Half Pain 10
Chapter 10 – A little drop of time
Disclaimer – I don't own anything. I am not profiting from this.
Hi there y'all! I am sorry about the late update and I hope that it was well worth the wait. The next chapter should be along shortly. As always, me and Lord Regals Bane love reviews, so please review. Don't be shy, we love constructive criticism.
Hermione walked alone through the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, not in deep enough to be in any danger but nearing the border of the school grounds. It was nice to be outside for once, and alone. It felt like late summer still. The leaves had begun to turn, and though the northern air was cooler it did not yet have autumn's bite. Still, she could feel the changes gathering in the air, a sense of potential like the change in pressure before a storm.
Her contact with the Order had mostly ended since she started school, and in truth it was a relief to leave that responsibility behind and try to be an ordinary student again, though she hated being cut off from information. But her lack of communication with the Order didn't mean she couldn't spend her time researching and practicing curses and countercurses, or studying defense against the dark arts. Harry and Ron both thought she was mad, but she was beginning to wish that Snape had instructed that particular class from the beginning. He was as strict there as he had been during his potions lessons, and as arbitrarily cruel, but what he taught was useful and he didn't shy away from pointing students in the direction of further research.
But research took time, and lately there didn't seem to be enough of that to go around. It was only a few weeks since the start of the term, and already teachers were beginning to pile on the homework. The only time that had been a problem before was her third year, all that trouble with the Ministry. Usually she enjoyed keeping busy, and had little trouble keeping up with the workload. But now she had other things to worry about. And then there was her apprenticeship with Crane to consider, and that was already taking up far too much of her time.
She had been almost surprised to realize that the man viewed the apprenticeship as not only binding but serious, treating her as a real student and not simply some tool he could make use of. Her learning was limited by the fact that she could only contact him through the mail, but the things he set her to researching were varied and occasionally surprising. Not all seemed to relate directly to sorcery – most notably, his insistence that she memorize the material components of common substances like steel or water, and how they interacted chemically, which she had always seen as more of a muggle science than magic. She remembered the necessity of such knowledge from her dreams about alchemy, and hoped he was setting her up for training in that area as well.
She was excited at the prospect of learning the Lost Art, but at the moment it was slow work, full of drudgery with little immediate reward. Crane was irritated that she hadn't been taught earlier – "This is a foundation that should have been laid in childhood, when learning is easiest and most permanent," he had written. "I know of no sorcerer who has begun so late in life. It will not be easy for you, and my suggestion is that you concentrate for the moment on sorcery, and your research into the dark arts. Although that too, of course, should have been taught earlier."
And when it came to sorcery, he was starting her on a similarly basic level, the sort of lessons he said should have been given to a five year old: focus, meditate, be aware of the self and the surroundings. She was to become aware of her own mind and body first, her existence as a physical being. Then she was to concentrate on her place in relation to the world at large, how her presence altered it through thought and action. Wand magic put a step between the wizard and the world, making magic both simpler and less powerful. It could be regulated, limits could be imposed. Sorcery was magic without limits, except those inherent in the laws of the world and the power of the sorcerer.
The primary law, of course, was that of conservation. Of everything. You couldn't get something from nothing, no matter how many rules you tried to bend. Sorcery was about manipulating and transforming the energy that already existed, the potential locked up in the physical world that could be released through an effort of will. But first, according to Erik Crane, the world itself had to be understood.
It all seemed a little mystical to her, and Hermione didn't trust mysticism at in the least. Being in touch with her body wasn't something she was comfortable with, either; she had spent the past several years trying to distance herself from it and its frailties, and to her, magic had been a part of that. Now her teacher was telling her that she wouldn't get anywhere with magic until she realized that it was also her.
Not to mention, all that focus and meditation was easier when you didn't have a dozen books to read weekly, at least half of which were recommended to you by the very man who was trying to teach you to be calm and self aware. So she concentrated on her regular classes, on memorization and research, the things she understood. Awareness, she hoped, would take care of itself. And it didn't, at the very least she could still learn.
Nevertheless, as she walked, she tried to obey Crane's directive, making herself aware of all the senses and sensations she usually tuned out: the breeze across her skin and hair, the sound of leaves rustling, birds calling, twigs snapping underfoot. But it wasn't easy. Her mind kept trying to slip away from the moment and into abstract thoughts, formless worries. She had never realized how practiced she was at distracting herself, until she tried to break herself of that habit. And either way, meditation wasn't the only reason she was out here. Sometimes you just had to be by yourself.
Or, if not by yourself, at least away from human company. There were times when Hermione understood Hagrid's obsession with magical beasts, or Ed's irrational love for that dog. Animals didn't judge, or ask questions, or resent you for things that weren't your fault. They were just there. And if you were kind to them, they would be loyal, simple as that. It was a pity humans were seldom so simple.
And so she was going to visit the thestrals.
She encountered the spectral horses in one of their favorite haunts, a glade not far from Hagrid's cabin. They meandered around, stretching their wings and arching their necks, seemingly unconcerned with her presence. Thestrals weren't like hippogriffs -- they didn't attack unless provoked. Despite their taste for meat, they were herd animals, and friendly to anyone in their herd, which these particular thestrals took to include all the human inhabitants of Hogwarts.
Hermione could see the them more clearly now than she had been able to during that assault on the ministry. They no longer flickered into and out of sight in front of her, but they were still ghostly and blurred around the edges, undefined. It hurt to look at them. She wished she could see them more clearly, then shook her head as she recalled what that would mean. What a thing to wish for. She didn't doubt she would see death enough in person before this war was over, but that didn't mean she ought to be eager for it.
"You can see them now." Quiet and distinct words, spoken from somewhere behind her. Luna.
Hermione looked back and saw the girl standing at the edge of the clearing, her head tilted and her hands in the pockets of her robe, long hair blowing freely in the wind. She was wearing typical Luna garb: hiking boots, the radish earrings and that butterbeer cork necklace, a long, loose knit scarf. The colors of were odd, shades of green and blue and brown and pale silver, but somehow everything seemed to fit together. Somehow, that was always the case with Luna.
"Yes," Hermione said softly. "I can see them. But not clearly. They're still kind of... fuzzy, I suppose."
"Oh." Luna frowned, biting her lower lip, and picked a few dead leaved out of her hair. After a while, she said, "You know, I've never heard of that happening."
"Neither have I. It doesn't really make sense, does it? "
Luna just shrugged.
"I mean," Hermione said, "you've either seen death or you haven't, right?"
"Oh, I don't know," Luna said. "I think it may be a bit more complex than that. Most things are, if you really look at them." She sat down in the fallen leaves beneath a tree, and beckoned Hermione to sit down beside her. "It's just that most people don't. Look closely, I mean."
Hermione still wasn't sure what she thought of Luna. The girl's willingness to believe in any stupid theory had annoyed her, at first. An open mind was a good thing, but Luna's mind was open enough to let bats fly in and out of her ears. But there was more to her than nonsense. Luna noticed things that most people didn't, and she was very smart. Perhaps the closest thing Hermione had ever seen to a true genius, eccentricities and all.
That certainly wasn't to say her bizarre theories had any chance of being true, or that Hermione particularly wanted to listen to them. Nevertheless, she sat down and folded her arms across her knees, preparing to listen. That was what you did for friends -- you listened to them, and you didn't judge.
"If you want to know what I think," Luna said, "they're creatures of the Veil. Only half here. That's why you can't see them until you've been close to the veil yourself."
"Really?" She tried not to sound skeptical. Creatures of the Veil?
"Oh, yes. I imagine they can travel through the Veil, if they choose. To other worlds. Just like the Grim."
The Grim... Hermione hadn't heard that word in a long time. It took her a while to remember why it seemed so important -- third year. The year when things had started to go wrong. She remembered Harry's insistence that a dog had been stalking him, years ago, and Ron's certainty that the thing had been the Grim. Silly myth, really. Most wizards these days -- most sensible wizards, which most definitely didn't include a certain Ronald Weasley -- dismissed it as a superstition. But then again, when had Luna ever dismissed anything as a superstition? Declaring something didn't exist was the quickest way to get her to profess her belief in it.
But traveling to other worlds wasn't any part of the Grim legend she had ever heard. And didn't the Veil just lead to death?
"Other worlds?"
"That's what my aunt says."
"Your aunt?" Luna never really talked about her family. In spite of herself, Hermione found herself curious. Wizarding households were always interesting to hear about, and other people's families had always held for her a strange and slightly envious fascination. She always wanted to know more.
"Oh, yes. My aunt. She was very interested in the Veil, and the theory of the Grim."
"Was -- " Hermione said, before she could stop herself. Oops.
"Was. She's been dead since I was small." Luna peered up at her from beneath a curtain of wispy hair, her voice disturbingly calm. She was idly twisting a long blade of grass around her fingers, staring at the forest floor. Hermione felt vaguely embarrassed for bringing the subject up.
"Oh. I'm... sorry."
"Yes. I'm sorry too. They said she wasn't natural." Beneath the vagueness, Luna seemed angry. It was an emotion Hermione had never seen in her before, not even when the other students of her year had teased or excluded her, and it was slightly unsettling to see it now.
"She never hurt anyone," Luna continued. "She was just. Unusual. Only... I don't even think they cared about that. Much. It was just that she studied things they didn't like."
"You mean like the Grim?"
"Exactly." Luna's eyes gleamed. This was getting interesting.
"Tell me."
"I thought you didn't believe..."
"I don't." Too strong an emphasis there. She sounded defensive, even to herself.
"Then why?"
"I... I don't know. I've been thinking about dogs a lot, though, lately. And you believe in it. So tell me."
"The Grim isn't a dog." Luna's tone was that of a patient teacher explaining something simple to a rather dense First Year. "Or not just a dog, anyway. It's a guardian."
"A guardian?" I thought it was supposed to kill people.
The wind was picking up now, whistling through the branches with gathering force. Definitely a storm on the way. She ought to head back to the castle before things got nasty. But this was too interesting to give up now. She felt that old excitement in the pit of her stomach, the sharp thrill that came from being on the right track and knowing it. Luna knew something, she was suddenly certain of it. Luna knew something important.
"Let me tell you the story... Once upon a time," Luna said, "in the days when the world was very much younger than it is now, there lived a boy named Rosie and a girl named Theodore."
Hermione frowned, uncertain if she had heard correctly. "A boy named Rosie?"
And Theodore. What?
An image of Theodore Nott looking uncomfortable in a dress flashed through her mind, and she stifled a laugh.
"Yes, Rosie and Theodore. It's a beautiful love story."
"And what does that have to do with -- "
"I'll get to that. They were under a curse, you see. A terrible, terrible curse, placed on them by... hmm, I believe it was the Minister of Magic's intelligent pet goose, this time. Geese are very dangerous creatures. You can't trust them at all."
"A curse?" Hermione prompted, trying not to let her disappointment show. This was going to be... interesting, certainly, but not particularly informative. She should have known better than to imagine Luna would know anything of note; the girl had sounded so serious, and now it was Rosie and Theodore and evil geese.
But did everything in this world have to be serious? Couldn't there be time for stories, too?
"Yes, a curse. Rosie couldn't fight, you understand, and Theodore was completely unable to clean."
"Such a tragedy," Hermione murmured, sensing that now was not the time for a critical analysis of gender roles and stereotypes in wizarding literature. She would save that one for an essay. History of Magic, perhaps.
"A great tragedy," Luna said. "They tried many ways to break the curse... potions and countercurses, magical remedies, wishing rings... nothing worked. They searched through the wizarding world's most ancient manuscripts and found no hint of what to do. So they summoned a demon to ask for advice."
"That's never a good idea."
"Indeed not." Luna nodded sagely. "This demon had snake eyes and a sly smile, and he told them that he had the power to life the curse, but he would not do it for free. If Rosie and Theodore could travel to the kingdom of Death, and steal a certain book from Death's library, he would help them."
Hermione leaned back against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes, letting Luna's rambling narrative flow over her. There were evil elves involved -- not House Elves, it seemed, but an altogether nastier variety -- and aliens, and ghosts, and a brief but fortuitous encounter with the King of the Crumple-horned Snorckacks. And then at last the two adventurers made it into Death's demesne, through a pair of high black iron gates -- the recognition of the image from her dreams was not pleasant, though she told herself it meant nothing -- and from there into a library filled with numberless books on shelves reaching up out of sight. After some searching, Theodore discovered the book they were after, a book of prophecy by a witch whose name she had never heard. She pulled it down from the shelf, and the two of them prepared to make their escape.
"And?" Hermione asked, caught up in the tale in spite of herself. She had hated fiction for years, fairy tales especially, and she couldn't remember the last time she had wanted to know what happened next, how the tale ended.
"They were caught, of course," Luna whispered. "You can't fool Death, not in his own home. And Death was angry. It is a great transgression for a mortal to venture across the Veil of their own accord, and much worse to fiddle with what you find there. It was decided that it would be a fitting punishment for Rosie and Theodore to keep watch for the rest of eternity, guarding the boundary between life and death from both the living and the dead."
"That isn't fair."
"That's what they said, too. They argued their case, but the only point they could get Death to concede was that they were mortal and their purpose was to die. They would be allowed to age and die, but only on the condition that one of them would have, to whom the duty would pass."
"What about the curse?"
"Death lifted it for them, I believe. It was the least he could do. He's really not a bad entity, I hear, when you get to know him."
"So, they spent a lot of time cleaning and fighting, then?"
"Not really. Once they knew they could, they just got on with their lives. That was the important thing."
"Seems a little pointless to me," Hermione said. "But the Grim is..."
"The guardian of the Veil. The child of Rosie and Theodore was the first Grim, and the power passes down the generations. I could show you a genealogy, if you like." Luna rifled through her bookbag and pulled out a battered copy of the Quibbler. "It's all in here."
"That's... quite all right," Hermione said. "But I thought the Grim was supposed to be a -- you know, a ghostly dog. Not a person."
Luna looked at Hermione as if she didn't quite understand the objection.
"Well, yes. That too. That mostly, actually. Here, take this, I have more. It explains everything." Luna shoved her copy of the Quibbler into Hermione's hands. Hermione held the magazine awkwardly, not wanting to be rude by giving it back, then finally folded it up and packed it into her bookbag as she had done with religious pamphlets and advertisements in the muggle world, not really intending to read it later.
She walked back to the castle with Luna, the wind whirling leaves and branches around them, an impervius charm keeping off the rain. The sky had darkened, both from clouds and the fall of evening, and it was getting cold. Neither of them spoke. A strange quiet had fallen over both of them, a sense of unease. Luna's story had seemed patched together, like a lighthearted fable had been mixed somewhat inexpertly with something older and darker. Hermione wanted to ask where the girl had learned it -- from her mysterious aunt, no doubt -- but the girl seemed lost somewhere inside her own mind, and Hermione herself wasn't sure she was in the mood to talk. Her thoughts kept returning to the Veil, that curtain they had seen hidden away in the Department of Mysteries. That thing.
It shouldn't be there, she thought. It's like a wound. It means there's something broken in the world...
And: I wonder where it leads to? What's on the other side?
She wasn't even certain if they were her thoughts or not. But they wouldn't leave her alone. Instead of the strange boy's life, that night she dreamed again of death. She dreamed of falling through the Veil, of stepping up to it's edge and touching that fine, shimmering curtain, of stepping through the empty frame. And she dreamed of heavy black doors, huge and ponderous, slowly swinging open. She didn't want to know what was behind them.
The next morning wasn't any easier. She woke later than she should have and still tired, threw on her school robes, dragged an enchanted comb through hair that still refused to behave, and forced a few more books into her bag than it should really have been capable of holding. The Gryffindor common room was practically empty; Harry and Ron had left without her. Hurrying down the moving stairways, making her way through crowded corridors to the great hall, she was struck by how little Hogwarts had changed. The world outside the school was preparing for war. She had heard from both Tonks and Crane that several Wizarding villages and households had been attacked -- by Dementors, Death Eaters, werewolves, inferi -- and that wasn't even counting the people who just disappeared. But Hogwarts was still a school, and if any of the students cared about anything beyond passing their next exam, they didn't show it.
It was a haven of denial, and she felt the temptation to fall into it herself. Too many things were on her mind, lately. The Ministry, the Order, sorcery and alchemy. Harry. Peter Pettigrew's letters, and the doubts she felt whenever she thought of that man. None of it was pleasant; it would be so much easier just to be a student, join her friends in enjoying life while she still could.
And then there was the matter of Elric. It was a matter more complex than she had imagined at first. She wanted to understand the boy and take advantage of his knowledge. If she was very honest with herself, she wanted to befriend him and know she had his respect. This should not have been a difficult thing – dealing with people had never been easy for her, but he seemed to like her well enough. But then he had to go and get sorted into Slytherin.
It doesn't matter, se told herself. It shouldn't matter. There was no rational reason why it would.
But it did. It mattered to her that he should associate so freely with snobs and bigots, and it mattered to the others more. Harry and Ron took that as proof of what they had wanted to believe all along – that Ed was evil. They wanted nothing to do with him. And they wanted her to have nothing to do with him -- not that it was anyone's business who she cared to associate with.
Still, it wasn't easy to catch up with Ed once school began -- there was little interaction in classes, free time was spent with Harry and Ron, mostly, and her duties as a prefect mostly just left her busy. They might nod to each other briefly while doing rounds at night, or other prefect business, but seldom stopped to say even a few words. So when she caught sight of a short boy with a blond braid sitting at the Slytherin table eating his breakfast, all dressed up in pureblood regalia -- barely recognizable, she thought with disgust; he'd better not have bought in to that rubbish -- she decided it was time to set things straight.
She threaded her way through the crowd, trying to ignore the suspicious eyes peering at her from the Slytherin table. She didn't belong there, she knew. Well, what did she care about a bunch of sullen inbred rich kids, anyway? Ed was sitting between two Slytherin boys -- Theodore Nott, that Death Eater's son, pale and gangly, and Blaise Zabini, dark, skinny and fastidious as only a pureblood heir could be. Both of them towered over Ed, though she didn't imagine it would be wise to draw attention to the fact. He seemed friendly enough with both of them. He was fitting in. Edward Elric was definitely a part of Slytherin house.
Well, what's the worst that could happen...
"Ed," she said. "Hi."
He twisted around in his chair and looked up at her flatly, and Zabini and Nott followed suit, reminiscent of Crabbe and Goyle or, she supposed, herself and Ron.
"Hi," he said.
"I've been meaning to talk to you"
"Really? Because it seems to me that you've been avoiding me."
"Not really. Its just that... I've had a lot of things to do lately." And most of those things, if she had to admit it to herself, were a bit easier than dealing with the prospect of Ed.
"Well. Me too, I suppose." He leaned across the back of his chair, holding a mug of dark tea in his gloved hands. "So... what brings you away from your busy life?"
"I just wanted to see what you were doing lately. If everything was going well for you..."
"Taking a bit of time to be sociable?"
"Is that a crime now?"
"Hardly." Ed smirked. "I'm flattered you care."
She sighed. "Well, if you're going to be a jerk about it..."
"I'm not. Really. I'm just surprised you had the guts to talk to the big bad Slytherin prefect," he said, but his voice was friendlier now that he seemed to realize she meant what she said.
"Bastard," she said, but she said it good-naturedly, no offense taken or intended.
"Known for it," Ed replied.
Someone laughed, and Ed turned to glare at them. People were watching, and by this point even he had noticed that most of the conversation at the table had stopped, the better to focus on events unfolding. Predictably, it seemed to piss him off.
"Look, I don't want to sit here blabbing like an idiot," he said, "especially when I seem to be surrounded by people who can't mind their own business. I'm guessing neither do you."
"Not really, I suppose."
"Then let's go for a walk." Ed pushed back from the table and stood up, and Nott and Zabini stood with him. A show of solidarity, or simple curiosity? She looked at them nervously. She didn't want to tell Ed to make them stay, at least partly because she was certain he wouldn't. So. Fraternizing with the enemy, then. She could live with that.
"Come on."
She fell into step beside him, ignoring the looks from those who had noticed Hermione Granger and a group of Slytherins going for a casual stroll. She would be hearing no end to this from Harry and Ron later, but thankfully they had the grace not to intervene now. Perhaps they imagined she had some purpose here, some ulterior motive. Perhaps they were even right.
Blaise Zabini was looking at her as if she were a speck of fingernail dirt, Theodore Nott as if she were something no less unpleasant but perhaps a little more dangerous. Well, she was used to that, especially from Slytherins. But she wondered suddenly if she wouldn't be the only one catching hell from her friends later, and the thought was almost satisfying.
In some ways, the two of them weren't really all that different.
"So," Ed said, addressing her. "What do you think of this... this House dynamic?"
"I think it's troublesome," she said. "There were good reasons for it, originally, but... What do you think about it?"
"It's all that's been on anyone's mind since I've gotten here. I'm in Slytherin, so I must be eeeevil. It's annoying. Actually, it's a bunch of crap."
And it was surely a stupid question, but by this point she really did have to know. "Um, look, do you... do you actually believe all that pureblood rubbish?"
Ed shook his head. "That blood stuff is nonsense. It is," he said, turning to Nott and Zabini, who were both looking at him with a mix of disbelief and indulgence. "It's skill that matters. Work. I mean... look at Malfoy. Purest blood out there. That doesn't seem to stop him from being a little weasel." Hemione wondered if she imagined the slight regret in his voice when he said that. Probably. What possible reason would Ed have to care about Malfoy?
"Ferret, actually," she said. "Not weasel."
"What?" Ed asked.
"No, the mudblood's right," Zabini said. "Ronald's the weasel. Draco's a ferret."
"The amazing bouncing Malfoy," Theodore Nott laughed. "Pretty quick on the uptake, for a muggle."
Hermione forced herself to keep from punching both of them, or going for her wand. Being called a mudblood didn't hurt any less, after all this time, but this wasn't a fight she could win. Even if she hexed both boys into oblivion -- a thoroughly tempting prospect, and she had been researching some interesting hexes lately, thanks to Crane -- she would have buggered up her chances to deal peacefully with Ed. She would confront him on the bigots for friends thing later.
"No, really," Ed said. "Ferret? What?"
"We'll explain later," Zabini said, draping an arm around Ed's shoulder. The result of this was Ed promptly shoving the taller boy and sending him sprawling.
"Don't treat me like I'm small," Ed said.
"Wasn't. Wasn't," Zabini said hastily, staggering to his feet. "Treating you like a comrade. Not small."
"Not one of Slytherin House's proudest moments," Nott said.
"You mean the ferret incident," Hermione said, "or...?" She gestured to Zabini dusting off his robes with a scowl on his face.
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not."
"Look, we're not friends here, right? We're not going to be."
"Of course. So does that make us enemies, then? Can we manage a bit of civility, or is that falling out of favor in highborn Wizarding households?"
"Civility is highly regarded, between equals," Nott replied.
"Which is to say," Zabini added, "present company not included. But don't take offense."
Theodore Nott inclined his head in something that might have been a nod. "It isn't often we even talk to your sort."
"So I should be flattered?"
"I don't see why not," Zabini said, grinning.
"I'll give you a reason," she said, stepping forward and reaching for her wand. Ed stepped in front of her, restraining her with a hand on her arm.
"Hey," he said. "You guys better cut the crap, all right?"
"Whatever you say, Elric" Nott muttered. "We need to be getting to class anyway."
"'s right," Zabini said. "Better just leave him with his mudblood girlfriend."
"Oh, don't tell me you're jealous, Blaise..." Ed laughed.
"Of you or her?" Zabini asked.
"Get out of here. Go to class," Ed ordered, mock serious. "Don't make me report you for loitering."
The two Slytherins obeyed, laughing and loudly insulting Ed and Hermione as they vanished down the halls, though neither, she noticed, made anything resembling a remark about his height.
Once they were safely out of earshot, she rounded on Ed, hands on her hips. "You get along with them?"
"They're OK," he said, "when you get to know them. Not as bad as they like to pretend."
"Do you understand what he called me? The history behind it?"
"Yeah, and I'm not saying it's right, either. But... That's what they were raised with. That's what the history of this bloody place taught them. You can't blame them for picking it up."
"They're old enough to start thinking for themselves."
"Yeah. But that's kind of hard to do when you're in a place where people don't think at all."
"They're right, though. Class will be starting soon."
"Why don't you skip?"
This was a test, she realized. The first of many, no doubt -- trying to find out what mattered to her. For the first time in years, she realized, she wasn't sure of the answer to that question herself.
"Sure," she said. "Why not? It's not as though prefects have to... I don't know... set a good example or anything."
"Obeying the rules all the time isn't a good example," Ed said, and Hermione didn't have an answer to that at all.
They ditched the castle and headed toward the lake, Hermione trying to suppress the residual guilt that came with not doing as she ought. Her first class was arithmancy that year, a subject she had never had to work at to understand, though that didn't mean it was right of her to skip, or, for that matter, that she didn't enjoy Professor Vector's lectures. But it was a matter of choices, and some chances only ever happened once.
They sat by the lake and enjoyed the sunlight and the water, and Hermione had to admit to herself that it was nice to take even just an hour to herself, an almost undreamed of luxury. They talked of mostly inconsequential things -- the peculiarities of various teachers, a spell or two Ed didn't understand, how much they both disliked Quidditch and sports in general. Hermione wanted to turn the conversation to Ed's life, the symbol on that coat she had seen him wearing, all the knowledge that he seemed to have that he shouldn't and the things he didn't know that he should. But every time she tried to find the words, she couldn't find a way to make them sound anything but pushy or stupid. Then, out of nowhere, Ed brought up Slytherin again.
"Hey, about what happened earlier... where no one could believe a Slytherin and a Gryffindor were saying two words to each other... it's about more than some stupid House rivalry thing, isn't it?"
"Yes, she said slowly. "It is. Maybe it didn't used to be, but it is now. There's a lot going on beneath the surface."
"Yeah, I can tell. Its not just rivalry I'm seeing around here. It's enmity. It's hate. That's not right -- making a bunch of kids hate each other, just because -- "
A crack appeared in the mug he was holding, tiny yet rapidly branching. Then another one. He didn't appear to notice.
"Reparo," she said quickly.
"What was that?"
"Your glass. Haven't you noticed? Whenever you get angry, things start breaking."
"Er... yeah..." Ed looked embarrassed. "I'm still trying to figure that one out."
"Uncontrolled magic," she said. "Once you learn a bit more, the problem should go away. It did for me."
"I don't know about that. But it doesn't matter. The thing is, I've been thinking... we're prefects, right? Our job is to help the students learn."
"Yes..."
"And we both want to go against this stupid House thing, right?"
"Er... yes. I suppose so."
"What do you say to an inte-House study session?"
"Run by us, you mean?"
"You, me, Theodore and Blaise, anybody else who wants to help out..."
"I'm... not sure that's such a good idea."
"I'll tell those two to knock off the blood thing.
"Nott is..." she hesitated. "His father is with Voldemort."
Ed looked at her, then down and away, folding his arms around his knees. "You think," he asked her, "that just because someone's father is a son of a bitch that they have to be one too?"
"I didn't mean that. I just don't think it's wise to assume he's innocent."
"So what is this, a study group or a war council?"
"Point taken."
"You're saying they have to think for themselves, but how are they ever going to if all they ever see are other purebloods? This isn't just for the kids."
"Yeah, I see what you mean." She lay back in the long grass, hands behind her head, staring up at the clouds. "We can use this as an opportunity to patch things up. I wonder if Harry and Ron would be up to helping..."
"Hell no."
She laughed. "If you can bring your friends, I can bring mine."
"They'd get in a fight with Blaise and Theodore."
"We could sell tickets."
"Sure. Why not. You convince Golden Boy and the weasel, I'll convince the snobs, and we can see what happens. My guess is either a melee or an orgy, and I'm guessing our little wizard kids would find both equally educational."
"That isn't funny," she snickered.
"So stop laughing."
And so the study group was agreed upon. Hermione made it clear that she wasn't going to be skipping any other classes, so they decided to meet again after the weekend to finalize matters.
They shook hands and parted ways just inside the castle gates, and Hermione hurried off to her next class feeling just a bit lighter than she had that morning. Things hadn't changed at all -- in fact, she had done nothing more than add one more responsibility to the growing pile -- but nevertheless, the future still seemed slightly easier to face.
Saturday came around quickly, and with it, the first trip to Hogsmeade. Harry and Ron were eager to restock their supply of treats and jokes, but Hermione had been looking forward to the day for a very different reason. She was going to meet with Erik Crane in person for the first time since that summer, and she would be starting her lessons in sorcery. She parted ways with her friends in Honeydukes, telling them that she was going to look for a bookshop and that she would meet them in the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer later. Neither of them so much as noticed anything out of the ordinary. It was funny, she realized, how easy it was to fool people when she acted like they thought Hermione Granger ought to. But then... they trusted her, and she had spent six years creating that trust. In never occurred to anyone that she might do anything other than what she said she would. She felt bad about leaving the two of them, but it wasn't really a matter of choice.
Crane was waiting for her in the Hog's Head, which she suspected he had chosen at least partly for its reputation as Hogsmeade's disreputable tavern of choice. He was sitting at a far table, looking older and more tired than he remembered, with a few books on the table in front of him and his cane leaning against his chair. She sat down across from him without a word, nervous and tense and once again having doubts as to the old man's intentions. He smiled briefly and pushed a mug of butterbeer across the table toward her; his own drink was something dark and smoky she didn't recognize, but she had no doubt it was something strong and expensive.
"And so we begin," he said. "Sorcery. The dark arts. I take it you imagine that you have no experience with this kind of magic. Yes?"
"Yes," she said.
"You're wrong."
"Well, there's Defense, but even in Snape's class that's hardly -- "
"No. You're wrong. You've used the dark arts before."
She shook her head. "I don't think so..."
"Think about magic without a wand," he told her. "The first spell you cast, when you were young. You wanted something, and you made it happen – accidentally, subconsciously, you imposed your will on the world. That's what dark magic is -- force and will. And every wizard child does it. Remember." It wasn't a question, it was a command. So she remembered.
She'd been in the schoolyard, nine years old on a winter morning, with the taste of snow in the air. Recess. One of the older girls had gotten the brilliant idea that it would be fun to taunt the little Granger girl, and quite a few of her peers had agreed. Being the target of snowballs and snide comments was to be expected, and things never got out of hand. But that day, Karen Matheson had walked up to her and plucked her book -- a history of the solar system -- from her hands and flipped through the pages, reading in a sneeringly nasal, proper voice. That had been too much.
Hermione Granger had not been a popular child. She had been too quiet, too shut-in, and altogether too plain and awkward. Teachers found her disconcerting in the way she filed away everything she learned into the encyclopedia of her mind, and other children had found her eagerness to show off her knowledge a mark of snobbishness and the worst kind of geekery. She had been, as far as she knew, the only teacher's pet in the history of her school that none of the teachers had actually managed to like. So it wasn't a surprise to anyone, least of all herself, when she had ended up being teased.
But it was a considerable surprise when on that already windy day the wind had kept rising, almost to hurricane force, knocking Karen and Christine and the others to the blacktop and whisking their schoolbooks and papers into the air while Hermione huddled untouched in the center of the gale, not quite believing what she had managed to do just by wishing.
She had tried to reproduce the effect later. She had stared at inanimate objects, willing them to fall over, fly backward, break. It hadn't worked. But all the same, things had started happening at the oddest times. Crockery broke, clocks stopped and started, their hands spinning crazily, plants died, fires started.
The Grangers -- both strictly rational materialists though they were -- began to fear that their house was possessed. The night when the mirror in their bedroom shattered, loudly and without warning, had convinced them. But moving hadn't ended the accidents. Hermione's Hogwarts letter had come as a great relief to everyone in the household -- it was an explanation and it was an ending, and soon enough, a frightened and very angry young girl was safe and out of the house.
"You didn't know what you were doing then," Crane said, bringing her back to the present day. "You had the power but you lacked the focus. That's what wands and incantations give you – focus. An external channel for your thoughts. They aren't necessary. They provide a crutch. Sorcery is about learning to walk without crutches – gaining control from inside, not out. Now," he placed an unlit candle on the table. "Fire is easy. I want you to light this, without speaking and if possible without thinking the word incendio."
"How?"
"You know how. Remember how you did it before. Go back to the beginning."
Well, can you get any more vague?
She stared at the candle, not wanting to admit ignorance or inability. You couldn't create something from nothing, not even with magic. But... it wasn't a matter of something from nothing. The room was full of oxygen, the candle was fuel; all she needed was a spark. A bit of heat. She stared at the candle, willing it to light, picturing the flame in her mind, but it wasn't working. How had she done it before?
She had wanted the world to be different, and so she had arranged it differently, Crane had said -- as she might do now. But that made no sense. The world didn't work like that. The world was rules and, and formulae, and... She glared at the table. She should be able to do this. Why the hell couldn't she?
"What's wrong?" Crane asked lightly. Mockingly. "It's simple." The old man leaned on the table, tracing patterns on its surface, smiling. Old bastard. He was laughing at her inside, she knew. At her lack of ability. But he hadn't taught her how, he just expected her to know, to understand the first time perfectly. What right does he have to mock me? How dare he...
Anger bloomed in her, hot and bright. Her fists clenched, her teeth gritted. Bastards, all of them. Laughing at her. They had no right, no right.
Something subtle in the atmosphere of the room shifted, opened, changed. The mask of the physical world was lifted, and for just a moment she managed to glimpse the naked energy beneath. It wasn't sight, or touch, or any other sense she had a name for. If anything, it felt like what she imagined the air would feel like just before a lightning strike: heavy, ominous, crackling with restrained power. If you needed power it was there, held in the bonds of atoms, in their components. It just needed to be released. Simple, she thought.
And:
Burn.
Fire flared into life. It consumed the candle in a flash of white heat, then vanished as quickly as she had called it, leaving the table with a large charred ring and a pool of bubbling wax and no candle to be seen.
She stared at her handiwork, stunned. She could do it again, she supposed. It hadn't been difficult. A tiny change, a shift in the balance, and then channel the force just so. But that wasn't how magic worked. That wasn't how magic worked at all. She pushed herself back from the table, feeling lightheaded and a little giddy, a little frightened, balancing on an adrenaline edge.
"Not bad, for a first success," Crane told her. "Control is necessary, of course. But that will come in time. As I recall, Sirius destroyed the room we were standing in the first time he tried."
"I was… angry."
"Yes. That's how it often works. When there is no fear, no anger, no desire, there is no impetus for transformation. Young Sirius... now he was angry." Crane smiled serenely. "Still is, no doubt, if he's still alive."
"Sirius," she said, once she was certain she had heard correctly. "You mean Black, right? You knew him?"
"I knew him," Crane muttered. "I trained him. And doesn't that just fill you with confidence?"
"Then you might know... how to catch him? Where he might be hiding?" She leaned forward, speaking in a rushed whisper. If Sirius were apprehended, Harry might be drawn back from his bleak sullenness, might return to something closer to the boy she had first befriended. Step out of Pettigrew's shadow, perhaps, and learn to stand on his own feet. Things would be easier between them, at the very least. And if a few mysteries were solved along the way, so much the better. But Crane did not seem pleased with the idea.
"If you are wise -- and I do not in the least expect you will be, but I feel compelled to warn you nonetheless -- if you are wise, you will leave the Black boy and all that family alone. They aren't your business, and it isn't often that one finds a student of your potential. It would be a great pity if you ended up dead before your time."
"I don't intend to hunt him down myself!" she said. "Do I look like Harry to you? But the Order... any information they can get..."
"I am not on good terms with the Order, Granger. And if they find you running to them with sudden knowledge concerning Sirius Black, do you not imagine they are going to wonder where you are getting it?"
"Tonks will wonder," Hermione said. "But she won't ask." She never did, after all. Tonks had her own worries, and not nearly enough time to go poking into other people's business. Hermione wasn't certain if she was pleased with that fact or not.
Crane nodded. "If you are intent on pursuing this train of thought," he said, "there is something that I ought to show you. In hopes of dissuading you from your recent stupidity."
He reached a spidery hand into the folds of his robe and withdrew a small clear vial, filled with swirling, silvery liquid. Hermione recognized it on sight: the substance of memories. She took the bottle from him and unstoppered it, poured the semi-liquid stuff into a small shallow pensieve he handed her, leaned forward and fell into the past.
She was standing close to the edge of a large room, the air heavy with the smell of scented candles and old parchment, slightly cloying. She recognized it immediately as the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, but this was not the Grimmauld Place she had seen while visiting Ed. The atmosphere of trepidation was still there, but the dust and cobwebs were gone, as was the clutter. The furniture was old and expensive, some dark wood she didn't recognize polished to a sleek and sinister gleam. Portraits of the family scowled down from high places on the walls, making her feel trapped and claustrophobic. Everything was clean, everything was precise, the faded colors now deep and rich. This was the Black house in its prime.
Imagine growing up here, she thought with a shiver. No wonder he went bad. And that thought itself was dangerous, teetering on the edge of a precipice, so she put concerns of nature and nurture out of her head and just watched.
Her eyes were drawn first to the people in the center of the room: a stern middle-aged witch conferring with two shady-looking men in suits. A few more years, more bitterness set in the lines of her face, and the woman would be indistinguishable from the ranting portrait gracing Grimmauld Place's halls. Hermione didn't recognize the men, but something about them made her skin crawl. And there was a younger, though not much younger, Erik Crane, standing at the edge of the small circle. He didn't seem to be a part of it; he looked frightened himself, though he hid it well, and something about his posture made him seem both defensive and out of his depth.
Two adolescent boys stood against the wall, held apart from the conversation. One, wiry and bespectacled, was so similar to Harry in appearance that Hermione had to briefly remind herself that this was the past. The other was a skinnier, more sullen-looking boy, with dark hair that fell almost to his shoulders. She could not put a name to him immediately, and when it struck her who she must be looking at she caught her breath, stepping closer involuntarily. That was him -- the traitor, the killer -- as a child.
"What's this even about?" The boy who would be Harry's father asked. His future murderer shrugged.
"Don't know, exactly. Family business of some sort," Sirius Black said, and Hermione could hear the tension in his voice. "But look -- Cousin Bella's jealous." Contempt infused his words, and the dangerous smirk on his face. He waved a hand lazily in the direction of the hallway, and Hermione, like James, turned in time to catch sight of a spidery girl in dark green peering around the edge of the doorframe. She was thin and awkward, but already holding the promise of beauty and madness like the petals of a dark flower, waiting to unfold. Cousin Bella, Hermione thought, catching sight of the girl's face, and shivered. Bellatrix Black's features were cold with anger, her eyes flat with resentment, her pale hands clenched at her sides as she watched.
Sirius waved at her, mocking, and she stuck out her tongue and raised her middle finger before vanishing down the hallway in a flurry of silken robes. Sirius laughed strangely, and James put a hand on his arm, calming, restraining.
Hermione moved closer to the group in the center of the room, in time to catch a deal being struck, over Crane's quiet protests. A written contract was offered by one of the strange men and signed with a flourish by old Mrs. Black.
"Very well, then," the witch said. "It's settled. He's all yours." And the two strangers stood up, one of them beckoning to Sirius.
"All right, 's time for you to come with us. Gotta job we need you to do."
Sirius watched them blankly, his hands loose by his sides.
"You know," he said, "I don't really want to. Find someone else. Regulas would be happy to serve you."
"Nothing doing," the man said. "You don't exactly got a choice. Only one king. Only one prince. That's how the deal went."
"You're coming with us, I'm afraid, like it or not," his companion said, grinning.
"Like hell he is," James snarled, raising his wand.
"James, don't --" Sirius started, but it was too late. James had already made his choice and acted on it, like Harry, without thinking of the danger.
The taller of the two men smiled unpleasantly. "Your choice, kid," he said, and flicked a hand lazily. James Potter was knocked by some invisible force to the side, out of the way. He landed badly, one hand hitting the floor with too much force, the sound of snapping bone and a raw sound of pain forced from the boy's lungs. Sirius started toward where he had fallen, then turned, literally snarling, fury in his eyes.
"Sectumsempra," he shouted, "Incendio, sectumsempra!" And a few other spells she didn't recognize, and finally just a wordless howl. There was no wand in his hand, but that didn't stop the destruction the boy summoned. Erik Crane was knocked backward off his feet, a gash opening along his leg from his thigh to his knee, bright blood soaking his robes. Mrs. Black was able to throw up a barrier against his curses, but Hermione could tell from the paleness of her face and the tremor in her hands that it was costing her, and she wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. In the meantime, Sirius settled for tearing up the room around him. Furniture was tossed backward, shattered and burning, portraits torn from the walls, glass shattering...
And then there was the older Erik Crane's hand on her shoulder, pulling her up and out of the memory.
When she looked at him again, he was paler than she had ever seen him, the deep lines in his face drawn tighter around his mouth and eyes. The smile on his face was ironic, but Hermione could recognize fear when she saw it.
"That's what you're putting yourself up against, you know. That rage. It hasn't vanished." The implication was there in his eyes, it had deepened in his mind. Worsened as the years went by, the dementors eating at his mind; it wasn't a comforting thought.
"I'd guessed that much," she said.
"So... do you still want to know?"
"I have to."
"You have to. Well then." Crane laughed shakily. "Well, then. He can do worse than that, you know. Poor control, but great strength. Sorcery's probably how he managed to escape, and if anyone manages to catch up to him, it's what they'll be dealing with."
"So where could he be?"
"Haven't the foggiest. You aren't likely to find him around the old Black house, though. He hated that place. He hasn't joined up with He Who Must Not Be Named, either -- we would have noticed if he had. There would be a whole lot more dead people, for one thing. He's probably gone to ground somewhere."
"And do you have any idea -- "
"How to find him? I don't know. Most likely you can't, and you should be thankful. But here's something to consider -- what's he after? If you discover his motive, and there always is a motive, you'll be able to predict him."
"And where would I start looking for a motive?"
"The past, perhaps? Could anything have happened to make him switch sides? And what afterwards?"
"I don't know. Don't you know any of this?"
"I just trained him. We weren't on good terms, near the end, nor much in the beginning either. But I'll send you all the information I can find. Hermione, please don't show anyone the things I send to you about Sirius. The less people that see them the better."
Hermione sighed. "Brilliant. I'm scared out of my mind and I've learned nothing."
"You've learned enough to be afraid."
"Well, isn't that comforting? I have to go -- I told my friends I'd be meeting them."
"Fare thee well, then" Crane said. "I'll see you next visit, I imagine?"
She nodded curtly. "If you can teach me... how to do what he did..."
"Indeed I can."
She hurried off through the streets of Hogsmeade to meet with Harry and Ron. The two of them had gotten a table at the Three Broomsticks, the warm tavern made all the cozier in contrast to the Hog's Head's squalor, and they had even ordered food and drink for her. She slipped in beside them gratefully, spun a brief tale of a signed copy of Hogwarts: A History going for far too much money and then let Ron take over the conversation. In her mind she was already composing a letter to Tonks: I need to talk to you about Sirius Black. I suspect he's more dangerous than we've realized, but I may have discovered a source of information. Meet me in private, ASAP.
And she wondered, suddenly, what exactly it was she had seen in the pensieve. If someone had told her she would witness Sirius Black going berserk, she wouldn't have imagined it being in defense of James Potter. He had betrayed Harry's father, right? He was a madman, a Death Eater, didn't care for anyone except himself and Voldermort. Right?
It seemed easy to hate the man, to view him as an incarnation of evil. Certainly all the photos she had seen of him were portraits of madness, something dead and cold behind that smile. But she had seen what was in his dark, hollow eyes, beneath the anger and even the fear. It was something deeper than friendship, closer to brotherhood. Hermione shook her head, trying to set her facts in order, look at things logically. Sirius had been under control until James had gotten involved. It had been a threat to James that sent him over the edge.
Which was to say... Back then, the man had cared more for his friends than he cared for himself. The capacity to kill was there, sure. The capacity to murder innocents. She had seen it herself. But at the moment, it seemed strange to imagine that hatred leveled against James, and once again the edges of the puzzle seemed to fit together wrong.
Sirius had loved James Potter like a brother. Had betrayed him.
Did people change that much?
Something was missing. So what was it?
And where would I start looking for a motive?
The past, perhaps?
The last thing in the world she needed was more research. Nevertheless, she added a postscript to her mental letter to Tonks: bring me every record for the Black trial you can find.
Something was just not right.