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Hermione paused, which caused the pair of Slytherin firsties she’d caught out of bed after curfew to run into her.  There was something…something she could just barely hear…

She shook her head.  They were just down the corridor from the entrance to the Slytherin common room.  “On with you,” she said.  “I need to report to Professor Slughorn.”

Not that he would do anything about his wayward students.

Sure enough, the brief conversation with the new Head of Slytherin House was full of empty platitudes and cheerful reassurances and…not much else.  The man was about as substantial as fairy floss, for all he’d helped to rally the residents of Hogsmeade during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Hermione, Head Girl and war heroine, had no time for such men.  Not even as a teacher.  She’d seen too many good teachers, now, to be able to identify the bad ones; while Slughorn was vastly more personable than Professor Snape had been, he lacked the conviction and presence she was used to in Potions.

Perhaps it was just her prejudice.  After all, the younger years seemed to be getting on well enough in Potions class.  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how Professor Snape would have handled a pair of his Slytherins out of bed…

It didn’t matter.  The man was dead, had died right in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

She blinked away tears with the ease of practice.  Thoughts of Snape always swamped her with regret: regret that she hadn’t tried harder in class, that she hadn’t been nicer to him when she had the chance, that she hadn’t worked out his true allegiances and believed in him more…

And now the man was dead, buried in a private ceremony somewhere on the Hogwarts grounds.  Professor McGonagall wouldn’t even tell anyone where his grave was for fear that it would be vandalised.

Hermione wasn’t sure how to feel about that.  She’d never confided in Professor Snape, certainly, but she wished she had a place to go to mourn the man she’d never really known.  The man who had sacrificed so much to defend their world at large and she and her friends in particular, despite not really liking any of them.  The man who, even in death, seemed doomed to be derided and misunderstood.

Not that she would have ever claimed to understand him, of course, but it was fascinating to think that, all this time, Professor Snape had been so full of…love.  And it was love, she’d decided.  The papers had torn apart his affections for Lily Potter, calling it a creepy obsession (or worse), but her grandmother had once said that love was the choice to work for the good of someone else.  She hadn’t understood it at the tender age of nine, but she thought she understood it at nineteen.

Whatever his feelings may have been, Professor Snape had worked to make their lives better with little regard for his own.  If that didn’t meet her grandmother’s definition of love, she didn’t know what did.

She made her way out of the dungeons slowly, lost in her thoughts, and she was on the stairs up to ground level before she realised that she could hear the sound again.  She stepped back towards the dungeons, a hand running along the stone wall…

It was…music?

She listened closer, running her fingers along the stone wall as if she could feel the vibrations she could barely hear.  The sound was loudest just down the corridor from the staircase, next to a patch of stone indistinguishable from the rest, though even her heartbeat sounded loud as she strained to hear.

There was something mesmerising about the sound, something hauntingly sad, but Hermione shook herself free of it.  It was just another strange quirk of Hogwarts.  An unusual one, yes, but undoubtedly every Slytherin knew about the strange music in their corridor.  They probably told each other spooky ghost stories about it.  They would laugh, surely, if they knew a Gryffindor was paying such attention to it.

It was, she told herself firmly, nothing to be concerned about.

Hermione was back two days later.  She’d finished her rounds and descended slowly into the dungeons, just far enough to confirm that there were no students loitering out in the open, still out of range of any of the picture frames that lined the deeper dungeon halls.

Out of her pocket, she pulled one of the Extendable Ears she’d confiscated around the start of term.

It helped…a little.  She was able to pinpoint the precise spot on the wall where the sound was loudest, but the ear couldn’t penetrate stone.

It was clearly music.  While hardly any louder, it came through a bit clearer through the Extendable Ear, which let her pick out the notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.  She vividly remembered sitting on the bench of her grandparents’ old, slightly off-key piano, her tiny hands resting on her grandfather’s large and wrinkled ones, following along with him as he played.  He’d been a lifelong mill worker and a veteran of WWII; he’d died when Hermione was very young, his body surrendering to the abuse he’d put it through.

Hermione hadn’t thought about her grandfather in years, but sitting with her chin on her knees in the dungeons of Hogwarts, she felt as close to him as she ever had.

A scuffle down the corridor jolted the Extendable Ear from its prime position on the wall, and she Disillusioned herself with a flick of her wand.

“Hello?”  Slughorn’s voice echoed down the corridor.  “Is someone there?”

She held her breath.  She had no excuse for being there; nothing believable, anyways…

Her luck held, and Slughorn muttered something under his breath as his footsteps slowly faded away.  Hermione held the Extendable Ear tight in her fist, feeling her heartbeat in her fingertips and her lips and the undersides of her knees, until finally the evening quiet reigned once more.  There was just the faint sound of the music, barely noticeable, as if nothing had happened.

Hermione pulled herself upright on shaky legs and headed back to her rooms.  She had never been more grateful that she’d been assigned one of the guest rooms for her final year.  As much as she sometimes missed the chaos of the Gryffindor Common Room, she was thankful for the privacy and the lack of awkward questions about her late return.

She would need to research charms.

It took her a few weeks of subtle experimentation to happen upon a solution.  She went through three different listening charms (feeling a bit like a voyeur as she tested them) before finding one that amplified the sounds from the other side of the dungeon wall directly into her ears.  It was, as far as she could tell, a modified version of some kind of stethoscope spell that was still used in Healing.  Fascinating!

A few tweaks gave the spell a longer range than a Healer would reasonably need, which let Hermione set up in an alcove away from the main route in and out of the dungeons.  From there, she determined that the music started sometime between nine (when she started her rounds) and eleven (when she finished them); if she started her rounds in the dungeons, she never heard a thing.

What started as idle curiosity evolved, quite without her permission or notice, into something like obsession.  It felt better to dwell on the mysterious sounds from the dungeon than the faces of those who had lain dead in the very halls she walked, just months before.  The music gave her far less nightmares than the memories of Lavender’s face as she was mauled by Greyback, Fred disappearing under a wall, Snape’s scream as Nagini tore at his throat.

It was almost always classical, almost always sad or contemplative.  Whoever was playing was branching out, though.  Over the weeks the tempo picked up: one night she set up in her alcove to the tune of some jazzy song she couldn’t recognize, but which stuck in her ears for days afterwards.

She began to bargain with herself.  If she completed a certain assignment over her lunch break, she would spend twenty minutes listening to the mysterious music.  If she spent an hour tutoring her classmates, she would spend half an hour doing her own homework in the little alcove.

Familiarity with the routine made her sloppy.  She was no longer as careful in making sure she was alone, that the portraits along her route were distracted.  She sometimes didn’t even Disillusion herself on her way.

She didn’t realise any of this until she accidentally fell asleep in the alcove one particularly exhausting Friday night.  She’d granted herself an extra twenty minutes, since she didn’t have anything pressing the next morning, but apparently that had been twenty minutes too long.

She awoke to Professors McGonagall and Slughorn staring down at her.  It was the closest she’d come to sheer mind-numbing terror since the end of the war.  Thankfully, both of her teachers - though still quite cross with her - didn’t penalise her for drawing her wand on them.

“My office,” Professor McGonagall said.  “Now, if you please, Miss Granger.”

Hermione felt awful.  Her robes were rumpled despite the freshening charm she flicked at them.  Her face felt greasy after not washing it the night before.  Her teeth…she shuddered, running her tongue over them.

And worst of all, she’d been caught out by a teacher.

Professor McGonagall, though acting as Headmistress for the year, was still using her usual office instead of the one high in the Headmaster's Tower.  Hermione hadn’t dared to ask why.  It also, she reflected, didn’t make her walk any less shameful, though perhaps a bit shorter.

Once she was seated before her former Head of House, Hermione had - mostly - managed to calm herself down.  Professor McGonagall was intimidating, yes, but Hermione was in no danger of being hexed or jinxed or tortured.  No matter what happened, she would survive.

“Miss Granger, would you care to explain what you were doing lurking near the dungeons?  I understand that there is animosity towards Slytherin after the events of last year, but I assure you, Professor Slughorn and I have that situation well in hand.”

“You think…” The possibility hadn’t occurred to her.  “Forgive me, Professor, but that’s not…I’m not…I’m not stalking Slytherins!”

“You and your group of friends have a reputation for it.”

“First of all, ma’am, I never agreed with Harry and Ron’s tactics in that way, even if they were technically right a few times.  Second, I don’t think any of the current Slytherins are the Heir of Slytherin, Death Eaters, or are trying to compromise the castle’s security.  Sneaking out of bed after hours, perhaps, but every House does that sometimes.”

Even Hufflepuff.  With their emphasis on loyalty, they were dragged into an unfortunate number of scrapes, even if they were less likely to initiate them.

“Then why, Miss Granger, did we find you lurking about the dungeons?  And Professor Slughorn said this isn’t the first time.”

Hermione glanced down at her hands.  The real reason sounded foolish, even in her own head, but she had to admit that it looked very suspicious.  “I know this sounds silly, but…I found that alcove a few months back, and I…I enjoy sitting there and doing homework.  It’s like my own little world.  It’s peaceful.  I didn’t realise that anyone knew, or that I would be making anyone uncomfortable.  If…if the Slytherins don’t want me there, I can find somewhere else.”

Professor McGonagall examined her over her glasses with sharp eyes.  Hermione only hoped that when she herself reached such a venerable age, she was half as terrifying as her teacher.  “Miss Granger, have you ever entered the Slytherin Common Room during your…adventures?”

“No, Professor.”

“You give me your word on that?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm.”  The examination continued, the professor’s eyes narrowing slightly.  “I am willing to believe you, Miss Granger.  I am even willing to grant you permission to continue using your…refuge.  I have only one condition.”

“Of course, Professor; what can I do?”

“First, you are to use more discretion.  Imagine if a Slytherin student was regularly lurking outside Gryffindor House.  You can, I’m sure, appreciate the unease that would cause.”

Hermione nodded, wincing.  Her entire House would have kittens if that happened.

“Second, If you see anything unusual during your excursions, you are to report it to Professor Slughorn or myself.  Especially if it’s dangerous.”

“Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular?”

“No.  Simply…be aware.”

“Of course.”

Hermione was far more careful after that.  She always Disillusioned herself, and she found a fun little charm in her book that averted attention away from her alcove while she was in it.  It wasn’t exactly undetectable, but most of the older Slytherin students hadn’t returned, for one reason or another, and the younger ones shouldn’t see through the spell.  Professor Slughorn could, certainly, but with Professor McGonagall’s permission obtained Hermione wasn’t worried about him.

It started with a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.  It was always so dark when she went to the alcove that it was easy enough to dismiss it as a figment of her imagination.

It wasn’t.

One particular evening, after yet another long week of N.E.W.T.-level classes and homework and tutoring, Hermione was on edge. The music was late as well; it hadn’t started a whole half hour after she finished her rounds, which was exceedingly rare.

So when the dark shape darted past her alcove, Hermione’s wand was in her hand and a jinx on her tongue before she even registered it.

Her Stupefy missed the first time, and the second.  Whirling a Disillusionment Charm over herself with the ease of practice, she bolted after the thing.

It ran straight into a solid wall.

Hermione tumbled to an ungainly stop before she barrelled into the wall, her fingers crawling at the thought of bashing them against the stonework.

Carefully, not entirely sure what to expect, she pressed her hand against it.

Once, she’d done the same at King’s Cross Station, at the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10.  It made no sense to her young mind that she would have to run straight at a brick wall to find her platform!  What sort of nonsense was that?

The tingle under her palm felt familiar, undeniably so.

With a deep breath and a cushioning charm - and the uncomfortable realisation that she was more than capable of getting into trouble without the boys - Hermione ran at the wall.

She passed straight through the wall and bounced off another, thanks to the cushioning charm, leaving her turned around and staring down at a furry little duck-billed face.  If anything, the creature looked as surprised as she did.

She cast a Stupefy with no small amount of satisfaction.  Sure enough, it was a niffler.

Professor McGonagall’s questions about being in the Slytherin Common Room echoed in her mind.  Hermione remembered, vividly, being in primary school and having small personal items stolen from her bag by other students who thought she was “weird.”  A sick feeling took hold in the pit of her stomach.  The niffler wouldn’t have known any better, but the thought of groups of young Slytherins losing shiny things at random - feeling hunted and isolated - brought tears to Hermione’s eyes.

She Transfigured a hair tie into a canvas bag and carefully tied the niffler into it.  At least now the students would have some closure, and hopefully a chance to retrieve their missing belongings.

As she turned to leave, Hermione heard the music start.  She hadn’t known just how poor the sound quality was through her listening charm, but there in that hidden hallway she felt…breathless.

It was a piano.  She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t realised it before, but hearing the notes so clearly it was obvious.

Her feet moved forward almost against her will.  The space she’d found herself in was a hallway, made of the same stone as the corridor outside.  Her sense of adventure was peeved that the first secret tunnel she found all by herself looked so…normal.

As she walked, the stone around her lit only by the glow of her wand, the music gradually grew louder.  A bend in the corridor brought a startling change: light, coming through a half-open door at the end.

Holding her breath - and desperately wishing for Harry’s cloak - she crept closer.

The room beyond was large and round, like a tower room, but appeared to have been arranged as a one-room studio.  A bed sat to one side, rumpled linens visible through the curtains that hadn’t been properly closed.  A kitchenette followed the curve of the far side of the room, though it appeared to have been used more for brewing than for cooking; a small cauldron sat on its stand, blue smoke rising in elegant plumes.

And as she crept even closer, she saw the piano.

It was a glorious grand piano, the kind usually found in concert halls and old estates.  The figure seated at it was so tall he hunched over the keys a little, and a short queue of black hair stood out sharply against the bright white of his shirt.  He looked like the ghost of a composer: he was thin, so thin she could see the bones in his wrists where he’d unbuttoned his cuffs, and he was pale enough to make a Victorian lady seethe in envy.  His clothing was effortlessly elegant, white shirt and dark pants that looked just a little too big for him, but hung off him attractively.  As he played, he swayed lightly, his hair following the motion.

It wasn’t until he half-turned that Hermione realised she was watching Severus Snape play the piano.

To be fair, it was one of the more surreal experiences of her life.  She’d seen the man die.  She’d been assured that he was buried in some out-of-the-way corner of the grounds.

She’d never thought he’d been buried alive.

She must have made some noise, because the music suddenly stopped and she found herself facing the dark eyes of her former teacher.  They pierced into her as they always did, harsh and unreadable, daring her to make some excuse for her behaviour despite knowing none would be accepted.

And indeed, Hermione had no excuse for what she was doing.  She was standing in the doorway of what was clearly a private room, hidden behind a false wall.  There was no reason for her to be there, niffler or no.  She held her breath, waiting for his cutting remarks.

“At least my ghosts are getting creative,” he muttered, turning back to the piano and beginning his piece from the beginning again.

He played for an hour, ignoring her presence, even when she let herself into the room and sat down against the wall by the door.  After so many months of listening to him play, the full audiovisual experience was on another level entirely.  Snape lost himself to the music, hands moving back and forth across the keys, completely unselfconscious as he drew out one song after another.

The warming of her wand - her silent alarm - let Hermione know that she needed to return to her room. She made sure the niffler was still secure in its bag and made her way back down the hallway.

She didn’t realise until she crawled into bed that she’d dropped her Disillusionment charm long before encountering Snape.  He had seen her the entire time.

“I may have found what’s causing trouble for the Slytherins,” Hermione said, placing the canvas bag on Professor McGonagall’s desk.

The professor opened the bag carefully, blinking at the creature inside.  “Hmm…quite.  That makes a great deal of sense.”  A flick of her wand cancelled Hermione’s spell and another flipped the niffler upside down, sending a shower of coins, earrings, pins, and other shiny things across the desk.

“Well done, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said.  “We will need to find its nest, but it does appear that Miss Kirk and Miss Greengrass, at least, will be receiving good news.”

“I’m glad.  No one deserves to have things stolen.”

“Quite.  Was there anything else?”

Hermione thought back to the dreamlike encounter with Snape, watching him play the piano as if she didn’t exist.  “No, I think that’s all.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me, I have quite a lot of work to do.”

Hermione let herself out, smiling at the image of the fearsome Professor McGonagall glaring down at a small, fluffy, and completely unrepentant niffler.

The second time Hermione made her way into the corridor to listen to Snape play, she was cautious.  She kept her Disillusionment charm up, double-checked it in the hallway before approaching his door.

The door was half-open again, as it had been the first time.  Snape was dressed in much the same way in a white shirt and dark pants, but this time his cuffs were done up properly.  His hair was still pulled back, leaving his face open to her scrutiny.

She felt a tingle of magic the moment she touched his door, but he didn’t even pause.  She listened to him for half an hour before she lost her nerve and fled, not quite sure how or why she’d managed to intrude on such a private man’s affairs.

The third time she was determined to speak to him.  If nothing else, he knew she was aware of his continued survival.  Yes, half of what drove her was curiosity, but also…he deserved peace.

Firmly, she pushed open the door, taking only a moment to appreciate the opening strains of Für Elise.  “Professor Snape?”

His fingers stumbled badly on the keys, sending a discordant racket echoing through the hallway behind her.  Magic washed over her, tickling her, and she couldn’t bite back the involuntary giggle that slipped past her teeth.

“Miss…Granger?”

“Yes.  Back again, sorry.”

“Again?”  Professor Snape’s brow furrowed.  “Have you been here before?”

Hermione breathed in sharply, a hand creeping up to cover her mouth.

He…didn’t remember her?

Professor Snape had always had an excellent memory.  He’d once managed to catch her out in an essay where she’d argued against a point she’d made two years prior (and with two years’ less education).  She’d been aware of doing it, of course, but hadn’t realised Professor Snape read her essays in full, let alone remembered them.

“I was here last week,” she said finally.  “I listened to you play.  You saw me.”

He grunted and turned away.  “My apologies, then.  I find that time passes…strangely here.”

Oh…of course.  He was deep underground without even a window to the lake, isolated.  “Does anyone else know you’re here?”

“Minerva and Poppy.  Forgive me; it’s been…” he waved a hand, “…some time since I’ve had visitors.”

Solitary confinement.  He’d been in solitary confinement.  At least Muggles in such a situation had prison guards who stopped by, and an hour or two outside.

No wonder he was acting so strangely.  It had been eight months since the Battle of Hogwarts, as the papers called it; if he’d been alone down here all this time…

“Well,” she said, “I know you’re here now, sir.  Is there anything I can get you?”

He glanced back at her and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  “A paper,” he said, not quite managing to hide his desperation.  “Something with information about the outside world.”

“Of course.  I’ll stop by in a few days.  And…I’m sorry.  I’ve been listening to you play for months; if I’d known you were alone down here, I would’ve at least tried to find you.”

“Months?  How?”

She explained how she’d overheard him one evening, which led to her explaining her research project to find a spell to amplify the sound, and her ongoing homework engagements in the dungeon alcove.  He was an excellent listener when he was in this dazed and slightly confused state: somehow, his mere presence managed to draw out her embarrassing encounter with Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn, her encounter with the niffler, and the resulting discovery of his hidden corridor.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured, running a finger gently over the keys of his piano.  “I knew I was underground, but…I didn’t realise I was so close to home.”

Home.  She supposed the dungeons were home, for someone who had lived there for most of his life.

“Sir, are you able to leave?”

He shook his head slowly.  “Minerva has set this up for me.  If I leave…”

He didn’t speak any more that night.  After quietly contemplating his circumstances, he turned back to his piano and played and played and played.

Hermione wanted to cry.  It felt very wrong, seeing Professor Snape so…diminished.

During the war, especially while she was on the run, she had been constantly assaulted by all the things she didn’t know.  She didn’t know how to forage for food in the forest.  She didn’t know how to keep Harry and Ron happy.  She didn’t know how to heal Splinching wounds or counteract Nagini’s bite or repair Harry’s wand.

This?  This felt the same.  While her upbringing had given her an appreciation for Muggle medicine, she knew next to nothing about mental health beyond very general information.  She knew that isolation was terrible for a person, but she knew nothing about how to treat it.

Listening to Snape play piano as if it was the one thing keeping him going, she determined to try.

It wasn’t easy.

“Granger, what are you doing here?”

“I told you I’d bring you papers.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, sir - last week.  You asked for information about the outside world.  I’ve brought you the six-month review of what they’re calling the Battle of Hogwarts - it’s there at the top - and a few other select editions with information about the state of the world these days.”

“You’ve brought me the Daily Prophet?”

“For starters.  The Quibbler isn’t kept in the library, but I sent in a request for a few of their editions via Luna.  They won’t arrive until next week.”

“The Quibbler?   Lovegood’s Fantastic Beasts parody?”

“It’s not quite that bad, sir.  And some of the Prophet’s pictures are better; you can cut them out and assemble your own paper if you wish.”

“If I wanted your opinion on arts and crafts, Granger, I would ask for it.”

Over time, it became apparent that Snape’s attitude was a self-protective measure.  The more often Hermione visited, the more he returned to himself…and the more often he said or did something horribly caustic.

“Who asked you to come here, girl?”

“No one.  If you want me to leave, just say so.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you to leave?  My life was fine before you stumbled upon my resting place.”

He was, at least, self-aware enough to know what he was doing.  His apologies were anything but graceful, but they were - as far as she could tell - sincere.  Almost desperately so.  It felt cruel, being the only person he interacted with.

“I…regret my words to you last time you visited, Miss Granger.”

“It’s ‘I’m sorry.’”

“What?”

“The phrase you’re looking for is ‘I’m sorry.’”

“But…oh, very well.  I’m sorry, Miss Granger.”

“You’re forgiven.  Have you had a chance to look over the Quibbler?”

“…What?”

“You know, the papers I-”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.  Now.  Quibbler.   Do you need it still?  Luna wanted to talk to me about the article on erumpents in last week’s edition, and I only skimmed it before handing it over.”

“Here.  It’s mostly gibberish, and Lovegood likely knows it.  The only useful portion was the information on recent experiments with erumpent horn powder in potions.  I recall reading something similar during my apprenticeship, and the ideas presented in here show some merit, at least as a topic of study.”

“Oh, fascinating!  I had written that off, actually.  How would one go about stabilising such a volatile ingredient?”

“Really, Granger, what is Slughorn teaching you these days?  Hand me Moste Potente Potions for a moment…”

And somehow, somewhere, in between the absentminded flights of fancy and the long academic discussions and her rambling monologues, in between his snark and her forgiveness, Hermione found herself growing attached to her former teacher in a way she never would have expected.

“Miss Granger, a word, if you would?”

Hermione obediently followed Professor McGonagall to her office.  “Yes, Professor?”

“It has come to my attention that a decision has been bestowed upon us by the Wizengamot.  I believe you showed some interest in the Death Eater trials, correct?”

“Yes.  The DMLE is one of the Ministry departments that contacted me about a job after my N.E.W.T.s, and I’ve been trying to stay up to date.  It’s a more reliable way of finding out what the boys are up to than waiting for their letters.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips twitched a little.  “I have received word that they reached a decision, finally, regarding Professor Snape’s trial.  He’s been posthumously sentenced to Azkaban for fifty years.”

Hermione planted her hands on the arms of her chair, breathing through the sudden wave of dizziness.  “Fifty years?   Great Merlin, why?”

“He was a spy.  He certainly didn’t ingratiate himself into either side of the war, especially at the end.  There are far too many people with grudges out there.  Some of the things done during the war - some of the things he did to maintain his cover, especially as Headmaster - are certainly difficult to forgive.  A dead man is a convenient scapegoat.”

She nodded.  “Thank you for telling me, Professor, but what does that mean?”

“It means,” the professor said, leaning forward slightly, “that if Professor Snape happened - somehow - to survive, he doesn’t have much of a life left to him.  If he did survive, he would be wise not to show his face on British soil.”

“I see.”  Hermione could feel her heart racing, plans quickly forming and dissolving as she examined possibilities.  “Professor, I hate to ask, but would it be possible to sit my N.E.W.T.s early?”

“Oh?  Why, Miss Granger?”

“You’re familiar with my situation with my parents.  They’ve finally written me back, asking me to spend some time with them.”  This was true: she’d finally received the letter she’d been waiting all school year for.  Her parents had needed more time than she thought to come to terms with the…edits she’d made to their memories.  She’d planned to wait until after the end of the school year to travel to Australia, but it appeared she was on a tighter schedule than she’d expected.

“As it happens, Miss Granger, there is an opportunity for a single high-achieving student to take N.E.W.T.s next week via special proctor.  Shall I make the arrangements?”

“Yes, thank you.”

It was no accident.  It couldn’t be.  Special proctors didn’t just fall from the heavens, not even in the Wizarding World.  Professor McGonagall clearly knew what was going on.

She didn’t give anything away, just looked over her glasses with a piercing gaze.  “Hogwarts has been honoured to have you, and will miss you when you go.”

Somehow, Hermione believed the comments weren’t intended for her alone.

“Professor?  Professor Snape?”

“Oh, is it that time already?”  He checked the clock she’d brought him.  “You should be at supper.”

“There’s no time.  Professor McGonagall gave me some news.  I’m not sure if you’ve been following the trials-”

“Just spit it out, Granger.”

She took a deep breath.  “Your trial is concluded.  Professor McGonagall said that you were posthumously sentenced to fifty years in Azkaban.”

For once, Snape’s silence had nothing to do with absentmindedness.  “Fifty years?”

“Yes.  It’s being contested, of course - Harry was furious when I owled him - but given that Professor McGonagall tipped me off, I think she’s trying to imply that it’s safer for you to leave the country.”

His laugh had a caustic edge to it.  “And where else should I go, Granger?  To one of my many vast European estates?”

“Well, if you have a European estate, don’t let me stop you.  I was thinking Australia.”

“Australia?   Why, by all of Merlin’s long, curly toenails, would I want to go there?”

Hermione shuddered at the mental image of long, curly toenails.  “Well, I happen to know some people there who would be happy to take in a refugee on the run from an oppressive government.”

“And they would be expecting me?”

She winced.  “I don’t exactly have a secure way of asking them, unfortunately.”

“Then no.”

“You’re going to let them drag you away??”

“It’s what I deserve.”

Hermione approached him, her hands shaking.  He was sitting on the piano bench - he had limited seating in his little room and apparently didn’t care to Transfigure more, not even for her visits - and his hands were on his knees, clenched into tight fists.

Not entirely sure she was doing the right thing, Hermione dropped to her knees in front of him and placed her hands on his fists.  “Please?”  She whispered, not daring to meet his eyes.  “Please don’t throw your life away like this.  Please at least give it a chance.  If you really can’t stand it, you can always turn yourself in.”

There was a long moment when she was sure he would refuse.  He owed her nothing, after all; he had little reason to trust her or her motives.  He would be well within both logic and his rights to throw her out and never see her again.

Instead, he uncurled his hands - slowly, and just a little, just enough that the backs of his fingers grazed hers - and sighed.  “Alright, Granger.  Alright.”

She glanced up at him and smiled; smiled even brighter at the sour expression on his face.

Minerva McGonagall opened the window for the owl.  It had been only a month since one of the brightest students she’d ever taught had abruptly taken her N.E.W.T.s and left school, four months early.  It was bitterly cold outside, but this was a message she’d long expected.

The owl delivered an envelope containing a picture and a letter.  The picture was of her former student sitting in the sun and smiling at the camera, the Muggle photograph still and lifeless.  An older man and woman sat in the background on a swing hanging off the branch of a massive tree, oblivious to the proceedings.

The shadow of the photographer - tall and imposing - stretched out towards the young woman.

The note read:

Professor McGonagall,

Sorry I waited so long to write!  It’s been quite hectic getting settled in here in Australia.  I think I'll stay here for a few years; my parents have become fond of the country.

Thank you for the references to various organisations in the area.  I’ve sat three interviews and have a tentative job offer, but I want to wait and see what my options are before deciding.

We’re doing very well here…

There were several more pages detailing, at great length, how Miss Granger was doing in Australia, but Minerva skimmed over those.  She would read them later at her leisure, but she was looking for something specific.

The final page was signed,  From us.

There it was.

She smiled.  It was rare that she got an opportunity to do something so subversive, but she had to admit that she enjoyed it.

She looked the picture over once again, examining Miss Granger’s bright smile.

It had been a hard year full of impossible choices, choices with no right answers, but in the end she was satisfied with the outcome.

She lifted her quill to answer the missive Kingsley Shacklebolt had sent her earlier that afternoon.

Minister,

I regret to inform you that Severus Snape is no longer in the castle.  If you would prefer to have your Aurors confirm his absence, please send word ahead of time so I can prevent a panic in the school.  I will, of course, inform you immediately if I see him…

Minerva chuckled a little as she wrote.  Her Scottish ancestors would be pleased.