Hermione stumbled off the Knight Bus to rest eyes on a pitch-dark Burrow. In answer to knocking she was accosted with a slap-happy Pidwidgeon. Exhausted, she settled down on a pile of rags in the barn and fought herself to sleep.

“Hermione? I didn’t expect to find you here, child.” Arthur Weasley was surprised, to say the least. He knew Molly had sent an invitation the evening prior, but they’d planned to collect Hermione from her home. After all, #12 Grimmauld Place couldn’t exactly be reached traveling the Tube.

Hermione sat up quickly, too quickly, and was startled by the sharp pain that shot from her chest to her neck.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked a concerned Father Weasley.

“Sorry. Yes, sir. I’m fine. I was just startled, sir.”

Arthur hadn’t remembered Hermione behaving so formally, but chalked it up to sleepiness. “Good. But you shouldn’t have traveled alone, dear. Did Molly mix up the directions in the post?”

Hermione thought fast. Did they send an owl to invite her? “I’m not sure, sir. Sorry.”

“Quite all right. We’re happy to have you. Ron and Ginny have been tormenting one another endlessly; they’ll certainly benefit from your company . . . Are you set, then? We’ll have to apparate; have you ever?”

Hermione had no idea where they were going, or what it would be like to apparate; she nodded anyway. “I’ve never apparated, but I’m ready, sir.”

“I’ll have to put my hands on your shoulders and hold tight. You’ll feel pressure, but we’ll be there in an eye blink. All right?”

Although the last thing she wanted was for someone to push down on her shoulders for the pain; the last thing she wanted was for a middle-aged man to hold her close for the fright, she picked up her bag and did as she was told.

Stifling a gasp – she would not betray her sister – Hermione endured the splitting pressure and found herself in a dark, comfortably decorated residence swimming with assorted witches and wizards. Molly dropped her activities to make a beeline for the girl.

“Hermione, darling, you’re early! I’m so glad to see you!” Arms opened wide, Hermione knew she couldn’t shun them. The big squeeze hurt so much, Hermione nearly cried out. As she shied away, the carrot-topped witch caught sight of her forehead.

“Oh, my, what happened there, dear?”

“I – um- tripped and hit my head on the- the banister.” ‘Damn!’ thought Hermione, ‘I’ll have to come across more convincingly than that to keep Cessy’s secret.’

Luckily, Mrs. Weasley was too distracted to notice the fib. “Oh, you poor dear! Severus!”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. Surely she didn’t mean –

“Yes, Molly?” came the clipped response from the darkly clad potions master.

“Hermione here’s got a nasty bump. Could you get her a potion?”

“Certainly,” he agreed, eyeing the much changed girl. My, she looked different. Thinner, first off, and her hair was limp and dirty; her clothes were mussed as well. Where was the smart appearance she always presented? Her stance and eyes were the most peculiar, however. She was hunched, curled a bit to one side, and her eyes were dark, spark-less.

“Come along, Miss Granger,” he bade her, robes swirling toward narrow steps. She followed meekly and bowed her head to cover her frightened face. Where was she and who were all these people? She wasn’t about to ask; what if it had been in the letter?

Snape stopped abruptly in front of a dark, carved wooden door. He motioned his student in.

“Have a seat, child,” he muttered calmly as he rifled through a worn cabinet. Taking out the basics, he turned and noticed the girl was perched awkwardly, visibly trying to sit up straight. What was she hiding? Best to tread lightly . . .

“May I examine your face, Miss Granger?” he asked nonchalantly.

Her eyes shot to his, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” was her submissive reply.

She fought back her cumbersome locks, suddenly mortified a professor would see her looking so frazzled. Especially this professor. She stilled herself, admonishing her body not to flinch as the lights brightened with a flick of Snape’s wand. He gasped, noting the bruises along her cheekbone as well as the scabby mess on her forehead.

“How did this happen?”

“I tripped and hit my head of the banister, sir. Quite stupid of me.” She forced a chuckle, but silenced when a turn of his head and narrowed eyes revealed he wasn’t buying it.

“And your cheek?”

She looked down, caught off guard. Her mouth opened, the closed, searching for a story. “It’s embarrassing, sir. My little sister,” she began. Might as well blame her, given the reason for all the lying was Cecily’s request. “She really can be a nuisance, sir. She slapped me.”

“Ah,” he sighed, relieved. He didn’t need another broken child to look after. She was probably disheveled from the travel and apparition.

“Close your eyes. This will sting a bit.”

Before he could begin, a soot-laden envelope attacked him from the floo.

“Excuse me,” he coughed, turning his back to read the letter emblazoned with the Malfoy crest.

It was Hermione’s turn to be concerned. When her professor turned back round, his normally pasty complexion was positively white, his electric eyes vacant. He applied the potions distractedly and gave her a clinical explanation on when and how to use them.

He dismissed her then, and when she turned in the corridor to thank him he was already pouring a shaky tumbler of firewhiskey. She shuddered and hurried down the stairs, forcing a smile onto her dry lips. It turned genuine as she realized the crowd was clearing and moving into an adjacent room. Snape brushed past her as Mrs. Weasley crooned, “Better, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. And thank you, Professor Snape, sir.”

He waved his hand over his shoulder as Molly continued, “The Order’s meeting is about to begin. Ginny will show you to the room you’ll share.”

Hermione spent the next several hours chit-chatting and lounging about, reveling in the break from never-ending chores and blinding fear. She awakened next morning feeling wonderful, apart from the grinding agony along her collarbone. She’d tried using the potions there but they hadn’t done much. She wondered where all the adults had gone as she tucked in to her first hearty breakfast in ages.

…………………………………………

Draco awoke to a frightened Fiora tending to his injuries. He found himself lying in a heap on the floor where he’d been deposited several hours before.

Downstairs an unusual blue-grey owl swooped in the expansive bay window. Lucius opened the letter embellished with the Hogwarts seal.

Master Malfoy,

I am pleased to inform you that your son, Draco Malfoy, has been chosen for advanced study at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If you allow, he is to apparate from Malfoy Manor with me at your leisure. Please indicate your acceptance/rejection of this opportunity via this owl to Severus Snape.

Respectfully,

Professor Snape

Lucius chuckled. Either Snape thought him an idiot or was vying for attention. He penned:

Snape,

You are cordially invited to dine at Malfoy manor tomorrow evening. Shall we say eightish? You may apparate with Draco at that time if a satisfactory agreement can be reached.

Master Lucius Malfoy

The owl gone, Lucius decided to play with his son. “Draco!” he was summoned, as the lock slid from his door.

“Yes, father?” came from the youth stumbling down stairs.

“What do you know about this?”

Draco took the parchment from his father’s albino talons. He read it, painstakingly careful not to show his extreme excitement. Either Professor Snape had devised a plan to get him out or he really had been selected as a top student. Either way, he was ecstatic.

“Nothing, sir,” he answered.

“Do you want to go?”

This was a dangerous question, but Draco knew the perfect answer this time. “I will do as you wish father.”

Lucius regarded his son, the answer was decidedly Slytherin. “Too right you will. Study chapters two today.”

That evening after dinner the grim ritual was repeated; it just hurt a great deal more this night. All of the wounds from the day before were pried open, and the cane was replaced with his father’s serpentine staff. He who wielded it was imminently more vicious than the gentle potions master as well.

…………………………………………

Harry awoke as earth-shaking steps tumbled overhead. He was a spooked animal as he clawed himself into a spiral of protection. Again, the door opened, but a meaty hand grabbed by him by matted hair this time.

“Not a word, boy!” his Uncle Vernon hissed. “Nobody’d believe you didn’t deserve it anyway. Only retarded little freaks need punishing like that, eh, Potty boy?”

Harry was thrown back in his cell as the warden turned the key. He heard breakfast noises and when the front door slammed his mind was allowed to wander again into oblivion. Dudley kindly forced food and more aspirin on him; apart from that his day crawled by, interspersed with fits of seething pain and restless sleep.

When blackness again gave way to light, Harry was relieved to hear the family leave. He’d feared another ‘Mummy/Dudders Day’ since it was the week-end.

Dudley ran back inside, shouting, “I’ve forgotten my cap!” He whispered to Harry, “We’ll be gone all day,” as he unlocked the cupboard.

Harry took the opportunity to clean himself and change clothes. As he crumbled onto his upstairs bed, he heard several loud intrusions into the house.

“Lower your wand there, Harry. We’ve come to take you away. What good will it do in the wrong hand, anyway?” Mad-Eye was eerily perceptive.

“Professor Moody?” Harry blinked.

“What happened to your wand arm? And your face?”

“My fat bully of a cousin knocked me down the stairs,” Harry lied easily. He couldn’t tell anyone what really happened – he knew Dumbledore would insist he come back here next summer no matter the circumstance; if Vernon found out he’d told . . .

And what if his Uncle was right . . . what if they thought he deserved it? He was already in trouble with the Ministry; no doubt many wizards were already convinced he was a menace.

At any rate, Moody seemed to accept the excuse. “Broken is it, then?” Harry nodded. “We’ll get you some Skele-Heal when we get to . . . where we’re going.”

Harry was breathless with the effort of staying on his broom by the time the party arrived at #12, Grimmauld Place. Left in the ‘Kid’s Room,’ the strain of the past few days overcame him; he snapped and yelled at his friends. When Hermione began to whimper, his anger quelled and anxiety about the hearing took over. He spun around as a familiar voice broke the silence.

“My, my. Gryffindors do have a propensity for injury, don’t they? Take on another dragon?” Not gaining the expected response from the normally plucky bunch, Snape proffered a potion.

“Moody said you needed Skele-Heal, Mr. Potter. Your wand arm, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said hesitantly. He hoped Snape wouldn’t ask to see it; his arm was covered in bruises and open sores.

The professor walked over to him swiftly causing both Harry and Hermione to flinch and cower a bit. “Hold out your arm,” Snape directed plainly. When the boy hesitated he took Harry’s hand, which had been covered by his enormous shirt-sleeves, in order to extend his pupil’s arm forcibly.

“What on earth happened to your hand, Potter?” It was covered with weeping blisters. “Moody said nothing about a burn.”

Harry weakly held up both hands and said, “Cooking accident.”

Snape scowled, left, and returned with the proper ointment. Harry felt instantly relieved as Snape gently massaged the greasy potion into his hands. He didn’t protest as the potions professor murmured a healing spell over his forearm, causing the bones to align.

“Two capfuls morning and night, Mr. Potter.” He waited patiently for the boy to choke down the dose of bone-mending potion before turning to the girl.

“You have sufficient potions to share with Potter, Miss Granger?”

She looked up at him with distant, startled eyes. She still looked unkempt and shaken beyond reason.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” she timidly responded.

With a nod, he departed. They were terrible liars, but he had preparations to make before his dinner engagement.