Hi everyone.

This fic is going to be yet another Hermione-centric "PTSD-From-Malfoy-Manor" fic. I've lost count of how many of these I've read, while I've absolutely loved many of them, none are ever *quite* what I'm looking for (even if some are still far better than anything I'll ever write lol) so I decided to write my own. For reference, my favorites (by a long shot) the *absolutely wonder* Fleurmione and Cissamione fics "Saving Souls and Healing Hearts" and "Perhaps", and they've undoubtedly inspired this fic in countless ways, maybe most by convincing me that it will be genuinely worthwhile to write a fanfic :P

A few notes:

1. This is my first fanfic. Please consider commenting if you enjoy it, or if you have criticism to offer. It's lonely writing this otherwise.
2. I still haven't quite decided on the romantic pairing to be totally honest. There are three serious candidates right now. I think it'll be influenced by how the story moves ahead :). Expect a fairly slow burn.
3. This is going be 100% gung ho about ron-bashing. I love that trope tbqh. Also he's a piece of shit lol
4. This is femslash.
5. This is almost certainly not going to be poly
6. I'll make some minor tweaks to ages, births, etc as I need to. Hermione is in her early thirties.
7. I've written quite a bit more, but I need to get ahead, think about what's going to fit together, and painstakingly edit before I post it. For now, I hope you enjoy.

hope u guys enjoy.

The Brightest Witch of Her Age Returns to Hogwarts!

Hermione Jean Granger's face was plastered on the front page of the Daily Prophet and Holly Tremblay could not possibly be more excited.

The brains of the Golden Trio, the brightest witch of her age, the woman who saved Harry Potter countless times was going to be her professor. She rushed up the ballroom's spiral staircase as fast as her feet would carry her and opened the door to her mother's bedroom.

"Mama, look!" She cried. Morticia Tremblay was sitting in front of her vanity with her wand in hand, deciding how to do her makeup for the day. She quirked an eyebrow at her daughter. Holly blushed: she knew she was acting childish, but this was simply too exciting to contain. She thrust the paper out in front of her.

"She's going to be teaching at Hogwarts! She's going to be my professor!" Holly breathed. Morticia frowned and took the paper in her hands. Her eyes flickered to the page, scanned the page not a moment and then widened dramatically.

"Oh my..."

"I know, Mama, can you believe it? I just know she'll be so much better than the usual Hogwarts professors They say she works with all sorts of forgotten magic; she doesn't even need dark magic because she got so powerful without it." Holly grinned.

"And who says this?"

"Everyone." Holly said dismissively. "Don't be silly mother. Her love is an auror after all, she's a far stronger witch than he is. In Caliban's History of the Second Wizard war they say he wasn't even there for half of it."

"Caliban was charged with libel sweetie."

Holly snorted. "That doesn't mean he's wrong. I asked Sev and he thinks it's true. He says he heard his mom and dad arguing with Mr. Weasley" – Holly sneered at that – "about it one night when he was growing up. Even if she didn't have some dumb prophecy behind her she was the best of the Golden Trio and everyone knows it. I just know she's going to be the best professor."

Her mother hummed along in what might have been agreement, but Holly didn't pay it any mind. She had too many thoughts that she needed to share.

"Caliban says Professor Granger was really close to the teachers at Hogwarts when she was growing up. She'll probably be really close to us. Maybe she'll even be the head of house. It almost makes me wish I was a Gryffindor I just know she'd make the best head of house. Still, I'm sure any bright student will be welcome in Ms. Granger's office. That's just the kind of person she is; I just know she'll be excited to share her knowledge with the next generation."

Holly was about to launch into a discussion of Professor Granger's rumored research when her mother's voice brought her train of thought to a sudden halt.

"She doesn't look much older than you here, does she?"

Holly looked at the photo. She'd seen the headline then skimmed the article in a few quick seconds. Hermione Granger's visage blinked and gave a strained, awkward smile. She looked uncomfortable. Holly frowned.

"This is just a bad photo mom. The Prophet has always been a trash publication. I'm surprised anyone kept reading it after the war; do you even know what they did? Nevermind that. There are a lot of photos of her in Caliban, far better photos. She looks perfect in them; you just know seeing the three of them together that she was the brains behind the Trio."

Holly's mother hummed again, but this time, Holly noticed. It wasn't a hum of agreement like she'd assumed: her mother knew something, or thought she knew something. Holly cleared her throat, but her mother was still staring at the Prophet. She cleared it again, louder this time, and her mother looked up into her eyes.

"What is it?" Holly said.

"Oh, nothing dear, I was just thinking." Her mother smiled blandly. Holly narrowed her eyes. She hated when her mother hid things from her and she knew that was what she was doing now. God, her mother could be patronizing sometimes, as if Holly was just a child. Morticia sighed.

"It's been twelve years since I've heard any news at all about Ms. Granger." She said.

"So?"

"So, have you ever heard Albus mention her? You've never shared any stories with me."

Holly huffed. "Well, I don't have to tell you every single thing I hear about Professor Granger."

Her mother did that damnable "hum" again. Holly glared at her for a moment, and then her shoulders slumped.

"No, he's never shared any stories with me."

"I see." Morticia said. Holly's frown only grew more serious.

"What aren't you saying, Mama?"

Morticia sighed. "I don't really know, sweetheart. It's just that war can change people, and this photo looks like it was taken over a decade ago, and I doubt anything in Caliban is more recent. Isn't it strange that Ms. Granger is only now returning to Hogwarts? She likely could have started teaching a decade ago."

"That's simple enough to answer," Holly huffed. "She was taking a break, they say she was off studying other forgotten types of magics. I can't wait to ask her about them!"

"Who says that she was off studying forgotten magic?"

"…The Prophet." Holly said begrudgingly.

Morticia only sighed again, but more resigned this time. "Just don't get your hopes up, darling. I'd hate to see you disappointed."

Holly rolled her eyes at that. "I know the war was hard, believe me, but Uncle Harry certainly managed and I know he isn't as strong as Professor Granger. I'm sure she's changed, everyone changes. But how do you know it hasn't been for the better?"

"Holly," Morticia sighed. "This photo looks over a decade old."

"Well, I'm sure the Prophet would have liked to see something younger but she's probably been off learning more about magic than any of us could possibly know. Did you know she spent over a year in Albania?"

Morticia didn't say anything for a moment. Holly felt a strange, sinking feeling in her stomach, a kind of anxiety with an origin she didn't understand.

"I just don't want you to be disappointed, darling." Her mom said sadly. Holly hated to see her mother worried, even if she did treat Holly like she was just a little girl sometimes. So Holly flashed her mother her biggest, brightest smile.

"I'm not a kid mom, I know she's not the perfect hero. Don't worry." Holly pulled her mom into a hug. If her mom was worried about such a silly thing, Holly was happy to give her comfort, but deep in her heart she already knew that her fourth year was going to be the best year ever, because even if Hermione Granger wasn't the perfect hero, she was damn close.

It was the first day of Hogwarts and Hermione Granger's hands were shaking as she reached for the jar sitting on her nightstand. Her hands betrayed her: so unreliable they had become, clammy and shaking and threatening to spill the draught all over her nightshirt. Her stomach roiled and clenched as she took her morning draught of Oxycosia, then suddenly calmed. The potion's taste was biting and acidic and had a sickening,unnaturalsweetness to it that would make most people vomit. Hermione knew on some level that she had once found it disgusting, that the draught was every bit as revolting as people claimed. She vaguely remembered when she had started drinking it, how difficult it had been to even let touch her tongue. And yet, she also knew on a more honest, more visceral level, that at some point she had grown to love it. The Cruciatus shakes, the ones that crawled over her skin (like a million tiny pins that each drew blood) ebbed away with each swallow, and the familiar, warm feeling of Oxycosia took their place. It settled in her stomach, constricting around her heart like a warm blanket, and suddenly she wasn't calm, but she could fake it. That was enough.

Even with the anxiety still there (always there, watching, waiting, waving her wand, manic mumbling and magic for muddy) gripping her heart, it did so with fumbling fingers. The painful remnants of a time long past were ever-present, but kept at bay. She could handle this. The shaking of her hands had stilled, but her palms were still cold and clammy with sweat. She hated this version of herself. Hermione Jean Granger, Brains of the Golden Trio, the brightest witch of her age, and she couldn't speak to another human being without being doped within an inch of her life.

McGonagall had tried to offer her the position over a decade ago, before even her first time at St. Mungo's. The time then wasn't right, even though Minerva insisted it would be good for her. That was part of the problem: no matter what happened, Minerva still saw her former pupil. Hermione knew better. That girl wasn't gone, but she'd been twisted and shaped into something else, something so fragile and the burden of keeping herself going was overwhelming in the best of times.

Hermione's made her way to the bathroom to clean herself up. The night never treated her well, and every morning she woke slick with sweat as if she were in the midst of a fever.

Better up the dose again she thought. She had no right to be teaching these students, they deserved a hero to teach them, maybe someone like Harry? It wasn't as if Harry had come away unscathed. It wasn't as if Harry hadn't suffered, but he managed not to ruin his life. Harry wasn't a trainwreck. She stared at herself in the mirror, idly itching her forearm, looking into her own eyes and trying to find some modicum of strength, but she only saw dark circles and a hollow shell wrapped around what used to be a person. Hermione gave herself a small, tenuous smile, anyway.

"Fake it till you make it, Granger." Dr. Tuttle had told her, so many times.

It would be fine. She was fine. McGonagall believed in her. So did Harry and Shacklebolt. She needed to do this, to do this correctly.

A knock on the door to her chambers startled Hermione from her reverie. The wards: I didn't even notice the wards went off. Maybe it's Fleur?But when she opened the door, Narcissa Malfoy was staring her in the face. Hermione's eyes widened and her gut clenched.

Why does it have to be her?

"Miss Granger. Welcome back."

Hermione was dumbstruck for a short moment. Some part of her, locked away deep inside, wanting to yell and rage at Narcissa. To scream at her for the years that had been taken from her, for the mind that she had lost over her months in Malfoy Manor. But that part of her was far away, and her anger was but a puddle next to the tsunami of fear-soaked unease that threatened to overwhelm her. So her rage was discarded, all-but-forgotten, and all that she managed was a rather terse: "What do you want Narcissa?"

Narcissa cocked an eyebrow in a silent question, but Hermione looked away, itching her forearm.

"We're going to be coworkers. I thought it only prudent to come by." Narcissa sniffed, as if to dismiss Hermione's question as silly after-the-fact, then added, "Professor Delacour mentioned she wouldn't be able to see you before the Sorting."

13 years had not made much of a change in Narcissa Malfoy. She was still elegant, imposing, regal, and cold, projecting indifference with practiced ease. Of course, Narcissa wasn't indifferent. Hermione knew that. Her eyes were perceptive and watchful as ever:

Watched. Heard. Remembered.

"Hermione?" Narcissa repeated.

Hermione felt needles pricking at her skin. She needed another draught. This was too much for one day. Her breathes started coming quicker. She blinked her eyes (over and over), her mouth twitched and she itched her arm as subtly as she could. Narcissa's cold gaze flickered to Hermione's fingers, and then back to her face.

"Do you need a calming draught?" Narcissa asked tersely. Hermione blinked her eyes. There was a businesslike efficiency to Narcissa's questions, but it was still strange to recognize that she must be concerned for Hermione if she'd suggest such a thing at nine o-clock in the morning.

"I – I'm fine Narcissa. I just woke up."

Narcissa stared at her in silence for a moment, before she slowly nodded.

"Yes, I suppose came by a bit early. Perhaps we can reconnect later?" She said. Hermione nodded aggressively: let the witch leave, then she could down another Oxycosia, perhaps read a book, calm down before the students arrived for sorting.

"Very well then. The sorting will be done at noon, Miss Granger." Narcissa paused, and then spoke very slowly. "All of the professors will be there." She gave Hermione a pointed look. A moment later, Hermione connected the dots. She would be there, that is, Narcissa. She was reminding Hermione to….keep her from freaking out? It would certainly embarrass Narcissa if that were the case. Hermione might've thought Narcissa would have liked to watch her embarrass herself, but maybe she'd had enough of that for one lifetime. Hermione found that thought morbidly funny for some reason. She nodded again anyway.

What was I nodding for, again?

"McGonagall will probably expect you to say something as well." Narcissa told her. Hermione nodded dumbly. This woman needed to leave. Narcissa eyed her suspiciously, her eyes flickering down and the back up. Hermione avoided looking directly at her. Eventually, Narcissa pursed her lips in resignation.

"Well, perhaps another time we could have a less one-sided conversation. You know your students won't do the lecturing for you."

Hermione flushed in embarrassment but didn't respond. This wasn't a good morning, but she only cared about her pride as a sort of distant, far away thing. In the moment, she just wanted Narcissa to leave.

When the door latched behind her, Hermione sighed with relief, but it was only momentary. McGonagall wanted her to speak. She couldn't do that: not with the entire Hogwarts staff (including Narcissa), all the students, everyone watching her. But if she took more Oxycosia, she wouldn't be in any shape to give a speech either. Hermione's anxiety threatened to overwhelm her and she scratched her arm until it bled. She could take another half draught. Calm her anxiety, but be present enough for the speech. Maybe add a pepper-up…

Victoria Rosier tapped her fingers on the head table. The din of the student body's gossip was irritating her more and more with every minute that passed. The Sorting should have been well underway by now, and the students were getting antsy. Not that Victoria could blame them, because so was she, and with every second that past she grew more and more annoyed because, on her very first day as a professor, Hermione Granger was late.

Victoria made a low, grumbling sound in her throat. Headmistress McGonagall looked calmer than she'd have expected: the woman was not one to tolerate this kind of insolence from the rest of them. Of course, the (Brightest Witch of Her Age!) new professor could do no wrong. Victoria glanced at Narcissa, but the witch was staring straight ahead.

Oh she must be furious Victoria thought. She opened her mouth to make a cutting remark, just for her and Narcissa to hear, when one of the side doors to the great hall opened and Professor Hermione Granger strode up to the table.

Except, she wasn't really striding, she was more…shuffling? Her hair was in her face and the woman seemed intent on not making eye contact with anyone. The racket from the students turned to hurried whispers, and as the brightest witch of her age sat in the chair next McGonagall she knocked over a candle that awkwardly clanged to the ground, muttering apologies the whole while. Victoria smirked and nudged Narcissa, but rather than biting sarcasm, the older witch just mumbled, "Be nice, Tori."

What? Narcissa too? Victoria turned to look at her, looking for...a sneer? A smile? Something that indicated she found Hermione Granger's clumsiness as delightfully embarrassing as Victoria did? but instead of a sneer on the older witch's face Victoria saw mostly...worry? Agitation? Was Narcissa another one of these starstruck sycophants? Victoria certainly hadn't gotten that impression, not from the venom Narcissa spat whenever the Weasley boy came up. Something else was going on here, but before Victoria could interrogate her friend, McGonagall lightly tapped a spoon against her chalice and hall quieted.

"We wish a warm welcome to all of you, returning students and those we have just met. To our returning students, I hope this year brings you evermore knowledge, wisdom, and happiness. We are all thrilled to see you return.

"To our new students, welcome, and know that we hope you will come to think of Hogwarts as our home-away-from-home in the years to come." Minerva smiled gently at the crowd of students. In that moment, she was less stern-headmistress, more kindly grandmother. She really had gotten softer in her old age if she was trying to show the whole lot of first years how much she cared.

"Soon we will begin the Sorting. There are four houses here at Hogwarts, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. If Hogwarts is your home-away-from-home, then your house might be your family-away-from-family.

"But before we begin," McGonagall paused and glanced at the new addition. "May I introduce the newest member of our family here at Hogwarts, Professor of Advanced Studies, Hermione Granger."

The students began talking to one another in earnest, speaking rapidly to one another, their faces alight with excitement. Victoria fought the urge to roll her eyes. Great. Just great. Professor of "Advanced Studies?" Could there be anything more vague? Is she teaching subjects more advanced than 7th year DADA? Not bloody likely. The entire appointment is probably just fucking publicity; I doubt there's even any reason for this woman to be here. "Brightest Witch of her Age," my ass. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire Granger-myth is just more Ministry propaganda to prop up the poor mudbloods.

Minerva was waiting for Granger to say something, but Victoria didn't think the red-headed witch had noticed yet. McGonagall cleared her throat and Granger finally seemed to get the hint. She pushed the hair out of her face and stood. The chatter amongst the students quieted instantly.

"Well, hello." Granger started. "I, well, I'm teaching a number of – runic magic and arithmancy have traditionally been theoretical, but with application they are very powerful magics. Some say, well, I'm excited to be showing you all I've learned. I'm Hermione Granger, in case you didn't know. I won't see you in my courses until your third year at least, although I may see you outside of them. It's – what many people don't realize, I'm sure some of them realize, but many still don't, well, I have a story about that actually, but with Runic magic –"

Victoria was having trouble containing her laughter. Hermione was babbling, it was as if she hadn't prepared a speech at all. She looked more as if she was talking to herself in a mirror, rather than the entire Hogwarts student body. Narcissa must be loving watching the mudblood squirm,she thought, but when she turned to look at Narcissa the woman looked deathly pale.

Well, it doesn't look good for Hogwarts.

Eventually, Hermione seemed to remember she was still talking, blushed ferociously, and abruptly sat back down.

Did she even finish her last sentence? Merlin, what a fucking mess.

Mercifully, McGonagall took back control, leaving Professor Granger to sit back down and continue wringing her hands. Professor Delacour reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. Victoria stifled a snicker and nudged Narcissa.

"Brightest witch of her age indeed." She mumbled out of the corner of her mouth. "Even the foreigner can tell she made mincemeat of the English language." But Narcissa didn't chuckle, in fact she didn't seem to be paying attention at all, much less Victoria's commentary. Instead, Narcissa just stared at Hermione Granger with a mortified expression that straddled the line somewhere between agony and horror.

Narcissa must be even more embarrassed of her being here than I thought.

The moment the Sorting hat began to sing, Victoria stopped paying attention. Narcissa was head of house; she'd take note of the new Slytherins. The older woman was a good head of house, no, a great head of house. Victoria might no longer be a student, but having Narcissa as her head of house made her proud to be a Slytherin. It had become a place where students felt safe, nurtured, and like they could rely on their housemates and their professors alike, no matter obstacles they faced. When students were struggling in their classes, they could go to Narcissa. When they had problems at home, they could count on Narcissa. Indeed, Narcissa Black was the best thing to happen to House Slytherin in a very long time. Whereas Slughorn was eager to foster exceptional talent, Narcissa took special care with all her students, and indeed the more her students struggled, the greater their burdens, the more ferocious and protective Narcissa Black became.

Hopefully the new, bumbling professor wouldn't put too much of a damper on Narcissa's sense of accomplishment: she deserved to be proud of her school and the work she'd done. Narcissa had poured her heart and soul into protecting her students, just like she had with Victoria when she'd needed it most. To Victoria, Narcissa occupied a precious, liminal space: some murky place in-between friend, coworker, confidante, and matriarch.

The thought made Victoria narrow her eyes at Granger. She refused to let the "brightest witch of her age" embarrass Narcissa any further. Not while Victoria Rosier was there to put a stop to it.

"I thought it would be good to for all of our professors to meet." Minerva said. The students and prefects had gone back to their respective quarters. Victoria glanced at the clock. Can't be that much longer.

"Professor Granger should need no introduction," Minerva continued, seemingly unbothered by Granger making a fool of herself (and the entire school administration that decided to hire her) not an hour earlier. "She is the most brilliant student I've had and by now I'm sure that student has surpassed teacher, if she didn't already by the time she left." Minerva gave Granger a warm smile.

"Hermione," She said. "Perhaps you can share some of what you've been working on since you left Hogwarts with us."

"Oh sure, yes, I would love to." Granger said. Her nervousness was still palpable, but she seemed a little bit more present than she'd been at the Sorting ceremony. She wasn't the hero that people like Longbottom and Potter would incessantly praise, not by a longshot, but at least her demeanor had improved to that of a nervous, downtrodden housewife, rather than that of an escaped mental patient.

Small victories, Victoria.

"I was working in the intersection between Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. I've found that a great deal of lost-magic was written down using a combination of Runes and Arithmantic equations." Hermione flashed them all a bright smile. "Well, not written per-se, but recorded at least. I'm really looking forward to meeting all of you and I can't wait to share what I've learned over the past seven years with the students here."

"We are so 'appy to have you, 'Ermione." said Professor Delacour. Her smile was just blinding.

What a sycophant. Victoria thought. She had already braced herself in anticipation, fully prepared for Longbottom to chime in with some simpering story from the war, punctuated with unabashed groveling before the magisterial Hermione Granger. But then, much to her astonishment, it was Narcissa who spoke next.

"I know I speak for all of us, Ms. Granger, when I say that we are thrilled you've decided to teach here. Hogwarts is lucky to have you back and all of us only hope that you can be happy here."

Victoria might have made a quip just then, mocking how dumbstruck Narcissa's comment had left Hermione Granger, if the Golden Girl'sinability to form coherent sentences wasn't a core part of her being. Victoria would also have been more inclined to mock the new professor if she herself didn't look equally stupid and wasn't gaping, open-mouthed at Narcissa, like a turkey drowning in a rainstorm.

Narcissa was a kind person. Victoria knew that better than most. It was true that she exuded an elegant, detached-aloofness like any well-bred pureblood witch. Her acerbic tongue could be absolutely devastating at times, often in sinfully delightful ways (a fond memory of Narcissa terrorizing Victoria's older brother came to mind), but beneath it all Narcissa's heart was so, so, big, big and warm and ready to love. But her love wasn't something to be given to any swine who desperately begged for her approval: Narcissa wouldn't care so deeply for some overrated Gryffindor mudblood who already had countless wizards and witches worshiping the very ground she walked on. Merlin, listening to the Prophet or one of the Ministry's Good Ol' Boys tell it, one would think the awkward, bumbling woman was Saint Hermione, lovechild of Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw sent to save the wizarding world from evil. Everything about it was so fucking nauseating. There was no way thatNarcissa was that gullible.

No no no, it was impossible. This could not be right.

But then, suddenly, Victoria realized thatof course this couldn't be right:she was thinking about this all wrong. Narcissa was a politician. She survived the Dark Lord in her home for Merlin's sake. If she could play a role for He Who Must Not Be Named, she could play a role for Minerva and her precious, rambling pet.

Oh Narcissa you absolute fox.

Victoria grinned to herself. Whatever game Narcissa was playing she was more than welcome to continue.

Worry not Narcissa; I see what you're doing, and I know how to play this game too.