A/N: For the record, updates will have to be very sporadic, due to work and…more issues than I could rattle off in the space of an A/N. I hate the delay. Normally I knock these stories out in a couple weeks. frowny face

It was an unspoken agreement that lessons would be held in McGonagall's former classroom.

Hermione couldn't imagine how she bore it, looking at Dumbledore's portrait in his old office, speaking to it from time to time. She herself wanted to see it, and didn't; how much of Dumbledore was within the canvas? How much advice could he give, how much comfort could he provide? The portraits Hermione had seen of other wizards had retained an amazing amount of their personality, but she thought, somehow, that Dumbledore's part in this war was over.

So she didn't ask, and McGonagall didn't speak of it.

Lessons now were more grueling than any Hermione had ever experienced, focused on defensive and offensive magic to a degree that left her wrung out and soaked with sweat after an hour or two, simply due the concentration and effort the spells required.

Never mind the History of Magic, or Arithmancy; she learned these spells verbally at first, learned to focus until her temples throbbed and she caught herself gritting her teeth with the effort. Then, she learned to summon that power and knowledge with a flick of her wand, and a mental word.

The most difficult part of all was learning to hide that mental word beneath a jumble of others. It might have been something like Occlumency, but Headmistress McGonagall never called it that; it was, as far as Hermione knew, purely of use in battle.

And for all that Professor McGonagall had occasionally outdone Snape in the daily Forbidding Demeanor Competition, Hermione had never imagined the kind of tempered steel that lay within her former Transfigurations Professor. She pulled no punches, and the first lesson, Hermione had lost count of the times she'd found herself stretched out on the floor, staring dazedly at the ceiling.

"Focus, Miss Granger," McGonagall said sharply, and flicked her wand again. The trick, as the older woman's mind was sealed tighter than a Gringott's vault, was to guess from the wand motion and the color of the light—if it was one of the spells that produced light—which spell she was casting, counter it, hide her mind from her opponent, and cast a counter-spell before she had time to react.

It was like a dance step that required separate coordinated movements down to the toes.

Hermione dove aside as a shower of silver arrows slammed into the place she'd been standing, lashing out with her wand and sending a sheet of flame toward McGonagall, who extinguished it with a wave of her wand and threw a counter-jinx before Hermione had managed to stand properly. Desperately, she blocked it with protego, wondering what would happen if she ever did manage to get past McGonagall's guard, and went with an old standby: the Jelly-Legs jinx.

She followed the Jelly-Legs without pause, twitching her wand upward with a deeply hidden Supplantare!

To her astonishment, McGonagall skipped briefly off her feet before she rallied and deflected the spell onto a table, which leapt up spectacularly and smashed into the wall. Hermione moved forward, pressing her advantage, but her pause to watch the table fly was her undoing.

The exsilium slammed into her, and she was briefly airborne and gasping for breath before she hit the floor, sliding into a stack of parchment scrolls.

"Reparo," Headmistress McGonagall said brusquely, and the table knit itself back together as she approached Hermione.

"Are you ready to continue, Miss Granger?"

"Just…minute," she said faintly.

"That was well done. You are becoming much more adept at shielding your mind. Now you must learn focus." McGonagall's lips twitched. "There will be many, and more interesting, things to see in a battle with multiple foes. You cannot be distracted."

Hermione nodded and let her head fall back on the floor.

"I venture to say," McGonagall added in a different tone, drawing a wooden chair out of thin air, "that Mr. Potter has not yet been successful."

Hermione shook her head, her eyes automatically darting to the door of the classroom, the windows—any place where eavesdroppers might be, to include ghostly ones. Nearly Headless Nick was a terrible gossip.

McGonagall smiled tightly and waved her wand, and Hermione's eyes widened; that was Muffliato.

"Mundungus," she said, forcing herself to sit up. "He's still not regained consciousness, Prof—Headmistress. And he stole it, and probably sold it."

"Did he." McGonagall frowned. "And the others?"

If she'd known it would be this easy to assemble volunteers, Hermione thought wryly, she might have agreed to go to Little Hangleton tonight after all. Still uneasy about eavesdroppers—she trusted the Half-Blood Prince even less, if possible, since she'd learned it was Snape—she explained Harry's conviction that one of the horcruxes was there.

"I suppose it as good a place to begin as anywhere else," McGonagall said, nodding. "I will accompany you, Miss Granger, and I believe I shall ask Alastor to join us as well."

"Harry doesn't want—"

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said severely, peering over her spectacles, "may believe himself quite alone in his task, but as for the Order…we have sworn to help him in any way we can. To include," she added sharply, and extended a hand to help Hermione off the floor, "seeing that he survives to complete it."

"I thought the Order disbanded, after…"

"Dumbledore was a great man, and we followed him." The chair vanished with a wave of her wand, and McGonagall turned away. "But our purpose did not die with him, Miss Granger." She glanced over her shoulder, and though her eyes were rather watery, her smile was not. "Any more than Dumbledore's Army has disbanded."

It was an effort to look blank and puzzled, and McGonagall laughed.

"Someone needs to sit Potter down and explain to him," she said, shaking her head, "that there are a great many people loyal to him, who would assist if he would permit it."

"He doesn't want anyone else to die."

"Then he has a greater quarrel than Voldemort. People die, Miss Granger; it is the way of the world."

"Because of him."

"Because of Voldemort," McGonagall corrected gently, and patted Hermione's shoulder.

It was always difficult to tell how much some Professors knew, and noticed.

McGonagall, without comment or any sign that she thought Hermione might want to see Dumbledore's portrait—even if she considered it an issue at all—led the way up the winding steps, through the shadowed sleeping corridors of Hogwarts, and it was with another pang of loss that Hermione heard her speak the password to the gargoyles before the doors of the office.

"Deisum memoria," The Headmistress said blandly.

It wasn't any sweet she'd ever heard of, Hermione thought sadly. Nonetheless, she followed, as McGonagall clearly wanted a chat in more secure quarters.

The room was spartan. All the old gadgets, whirling things, spinning tops and what Hermione privately called perpetual motion machines were gone. Books, instead, and a single Quidditch poster behind the desk—and that, she thought with a grin as she spied the small winged ball, was a Snitch signed by one Victor Krum.

"Please sit," McGonagall said brusquely, hanging up her hat. "I have an idea you may have asked for Hagrid's help on tomorrow night's venture, Miss Granger."

"Yes, though he doesn't know for what."

"That's probably just as well," McGonagall muttered, and sat down, staring at Hermione over the rims of her spectacles. "I will accompany you, Miss Granger. As will a few other members of the Order. There is no reason, other than Harry's peculiar obstinacy, that the three of you should go alone."

"I just wish we knew," Hermione fretted. "This sort of thing isn't in books, and I hate going there without knowing what we will face. Why didn't Dumbledore write it down as he learned it, all that he knew of Voldemort?"

She twisted in her chair, half grateful and half guilty for the excuse, and sought out Dumbledore's portrait. He slept, as Harry had said; his silver head bowed, lightly snoring, half-moon spectacles slipping down his crooked nose.

"He hasn't awakened, Miss Granger." McGonagall's voice wavered once. "Not yet. And I do not believe that we are meant to seek guidance from him now."

"Have you…tried to waken him?"

McGonagall nodded sharply and looked away. Hermione peered at her shoes, her eyes burning and throat tight. It was worse, somehow, to have help so near and yet so unreachable. What must it be like for wizards, to have their family on their walls, talking as they once had, but still gone, still dead? How did they bear it? Given the choice, she would prefer to bury the ones she loved, and remember them. It seemed cruel to keep a poor and faded copy.

"Well," she heard herself say. "Whether Harry likes it or not—I'll tell him you're coming, Headmistress." She attempted a smile. "I'd rather not—"

The telltale crack of Apparation interrupted her, and her wand leapt to her hand as she spun, overturning her chair with a haste and deliberation that kicked it toward the direction of the sound.

Hermione was mildly impressed with her own reaction. Apparently the lessons were working.

There was a high-pitched squeal as the chair struck, the intruder apparently invisible or tiny, and McGonagall peeled the chair away with a silent spell, even as Hermione braced to attack. How on earth had someone managed to Apparate into Hogwarts?

Reaction didn't even require thought; stupefy was in her mind and her wand was half-back in the proper flick when McGonagall grabbed it from her hand.

"Can I help you?" She asked, and Hermione glanced back to find the Headmistress' lips pursed as though she'd just taken a gulp of Skele-Gro.

A high-pitched squeal, and the elderly House-elf kicked the chair with her tiny foot, glowering up at Hermione.

"You is rude, you is, Miss!" She snapped, her hands on her hips. Her dark eyes narrowed. "And blood-filth, Miggs supposes that is why—"

"Pardon me." McGonagall's voice was glacial. With a swish of her robes she rounded the desk and slipped between Hermione and the muttering House-elf. "How did you come here and who are you?"

"Miggs was sent," she replied, and stamped her foot. "Miggs did not want to come."

That tea-cozy looked awfully familiar, Hermione thought, puzzling over it. Faded though it was, there were traces of green and grey on the front, and it might have been an emblem, a crest, something of the sort. She thumped down into one of the hard wooden chairs McGonagall favored.

"Miggs," McGonagall repeated, and twitched her own wand. "Who sent you?"

Miggs darted a venomous look at Hermione. "She is not to hear."

"She can be trusted."

"No." Miggs squinted upward, her long nose wrinkling. "Master said, tell the Headmistress. He did not say, speak in front of the Mudblood."

"If you use that word once more, you can go back to your Master and tell him the Headmistress won't have you," McGonagall snapped.

Miggs stamped her little foot again. "You will tell the Muggle-born what Miggs says anyway."

"That's right."

Impasse. Such insults had long ceased to bother Hermione.

"Master sent Miggs," Miggs repeated sulkily. "He said to come to Hogwarts; it is not safe at home. He said to tell the Headmistress that—that—"

Abruptly, Miggs tugged her handkerchief-sized apron over her head and shrieked. "No, no, no! Miggs will not betray her family! Not in front of the Mud—Muggleborn!"

Hermione winced at the high-pitched shrieks, resisting the urge to cover her ears. Old or not, Miggs had an astounding set of lungs.

"Silencio," McGonagall said acerbically, and Migg's tantrum became a pantomime. "Perhaps you had better go, Miss Granger."

"I think so," Hermione replied, bemused, and took the proffered wand from McGonagall, tucking it in her sleeve. "Tomorrow night?"

"If nothing else, I will come and inform you," McGonagall replied, jerking her head toward Miggs, who was kicking her little feet and pounding her fists on the floor.

Hermione was halfway down the circular staircase before she placed the picture on the tea-cozy. A dragon, rampant on a silver field. There weren't so many pure-blooded families that she couldn't remember their Crests.

Miggs belonged to a Malfoy.