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Hermione stood in the center of her newly appointed living quarters, thinking back on recent events: What had happened. What she had come to change.

The deaths of her friends and loved ones. Voldemort's malicious laugh as Harry fell before him. Her race against time and the surviving Death Eaters to McGonagall's office followed by her frantic search for the Time Turner, fighting to be quicker than those who pursued her. Her discovery of the ancient book and the spell within. The flick of her wrist that sent her spinning back in time while she cast the spell she hadn't had time to study, hoping against all reason that it would work.

Which led her to where she was now: the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the term about to begin years before she would be born.

She was somewhat amazed at the ease of it all, though, she supposed she shouldn't be.

Dumbledore's reaction hadn't been what she had expected. A smile and a handshake, no questions asked but who she was. No query as to when or where she had come by the mark on her arm. No inquiry as to how she had appeared in his Transfiguration professor's office, beaten and bloodied as she was.

There was nothing in his reception but kindness and trust; a trust born of the matching glittering gold on their right wrists.

Her wonder at the Headmaster's actions pulled something from the recesses of her mind.

The Order of the Phoenix was established over a thousand years ago, created by the Four Founders of Hogwarts. It was not the brain child of Albus Dumbledore created during the war with Grindelwald as she had always thought. No, the possibility that the castle could be taken and used for evil was a threat that even Salazar Slytherin thought worth protecting against.

For the castle was not just a school, it was a fortress. A safe house for those in need.

But to remain safe the castle needed guards, it needed Guardians.

The Four knew that they would not live forever. And just as Gryffindor had charmed the Sorting Hat to delegate Houses when they could no longer hand pick their students, they charmed the castle choose those whom it felt most able to protect it when they were dead and gone.

The Mark of the Guardians, a tattoo of a golden phoenix with wings outstretched, such as Hermione and Dumbledore had on their wrists, was the creation of Rowena Ravenclaw. One she was fiercely protective of, with good reason.

The Mark opened all doors in the castle and Guardians had access to any and all parts of the castle whenever they so chose. Thus the Mark and its characteristics were coveted by all who knew of them.

Ravenclaw's perception of this inevitable jealousy led to a spell on the Mark: an attempt to create the Mark by any not chosen by the castle would result in the said person's most horrible death.

The charm on the castle was the work of all Four Founders, and once cast, essentially gave the castle a mind of its own, just as the Sorting Hat had.

But where as the Hat could only look into the mind and heart of eager first years once placed on their heads, the Castle saw into the very souls of all who passed through its' doorway through their footsteps on its' stone floors.

The Hat chose only the person's House. The Castle chose their destiny.

There were not many Guardians, usually only one every generation. And they always worked within the school; so said the Castle when it meddled with the stars.

The Guardians could leave the castle, but they were always drawn back. No force of magic or nature could stop this lure but death.

And though not technically bound to the school, this pull demanded the Guardian do all in his or her power to protect the Castle and the children within in times of need.

Hermione stared down at her wrist with something akin to awe in her eyes. She knew she had never heard that before. The magic in the Mark appeared to be more than it seemed.

She concentrated on what she had just learned: Ok, so she was chosen, and if she hadn't been she would have killed herself attempting that Marking spell. The cold touch of fear trailed down her spine at the thought and she shivered at the contact.

So the Castle chose her destiny. It had selected her the moment she first walked across the flagstone floors of the Entrance Hall.

This revelation begged the question: Did the Castle put the book there for me to find?

After all, why would such a rare book as The Secrets Within… Hogwarts: The Uncut History, obviously was be in the Transfiguration professor's office where just anyone could see it? Why would it not be in the Headmaster's office, under lock and key, when it held such an obviously dangerous spell? And that was only on the first page!

She shook her head. The more she thought about it the more she convinced herself it was the truth.

Hermione turned her thoughts back to Dumbledore. Gods, he must see her as heaven-sent! To have two Guardians in the castle at a time when a madman was trying to take over the world… She was just what he needed.

The newly instated professor dragged her thoughts back to her surroundings, pushing off explanations in favor of surveying her quarters.

There were three rooms in total, a bedroom, a bath and a sitting room/study, all done in variations of black, red and gold.

When stepping in from the hall, the sitting room was the first room she saw. The wall to the right of the door was a large window that looked out over the lake and school grounds, she could just make out the pennants flying above the Quidditch pitch before the Forest swallowed the grounds in darkness.

Set in front of this window was a tasteful deep red couch with accent pillows of black with gold stripes settled against the armrests. A large black blanket edged in gold thread was draped across the back of the couch, artfully folded.

Red thread picked out a subtle design on the black curtains that framed the wide window, gold ties held these drapes open now.

The wall that held the door and wall to the left of it (which also held a door) were covered in floor to ceiling redwood book shelves, all completely filled with Dark Arts texts and reference materials of all disciplines. It was a bibliophile's dream. These shelves only broke for the doors set in each.

Hermione assumed that the other door led to her bedroom.

An intimate seating area was placed the slate fireplace that was on the far wall: two black leather wingback chairs on either side of a low glass tea table.

The "study" was in the corner of the room made by the window and the wall with the fireplace. A large redwood desk was placed so that the occupant might face the room.

Hermione nodded in approval at the room and promised herself a look at some of the texts after she had seen the rest of her rooms.

The other door that marred the bookshelves led to a bedroom, as Hermione had presumed.

The room was circular, with a king-sized four poster bed standing proudly on a raised dais in the center. Red silk sheets adorned the bed and heavy black curtains hung from the rods that connected each of the four redwood posts. The duvet was crushed black velvet stuffed with goose down, just as the pillows were. The Hogwarts crest was embroidered into both the duvet and the pillows, as was fitting for a Hogwarts Guardian.

The walls were an off white color that was veined in gold, giving the appearance of marble. They were a nice contrast to the black and gold marble on the floor.

Along the walls were two dressers and two armoires done from redwood as to match the wood in the rest of the rooms.

It was plain, yet elegant in an old world style. Hermione was happy with it.

The door to the lavatory sat behind the door, situated between the two dressers. Hermione walked over to it, trailing her fingertips across the duvet. She looked forward to sleeping in the bed. It was bigger and looked to be more comfortable than any she had ever slept in.

Crossing from the bed to the bathroom door in a few strides, Hermione twisted the golden knob in anticipation. If the other rooms were any indication, she was going to love the bathroom as well.

And upon stepping through the doorway, she came to the conclusion that she did.

The gold veined black marble that was the floor in the other two rooms was continued in here, but it also crept up the walls, covering them, the counter, the shower and the bathtub that reminded her of her of the Prefect's bath.

She was thrilled.

The shower was roomy with two walls done is glass and two in marble. A large golden shower head hung out at her and the marble along one wall had been carved into a shelf to hold products and a seat was hewn into the corner.

The toilet had its own small closet at the far end of the spacious room and seemed to disappear when the door was closed.

The counter top was long with enough room beside the sink for Hermione to place her toiletries on. And behind it, a large mirror covered the wall.

Hermione took the opportunity to study reflection. She hadn't seen herself since the day before the battle. There just hadn't been a chance.

She was in no way too distinctive. Neither short nor tall, Hermione stood five foot six inches; a few inches taller than some of her female peers and a few inches shorter than the others.

She wasn't fat or skinny either. She was rather filled out, she supposed, but she was most definitely in shape. That was due in large part to Alastor Moody. She had had to train much harder than the boys to please him. He thought her incapable of physical combat based solely on her gender. She had worked hard to prove him wrong.

And look where it's got me. She mused. The only Order member to survive the Final Battle.

She shot a glance at her hair. It was its usual untamed mess, but slightly less frizzy than it had been the year before. It fell just past her shoulders now; it must have fallen out during the battle. She usually wore it up, McGonagall style, to keep it from her face during study sessions and then, more recently, training sessions.

She tilted her head and a few strands fell out from behind her ear to hide her right eyes. With a huff they had moved to frame her face attractively.

Now if it cold just lay flat…

She shook her head at her musings, ridding herself of them. She stole a quick glance down at her watch, which, oddly enough, still worked. There was enough time before dinner for a shower to freshen up.

She peeled her black tank top off and over her head, throwing it on the floor behind her.

Hermione took a moment to study her newly exposed torso. Her reminder of Dolohov's gift from the Battle in the Department of Mysteries was still there: a scar that stretched down from the underside of her left breast to midway down her left side. At least she had got to give him a gift in return during the final battle. Not that it would matter now.

Her ratty black jeans followed her tank top to the floor. She hoped the elves wouldn't throw them away. She had bought them toward the end of her fifth year, and they had seen much use since. The waist was low and the knees had holes in them, and because they were a little long, the bottoms were frayed from where they were kept in contact with the rough ground. But she loved them despite their appearance. They were so damn comfortable that she couldn't throw them out. And besides, she had added a special pocket on the outside of her right thigh for her wand.

Moody especially approved of that one: Much safer than having it in her back pocket where she could take off buttock. She preferred it because it made her wand easier to reach and reduced the chance of it snapping in half when she sat down.

The glove on her left hand went the same way as the jeans and the shirt, only much more gently. The black leather glove was the Weasley twins' idea, thought up particularly for her. Upon its creation the Twins had proudly presented it to her and begged her to try it on, only to snatch it back when she had to take the fingers off. "More mobility," they had said.

Reaching up to her elbow, the glove was riddled with hidden pockets and compartments that held a variety of conveniently shrunken things. Hidden in the glove was almost a complete potions kit, albeit in small doses: from basic healing potions, such as headache potions, to the more advanced potions (Veritaserum and its antidote). Also concealed in the glove were a quill, shrunken like the rest, a pot of black ink and Hermione's spare wand.

Only she and the twins knew she wore it, Disillusioned as it was.

Hermione turned from the mirror and her reflection to get in the shower.

The water was cold, a tactical reminder of the rain that had covered the battle field. The spray broke something in her, and for the first time since the battle she cried for those she had lost.

The memories came in torrents, just as the water did.

The screams, the curses, the blood… the bodies everywhere. The sky painted in a sickening green and the ground washed in red…

…Harry, Ron, Tonks, Nevile, Luna, Remus, the Twins… McGonagall's lifeless eyes staring up to the heavens…

This wouldn't do. She wasn't here to mourn them. She was here to save them, no matter the cost.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands, blending the salty drops with the ice water that fell on her from above. She turned to the shelf on the wall of the shower, thankfully all she needed to clean herself and her hair had been provided.

A few minutes later she was out and drying herself with a fluffy black towel with the Hogwarts crest stitched in gold at the bottom.

She glanced at her reflection once more. The grime was gone and there were red circles under her eyes, but nothing else had changed.

A few minutes spent on charms later, the circles were gone and her hair was pulled back out of her face.

She examined her face, now free of curls, in the mirror as she had not done before. Her eyes had hardened, she noticed, as a result of the war. Her lips were settled into a neutral expression, neither a smile nor a frown, which showed nothing of what she was feeling. Her cheeks were slightly colored from the scrubbing they had just received and seemed to give off a rosy glow.

She didn't think she looked too bad. In fact, if she had to admit it, she thought she looked rather good. However, she would, and did, admit that she looked her almost nineteen years. That might be a problem later…

How in the world was she supposed to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, one of the most important subjects the school offered, to students only a few years younger than herself?

How was she going to get them to take her seriously and to do their work when she had never been able to convince her friends of the same things?

Hermione groaned as she reached for the clothes the House Elves had provided for her, matching black silk knickers and bra along with black slacks and a royal purple blouse.

At least she didn't have to write up lesson plans for the year. Dumbledore had done that himself as the Defense professor changed every year. Although he had said she was free to change anything she felt like.

She sighed.

It was going to be a trying year.

Hidden in the shadows of his room, a young man lay in bed, staring at the shadows on his ceiling. With a sigh, as though in disappointment at the shadows, he turned onto his side, his back to the window beside his bed.

The emotions he let no one see were free to play across his face here. And play they did. Flitting between relief, anticipation, fear and concern, his emotions took the young man on an exhausting ride.

This would be the year he proved himself. This would be the year she saw him. And this would be the year that he got the better of Potter and Black. This would be the year he took control.

He stretched his left arm before him and studied it intensely. It was bare now. Bare of dirt and bare of any markings. Bare of anything that would mar its alabaster shade. The man allowed himself a faint smile in his solitude. There were only a few months left before that would change.

He traced the outline of the mark that would grace his skin, a skull with a snake protruding from the mouth. The Dark Mark. It would be his on January 9th, a date he eagerly looked forward to.

With another fading smile Severus Snape allowed himself to be put in Morpheus's capable hands.