry had been so sane even when he feared he was not. Even after Voldemort was gone and Harry left two of the Hallows behind. I still had the book, The Tales of Beedle the Bard... That book rested on the carved headboard of my bed… It was the thought of that book that made my laughter die slowly. I was wiping my face, hugging myself; surely I was the one who looked insane.

"Insane…" I said.

Neville glanced at Hagrid, but I could not read into that look.

"As in 'incurably?' Or was there a reason why my best friend was committed?"

The anger caved in upon me, and the venom returned to my voice.

Arthur tried to appear calm, but I could tell…I could just tell that he was trying his best to not let the fear consume him.

"It was…" he started, but quickly cleared his throat, "It was what one of the Healers called a post-traumatic psychosis. In Harry's case, the psychosis is fuelled by his innate magical ability. There is no cure, no conventional cure. Therapy and time were all St. Mungo's could see as an ultimate solution. But, something sparked the psychosis, and we still do not know what it was. And now, something else sparked this episode.

He has not been so violent before. When he hit Ginny, he immediately regretted it, but now he is so deep into the psychosis that he thinks Ginny is a First Year girl. He used to call me Dad, but he calls me Mr. Weasley again…"

Tears filled Arthur's eyes and he quickly yanked off his glasses before his tears clouded the glass.

As for me, I could only stare through narrowed eyes at the man. I knew that I had disassociated myself from the Weasley family, but surely…surely someone would have let me know that Harry was possibly permanently interred at St. Mungo's. I frowned.

"He escaped, when?"

"Two days ago. He managed to break through the protective wards and escape into Muggle London. He didn't have any money or a wand…" Arthur explained, his voice cracking.

"And somehow, despite all odds, he made it to Hogwarts? How?"

"We are not sure, Miss Granger, but I assume that his innate magical ability, coupled with his strong feelings for this school somehow brought him here," Albus supplied.

I sat back into Minerva's chair, hearing movement from the chamber above.

"What does this have to do with Minerva?" I asked, tiredly.

I was almost afraid to ask, but I tried to expect the answer I got.

"We believe that Harry might either be responsible for Minerva's death or have knowledge of what caused it," Arthur answered, the sorrow in his voice painful, for even me…

"How could he have slipped past the portraits in this office? Or the wards on Minerva's chambers?"

Albus shook his head, even as a painting, he seemed weary. I blew out a breath, ruffling a piece of hair that had fallen from my ponytail. I was very putout. I saved my sorrow at Minerva's passing for another time; it would have to be anger about Harry's situation that would propel my thoughts now.

"What has Madame Pomfrey determined so far?" I asked, my hands clutching the armrests of Minerva's chair…and suddenly I realised that the chair would shortly be Neville's. I turned my eyes to Neville and saw how stricken he looked, standing before me, his hands resting on the edge of the desktop.

"Minerva did not struggle. Or so it seems at the moment," Albus said with a sigh.

My thoughts whirled, and I rose from the chair and moved to the stairs before any of the men could stop me.

"I wouldn't, Miss Granger. The investigators will be here shortly, and only Poppy and Neville have been in the room. It would not do to have any trace of you in the room," Albus warned.

Ever the voice of reason, I thought with a mental snort. Albus was right. My involvement with inner workings of Hogwarts was strictly off the record. Surely I could think of an excuse to explain my presence at that very moment, as could Arthur Weasley, but in Minerva's bedroom…that would be harder.

"I assume that Harry's escape from St. Mungo's has garnered the Aurors' attention as well?"

Arthur nodded solemnly and Hagrid moaned in grief. Neville opened his mouth to speak, but closed it with a resigned snap. I ignored the urge to embrace the half-giant and again let my hand fall from the brass railing to my side.

"And I assume that Harry has not been found on the grounds?"

"The professors, elves, and paintings have searched, but no one has seen him," Neville said with a sigh.

I bit my lip. "Then how do you know…"

"The school's wards," Albus stated, regarding me knowingly.

I nodded. The wards were keyed to me the moment I moved into the cottage. I was aware that the ancient wards that protected the cottage were connected to Hogwarts, if merely by geographic location. However, the wards would not be keyed to Harry or anyone else that was not living on or invited onto the grounds. There was a process to the wards, and ten years had passed since Harry had lived on the grounds. Only a dim recollection of Harry would remain in the near-sentient wards, not enough to alert the school that someone 'different' had come and gone. After Voldemort, the wards had been changed for the protection of the school and the students. Although Harry would be welcome, his magical signature would be logged and filed as 'different.' The Aurors would see this.

"But you cannot be certain. It could have been anyone!"

I knew my words were falling on deaf ears, all in the room, even Hagrid, had already made up their minds.

"Where would he be now? Surely not Hogsmeade…"

My words died and my eyes fixed upon Albus'. Shit.

"With the additional wards, Miss Granger, I doubt it will be found."

Only half of me felt relieved, but the other half dug into the pocket of my coat for my wand. Just touching the wood made me feel a bit better, but I did not draw it out, yet.

"What are you talking about?"

Hagrid had not asked, for he already knew. Hagrid was not nearly as dim as most people thought, and through the years, he knew exactly when to keep his mouth shut.

It had been Neville who was now standing upright, his arms crossed loosely across his trim chest. He truly cut a handsome figure, but I could not help but despise him that very moment.

"It is of no concern, Professor Longbottom. Now, we should begin to prepare ourselves for the investigators, they will have questions, and possibly more information. Arthur, perhaps you should alert your family to some of what we have learned. Do not mention Harry's visit here," Albus instructed, his eyes twinkling even through the layers of oil.

"Hagrid, go to the gates: surely the Ministry will be here at any moment."

Hagrid nodded and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I tried to smile, but gave up quickly, only able to pat Hagrid's fingers before he left the office. Arthur left by Floo to leave Neville and myself to look at each other.

"Perhaps I should check with Poppy…" Neville said softly, apparently thankful to tear his eyes away from me. I stepped aside to let Neville pass up the stairs and out of earshot.

"Take care, Miss Granger. You know the Forest now, better than Hagrid. If Harry is there, I fear that he may find a spot of danger with the centaurs. He does not know the boundaries; he does not know the rules. If you should find him there, incapacitate him, and bring him to safety."

I scowled. Albus and I never had seen eye to eye, although I would never argue with a man who was my senior and had been far more experienced.

"He will be sent to Azkaban, insane or not, Albus."

Albus nodded.

"And if he has murdered…" I choked unexpectedly, near to vomiting. "If he had anything to do with Minerva, he will be executed."

Albus nodded again, his expression grave.

I felt my face contort and then it came—something I had been wanting to say for over a decade.

"This is all your fault."

His painted face turned away, but he did not nod. I sneered and moved across the office to the Floo.

"Where are you going, Miss Granger?"

Albus' voice was desperate, but for which reason, I did not know. I did not turn back, but stopped before the fireplace.

"Home. If the Aurors want me, tell them to send an owl. Have Hagrid send me one, as well, when the funeral arrangements have been set."

With that, I grabbed the Floo powder and threw it into the fire. Stepping inside, I called 'The Cottage,' and whirled, in a wave of green, home.