A/N: I've been fighting with myself over this chapter for... days. I had two ways I thought this story might go, and this was one of them. Both events were going to eventually happen, but I didn't know which would come first: this one, or the one that hasn't happened yet. It will make sense later, lol. Let me know what you think.
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Chapter 27
Inklings
·
Harry and she slipped through the portrait hole together, in silence. To her disappointment, the Common Room was empty. Those who were not at the party had gone to bed early, obviously bitter to not have been invited. Harry and she could talk about what happened somewhat freely, unless the party ended abruptly.
Not that she wanted to talk about it at all, freely or not. She had a very vivid idea of how this conversation was going to go, and was naturally dreading it. But she knew better than to avoid it. Harry lived for this sort of thing: convening in the dead of night after some misadventure. And he wanted to know that she had heard exactly what I had and what her thoughts were.
But any advice she had would fall on deaf ears—hence, her resistance.
"Hermione," he blurted excitedly, "Malfoy and Snape—"
She sent him a disapproving look, "Harry."
"What?"
She rolled her eyes. When he blinked, she made a buzzing sound, pointedly wiggling her fingers around her ears.
"Oh," he met her gaze smugly, then cast, "Muffliato."
The sound of it made her flinch. Only an hour ago, Snape had cast the same spell.
Gods, she physically ached to return to the memory: if she had a pensieve, she would disappear into that moment over and over and over. If she could have relived it thousand times in her life, she would not be satisfied.
She longed for more moments like it, where she could press her face into him and disappear into the scented wool, where his eyes were upon her, full of depth and dark humor, and his voice was meant for her and only her. What would it feel like, to hear and feel him whisper in her ear? Would his hands be rough or gentle as they traced her face, or grabbed her shoulders, or her waist?
Would her Snape be patient or impatient? Cruelly passionate or elegantly tender? Both?
Neither, the cynic in her reminded.
But the dreamer in her was incensed by the singular moment which they had shared. As she fantasized, she realized that one single memory would not be enough for her to survive on. The dreamer craved more; demanded more. Hell, even the cynic was desperate, but she was too afraid of rejection. Too afraid of losing him.
And even still… though she longed for more, for much, much more, she would trade her life if it meant that she could have even half of what she had now, so long as she knew he lived. To hear that she might be without him, forever, made every part of her heart seize with panic. There was no consolation for what he implied. A life without him, well… she feared she might slip into the abyss of the Divide and never return.
Desperately, she could only hope that he at least planned to live. She could deal with separation, with distance, so long as he still breathed. A part of her hoped that what he had implied was not so final as death. There were perhaps worse circumstances, but gods, she needed him to live.
And if he didn't plan to live, then she would do everything she could to ensure she stopped him. Even if that meant helping Draco sodding Malfoy or his father or the dark lord himself.
"I told you, Hermione," Harry suddenly blurted, running his hands through his hair in an anxious, aggravated motion. He seemed torn between being horrified and being pleased… mostly pleased, she imagined. He did love when he was proven right, "I told you!"
"I know, Harry."
"I was right about Malfoy!"
"I never said you weren't."
Oh, Merlin… Harry was going to murder her if he ever found out what she'd done. What she had so stupidly, insufferably done.
Fuck.
She was in love with him. She was in love with Snape, or at least dangerously close to it. When had that happened?
Twenty minutes ago, probably.
"And Snape, of course he's involved—and, of course you did say. You said to let it go, that it wasn't worth it," he told her, "Well, we have proof now—"
"No, we don't."
"What are you talking about? Didn't you hear?"
"Of course I did, but honestly, I don't really know what I heard. They didn't say much."
She didn't care about this. Harry wouldn't get it, even if she spent hours explaining it. Even if she told him the truth.
"They said enough—Malfoy is definitely up to something! He admitted it. And Snape's helping him!"
"Well, we always knew that, Harry!" She muttered, "But honestly, when is Malfoy not getting into trouble?"
"Are you serious?" Harry growled at her, "Hermione, come on. You were there! You heard him… and Snape, too! He's offering Malfoy his help… and he said 'his master'; this is proof that Malfoy is a Death Eater, just like the slimy git. Why else would Snape help him?"
"It seems to me that he was just saying that to get information. Draco seemed to think the same—"
"Oh, not that again, Hermione," Harry smacked his hands against the arm of the chair, "Don't you even listen to me?"
"I'm listening, Harry."
"Then tell me what I should do!"
She suddenly blurted, "You really just don't get it, do you?"
"What are you talking about?"
She drew in a steady breath, then stood, "Nothing; I don't want to talk about anything right now."
Harry stood, followed her, and took her arm.
"You're just going to ignore it? Hermione, he has to be behind what happened to Katie!"
"What are we supposed to do about it?" she hissed towards him, spinning, "What am I supposed tell you to do about any of this, besides what I've already told you, which is to let it alone?"
"Help me—"
"Help you what, Harry?" Harry's green eyes darkened, but she didn't care anymore, "What are you going to do about a handful of veiled words? Tell Dumbledore? It's not like you listen to him—or me, for that matter. What use is asking for help if you don't bloody listen to it?"
Harry opened his mouth, but she had started and she wasn't going to stop.
"And when you don't like what the headmaster says, which will be exactly what I'm telling you, what are you going to do, then, Harry? Are you going to sneak into Snape's office, or the Slytherin dormitory to find your 'proof'? Want me to brew you some more Polyjuice potion? Would you like to be Crabbe, or Goyle this time? Pansy, then?" She knew she should stop. She knew she was headed in a direction where there was no turning back… but she felt as if she'd been trapped in a bottle and now the bottle had cracked and all of her was spilling out, "Or are we just going to storm their Common Room like we did the ministry? Because that worked out so well for you, didn't it?"
They both knew what she had meant before she even said it. Hermione considered letting it linger, letting him feel it, perhaps even rubbing more salt in the wound—but she found a semblance of sanity, and closed her eyes.
After a breath, she opened them again, and pleaded with Harry's hurt, flaring green ones.
"Harry, I'm sorry. I meant—"
His voice was icy, but beneath the surface she could sense that anger boiling, hot and hurt, "I know exactly what you meant, Hermione."
He dropped his hand from her arm, and walked away, his back to her. She floundered with what to say, to apologize—
"No, really, Harry. I shouldn't have said it."
She flinched when he turned around violently. His fists clenched at his sides, he looked tenser than she'd ever seen him. She could see he was trying to control his temper.
It was a first.
"Merlin, Hermione! I'm not…" he sucked in a breath, cleared his expression of anger, "I'm not going to hex you—or fall into a thousand pieces if you bring it up!" he stormed away from her again, towards the hearth, hands stuffed in his pockets, "I know..."
He trailed off. She drifted closer to him, but kept somewhat of a distance between them.
He paced forward, then back, then forward again, "Gods knows it's my fault he's dead."
"Harry, it isn't—"
"Yes, it is," he stopped pacing, both his words and his face taking on a sense of determined finality, "And convincing myself that it's not won't help me learn from my mistake."
Hermione was overwhelmed by this… she'd expected Harry would shout at her, lose his temper, then stomp off—not step back and look at what he'd said, and done, or to actually take her advice and learn from it, rather than run from it.
Merlin, she'd gotten so used to tiptoeing around him, that she hadn't realized that he'd been just as affected by the ministry as she had. He'd lost Sirius, his godfather. And she'd lost her magic.
But as she'd told McGonagall, it wasn't his fault. The blame belonged in the hands of the man who had swindled them—the man who'd taken his parents, the man who'd orchestrated his godfather's death, the man who had hurt and killed so many others. Who threatened Snape's life, always. But how could they fight him? How could they fight someone who was more powerful, smarter, who didn't appear to have any weaknesses—who defied even the most certain of deaths?
By being unafraid of death. Unafraid of loss, of making mistakes… by playing by different rules.
By playing smarter, not harder.
Harry's voice penetrated her thoughts, "I'm sorry about you, too."
Hermione's mind was going a million miles a minute. She was re-evaluating everything she'd ever planned, or ever imagined would happen in the war. She heard what Harry said, but she didn't need him to say it. She knew he was sorry, deep down. But she'd been so blinded by other things, she'd forgotten that he had his own way, just as she had hers.
They all had their differences. Of course, she could go about this—this being helping Snape—Harry's way. With sheer, brute force and a hell of a lot of luck. Or, hell, she could even go about it her way… by exhausting every research option she had.
Or she could actually do something, for once.
"What?" She blinked at Harry, confused. She'd forgotten what they were talking about.
"About what happened," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. He gazed at her chest, then glanced away, cheeks red, "I know you don't like talking about it, but Merlin, Hermione, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have gotten hurt for me."
"I didn't get hurt for you," she told him, stepping closer, approaching him as she might a wounded animal, "I was there for the same reasons you were. I wanted to help Sirius, too."
"Yes, but if I'd listened to you—"
"I let you win that argument, Harry, because I knew what was at stake, just like you did. It doesn't matter what I said, because I didn't make you listen, so I'm as much at fault as you are. I could have pushed harder, but I didn't," Of course ,that didn't make him feel any better, so she added, "And there's no telling what those Death Eaters might have done to get you there. I'm glad we were there to do what we could, while we could… don't take this the wrong way, but it could have ended far worse for all of us."
Harry seemed to think about that for a long time, before he sighed heavily, collapsing back into the arm chair. She headed towards him, and put a hand on his shoulder. It was taut as stone, and she could feel the weight he carried around with him as she hovered at his side. Foolishly, she'd forgotten how he liked to carry the world on his shoulders, and that, as his friend, it was her job to ease that burden. Even if hers was already pretty crippling.
"You're not going to listen to me, are you?"
"I can't let it go, Hermione. I've tried, really, but—"
"I didn't say let it go completely."
"Yes, but you're going to suggest to let it go as soon as you're done with your speech."
"Alright, fine, I am, so forget the speech. But—Harry, I know you think I don't care. I do… I just—there's not much we can do…"
"I hate this," he shoved his glasses out of the way and squeezed the bridge of his nose, "I hate all of this. I wish I just knew how to end it."
He didn't do well with plotting—no, he wanted to fix things, right away. He wanted to run in and save the day, all action, no plan needed, just instincts. And she wanted the same, honestly. If she could have, she would have already.
But they couldn't win this war like that. Their enemies were growing strength too fast, and they were already powerful to begin with. He needed to accept that they couldn't win every battle; they weren't going to prevent every death. The world was only going to keep darkening. It was all just going to keep getting harder, more complex…
Luckily, he had her: she did so love puzzles. And she was more flexible than anyone gave her credit for.
Not every terrible action was done in malice.
"We'll figure it all out, Harry."
She slunk into the chair with him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He rested his head against her shoulder, sighed.
"You mean, you'll figure it out, and then you'll tell me?"
"Well, that's how it will probably go."
Harry laughed. It wasn't hollow—it was real.
Eventually, he spoke again, "I know you don't care, but I need to prove that Malfoy is a Death Eater."
She didn't know how to explain to him that it didn't matter anymore if he was or wasn't. But Harry needed to feel like he was doing something, anything, to help. If that meant sniffing after Draco, then so be it.
"Well, since I know you're going to keep an eye on him, anyway," Hermione told him, "I'm going to ask that you just don't be obvious about it, Harry. If he thinks you're onto him—"
"I know. I know… and I'm going to talk to Dumbledore, and Mr. Weasley, and Remus, about Snape. But you're right; they're just going to take his side."
"Don't you ever wonder why that is?"
"Of course I do—and it never makes sense."
It didn't really. She still had no idea why he did what he did. In her eyes, it would be much easier for him to follow the dark lord. He would have an easier life, wouldn't he? If he could stand being tortured and torturing…
She wished she could tell Harry that he was good; that he didn't like being a Death Eater. That he was doing this for the same reasons as Harry was. That he had saved her life. That he had to make choices that Harry would never fathom having to make.
But she couldn't betray Snape's trust, and honestly, she wasn't certain Harry was capable of protecting the information from Voldemort.
"You should sleep," she told him, before untangling herself from his lap and helping him to his feet, "We've got an early morning tomorrow."
"I'll try, but…" he seemed to grow pensive for a moment, and his emerald eyes drew over her face for a long time.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said, "You just look… strange, is all. Was McClaggen that bad of a snog, or are you really just fed up with me completely?"
She punched him—hard—in the arm.
"Don't bring McClaggen up—ever again. We're going to pretend like that never, ever happened."
"Alright, alright…" he rubbed his arm, "Merlin, you don't even need a wand at all to rough a bloke up, do you?"
"No," she tossed at his back, "And don't you forget it, Harry James Potter."
He laughed. But then his green eyes turned serious again and he fixed her with a penetrating look, "Hermione… you do know I'm here for you—to talk."
"I know that, Harry."
"I've tried giving you space. I thought that's what you wanted…" he muttered, "But I am here."
She could tell he was holding back a question for her. He was curious about something, but afraid to ask. Knowing him, Harry was going to hit some nail on the head, and she wasn't quite ready to either a, tell him the truth, or b, lie to his face.
He was going to ask it, "There's been something else I've been meaning to talk to you about—"
Just then, the portrait hole swung open, and several Gryffindors fell into the Common Room with great, roaring laughter. Ginny was among them, but she was hardly laughing. She yanked away from a snorting Dean and stormed past them both. Hermione watched Harry watch her, and she wondered if that was how pitiful she looked watching Snape, from afar.
"Some other time…" she told him.
He nodded—suddenly, he seemed to have forgotten all about everything else.
Love can do that, can't it?
"Goodnight, Harry."
He searched her eyes for a moment, likely having forgotten she was even there, "Goodnight."
When she was certain he was in his dormitory—for good—she turned and headed for the portrait hole. To her surprise, Cormac actually flinched when she approached, even in his drunkenness. She avoided his gaze as she stepped over them, and made sure no one was following her before she trekked towards the other end of the seventh floor.
In a few hours' time, she would be heading home, to her parents, but first…
First, she needed to speak with Albus Dumbledore.
·
"Bloody fucking…"
Severus had long since scourgified Cormac McClaggen's vomit from his shoes, but the stench was still lingering in his nose. He hadn't intended or anticipated that reaction, but he supposed it was his own fault. Perhaps he had been overly zealous in his attempt to give the boy more than his fair share of detentions… but it was a small consequence to ensure Granger's peace of mind that he would not go after her again.
A new, roiling sense of hatred burned in his belly for the twit. McClaggen's desire angered him, immensely. It wasn't that he didn't think it founded, because he knew Granger was… desirable; it was the fact that McClaggen seemed to be more concerned with the fact that Granger was easy rather than beautiful. Sure, he acknowledged the fact that she had nice skin and wild "sex" hair and big, beautiful eyes… and her body was "tight", whatever that meant—but the teenager was looking for a quick shag, and from what he'd heard in the papers, Granger easily spread her legs for quidditch stars.
The Gryffindor twit would be lucky to have fingers left to catch Quaffles by the time Severus was through with him. He was luckier still to have a prick.
Long fingers rubbed at his temples, willing the lewd images McClaggen he'd plucked from his thoughts to quit playing on repeat in his brain. At this point, they were making him physically ill, or perhaps that was the vomit smell, again.
He breathed in deep, controlling the nausea, and sought different images to distract him. Of course, she was there, but she wasn't naked or highly uncharacterized, but dressed finely, with her hair twisted away from her face, yet half-spilling over her shoulders in tight, riotous spirals. Her liquid eyes were looking at him, more open as they ever had been, as if desperate for him to see all of her secrets, and her lips were curved in a smile, a smile spared just for him.
And her Song, that blasted melody, so sweet and alluring, like a siren's, was loud and calling to him—begging him to…
But that wasn't possible. Was he going mad… or was Granger—?
She'd hugged him, too. Buried herself into him, rather. It had taken everything he had to resist turning her around and pressing her against the wall, plundering her mouth with his, to Claim her. It had been even harder when she'd become overly distraught at the thought that he would not be able to aid her much longer. Could she care that much about him, that she would cry over the loss?
Of course, she would care. How else would she recover, without you? Don't kid yourself, Severus. It isn't like that.
But that was a lie he told himself, to keep him from seeing the truth. He ignored the warnings and delved back into the memory, and wondered, wondered if it was possible—
Stop this, Severus. Stop this, at once.
But the damage was already done. He'd had the first taste of hope—and there was no going back. He knew now, and he could not unknow it.
It was bittersweet, of course. Yes, there was the possibility… that even without the Song, Miss Granger could—but it didn't matter. How could it matter? After all, after tonight, he knew what his answer to Dumbledore would be. He knew what he had to do.
The dark wizard slid to the floor, clutching a bottle of firewhisky to his trembling, angry mouth. At least he had this single moment to last him in the darkness that was to come, because, in the morning, he would go to Albus, and agree to kill him. And there would be no room in Granger's life for a murderer Death Eater, and no room in his soul for grief over another witch, besides the one whose death he had already caused. He would not lead her to the darkness with him, even if it killed him... or killed her magic.
·
"Miss Granger, what an… unexpected surprise. Are you unwell?"
"No, Headmaster; I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Of course not," She believed him. While she hadn't expected him to be in his office, she'd assumed he had some sort of system in place that alerted him to the arrival of guests and had been prepared to wait. But she hadn't waited at all. He had been in his winged-back chair when she arrived—almost as if he'd been waiting for her, "I admit that sleep is often beyond me."
"Your hand?"
"My dear?"
She gestured towards the shriveled hand that hid behind his desk, "It must trouble you."
"Ah," he shook his head, "It plays a part."
"Is it curable?"
Dumbledore looked over his half-moon glasses, in a motion that she recognized as an attempt to see her eyes clearer—to read her mind. She deflected him, and he refrained from attempting again.
"It's not, is it?"
"What is this about, Miss Granger?"
The young witch took a breath. She was taking a risk here—a huge risk. To alert Dumbledore that she knew about this could go in two different directions. One, he would use it against her, or against Severus. Or two, he would help her.
Maybe there were three options: he might have her killed, or worse, Obliviated.
She swallowed.
"You know, headmaster, of all people to survive the war, I thought it would be you."
He seemed to lean closer to her, interested in what she had to say, at least.
"I think everyone expects you to live forever, or at least they want you to, so they always have someone to turn to, to make the decisions they don't want to make," the thought made him quirk a silver brow, "But… you're dying, aren't you?"
The wizard peered at her closely, eyes clear, face hardly surprised that she'd figured it out.
"The day it happened, I knew. I knew from Professor Snape's reaction. He was beside himself—more distraught than I ever expected to see him. He practically leveled his office… but you probably knew that."
The headmaster inclined his head.
"I bothered to ask him, which was a terrible idea—gods knows he would never tell me what it meant—but when Madam Pomfrey wasn't concerned, it was easy to let it go. I thought… well, if no one's making a fuss, it must not be that serious? But it is serious, isn't it, sir?"
He was silent.
"How long do you have?"
He frowned, "It is hard to say, my dear. Months, perhaps."
She grimaced, saddened for him, "That's why you're telling Harry all of this, isn't it? That's why you're all of a sudden including him in these… missions, whatever it is that you two do up here. If you weren't dying, would he be privy to any of it?"
"Eventually," the old man admitted.
"But you still aren't telling him everything."
Dumbledore leaned back, then nodded.
"Why not?"
"The truth can only be shared with Harry at the most opportune moment… when Lord Voldemort is most vulnerable, or else, I fear he might not be able to protect it from him."
"I see," Hermione fiddled with the hem of her dress. She felt silly wearing it, in front of the headmaster. She felt silly being here at all, "It's bad, isn't it—the secret you're keeping from him?"
"Yes, Miss Granger."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Perhaps, but not yet."
She felt her brow furrow, then nodded. Another time, then.
"Does Snape know?"
"He will in good time."
She sighed—well, Merlin. He'd better hope he didn't die before then, taking the great reveal to the grave!
Or would it matter? Did he know about…
Of course, he does, Hermione! He knows everything—
Well, then, there was only one question: was he planning to let Snape die for him—or was he expecting the spy to assist Draco in his assassination?
"I am curious—what brought this on so suddenly, Miss Granger?"
Overwhelmed by her train of thought, she got to the point, "Sir—Harry… Harry overheard something tonight, headmaster."
"Oh?"
"Yes—between Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy. It was bits and pieces… he tried to get me to help him string them together, but I…" the old man nodded, alerting her that he understood without her saying, "He knows that Draco has been given a mission from the dark lord, but not what that mission is."
"What do you think it is, Miss Granger?"
"I think Draco is supposed to kill you."
Dumbledore did not need to affirm it. She knew. Harry wasn't the target… Voldemort was going to kill himself. The only other worthy target at Hogwarts was the headmaster.
"Do you think Draco Malfoy has that kind of malice in him?"
"No," Hermione admitted with a laugh, "He's scared out of his wits. Even I can see that."
"Then why are you here, Miss Granger?"
"Because Professor Snape took an Unbreakable Vow to help him complete his task. And if he fails—"
"He will not fail," the headmaster assured her.
Hermione felt something catch in her throat.
"He won't?"
"No, Miss Granger," his voice was soft, gentle.
"So, he's going to—"
"So far he is resistant," the headmaster admitted. "But eventually, he must agree."
Hermione felt her heart clench. Of course, he wouldn't want to kill him… Dumbledore was perhaps the only person who even saw half of who he was.
Besides her, of course, and even then, he was shrouded in mystery.
She found herself glad, to know that he would not, indeed, die. But was this a worse fate?
"But… the Order. Harry…"
"Will think he is a traitor, but my murder at his hand will secure Tom's trust in him once more, and he will be able to protect the Light from the other side. It is an advantage that Tom will not have."
Hermione felt her hands clench against the chair's arms. She surged forward, despite herself, "There has to be another way."
"There is no better way, Miss Granger."
"There's no one else who could…?"
"Of course, there are several who could," the headmaster murmured, "But then Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape would die senselessly, and Harry would be sorely disadvantaged."
Hermione's mind raced, "What if you lived?"
"Death comes for us all, Miss Granger… it is my wish that my death serve a purpose. I can think of no greater purpose than this."
She inhaled a breath, then expelled it. Naturally, she allowed herself five seconds to accept that this was inevitable, that Snape would have to kill him, if he was to live himself, five more to allow herself to grieve for Dumbledore (which was made easier by the fact that he was willing and ready to die), then another five to convince herself to let it be, to let it go right now, to turn around and leave it at that.
But she couldn't let it be. She had to do this. The answer had been staring her in the face for weeks, months, just as the Prince's book had, and there was no turning from it now. She had the key, she only needed the courage to actually use it.
"What if your murder could serve another purpose, too?"
His blue eyes seemed to peer into hers poignantly, and they were twinkling madly. His lips twitched, and then he said, "What did you have in mind, my dear?"
It was almost as if he'd been waiting for her to say this, for a very long time. She blinked at him, shivered—had she been here before? Had he predicted she would come?
Determinedly, she pulled the book from her bag and laid it before him, turning it around so that he could analyze the diagram.
He didn't even bother looking at it.
Despair curled in her belly as he refused to follow her gaze. She urged for him to look, placing her fingers delicately along the careworn pages, tapping. But he did not look. No, he was too busy staring at her, as if evaluating her very soul.
"Sir, please—look at it."
She needed him to do this, to help her to do this. It was the only thing she could do for Snape, before—well, before he sold his soul to the devil, all for Harry's sake.
Gods, she wished she could be there, the day that Harry realized that he'd been on his side from the beginning…
Who would be eating his words, then?
"Miss Granger, I do not need to look. I know what it is."
Her heart clenched. Gods, please, this was the only way! If she couldn't spare Snape from the dark, then she could at least heal him. She could at least spare him pain, and misery. She could at least give him respite while he slipped deeper into the snake's den for their safety. And she would do it a hundred times, a thousand, with or without Dumbledore, even if it cost her every last drop of magic she had—even if it was her body she had to sacrifice.
Even if he bloody forbade her from it.
She was crying, now, and the headmaster was looking at her, so closely she felt her soul was bared before him.
"You care about him deeply, don't you?"
She choked out a sob, then nodded, furiously.
"Please, sir… please help him."
"He will never agree to it."
She swiped her tears away and practically growled, "Who said he had to agree to anything?"
At that, the headmaster chuckled.
She snapped her head up, eyes dark, mouth snarling, "How dare you laugh? How dare you sit here, in your ivory tower, satisfied with this… plan, which benefits everyone but him! Have you no decency? Do you think he wants to kill you? He would rather die, and you know it!"
"What does it matter, Miss Granger? He is a Death Eater."
"Was."
"The Dark Mark is forever."
"That's thestral shite!" she reached for the book, but he deflected her, "You cod! He is no more a Death Eater than I am…" she didn't know how she knew it, but she did. He was good, at his core, "And he actually cares for you, do you know that? He respects you—which is more than I could ever hope for. And you know what? He deserves better than you—"
The headmaster interrupted her tirade with a chuckle, and then he said, "Lucky for him that he has you, instead."
Hermione choked down a curse and shook her head, "What are you talking about?"
The old wizard stroked his beard, lips twitching, eyes twinkling—bastard, she thought—and then he did the strangest thing. He took the book, and turned it toward her, then tapped his wand on the diagram. She watched as it shimmered, and then the pages were flipping backward until she could see… scribbled in the top corner of the cover was the initials: A.P.W.B.D. They refracted in the light, then disappeared again as his spell died.
He'd hidden the fact that it was his, but it was one of the books she'd found in the Restricted Sections, one that she hadn't thought should have been there, but one she'd held onto, besides. The one on ritualistic healing practices… on sacrifices.
Had he meant for her to find it?
"Sir—"
Had he… was this… but—
Why not just bloody give it to her?
"Ah, Miss Granger. You don't really need to ask, do you?" His expression was slightly wounded, "I couldn't expect this of anyone who wasn't willing to take at least the first step… and I wouldn't dare ask it of someone who didn't care for Severus as much as I do—because, indeed, I do care for him, as I would a son. I admit, we have had many differences, but he has proven himself more loyal than anyone. He has made more personal sacrifices to see Voldemort's end than anyone else. Of course, I will help you. Of course, I will, my dear. It is the only thing that I will ever be able to do for him. If I cannot spare his reputation, than at least I can spare him pain."
Stunned, she dropped her head, then sobbed with relief, capturing her face in her hands. She had been so afraid, so afraid that Dumbledore would be the man who she'd feared he might be: the heartless, soulless, unfeeling puppet-master. The man who would ask of Severus for all that he was, until nothing was left, for the sake of the greater good. What was one space in the face of it all?
But he was the leader of the light for a reason; and yes, he was forced to make the hard decisions, in the name of the light, but in the end, he was different from Voldemort, different from Grindelward, in that he wanted the world to be well again, and would do what he could to make the right choices—to help people, Severus Snape among them.
The worth of the one and the worth of the many should not be mutually exclusive. Especially when the one was crucial both to the war effort, and to her heart.
"You're still a cod," she muttered to the headmaster, wiping tears from her face.
He seemed grandly amused at that, and laughed—a belly laugh, one she hadn't heard from him ever in her life. She cherished it, as much as she cherished all of Severus' laughs (the few she had heard) and wondered… had Harry ever heard Dumbledore laugh like this? She would have to share the memory with him one day.
"Oh, Merlin, they must engrave that on my tombstone. Severus would approve," the headmaster dotted the corner of his eyes with the sleeve of his good arm, "Well, my dear, I find that sleep is not so unattainable as it had seemed—there will be many more nights to plot my murder, I assure you… I am not ready to die just yet."
Hermione reached out and took his good hand in both of hers, "Thank you, headmaster. You have no idea…"
"I have an inkling, Miss Granger… and it is I that should be thanking you."
She wasn't so sure; of course, she could do this, whatever it was, if she had her magic. But what if she didn't find it in time?
"A worry for another time," the headmaster reminded her.
She nodded, and stood, "Sleep well, Professor."
"Sweet dreams, Miss Granger."
