Chapter 1: One For Sorrow

Although every day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was magical, the first day of the new school year was by far the most enchanting. Anticipation crackled through the air. Within the grey stone halls of the ancient castle, the sounds of fevered activity rang forth as house-elves and staff prepared for the onslaught of students. The long slumber of summer had finally ended, and the building shimmered as if waiting for the living and learning that would soon take place inside.

Without a doubt, today was Hermione Granger's favorite day of the year. It didn't matter how much time had passed; the start of a new term still made her feel like skipping. As she made her way toward the Great Hall, she admired the suits of armor lining the walls—just last week they'd been dull and dusty, slouching idly against their swords and shields. But today they stood at attention, gleaming and proud, the sun from the open windows glaring off their shining breastplates as she passed.

Once inside the Great Hall, she watched in silence as the Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, flicked her wand at the ceiling in a series of complex motions. When she'd finished, the massive enclosure perfectly reflected the sky outside: a brilliantly clear blue without a single cloud in sight. Hermione had always loved the effect of the ceiling, but she had never before witnessed the enchantments being performed. The smile on her face fled when she lifted her gaze and saw an enormous Thestral fly overhead.

One for sorrow, she thought, remembering the old rhyme Muggle children sang to count magpies. She wondered if there existed an equivalent in the wizarding world for counting Thestrals but dismissed the thought at once. Children shouldn't be able to see Thestrals. Except, of course, for all the children present at the Battle of Hogwarts more than fourteen years ago. There were a great many who could see Thestrals after that fateful day in May. Too many.

McGonagall's crisp voice broke into her thoughts. "Ah, there you are, Hermione."

Hermione lowered her gaze from the enchanted ceiling. For reasons beyond her comprehension, she was always pleased by how little Minerva McGonagall had changed since the first time she'd seen her. As a child, the stern face and uncompromising disposition had nearly terrified her, but the consistency of her demeanor proved quite comforting now. "You asked to see me, Headmistress?"

"Yes," replied McGonagall. "I would like you to escort the first–years into the Hall for the Sorting tonight." A rare smile bloomed on the normally severe face.

Hermione knew it was a privilege to be trusted with such an important task. "I'd be honored to."

"You have proven yourself admirably in the past three years. I've received nothing but praise from parents and staff alike. So, it's settled then: our Potions professor will lead the Sorting this year."

"Thank you, Headmistress. I look forward to it." Hermione hoped McGonagall hadn't noticed the way she had started when referred to as the Potions professor. Though she'd worn it for a few years now, the title still caught her off guard, like glimpsing herself in a mirror the first few times after a haircut.

With a new lightness to her step, Hermione left the Great Hall and made her way to the Potions classroom in the dungeons. There was still a great deal of work to be done prior to the start of term tomorrow, but as she set about her tasks, she couldn't stop her mind from recalling the strange journey that had brought her back to Hogwarts.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, life had slowly returned to some semblance of normality. The remaining Death Eaters had either fled the country or been sent to a fully restored Azkaban. The long process of grieving had begun, and there had followed a blur of funerals and memorials, of visiting families and offering condolences, of tears and nightmares.

Hermione had retrieved her parents from Australia and reversed the charms on their memories. They'd been shocked to learn what she had done, and the novelty of having a witch for a daughter had lost a considerable amount of its charm. It had taken only two tales of Voldemort's terror to convince them of the wisdom of their relocation, and she had spent the rest of the summer savoring their company, aware of how lucky she was to have them when so many had lost entire families.

McGonagall had been appointed headmistress of Hogwarts, and a directive had been issued for all students to repeat their existing year at the next term. It had been determined that the students' education during Snape's stint as headmaster was not up to Hogwart's usual standards, what with the Death Eaters roaming the halls and the curriculum's focus on the Dark Arts. The decision had also helped those forced into hiding during the deplorable Muggle-born Registration Act of Dolores Umbridge and her supporters.

To say the decision had not been popular with the student body would have been a gross understatement. Hermione had been quite alone in her agreement with the edict, eager to finish her education properly.

Ron had spent the entirety of seventh-year grumbling. His constant whinging on the unfairness had soon pushed Hermione beyond her limits of tolerance. Although they had considered themselves a couple throughout seventh-year, they had spent most of it bickering. Without the intensity of their Horcrux search—and the constant fear of death awaiting them around each corner—their relationship had regressed to what it had been before: one of semi-tolerant friendship.

When Ron and Harry had begun Junior Auror Training, Hermione had travelled to Poland to simultaneously attend the Muggle university in Krakow and the magical Jagiellonian University hidden beneath it. As a caveat to her attendance at Hogwarts, she had promised her parents many years earlier that she would attend a Muggle university.

It had been an easy commitment to make when she'd been eleven, but the fulfilment of the promise had proved difficult. Knowing she would be woefully behind all the other non-magical students—a sensation she'd never been comfortable with—she had spent seventh-year cramming her head with Muggle knowledge. She had been glad for the tremendous workload. There had been no room in her mind for grief, and exhaustion had kept the nightmares at bay.

With the help of Professor Flitwick's Reddo charm, she had learned an effective tool to comprehend and speak a foreign language. McGonagall herself had produced enchanted Muggle transcripts for Hermione's entrance into the Krakow University. The headmistress had even made special arrangements to secure the use of the sole Time-Turner owned by Jagiellonian.

"I support the decision to honor the commitment you made to your parents, Miss Granger," McGonagall had told her at the end of seventh-year. "But you cannot allow your magic to languish whilst you pursue your Muggle studies."

That Poland was not far from Bulgaria—and the home of Viktor Krum—had not escaped Ron's notice and had contributed to his constant foul mood. And although she had remained uninterested in Viktor, the effort required to soothe Ron's ruffled feathers had soon outgrown her desire to remain committed to him. By the time they had finished school and had prepared to embark on their post-Hogwarts journeys, she had told him, "Perhaps some time apart will do us good."

"Yeah, maybe," he had said. "Let's just see how it goes."

The first several months had passed with the exchange of a few letters, but he hadn't seemed at all heartbroken over their separation. The realization had provided her more relief than sadness, and the lack of emotion on both their parts had confirmed the death of the relationship, as lost as their childhood. Perhaps it had been yet another casualty of the Battle of Hogwarts.

She had remained friends with Ginny Weasley and had later learnt that Ron had left Junior Auror training after five months. He'd never been devoted to his studies, and no one was surprised when he'd moved to London to help George at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. Ginny had said he was much happier there, and Hermione reckoned it was a good solution for both brothers.

Harry had also left Junior Auror training early, though for very different reasons. In typical Harry fashion, a chance encounter had somehow led to his meeting the Athletic Director of the Wimbourne Wasps. The Wasps had had a decent Quidditch team that year, but they'd been in dire need of a Seeker. One thing had led to another, and soon Harry had been playing Quidditch professionally. He'd been instrumental in England's subsequent win at the Quidditch World Cup. He and Ginny had married on his twenty-first birthday, and the couple had had three children together.

Hermione had continued her magical coursework with a concentration in Charms and Transfiguration, but halfway through her university career she discovered that her studies at the Muggle university were impacting her magical thinking. She'd done well in the Muggle chemistry classes and had found herself surprisingly adept at many of her scientific studies. Even as a child, she had loved the preciseness of science, the endless quest for proof, and the free exchange of ideas.

She'd risen to the top of her science classes at the Muggle university when something strange had happened: her work in Potions had begun to dramatically improve. No one had been more surprised by this than Hermione. She'd always been competent in Potions, but no one would have accused her of being particularly gifted. All that had changed as she gained more knowledge on the microbiology of various species. She began to see the ingredients and processes of her potion-making in an entirely new light, understanding reactions on a molecular and sub-molecular level.

The Potions master at Jagiellonian University was a large bear of man named Mikolaj Brukowski. He'd been famous for the invention of Bru-Bier, a popular Eastern European beverage that was similar to butterbeer but a good deal stronger than anything found on tap at the Three Broomsticks. Hermione's sudden improvement in his subject had seemed to impress the old wizard, and she'd soon become his personal protégé. By the end of her fourth year at university, Hermione and Brukowski had jointly published two papers in the prestigious Bibliotheque de Remede Europe & Worldwide (BREW): one on their discovery of an additional four uses for dragon's blood, and another on a potion-brewing methodology that had rocked the wizarding world and had even garnered them a small feature in the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet.

By the end of her sixth and final year at university, the duo had again gained notoriety for the now-famous "Brukowski-Granger Principle," a complex theory combining various elements of magic and science, set to revolutionize the world of potion-making and medicine. Unfortunately, there had existed a great many 'old-school' wizards who had publicly protested against anything that might change the established methods, especially when it blatantly included Muggle scientific theorem.

The Brukowski-Granger Principle had created a bit of an uproar for a time, but the attention had faded when most wizards and witches had been either unwilling or unable to devote themselves to learning the science required to put the Principle into practice. Still, Hermione had been quite proud of her work and everything she'd accomplished while at university. She even believed the controversy had been a good thing. Encouraging the wizarding world to enter into a debate on such things had been a step in the right direction.

Her success at Jagiellonian University had earned her several lucrative offers for employment after graduation, and finding herself in such demand had been a heady experience. It had been Mikolaj Brukowski who had ultimately helped her choose the direction in which to take her career. When she'd initially approached him for advice, he had encouraged her to give serious consideration to a position offered by the Ministry of Magic. But less than a week later, he had seemingly changed his mind.

"I hope you are not taking my advice to work for the Ministry of Magic seriously, Hermione," he had told her quietly. "You must realize I was playing a joke on you."

Hermione had been shocked: in the six years she'd known Mikolaj Brukowski, he had never struck her as the joke-playing sort. He had never once even teased her.

"I'm sorry," she'd said. "You were … what?"

His dark face had flushed with embarrassment—another first. "Yes, it was just a joke. You must of course pursue the offer from Arglist Industries."

She had searched her memory and had recalled that Arglist was a private research facility in Eastern Europe with significant financial backing.

Brukowski had confirmed this by adding, "They are well-established in Germany and Austria, and they have a large facility in England, which would suit you, no?"

She had nodded absently and had promised to think about it. But as she had turned to leave, Brukowski had stopped her.

"No, Hermione! Do not just 'think about it'," he had hissed, eyes darting around the room. "I strongly advise you to accept their offer."

He'd sounded so desperate that she'd had no choice but to give him a solemn nod and promise to take his advice seriously.

Seemingly satisfied, he had patted her arm and had said, "Good girl."

She had dismissed the encounter, and only in retrospect did she realize his odd behavior should have been a warning.

If only I'd known, she thought now. Tension crept down her neck, tightening her shoulders.

If only she hadn't dismissed Brukowski's strange insistence. Perhaps then she wouldn't have accepted the position at Arglist. Perhaps she wouldn't have been so blinded by the amazing facility, by the intoxicating enticement of running that cutting-edge lab all by herself.

Perhaps then she wouldn't have—

CRACK!

Hermione jumped when the glass phial in her hand exploded into dozens of jagged pieces. Blood ran through her fingers and dripped onto the table. She shivered at the unexpected but appropriate correlation. Blood on her hands…

"Hermione!"

She jumped again, then uttered a curse. From the door, Neville Longbottom stared at her, his face awash with worry.

"Are you alright?" He pointed at her bleeding hand. "Do you need some Dittany?"

"I've got some, thanks." She aimed her wand toward the storeroom while muttering an Accio charm, and a small green bottle floated towards her. She checked the label, satisfied when she read, 'Tincture of Dittany – MILD' written in her own precise handwriting. Another wave of her wand removed the remnants of broken phial and excess blood from her hand and bench. She was relieved to see the cut wasn't bad, and just one drop of the Dittany tincture instantly sealed the wound with the tiniest puff of green smoke.

Neville still watched her, his expression grave.

"Just being careless," she assured him. "I must be overly excited about start-of-term tonight." She offered what she hoped was a confident smile.

"That's why I came to see you," Neville told her, his concern lifting. "I just heard that you're in charge of first–years tonight. Congratulations, Hermione. Well done!"

"Thanks!" She beamed a genuine smile at him now, the pride she'd felt from McGonagall's earlier announcement returning. "I was delighted; it's such an honor."

"Ah, you deserve it. You've done brilliantly here. I mean, I've been here ten years, and I'm still not as comfortable as you are," he added with a laugh.

She tried to assure him that she was just as scared of meeting all the new students as he was.

He looked a tad doubtful, so she added, "As soon as you get into your greenhouses, you are completely in your element. You're a wonderful Herbology professor. I would have been thrilled to have had you for a teacher, and you know how picky I am."

He blushed at her praise, but she hadn't said it simply to be kind. Neville truly was gifted in Herbology, and it was wonderful to watch his ever-present doubt melt away the moment he entered the massive greenhouses of Hogwarts.

Hermione hadn't been at all surprised to find Neville at Hogwarts. After leaving school, he had spent a few years touring the Magical Gardens of Europe before returning to Hogwarts to start an apprenticeship with Pomona Sprout. When Pomona had decided to retire, Neville had become a full-fledged Professor of Herbology. His appointment had coincided with Hermione's acceptance of the Potions master post, so that they were both officially introduced as new professors just three years ago.

Three years, she marveled. Had it really been three years since she'd left the horrors of Arglist? At times it seemed as if a lifetime had passed since she'd fled her beautiful lab in the middle of the night, running blindly with no destination, no plan, nothing but an overwhelming need to escape—from Arglist, and from herself.

With a shake of her head, she realized how glad she was to be here, poised to begin her fourth year as Potions professor. She'd even begun to allow herself to feel happy again, daring to hope that one day she might no longer be haunted by the mistakes she'd made at Arglist.

"I hope I'll be back in time for the Sorting," Neville said. "I'm taking a quick trip to St. Mungo's before the Feast."

She frowned. "I thought you always went on Sundays."

"I do," he confirmed. "But I didn't get a chance to go yesterday with all the preparations for start-of-term." He looked decidedly uncomfortable for a moment and then added, "Not that they'd notice if I wasn't there."

She gazed at him and nodded, uncertain of whether or not he'd welcome her sympathy. He rarely mentioned his parents, and she knew it was unwise to push. She suspected he had taken it very hard when Molly Weasley had deprived him of the chance to avenge his parents by eliminating Bellatrix Lestrange.

"How are your parents, Neville?" she asked him quietly. "And how is …"

"Snape?"

"Yes." She swallowed. "How is Professor Snape?"

He shrugged. "Same as always." As if wanting to reassure her, he hurriedly added, "The Healers at St. Mungo's treat him really well."

"It's very good of you to visit them every week."

He blushed again when she patted his arm. He really did have a noble heart. And he'd grown into a surprisingly handsome man. It was amazing he was still single.

"Well, hopefully you'll make it back in time for the Sorting," she said, "but don't despair if you're late. Perhaps Minerva will let us play with the Pensieve, and you can watch from my memory."

The thought seemed to cheer him. He chatted a bit longer before departing for Hogsmeade, where he could Apparate to London and St. Mungo's. And, eventually, to Severus Snape.

Hermione's stomach clenched as it always did when she thought of Snape. It was perhaps appropriate she'd just seen Neville, because it had been Neville, fourteen years ago, who had spoken about Snape with the words that had first turned her insides to ice.

It had been several hours after the Final Battle, after the defeat of Voldemort, and after Harry's decision to return the Elder Wand to its rightful place. Witches and wizards had been coming and going all night, but Hermione had found an opportunity to separate herself. She'd felt strangely compelled to retrieve the memories that Snape had given to Harry. She had just removed the last filament of thought from the Pensieve where Harry had left them when McGonagall and Filius Flitwick had entered, trailed by Ron, Neville, and Harry.

"What are you doing in here, Miss Granger?" McGonagall had asked, but before Hermione could answer, there had arrived several officials from what remained of the Ministry, along with dozens of portrait occupants. Everyone had spoken at once.

Information had been at a premium in those first hours, and it had taken some time to sort the facts from the rumors. And all the while, flocks of owls had been swooping in and out, carrying urgent missives while issuing plaintive hoots.

Hermione had glanced at Neville, who had been sitting in a corner scratching his head while he had stared at the walls of the office. "Where's Snape's portrait?" he had asked her. And although he had spoken the question quite softly, everyone in the room had somehow heard, and everything had gone quiet.

She had searched the walls, frantic to find the familiar sneer. A cold fear had spread through her body. Had they made a terrible mistake? He'd been dead when they'd left him in the Shrieking Shack. Hadn't he?

Her eyes had met the piercing blue gaze of Albus Dumbledore's portrait, and a moment of understanding had passed between them.

"Headmaster?" she'd whispered, desperate for the old wizard to offer any other explanation for the missing portrait.

"It should have been here by now," he'd informed them all gravely. It could only mean one thing.

Severus Snape was still alive.

There'd been a great rush to the Shrieking Shack, where they'd left him so very many hours earlier. She'd had only a brief glimpse before Flitwick had Apparated him to St. Mungo's, but the image of his lifeless form lying prostrate on the floor would be burned in her mind for eternity. There had been vivid red fang-marks on his neck, covered in drying blood that had seemed to also cover the floor and his hands where he had earlier tried to stop the bleeding. The dark crimson had provided the only color to be found on his ghostly white body.

At that moment, Hermione had been sure they'd all been wrong. Surely it was not possible for any life to remain in that corpse on the floor. There simply had to be some other reason his portrait hadn't appeared in the headmaster's office. His short tenure, perhaps, or the fact that he had been installed by Voldemort, rather than through a legal vetting process.

But a faint pulse had been found when Snape had arrived at St. Mungo's. After three weeks and several rounds of treatment with pure Essence of Dittany, his wounds had begun to heal.

He had survived the snakebite, but no one had been able to hazard a guess as to his prognosis. Since Nagini had been harboring a piece of Voldemort's soul when she'd attacked, very Dark Magic had been at work within him.

As the months had faded into years, he had remained unconscious, existing in what had reminded Hermione of a Muggle coma. The Healers at St. Mungo's had never seen anything like it. They had coined the term 'semi-Petrification' solely to describe his condition: a bizarre sort of unconscious immobility. He appeared to have been frozen in time. His body had not aged, his muscles had not weakened. But unlike standard Petrification, the lack of sustenance had not resulted in his death. Yet.

Even the most skilled Healers had been baffled, completely unable to predict whether he might someday awaken, succumb to death, or remain in a state of stasis forever.

The revelations about his true loyalties and the amazing role he had played in the downfall of Voldemort had soon become public knowledge. Within a year of Voldemort's defeat, he had been exonerated for Dumbledore's death and pardoned for all previous crimes. His name had become legendary, and he was still celebrated throughout the wizarding world as a hero.

Initially, visitors had flocked to the hospital. Fourteen years without any sign of hope had eventually disheartened even the most zealous of supporters, leaving Neville as his only faithful visitor. Neville had made a habit of visiting his parents at St. Mungo's each Sunday, so adding a stop at Snape's bedside wasn't an altogether huge inconvenience for him. Others had found the task of chatting to a non-responsive body rather daunting, but Neville had solved this by using the time to peruse the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet, reading certain bits aloud.

Hermione had visited a few times but had never been able to speak to Snape. The guilt over having left him in the Shrieking Shack for so long had mingled with shame for failing to notice his missing portrait. And then there were the memories she had removed from the Pensieve. She had kept them safe for many years, but the temptation to view them had been a factor she had not been fully prepared to deal with. She couldn't predict what he would do if he ever learned she had possession of such intimate recollections.

The visits are best left to Neville, she assured herself.

From the storeroom, she retrieved a bag of obsidian chips and began to sort them by size. The black stones glittered in her hands like a turbulent, midnight ocean. She stared at the pieces, but in her mind she saw only the dark, accusing eyes of her former professor. The thought of never again seeing that familiar flash of anger in those eyes filled her with a sadness that was as surprising as it was intense.

"Why are you still lurking about in the dungeons, woman?"

She gazed across the room to where Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway. After three years of working together, she was surprised and pleased to count him among her friends. The years had been kind to him, and although he still resembled his father, his frequent smiles made him appear more attractive than haughty.

"Have you descended from your tower to fetch me?" she asked.

She had been shocked when she had first heard Draco had become a professor at Hogwarts. The knowledge that he had chosen to teach Divination, of all things, had completely struck her dumb.

"Perhaps," he answered and sauntered to her desk. "Will you promise to be nice?"

"Oh, I'm certain you can divine the answer to that," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "And me without my crystal ball. Be a love and brew me some prediction potion, will you?"

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Nice," he chided. "Very adult."

She encouraged his banter, finding it balanced the drastic leap in maturity he had experienced since his stint with the Death Eaters. She suspected the events leading to Voldemort's defeat had had more of a life-changing impact on Draco than on anyone else.

After the war, a short trial had sent both his parents to Azkaban. His mother was released after two months, but his father had spent more than two years in the wizarding prison. Draco had escaped prosecution and had returned to Hogwarts for his final year a much quieter and subdued young man.

He'd become a keen observer of others and approached Divination with the premise that the answers one seeks already lie within, and one need only learn the proper tools with which to divine them. Hermione was actually quite impressed by this, although she'd never admit it. She still viewed Divination as a very imprecise branch of magic.

Stowing the obsidian with a flick of her wand, she said, "I'm ready. Let's get this over with."

"Nice try, Granger."

"What?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"Don't pretend you're not practically jumping out of your skin with excitement over bringing the first–years to the Sorting."

"Oh, that!" She laughed. "Yes, well… it is rather exciting, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is!" he agreed. "A grand occasion."

Their footsteps echoed through the dungeon hallways. "How are Luna and the little imps?" she asked.

His face broke into a smile. "Wonderful, as always. Luna owled to say Niobe has found a nest of armor-headed pinticklers," he said, referring to one of his twin five-year-old daughters.

"What's an armor-headed pin—"

"Don't ask," he begged. "I haven't yet had the heart to tell her they're just Flobberworms."

She chuckled. Perhaps even more surprising than his career choice had been his marriage to Luna Lovegood twelve years earlier. Leave it to Luna to see something in Draco that everyone else had missed. Hermione was impressed by their obvious devotion to one another. Their twin daughters, Niobe and Nemma, reminded her of paintings she'd seen of angels; their long, platinum hair and serene smiles seemed almost otherworldly.

"Nemma set fire to the curtains again last week," Draco said. "The ones in the drawing room this time."

"Oh, dear." So much for the angelic notion.

They had almost reached the Great Hall. Hermione smiled a greeting to the other professors who had gathered in small groups to chat before the castle opened its doors for the new term.

"What about you?" Draco asked quietly, studying her. "Any summer romances that set the house on fire, so to speak?"

"I spent the summer with my parents, as you well know. Other than a torrid love affair with my father's herb garden, there was nary a romance to be had." She kept her tone light, unwilling to confess the way her current stretch of celibacy had begun to niggle at her. A relationship had been the last thing on her mind after fleeing Arglist. But perhaps the very fact it had begun to bother her was a sign it was time to start dating again.

"You should start dating again," Draco said.

She hated when he did that. Pretending to pout, she said, "There was only one Slytherin for me, and he's already taken."

"Sadly, I am but one man," he agreed with a sigh.

"I was talking about Goyle."

He snorted. "Well, we can't have you pining away the rest of your life. You should get out more. You know, you're not unattractive."

She held her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. "Be still, my heart."

"Stop that," he said. "I realize I was quite rude to you when we were younger, teasing you about your awful hair and your giant teeth."

"Wow. You sure know how to compliment a woman."

He frowned. "I'm trying to apologize."

"I think you should stop before you hurt yourself."

"Do you want me to tell you you're pretty or not?"

"Not sure I should risk it."

"Fine," he said. "Anyway, you have a mirror. No need to state the obvious. You know; I have a few single friends. I could introduce you …"

"Do they possess your obvious talent for flattery?"

He smiled. "They haven't been married for the past dozen years: no doubt they are far more skilled than I."

She patted his arm and said, "Thanks, I'll think about it."

He watched her for a moment, as if considering whether to pursue the matter further. Finally, he asked, "However did you manage to tame your hair, by the way?"

"Ah, I wish I could claim credit for it," she said, "but I had to pay a small fortune to a witch in Paris for this. I never could figure out how to replicate the Charm." Not that she hadn't tried for a full year, stopping only when she'd run out of volunteers and had nothing but a bald Kneazle to show for her efforts.

"Surely you're not having troubles with a Charm?" asked a high-pitched voice behind her. She turned and smiled down at Filius Flitwick.

"Yes, the one that permanently smoothes hair and—" she began, but Flitwick cut her off with a wave.

"Ah, yes, cosmetology Charms can be some of the trickiest," he agreed. "No time for that now, though. It is time for you to greet the first–years!"

She heard the returning students before she saw them, hundreds of voices combined in a unique symphony of shouts and conversations, cat-call whistles and sing-song greetings. The older students entered the Great Hall first and made their way to their appropriate House tables. Hermione was touched when several students smiled and waved at her. She hadn't known whether or not she would enjoy teaching, but she had found the past three years unexpectedly rewarding.

In a side corridor, she stopped at the top of a sweeping staircase and awaited the first–years. She heard the shuffling of feet below, the noise rising as they made their way higher, past the first landing, before stopping beneath her, eyes wide as they tried to drink it all in at once.

We were never that young.

How easily she could remember her first glimpse of Professor McGonagall at this very spot, all sharp features and austere manners. Hermione knew she could never make a similar first impression, so she tried for scholarly instead. The little faces before her swiveled left and right, one minute staring at the portrait occupants waving down at them, the next watching with mouths agape as a House ghost floated by on its way to the Feast.

After a moment, all whispered conversations ceased, and their attention rested solely on Hermione. For the benefit of those unaccustomed to seeing a real, live witch, she had taken great care in dressing and wore long, black robes with a rich burgundy lining. She had chosen one of her more ridiculous hats, adorned with tiny shooting stars that winked and sparkled from the base all the way to the tall, pointy tip.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" she said and abandoned her serious expression for a smile.

Several of the children smiled in return.

"As you will spend the next seven years in this castle," she said, "I recommend you carefully study the book Hogwarts: A History, so you may fully appreciate your new surroundings."

A gangly girl near the front of the queue removed the book from her robes and showed it excitedly to the boy standing beside her. He did not seem impressed.

"In a moment," Hermione said, "we will enter the Great Hall, and you will be Sorted into your Houses. While you are at Hogwarts, your Houses will be like your family: you will dine with them, room with them, and take classes with them." Some of the students exchanged fearful glances, and she wondered what sorts of friendships and rivalries had already been formed aboard the Hogwarts Express.

"Your House will be awarded points throughout the year for your achievements," she continued, "and points will be deducted from your House for any rule-breaking. At the end of the year, the House with the most points wins the highly coveted House Cup."

There appeared a calculating gleam in the eyes of some children, and she didn't have to guess which House they would end up in. Which reminded her …

"The names of the four Houses are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and—"

Her speech was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps running down the corridor behind her, the walls echoing with the pounding of boot against stone. Several first–years tried to peer around her to see what was causing the noise, and Hermione issued a huff of disapproval.

She whirled around, eyes widening when she spotted Neville racing towards her, his arms flying out from his sides as if a thousand Dementors pursued him.

"Her … Her … Hermione!" he shouted and panted as he ran.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Peeves the Poltergeist hovering in a doorway. "Neville, slow down!" she warned. "You're going to—"

But it was too late. With perfect timing, Peeves flung a piece of chalk into the corridor just as Neville's shoe met the ground. He was airborne at once, arms flailing and hands clutching wildly for something to grab onto, which, unfortunately, turned out to be an enormous suit of armor made for a mountain troll. The resulting crash had the first-years covering their ears as it reverberated along the walls.

The Great Hall emptied. Headmistress McGonagall rushed forward with a look that would have intimidated even the bravest of knights.

"It's alright, Neville," Hermione said as she helped him to his feet. "The Sorting hasn't begun yet."

He shook his head and seemed to struggle for each breath, making her wonder if he'd run the entire distance from Hogsmeade. She removed a small phial of Calming Draught from her robes and urged him to drink.

The effect was immediate. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough Calming Draught in the castle to counteract the effects of his next words.

"He's awake," he said.

The ground shifted beneath her feet. She didn't require the clarification, but he seemed compelled to offer it, looking first at McGonagall and then back at Hermione. "Severus Snape is awake."