Hermione didn't understand how she'd talked herself into doing this.
Probably, it had something to do with maintaining her pristine grades. Definitely, it had everything to do with the way Draco had mocked her in the library the day before.
But there was at least some small part of her, Hermione knew, that was here to convince herself that she was strong enough to handle this as the sophisticated, fully-grown witch she was supposed to be, rather than the cowering child she'd been of late.
And somehow, the door leading to the Defense classroom had never seemed so… ominous.
But she was going to do it.
Really, she was.
Any moment now, Hermione was going to stride into Professor Snape's office and calmly, confidently, request the assignment she had missed. There was no need to be so bloody nervous about it, was there?
She was a Gryffindor.
An adult Gryffindor, and in just a second, she was going to pluck up the courage and prove to herself that she could do this. With rationality, and maturity.
… Maybe she just needed a few moments to compose herself?
Yes, that was the problem - she was obviously still on edge from the meeting with Scrimgeour; it had nothing to do with the fact that Professor Snape had basically seen her naked.
Nothing at all.
It was like Draco had said: Snape wasn't going to tease her. He wasn't a child, and furthermore, neither was she.
Right, she thought firmly. Enough stalling.
Hermione raised her fist, hesitated, and then rapped sharply on the door.
Maybe he won't even be here, maybe he's not even in the castle…
"Enter," came Snape's curt reply.
Shite.
Deep breath.
Hermione passed quickly through the classroom and then veered toward Snape's connecting office, halting in the archway when she realized that he was facing away from her, apparently consulting one of the many books he kept on the shelves behind his desk. He turned offhandedly toward her, tore his eyes away from the page - and stopped.
The book that had been open in his palms snapped shut, and Snape pointed a finger in the direction she had come, studiously refusing to meet her gaze.
"Get out."
"Professor -"
"Get out."
"But -"
"No."
"I just needed -"
"We have nothing to discuss."
" - the assignment I missed last Wednesday -"
"You've been given zero marks."
Hermione gaped. "But that's not fair!"
"Such is life," said Snape coldly.
"But, sir, I was in the Hospital Wing! You can't fault me for that!"
Finally looking her full in the face, he arched a patronizing brow and said, "You're quite sure of that, are you?"
"I - well -" Hermione squared her shoulders. "I'll go to Professor McGonagall."
But Snape did not seem the least bit perturbed. "Miss Granger, if you have decided that you are brave enough to threaten a teacher, at least have sufficient enough cheek not to stammer when you do it."
"Just because -"
"Stop," he barked. "Unless it is your ambition to scrub bedpans until you graduate, I suggest you choose your next words carefully. Why are you here?"
"Because I missed your lesson, sir," she answered, nervously tucking a bit of wayward hair behind her ear. "And I'd like the assignment to complete the grade."
Snape snorted unpleasantly. "Do you get the impression I was born yesterday, Miss Granger? Why else are you here?"
Hermione shifted her weight to the other foot and averted her eyes. So much for bravery.
In retrospect, it was stupid of her to think that she would leave Professor Snape's office with her ego intact; still, she'd endured worse verbal eviscerations from him than this, and a bit of condescension was nothing she couldn't handle.
"Well?" Snape prompted, and Hermione turned her eyes back to him.
"The Minister was here," she said.
He sighed heavily, his shoulders falling as though making a very undesirable concession. "Have a seat, Miss Granger," he said resignedly, moving his wand wordlessly toward the door as he made to sit behind his desk.
Surprised, Hermione glanced at the archway over her shoulder and then slowly turned back to face him. There was no mistaking that wand movement. Snape had just cast a Muffliato over the entrance to the classroom, but she'd never seen anyone else use a spell Harry had learned from the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making.
Snape met her inquiring expression with a rancorous look.
"Sit down, before I change my mind," he snapped, and Hermione made her way swiftly across the room and lowered herself into the chair with a mumbled apology. "I ought to have expected that you would still be worried about marks even under threat of mortal peril."
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Snape silenced her with a sharp tilt of his head as he reached for his quill.
"That was not an invitation for you to prattle on about your reasons," he said, scratching what Hermione could only assume was her assignment onto a spare bit of parchment. He passed it to her before settling back into his chair, crossing his arms and then regarding her with a stern expression. "My question is why you would seek me out for answers."
Hermione faltered. "Well, sir - there's not exactly an abundance of Order members at Hogwarts -"
"Rubbish," he interjected. "With Professor McGonagall and Nymphadora, there is hardly a shortage."
Hermione grinned despite herself. "Don't you mean Professor Lupin?"
Snape snorted. "Nymphadora was a last resort; she is barely qualified for the title, whatever her innate talents are. Enough jokes, Miss Granger. Why?"
"Because they aren't as integral as you are, sir," she said honestly. "I doubt that they would be able to help, and given your position -"
"My position as a ranking Death Eater is precisely the reason you should be wary of me."
"Dumbledore trusted you," Hermione responded simply.
"And if he was mistaken?" asked Snape rhetorically. "If Dumbledore had put his faith in the wrong person, given the wrong wizard a second chance, how precarious would the information you shared with me then become?"
"If that were the case, Professor, I don't think you'd be pointing that out to me."
Snape glared at her reproachfully. "Don't be intentionally thick. The point I am trying to make, Miss Granger, is that you are far too easy with your trust. That information should be guarded, not thrown about so carelessly as you are doing now."
"Yes, sir," she said, willing to take the reprimand for the lesson it truly was. Not that she believed him for a second.
"May I see it?" he asked brusquely.
"Sir?"
He rolled his eyes. "The book, Miss Granger. That is the reason why you have come, is it not?"
Hermione felt her own lips curve into a smile. "So you did already know, I knew it -"
"Spare me," he retorted. "Logical deduction is no reason to trust a person. Especially not a spy."
He held out his hand expectantly, and Hermione dug into her beaded bag; Snape craned his neck for a better look, apparently noticing the accessory for the first time.
"Is that bag registered with the Ministry, Miss Granger?" he asked, though his tone was not admonishing.
"Er..." she began sheepishly.
But Snape shook his head. "I'm not going to confiscate it," he told her. "Though, I have to wonder where you learned that particular skill. I don't imagine it's in Professor Flitwick's curriculum."
Relieved, Hermione removed The Tales of Beedle the Bard and handed it to him across the desk. "I read about it. It was tricky, of course, I didn't manage it on the first go."
"Of course, you read about it," Snape said rudely, and Hermione watched her Professor's face closely for the reaction she had been hoping for.
Surely enough, Snape opened to the introductory page and his stare settled immediately on the curious symbol that was inked in next to the title. She could tell by the suddenly rigid set of his shoulders when he gave pause that Snape was surprised to have seen it - but he flicked his eyes up to hers, and the moment passed almost as swiftly as it had come. The thoughtful expression was schooled almost instantly back to the indifferent facade he always wore, and he proceeded to flip through the rest of the book as though there was nothing strange at all.
Hermione, however, was not discouraged. "You recognize it, don't you, Professor?" she asked eagerly. "The symbol. It isn't a rune, not one that I've ever encountered."
"No, I do not," he said tersely, but even his smooth, practiced lie could not deceive her.
"Please, sir," she said, vaguely aware that she had taken on the same tone she so often utilized during his lessons. "Why would Dumbledore have given me this book? Ron says they're children's stories, but that doesn't make any sense, does it? And that symbol -"
"Weasley," Snape said disdainfully. "I've seen glaciers that move faster than him."
"But, sir," she pressed. "You have to admit that it's odd that Dumbledore would choose to bequeath this to me in his will when he might've easily given it to me before he died."
"I expect you shall have to translate it and find out," he said. "Whatever message he meant to pass to you, if indeed there is one, will be in the text."
He pushed the book across the desk and Hermione took it in her hands, gazing down at it pensively. "So…" she began quietly. "So you don't think it'll make any difference if I ask his portrait?"
Snape gave a short, derisive laugh. "If you must," he said lightly, and Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard him sound so amused. "I'll wager the whole of my Gringotts vault that he won't give you a straight answer."
Hermione looked up at him. "You don't think he would be forthcoming, sir?"
"Forthcoming," he echoed snidely. "Albus Dumbledore is anything but. If he were, would he have left a trio of miscreants three utterly useless items and a missing historical artifact in a will he knew would be seized by the Ministry?"
"But you said 'if indeed there is' a message, sir, that implies that there may not be one."
"Use your head, Miss Granger," said Snape forcefully.
Hermione took a moment to mull over the implications of that statement before responding.
"Professor, you said 'a trio,' but there were four of us," she said. "Draco was included in the will."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Was he?"
"Yes," she said, nodding. "Dumbledore left him his own memories. We haven't seen them, Draco went to the Headmistress' office to use the Pensieve straight away."
Snape looked thoughtful. "I was not aware - it must have been a last minute addition."
"The Minister called it an addendum," Hermione supplied.
He sneered at her. "I realize that you have yet to overcome your impulsive need to state the obvious, but do try to restrain yourself."
"Sorry, sir," she apologized. "Do you think -"
Snape cut her off. "No. I have no idea what the memories are and therefore wouldn't have a clue as to the meaning behind them. Suffice it to say, their purpose will not have been exclusively sentimental."
"Like the book," she said. "And the deluminator, and the Snitch… but I still don't understand, sir. Why wouldn't Dumbledore have given these to us when he was alive? There was plenty of opportunity."
Her professor fixed her with a candid stare, and Hermione tried to read what little emotion was displayed within them - which was, really, none at all. Snape was forever inscrutable, never giving anything away, but even in his expressionless gaze, there was something underlying his stoicism. Something like resentment.
"Miss Granger, I cannot claim to know the motives behind Dumbledore's actions," he explained. "Rest assured, however, that his intentions are not pure."
Hermione stared back at him and was astounded. "Professor, that's - I hardly think that Dumbledore -"
"Albus Dumbledore was many things, Miss Granger. A great teacher, and an even greater sorcerer - he was also a puppet master. Do you mean to tell me that you have never doubted him?"
"I…"
Snape arched a single black eyebrow.
"Perhaps, sometimes, his actions seemed… questionable."
Snape nodded slowly. "Remember it," he said. "I tell you this because you are the only one intelligent enough to heed the warning with proper objectivity. Do not lose sight of what Dumbledore would have seen as the larger picture."
Hermione was quiet for a moment. "I think I understand, sir."
"Good. Then get out."
"Er."
She cringed and averted her eyes; Snape heaved a sigh.
"Very well, Miss Granger," he said, waving a hand toward her in a gesture for her to continue. "What else?"
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she said quietly, "I was wondering about something you said to Draco the other night… about Lucius Malfoy."
"Ah," said Snape, looking toward the ceiling before meeting her eyes once more. "I see the pair of you are no longer keeping things from one another."
"I suppose I wouldn't know if Draco was, sir, but he did tell me about your warning." She shrugged. "I only thought - well, you wouldn't say it without cause, would you?"
"You're scared," he surmised. "As well you should be."
Hermione blanched. "Is it - is it really that serious, Professor?"
Snape gave her a pained expression, looking as conflicted as Hermione had ever seen him. It was obvious that he was hesitant to part with whatever information he was holding on to - but for what reason, Hermione could not imagine.
"Please, sir," she prodded. "Whatever Lucius Malfoy has done, it can't be any more of a shock than what everybody already knows about him, can it?"
"Trust me, Miss Granger. It very well can."
Hermione bit distractedly on her lip. "Professor, I think it's only fair -"
"Do not speak to me about what is fair," he said coldly, but Hermione could tell that she had won, for Snape already seemed troubled, as though knowing that he may bitterly regret what he was about to reveal. "You must swear not to repeat this to anyone but Draco. Not to Potter, not to Weasley, and, most importantly, never to Narcissa Malfoy."
Hermione gave a confused shake of her head. "Sir, I don't think there will ever be an opportunity for me and Draco's mother to have a heart-to-heart, even if…" She trailed off and decided not to finish that sentence. It was too soon to consider.
"You are too quick to judge her," Snape said. "Which is not to say that she would not be quick to judge you in any situation, but the first thing you must understand about Narcissa Malfoy is that her love for Draco is boundless. I would not be surprised to learn that she would stand with him regardless of his choices."
"But, not Lucius?"
"Swear it, Miss Granger. No one can know."
"I swear," Hermione said instantly. Probably, she'd have agreed to anything just to get Snape to spit it out.
He settled back into his chair, as though he was still undecided on whether to trust her; finally, he launched into explanation. "The threat to you by Lucius Malfoy is as tangible as it gets. With things between you and Draco being… what they evidently are, not even the Dark Lord is as dangerous to you, for his focus will always be Potter. Lucius Malfoy will never see you as anything less than a menace to the pristine Malfoy bloodline -"
"But -"
"Don't interrupt, girl. I am trying to make you understand the seriousness of this situation."
"Sorry, sir."
"Lucius Malfoy's prejudices do not - have never - extended to sexual gratification. He was pledged to Narcissa Black from his fifth year in at Hogwarts, but he was never faithful to her in his adolescence. There were many others; one of them was a Ravenclaw Prefect by the name of Mathilda Greene - a Muggleborn."
Hermione's mouth fell open at this absurdity. "No."
Snape snarled at her contemptuously. "Don't be so shocked. Ask Draco what sort of witch or wizard is the main form of entertainment during a revel, Miss Granger, and you shall be thoroughly jarred out of your naivety. Now, are you quite finished interrupting?"
"Sorry, sir," she muttered again, wondering just how pale her face was at this point.
"Mathilda was foolish enough to think that Lucius' attentions were based on deeper emotions than lust; in actuality, no such fondness for her existed. She hoped, in the way that many innocent girls do, that Lucius would reveal his true love for her by calling off his engagement to Narcissa, and so confronted him with an ultimatum." He paused, looking at Hermione directly in the eye to secure her full attention. "Her body was found the very next morning, made to be a public example of the Dark Lord's growing power."
Hermione gasped, gripping the chair for balance. She felt dizzy, like the very ground beneath her was starting to spin. This couldn't be real. This could not possibly be true.
Could it?
"H-How… How do you know all this?" she managed. "Did Lucius tell you?"
Snape shook his head. "No. I was only in my third year during that time. I was already involved with many people whose names you will no doubt recognize as notorious Death Eaters, but I was too young to be within Lucius Malfoy's confidence. As you might have guessed, Lucius' relationship with Mathilda was anything but obvious. I did, however, make a habit of wandering the grounds after dark during my more… angsty teenage years. Incidentally, so did they, and I happened upon the conversation by accident. Lucius assured her that he would make their 'love' known, and then he lead the girl away to her death."
"But - but the wards," she argued, trying to remain logical. "Surely Lucius wouldn't have been able to return afterward without alerting the staff - someone would have realized -"
"This, coming from the girl whose misguided antics over the course of six years have almost certainly found ways in and out of the school undetected," said Snape harshly.
"It couldn't be…" she whispered hopefully. "A coincidence?"
"For Merlin's sake, you silly girl," he said angrily, and Hermione jumped at his loss of temper. "You are letting your emotions cloud your judgement, much like the unfortunate girl who made herself a liability and was killed for it. What I heard and saw is nothing short of incontrovertible proof, and yet you continue to question it simply because you are afraid. Be rational."
"But you knew!" Hermione accused, her knuckles white around the edge of her chair. "You knew and you never told anyone! Her family might have had justice, closure! You could have had Lucius in Azkaban with your testimony, and because of you, he's been free to murder since then!"
"Control yourself, Miss Granger," he said through his teeth. "You are not among your little friends, and I will not have -"
"No!" she shouted bravely as irrational tears began to well in her eyes. "There's no excusing what you did! That girl was killed, and her family suffered for it - she suffered for it, and all you have to say is control yourself?"
Snape seemed to jolt back into self-awareness with a small backward jerk of his head, and rightly so, Hermione thought furiously. He sat back in his chair and his lips thinned into what was an unmistakably guilty expression, looking on as Hermione wiped at her face with the sleeve of her robe.
"Forgive me, Miss Granger," he said softly, and Hermione snapped her head up in shock. "I… should have realized you would be so affected."
Hermione was at a complete loss for words. To hear Professor Snape apologize for being insensitive was the last thing she had expected.
"I did not know that Lucius Malfoy was leading Mathilda to the Dark Lord at the time, but afterward, I chose not to act because my loyalties were misplaced, much like Draco's were not so long ago. I… regret it," he confessed.
Hermione wiped again at the bottom of her eyes and looked away. "How come you never told Narcissa? How come you didn't tell Draco?"
"Why did I not tell Narcissa that the love of her life was a cheater and even more of a bastard than she had already known? Because it is not my place to interfere with families, nor is it my place to rob Draco of the image he has of his father. Draco idolizes Lucius, and until recently he was not of age. More to the point, I did not believe that the fact Draco's father was guilty of such heinous crimes against Muggleborns would be relevant to a boy whom I still thought to be prejudiced."
Hermione nodded. "Sir, you don't think…" she started hesitantly. "You don't think Draco would…"
"Draco is as incapable of murder as he is facilitating the death of other people, especially people he cares about, Miss Granger," he said, narrowing his eyes curiously. "If you have such doubts about him, perhaps you should reconsider your choice of relationship."
"It's not that," Hermione said, biting her lip. "I just - sometimes I wonder - do you think he's changed?"
"I believe he is beginning to think for himself," said Snape evasively, and then waved his hand toward the door. "I am sure you have more pressing matters to concern yourself with elsewhere, Miss Granger. Quit bothering me."
Hermione tucked The Tales of Beedle The Bard into her bag and pushed herself out of the chair. "Right. Er, thank you, Professor," she said. "I'll have my essay ready to be handed in tomorrow."
"See that you do," he said as he reached for his quill, and Hermione, understanding herself to be properly dismissed, made her way to the door.
As soon as she reached the archway, however, Snape called, "And, Miss Granger?"
She turned.
"Tread carefully."
She nodded. "I will, sir," she promised.
Hermione left the classroom, resolving that she would wait to tell Draco the truth - until she was sure that he could handle it, at least; with everything else going on, there was no need to burden him with even greater troubles.
She would keep it a secret, for now. It was only right.
This is what she told herself.
.
.
Draco took an unsteady step forward and braced his hands against the table, staring down at the Pensieve which appeared deceptively inoffensive for an object that had just facilitated so much inner turmoil. Pulling in a shaky breath, Draco drew his wand and extracted the memories from the basin and guided them back into the bottle.
The headache that had plagued him had grown in its intensity, now a skull-splitting pain that was nestled behind his eyes as he glared up at the window, where the rain was still hammering relentlessly against the glass. Rubbing at his temples, Draco let out a frustrated growl and tried very hard not to occlude the thoughts that were already threatening to fade. He knew that it was imperative that he feel them, even though he was averse to the anguish - of both the mental and physical varieties.
What was it Granger had said on the Astronomy Tower?
It's a part of what you would call healing…
Right. Healing. Feeling.
Draco hurriedly brought the emotions to the forefront of his mind and allowed himself to experience them: regret, anger, jealousy, fear - so much fear; and then, later, faith, hope, the love he held for his mother, for both of his parents, the feelings he now held for Hermione Granger, still confusing and as yet unnamed.
All the emotions he had unknowingly endeavored to shut out came trickling in - not rushing, but drifting slowly, manageably back to him, settling in his psyche where they had belonged the whole time. Where he could compartmentalize them accordingly. When his headache began to ease, Draco smirked in triumph. It was true, then. All he had to do was control it.
Draco sighed in relief, arching his neck backward and letting his relaxation wash over him, closing his eyes as he let himself think.
"I had hoped it would come to this, Draco," said a voice from behind him.
Draco whipped around on the spot, his wand held aloft as he searched for who had intruded upon him. It was Dumbledore's portrait, and he was finally awake, smiling softly from his perch on the painted high-backed chair, blue eyes twinkling characteristically down as they had done so often in life.
"Professor Dumbledore," Draco said vacantly, crossing the room to stand in front of the portrait of the wizard who had gone to such great lengths for him. "What do you mean, 'I hoped it would come to this'?"
"I had hoped to see that the memories would have such a profound effect on you," said Dumbledore. "It was always my intention to help you change your view of the world, and it would seem that you have done so. In a very small space of time, I might add."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "How do you know my views have changed?"
"It is not so difficult to tell," said Dumbledore. "And if your relationship with Miss Granger is anything to go by, I would say that you are a very different man from the boy who once believed so strongly in the importance blood-purity."
"Snape told you," Draco grumbled.
"Professor Snape, Draco."
"I don't see that it was his business - or yours."
"Perhaps it is not," Dumbledore conceded with a small tilt of his head. "And yet I would venture to say that you have found comfort in her."
"Professor, did you…" Draco grimaced. "Did you mean for things to happen that way?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I did not," he admitted. "Your safety from your housemates was always my first concern. I had merely hoped that being in such close proximity to a brilliant Muggleborn student would help to alter your opinions. Nevertheless, I am proud of how far you have come."
Proud.
Draco stared dumbly back at the late Headmaster's portrait - no one had ever told Draco that they were proud of him. Never his father, for sure; not even his mother had ever claimed pride in her son. What reason did they have to be?
"I wouldn't say I've come as far as you think," Draco muttered. "I don't feel that way about Granger. She is brilliant, exceptional even… but the others, other Muggleborns, I mean. I don't have a reason to respect them. Not the same way I do for her."
Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "You have always been unyielding, Draco, even in the face of solid proof otherwise."
"Proof?" Draco repeated. "I don't see any proof. The others - they're half-rates compared to her."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed, many witches and wizards are half-rated compared to Miss Granger, but not for the reasons you claim. Most pureblood students cannot approach her intelligence or her inherent talent as a witch. Do you believe that she would accept your views of people who she will no doubt feel akin to?"
Draco looked away. "I don't understand why you would give me those memories, Professor," he said, changing the subject. "They don't make any sense to me."
"It does not make sense that I would remind you of the rewards of unshakeable virtue and strong moral fiber when you are placed in a hostile political situation where Muggleborns lives are in danger, and when you are caught in the middle of a war in which you play a major part?"
"Bloody sentimental…" Draco murmured, and then more loudly, "But the last memory doesn't include me. How does your duel with Grindelwald relate to me at all?"
"I included that memory for all four of you to see," explained Dumbledore, lacing his fingers together and resting his conjoined fists in his lap. "As a reminder that absolute power corrupts absolutely - Miss Granger may recognize that reference to Muggle literature."
Draco snorted. "What power do we have? We're - I mean, we're running in blind circles trying to figure out this sodding puzzle that we have absolutely no understanding of. We don't know what we're doing, and all you've done is add more pieces for us to fumble with."
"Power shall come to those who do not seek to control it, Draco," said Dumbledore cryptically, and Draco made a frustrated noise, his fists curling at his eyes.
"Why can't you just explain things the way you want us to comprehend them?"
"You already have the understanding," Dumbledore countered. "It is but a simple matter of applying the knowledge in the right way."
"That's ridiculous!"
"It is the only way," Dumbledore said calmly. "I trust you shall be handing over the memories to Mister Potter so that he may view them?"
"Well, yes, of course, but -"
Dumbledore nodded. "Good. I have been eager to speak with him… he has been angry with me, I suspect. I believe he is bitter that I chose to destroy the locket, knowing that it may kill me."
"He isn't the only one," Draco said shortly.
Dumbledore smiled solemnly.
"Who's Mathilda Greene, Professor?"
"That is something you shall have to ask your mother, Draco," Dumbledore said firmly. "It is not my place to reveal that information. She would not be pleased."
"Then why even include the sodding memory?" asked Draco indignantly.
"I thought it would help to know how much your mother would sacrifice for your safety. I am of the opinion that Narcissa Malfoy would surprise you in that aspect."
Draco grumbled something inaudible and turned to leave, but at the last moment, spun back around. "Professor, are there spare vials here?"
Dumbledore waited a beat before answering, observing Draco in silence with piercing, all-knowing eyes. Finally, he acquiesced, "In the drawers of the wardrobe, my boy. I am sure that Professor McGonagall will not miss one."
"Thanks," said Draco gratefully, crossing back to the cabinet and withdrawing one of the small, glass containers. Using his wand, Draco extracted the memory of his mother from the larger bottle and transferred it to the vial, which he then shrank and stowed safely into one of his inner pockets. There was no reason for the others to see it, not until he knew more about who Mathilda Greene was and why she was so important to his mother. With everything else going on, there was no reason to burden them with even greater troubles.
He would keep it a secret, for now. It was only right.
This is what he told himself.
"And, Draco?" called Dumbledore.
Draco turned. "Sir?"
"There shall come a time when you will have to make a choice, and when you do, you shall have to be prepared to offer Miss Granger your unwavering protection. I trust you know that."
Draco nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. I know."
.
.
"Abraxas Malfoy is turning in his grave!" seethed the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. "The boy is a disgrace to his name!"
"His separation from his family's bigoted values is hardly a disgrace," sniffed Dilys Derwent, flipping her blonde ringlets over her shoulder. "It is a great honor indeed, he has done his ancestors proud -" She shot a disdainful glare toward Black's portrait. " - whether or not they are too blind to see it!"
"Come now, Phineas," assuaged Dumbledore. "There is no need for such vehemence. Surely even your cold heart cannot deny the power of love."
"Love," Phineas spat. "A weakness, a frailty - a humiliation!"
"Phineas!" Minerva McGonagall scolded.
"I have half a mind to visit my other portrait and inform his parents -"
There was a unanimous cry of outrage as every Headmaster or Headmistress' portrait protested angrily, some of them going as far as to shake their fists or bang on the edge of their frames irately.
"Minerva," said Dumbledore sharply.
"You will do no such thing, Phineas Nigellus Black!" McGonagall said sternly. "You are bound by duty to this school and, as Headmistress, I order you to keep your silence!"
"Mark me, Minerva," Phineas said menacingly. "This won't end well."
.
.
"Almerick Sawbridge," Hermione said tiredly, dragging her feet up the stairs that lead to her common room and not really knowing what to expect when she got there.
She'd told the boys (and Ron had very nearly refused) to wait for her so that they could discuss together what Dumbledore had left the four of them, but her conversation with Professor Snape had run longer than she'd anticipated. To put it very lightly, Hermione was emotionally drained.
Lucius Malfoy was more than just a hypocrite, more than just a murderer - he had killed a Muggleborn girl because she was a liability to him, a threat to his pureblood engagement to Narcissa Black… how does one sleep with a woman and then hand her over to the Dark Lord as though she meant nothing? As though she was nothing… and this was Draco's father, the father he'd looked up to his whole life - the man whom Draco had strived to imitate for years, and in some ways, still did. Professor Snape had said that Draco was no murderer, but was he really so different than the man who raised him?
Yes, said the little voice that spoke from Hermione's heart of hearts. He's different, you know he is. You've seen it, felt it -
But the voice that spoke from her head disagreed. The sins of the father, Hermione - the apple never does fall far from the tree.
And yet, to say that Draco was one way simply because of his father was a prejudice of its own, wasn't it? Hermione had told Ginny as much herself.
He was bred into this, Hermione, said the conflicting rationality in her mind, and she shook her head to banish the thoughts.
Hermione passed through the archway and was surprised to see that Harry and Ron were not there, but Draco was, standing at the opposite end of the common room with his back to her, looking thoughtfully out the window. His robes lay forgotten, draped over the end of the couch, and the attractive line of his shoulders was tense underneath the thin fabric of his Oxford as he stared out over the grounds. Hermione watched him apprehensively, taking in the image of his lithe form, the silvery blonde hair that tapered at the nape of his neck, the thin hand that gripped his wand - she should be honest with him, shouldn't she?
"Hey," she said quietly, and Draco turned, rewarding her with one of those rare smiles, the one that positively lit up his features and seemed to be so common for her these days.
Not a smirk, not a grin, but a smile.
"Took you long enough," he said obnoxiously, and Hermione smiled, shaking her head.
"I was -"
"I already know. Potter saw you on the map," he stopped her. "What did Snape say?"
Hermione shrugged. "He was just as rude as usual," she said, grinning. "I got my assignment."
"No teasing?"
She laughed. "No, you were right." Hermione crossed over to the table, setting her school bag on its surface and shrugging out of her robe before removing The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the smaller bag.
"I was talking to him about this." She flipped to the introductory page and passed it to him. "This symbol - it isn't printed, it's been inked in by someone… but I've never seen it, and Professor Snape says he hasn't either. Do you recognize it?"
Draco accepted the book and squinted at the page, eyebrows furrowing toward one another as he turned it in his hands, as though something might come to him if he looked at it from a different angle. At last, he shook his head. "No, I've never seen it. But I know these stories - my mum used to read them to me."
"That's what Ron said after you left for the Headmistress' office."
Draco raised his eyebrows. "You two are on speaking terms again?"
Hermione cringed. "Well, he wasn't exactly what I would call 'polite.'"
"Tosser," Draco muttered.
"Professor Snape said he didn't recognize the symbol, but… I don't know if I believe him. I think he was lying."
Draco snorted. "Come on, Hermione, that man could tell me that Hogwarts is in Ireland and I'd probably believe him. He's a spy, and if he can fool the Dark Lord, an eighteen-year-old girl doesn't stand a chance." He passed the book back to her and turned away to collapse gracefully into the couch.
"I know what I saw," she insisted, following him. "It was only for a moment, but I saw it."
Draco rolled his eyes. "What did you see?"
"Hope."
He scoffed. "Hope, Granger? Honestly? These are children's stories we're talking about. Fairy tales."
"Then why would Dumbledore leave them to me in his will?" she pressed. "It must be something, 'entertaining and instructive,' remember? It can't just be fairy tales. Professor Snape said something that implied that there might be some sort of hidden message -"
"A message that the Ministry couldn't find?" asked Draco dubiously.
"I suppose I'll find out after I translate it - it shouldn't take long - but you have to admit, it's strange," she said. "And it isn't as if these are just Muggle children's stories, everything has a meaning in the Wizarding World."
"Granger," Draco said seriously. "Even in the Wizarding World, fairy tales are just fairy tales."
"But the symbol -"
"What about it?" he said, throwing up his hands. "If not even Snape has seen it before, then chances are it's probably just some wizard's doodling in a book. A kid, probably. Maybe even Dumbledore when he was little."
"I don't think so," said Hermione, shaking her head. "There must be a deeper meaning."
"That's what I thought about the memories, Hermione," Draco reasoned. "But when I asked him about them, all he said was that he was trying to remind me about virtue and strong moral fiber - it's bollocks, all of it."
Hermione brightened, having forgotten all about why Draco had gone to the Headmistress' office. "Oh, the memories, what were they?" she asked enthusiastically.
Draco looked uncomfortable, angling his neck to the side as though hesitant to speak. "Look, Hermione, when you see them… you're not going to like some of the things I said about you."
Hermione's face fell. "About me?" she asked, confused. "Why would Dumbledore give you memories of you talking about me?"
"For starters, Snape went and told him about us," he said, and Hermione gasped, covering her mouth with both hands as the blood rushed to her cheeks. "Yes, I know. It gets better and better. Anyway, listen - it was… it was different back then, alright? I don't think about you that way, not anymore."
"Oh," said Hermione softly, realizing what he must be talking about. "I see."
"No, listen," said Draco emphatically, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees, palms turned upward as though the gesture would make her fully understand. "You have to believe me. I don't think that way about you anymore."
"I…" She winced. "Where are Harry and Ron? They said they'd wait for me."
Draco made a face. "They've already gone to view the memories in McGonagall's office. Don't look at me like that! You were taking too long. They probably won't be especially cheery when they get back, after they've seen -"
The portrait swung open and there was a sound of two sets of feet stomping up the stairs; not a moment later, Harry ripped the Invisibility Cloak from around their bodies and Hermione was shocked to see that he was gripping the Sword of Gryffindor in the other hand. Hermione's eyes flew instantly to it and she gaped in astonishment, but neither Harry or Ron seemed very concerned with the fact that they had in their possession a legendary and supposedly missing artifact, for their attentions were both centered entirely on Draco.
"I suppose you're gonna tell us you didn't mean any of it, are you?" asked Harry stonily.
"Look, Potter," Draco said warily.
"No, you look, Malfoy," said Ron angrily, advancing swiftly on Malfoy with his fists clenched.
"Watch it," Draco warned, standing to meet him. "Don't start something you won't be able to finish, Weasel."
"Don't Weasel me! I've told this lot from the beginning that you weren't any different from before, and here's the bloody proof."
"Ron, don't," Hermione said soothingly. "It doesn't matter anymore."
"No!" Ron yelled, pointing at Draco aggressively. "You didn't hear, you haven't seen what he said about you. To Dumbledore, and you want to believe he's changed!"
"I have changed," Draco said in a low voice. "So, this is what we're back to? My loyalties? I think we've come a bit far for all that, haven't we?"
Harry glared hatefully across the room from the doorway. "I'd say that your loyalties are pretty questionable to me if you still believe in all that rubbish about blood-purity."
Ron nodded in agreement. "If you're gonna talk about her like that -"
Draco laughed disdainfully. "What, now you're going to pretend like you give so much of a fuck, Weasley? After how you talked to her the other night, just because she doesn't want to be your sodding girlfriend -"
And Ron rounded on Hermione furiously, his face a brilliant shade of red. "You told him?"
"I - well," Hermione stammered awkwardly. "I needed to talk to someone, didn't I, and -"
"So you decided to talk to Malfoy about it? Like he cares about how you feel, Hermione?"
"Don't start on her!" Draco shouted defensively. "It's your fault for being such a prick -"
"My fault?" Ron echoed incredulously. "My fault?"
"Yes, Weasley, that's what I said," Draco said icily. "Or don't you understand English?"
"Fuck you, Malfoy!"
And in the space of a second, both arguing boys were brandishing their wands at each other's throats.
The other two sprang into action, rushing forward to intervene. Harry dragged his best friend backward by Ron's wand arm and looped his hand around the red-haired wizard's chest when he tried to wrench away; at the same time, Hermione jumped in front of Draco and spread her arms wide, moving back and forth to block him every time he tried to duck around her.
"Calm down, Draco," Hermione assuaged, trying to get him to hold her gaze.
"Draco? You're calling him Draco now?" Ron demanded, and Hermione spun around to face him.
"That's his name, Ronald!"
But Ron wasn't the only one who seemed suspicious. Harry, too, was regarding her through narrowed eyes that jumped rapidly between Hermione and Draco, his mind working furiously, trying to figure it out…
Hermione drove on without hesitation, desperate to avoid them delving any further into that subject. "In case you two've forgotten, there are much bigger, much more important things to be worrying about," she said waspishly. "So you should probably think about that, instead of focusing on your differences -" She turned and glared pointedly at Draco, trying to convey the deeper meaning that he should shut the hell up before he got them both into trouble. "- so we can figure this damned thing out and put an end to this war."
Wheeling back around, she looked to her best friend for support. "Right, Harry?"
Harry paused for a moment, seeming to consider before finally letting go of Ron's arm. "Right," he said. "She's right."
"Thank you," said Hermione primly, and then when none of them moved, "Well, for goodness sake, you three, sit down!"
They all passed each other spiteful glares but grudgingly obeyed. Harry set the Sword of Gryffindor on the coffee table and then backed into one of the armchairs, running a hand through his scruffy hair and expelling a tense breath. "The sword's been behind Dumbledore's portrait all the time," he said. "I suppose I would have known if I'd just gone to talk to him."
"What did he say about the Snitch, Harry?" Hermione asked.
Harry's lip curled distastefully. "He just went on about the rewards of perseverance and skill. He said the same thing to Ron about the deluminator, what was it -" he turned to Ron. "That you'll remember him when you use it?"
Ron nodded, apparently still too hot to speak, for he kept shooting dark looks toward Draco, who pretended not to notice.
"He said the same thing about the memories," Draco offered. "Virtue and strong moral fiber."
They all shared an exasperated eye-roll because this, if nothing else, they could all agree upon.
"Merlin forbid he give us a flat answer," Ron muttered unhelpfully. "But nooo, he's got to talk in riddles. He's mental, Dumbledore is, even for a bloody portrait."
Hermione stared into the crackling hearth. "Professor Snape said that whatever Dumbledore wanted to tell us won't just be sentimental."
"You talked to Snape about it?" Harry asked loudly.
"He already knew, for your information," Hermione snapped. "And besides, I think he's right. Whatever Dumbledore wants us to know, we're supposed to figure it out on our own."
Draco gave a short, bark of a laugh. "Not everything is a puzzle, Granger - what we ought to be doing is paying more attention to finding this sodding Diadem, not trying to decode a will."
Hermione glared at him. "Not that we're done talking about the will, but I did find something odd in Ravenclaw's biography," she said. "Her family was from Albania."
Ron and Harry both faced her.
"Were they?" Harry asked.
"Yes!" Hermione nodded, smiling. "And we know that that can't be a coincidence, can it?"
"No, it can't," said Harry. "But, really, I don't see why it helps us any. Voldemort went to Albania after the curse rebounded, but what if that means he hid the Diadem there? Which would also mean that we're wasting our time at Hogwarts."
"I still think it's in the castle, Harry," Hermione said quickly.
"Why?" he countered. "I'm starting to think that all evidence points elsewhere, I - look, I finished Dumbledore's biography, Hermione. Did you know he was from Godric's Hollow?"
Hermione's lips parted in surprise. "No, I didn't."
"Neither did I," Harry said bitterly. "But I'm thinking, what if Voldemort hid a Horcrux there? It would make sense, it's a place that would have meaning to him -"
"Harry," she chided. "Don't tell me you're thinking of going there."
"Why not?" he asked, offended. "I think it's the obvious choice. Dumbledore lived there, Godric Gryffindor himself lived there. It's where my parents died."
"That's exactly why it's a horrible idea, Potter," Draco chimed in. "Voldemort will be expecting you to show up there, we'll be walking straight into a trap."
"Draco's right, Harry," Hermione said softly. "You're being sentimental."
"I'm not being sentimental, Hermione!" said Harry crossly.
"I understand why you want to go, but Voldemort will already have anticipated that." Hermione turned to Ron. "What do you think?"
Ron snarled at her before giving Harry an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate, but I think they've got it right this time."
Harry slackened in his armchair, looking petulant. "Fine," he said furiously. "I suppose I'm outvoted, then."
"So," Draco said importantly. "Next order of business. Theo Nott skived off Transfiguration today."
Ron snorted. "Yea, and I reckon we know exactly where he went, too."
There was a murmur of agreement.
"I was thinking we could ask Dumbledore's Army to help," said Harry, looking to the others for approval. "They'd be glad to do it."
But Draco shook his head. "You want to put them all in danger, Potter? Don't you remember what happened? He tried to kick Granger off the sodding landing without even knowing who she was when he thought he was being followed. That's your second worst idea of the day."
Harry looked a bit taken off guard, as though he hadn't considered that, but Hermione said, "I was thinking the same thing, actually - if we could just lend them the Invisibility Cloak -"
"Not a chance," said Harry. "It's too risky. We need it."
Hermione sighed in defeat. "Well, I suppose that's out then."
"Well, Malfoy's got rounds tonight. Haven't you?" asked Ron, and Draco nodded. "So he can keep a lookout on the Room of Requirement."
"Obviously," Draco spat. Ron sneered in response. "But Blaise Zabini was asking questions today, offering to help."
All heads in the room jerked round to look at him, and Draco raised his hands up by his shoulders.
"I know what you're all thinking, but just hear me out," he placated. "Blaise in a much better position to keep an eye on Theo. We can't get into the Room of Requirement when he's using it, but there might be something that's more obvious in Theo's day-to-day life - something he keeps in the dormitory, maybe. Something in his school bag, even. I wouldn't go as far as to say Blaise is necessarily in Theo's confidence. No one really is, but it's worth a shot, I think."
"I dunno, Malfoy," Hermione said skeptically. "We don't have a reason to trust him."
But Harry disagreed. "Do it," he said immediately. "Tell him to watch Nott and try to figure out what it is he's up to."
"Harry -" Ron protested.
"It's the best plan we've got, Ron," said Harry. "If all we're doing with Nott is the same thing I did with Malfoy all last year, we'll never find out what he's up to. But that's all, Malfoy, nothing else."
Draco nodded. "I'll talk to him tomorrow… as for the Diadem, we need to consider consulting one of the ghosts. Professor Binns, perhaps -"
"Or, we can visit Rowena's portrait," countered Hermione. "Maybe she'll answer some more questions."
"Not likely," Ron said resentfully, glowering at the fireplace. "But it can't hurt."
"Are you lot serious?" Draco asked. "You still don't want to ask a ghost? It's clearly the most expedient option, for fuck's sake -"
"Just let me do a bit more research first," Hermione cut in. "Then we'll ask."
Draco rolled his neck in annoyance and settled back into the sofa.
"I agree with Hermione," said Harry suddenly, adopting a far-off expression as he gazed out the window. "Ghosts aren't loyal to anyone, and we can't guarantee that they won't tell someone else who questions them. But I just can't help but feel that I've seen that Diadem before. I can't place it, but it just seems so familiar, for some reason…"
Draco turned sharply to face him. "I've been thinking the same thing, Potter."
He and Harry locked eyes, sharing a bemused stare as Hermione wondered what silent questions were passing between them.
It didn't seem at all likely… what place could Harry and Draco possibly have in common where they might have seen the Diadem?
.
.
Severus Snape sat in his private quarters, slumped into one of his armchairs and staring into the fire that was blazing in the hearth, brooding morosely as he berated Albus Dumbledore in the privacy of his own mind.
Severus did not typically drink, not during wartime - he could be Summoned at any moment, and it would certainly not do to be inebriated in the Dark Lord's presence. But hopefully, Severus would not be summoned, because he was already on his third glass of Firewhisky and had no intentions of stopping there.
It seemed the only appropriate measure to take, for these children were surely going to die. Were there no limits to Albus Dumbledore's manipulations?
Severus had never believed in the myth of the Deathly Hallows. It had never seemed logical, for starters, that a children's tale would be taken seriously by so many obsessive adult wizards. They could not possibly be real, Severus had maintained. In fact, he had never given The Tale of the Three Brothers anything more than a cursory acknowledgement, although he had known that some were fool enough to pursue their legend…
And yet, it was now painfully clear that they were very, very real.
More than that, they were in the hands of children.
Potter's sodding Cloak of Invisibility…
The Resurrection Stone, quite obviously hidden inside that Snitch…
and the Elder Wand, which the Dark Lord would eventually raid Dumbledore's tomb for but which would not answer to him.
Because it would answer to Draco Malfoy, instead.
So Severus drank, both for anger and for hope. Maybe these kids would live, after all.
.
A/n: Oh, dear. Draco and Hermione are keeping secrets from each other.
Mentions go to A Week of Sundays and ZeldaSeverous