AUTHOR'S NOTES: Long-overdue Occlumency is long-overdue. Anyways, keep those lovely reviews coming! That's the safest way to make sure you'll get more of this story, you know.
Chapter XXVII: Mind Arts
"Albus, I just don't think much of Divination."
Dumbledore looked up from his fiddling with his enchanted cuckoo clock. The clock had been insisting for days that it was the 38th of March, when in truth it was only the middle of February.
"And why would that be?" asked the Headmaster, looking outright puzzled. "Is the study of Fate itself not something worthy of our full attention?"
"Oh, I'm sure that would be very nice," she answered, "if it worked. By the way, you screwed that gear the wrong way around. Yes, the little golden one here. Right. But 'Professor' Trelawney has made one unambiguously true prediction this year — one. And that was the time she went out to go to the bathroom and told us she would return in five minutes."
The ancient wizard gently tapped his wand to the cuckoo clock, which closed itself and resumed ticking.
"That is concerning, Hermione, but I—"
The animate cuckoo within the clock suddenly jumped out, hitting the Professor's nose, and screeched that it was the 28th of Noctempril.
Dumbledore and Hermione both pawed frantically around the moving, tiny wooden bird. Dumbledore sighed, flicked a finger at it, and the cuckoo was summoned to his hand as if by a magnet.
"Was that a wordless, wandless Summoning Charm?" Hermione said in amazement. "That's insanely hard! I—"
"You, my dear," Dumbledore said kindly but not without pride, "are a Third-Year schoolgirl, and I am a one-hundred-and-twelve-year-old Grand Sorcerer."
"So you keep reminding me," she admitted with a wry smile. "It's just so frustrating sometimes. I know so much already, but I can do so very little…"
"Do not sell yourself short, Hermione," he replied. "Magical power is not everything, as you'll agree. Your influence on dear Cornelius, your intelligence, your knowledge… and, especially, I would argue, the devotion of your friends… all of these are so many different powers that you wield; and in the right circumstances, ones that can be much more precious than magic itself."
As he spoke, Dumbledore had nudged the wooden cuckoo bird back into its clockwork nest, reopened the clock, and was once again trying to rearrange its gears.
"That's easy for you to say!" she argued. "You have, or at least you used to have, all of those powers combined, and magical proficiency that was unmatched until the Turban came along. I'm sorry, but you can't know what it's like, to imagine all the wonderful spells you could cast with accuracy, and then to see the magic fizzle away and pop when you actually try. I… I don't even think I'll ever get to your level, or Riddle's, or, or even Harry's, I'm just not good enough, I don't have the intuition…"
The wizard let go of his elegant pocket screwdriver to raise a palm, putting an end to her increasingly upset rambling.
"That will be quite enough," he said. "You have befriended the Boy Who Lived, Sirius Black himself, a Boggart, and the man you yourself consider to be one of the most powerful men on Earth. You have freed an enslaved Basilisk, solved Lycanthropy, and saved a man from the Dementor's Kiss. At fourteen years of age, you practically rule one of the most prominent wizarding nations. You are one of the simultaneously luckiest and most brilliant people ever to grace the halls of Hogwarts. And you would complain about your lot in life?"
"I… I suppose you're right," said Hermione, trying to cool off her temper.
"…Would you perhaps like a bit of toffee?" suggested the Headmaster, regaining his cheerful demeanor. "It works wonders on poor Severus whenever I manage to convince him to take some."
She shook her head. Magic or no magic, her education as a child of dentists still argued against sweets' very existence. That was one of the few points she and Professor Dumbledore could never agree on.
"Too bad…" mused Dumbledore. Then he continued with a glimmer in his eye: "Well, all that I have said notwithstanding… if you truly wish to learn a unique magical skill… I believe there is a certain rare ability for which you might show some proclivity."
Hermione stopped breathing.
"Indeed," he continued, "it is something I should long ago have taught you and your friends… The resurfacing of Crouch the Younger has rekindled worries that your defeat of Tom had put to rest. Have you, in your readings, come across the Art of Legilimency?"
"Briefly," she answered. "Some sort of mind reading, I gather?"
"Yes," he said, "in essence. I would not have you learn it yourself, for it is an… uncouth habit, to prod around other people's minds. The issue, however, is that our enemies are likely trained it in it. And your precious mind, Hermione Granger, holds the great secret they seek. We cannot have it remain an open book for Bartemius Crouch Junior to peruse if he should find his way back to you."
"Ah…" Hermione nodded. "Then I suppose you mean to teach me some sort of protection against Legilimency?"
"You guess correctly," Dumbledore confirmed. "It is known as Occlumency and it — blast it all, still March the 38th? — it is best learn through experience. Thus, I would ask for your permission to use the Legilimens Spell on you, and you will attempt to resist."
"Now?" Hermione gasped. "But — I'm not prepared —"
"Neither would you be prepared," Dumbledore answered, "if Crouch Junior came bursting it and kidnapped you. Now — look into my eyes, yes, Legilimency requires eye contact, you see — Legilimens!"
Hermione then felt the strangest thing. There was as if a foreign presence inside her mind, thinking other thoughts, feeling other feelings, of which echoes reached her consciousness. And suddenly she began thinking of what she had eaten for breakfast, quite against her will. The whole thing felt a lot like the Dementor's attack.
Having drawn this parallel, she tried to do what had almost worked on the wraith: focus on the one thought:
Go away. Get out. Go away.
But her train of thought, simple though that thought may be, found itself rerouted back to her breakfast. Bacon, buttered toast and yes, we had been over this already, but bacon and buttered toast it was nonetheless, and she kept thinking back to it.
Go away!
Buttered toast and bacon. Bacon and buttered toast.
Buttered bacon and baconed toast.
What?
Oh, what was she supposed to be thinking? Ah, right! Get out—
Bacon and buttered toast?
The then the presence receded. She blinked several times.
"I see your instincts push you towards the brute-force approach," Dumbledore remarked academically, "a pure battle of willpower. I'm afraid this works better on the Imperius Curse than on actual Legilimency."
"Ah," she acknowledged her mistake. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, it's quite alright —" he answered, "I saw what you were thinking, and your reasoning was quite commendable, if misguided. Now that you know what Legilimency feels like, here is what you must do: you must try to mislead me. Do not pull away from the Legilimens's gaze, because he will get you back where he wants you; but if you can make him believe that he's already found what he seeks, he will not look further. Focus is important, but you must focus on deceiving, you understand?"
"I think I do, Professor," she said. "That being said, I—"
But Dumbledore cut her off and cast: "Legilimens!"
Again the presence in her mind, sending thoughts of breakfast to her. For an instant she thought of her true breakfast, but — ah — deceive? She — breakfast — buttered bacon — no — she began to picture herself at the Gryffindor Table, eating — buttered toast and ba— no, not that. She was eating… she was drinking hot cocoa. There. Hot cocoa. Breakfast? Hot cocoa.
The connection broke off.
"Splendid!" Dumbledore clapped. "You've got it! I knew your capacity for abstraction would serve you well."
"Why thank you!"
"You are, of course, nowhere near mastery," Dumbledore tempered. "Any good Legilimens would have caught glimpses of that bacon and buttered toast through the cracks of your hesitations. You must learn to instantly focus on the lie, if you are to successfully trick your opponent. But you have the basics down. Let us try again."
"But Albus, I—"
"Legilimens!"
Presence, breakfast, toas-no! A toast dumped in hot coca, yes, with bac— with sugar.
"Good, good," he said. "Still some… stuttering, so to speak, but we will get there in no time at all. Now—"
"Albus!" Hermione cut him off. She really had to tell him.
"…Yes?"
"Not that I do not want to learn Occlumency too, as a safety measure…" she began. "But it seems to me there is a much simpler way."
"And what might that be?" Dumbledore asked curiously.
"It… let's try it," she said with a little smug smile. "Cast away, Professor."
"Very well then," he obeyed, "Legilimens!"
There came to foreign presence in the mind of Hermione Granger. The trick was focus, in a way. Focusing on one thing.
Keeping her eyes shut.
Dumbledore burst out laughing. It took him a solid three minutes to calm down completely, which he eventually achieved my drinking some lemon juice from a goblet that Hermione was sure hadn't been there just a few moments ago.
"Ah…" he explained, "yes, well, your perspective on things continues to be endlessly entertaining… heheheh… but alas, I do not think that will be enough. Firstly, shutting one's eyes so brutally would instantly show the Legilimens that you are up to him — whereas Occlumency allows for trickery."
"True," she agreed. "I hadn't considered that."
"And secondly," Dumbledore added, "though for obvious reasons I cannot demonstrate it myself, Barty Crouch Junior might make use of the Mind Control Curse to force you to open your eyes. The Imperius is cruder than Legilimency; it only allows to send orders, but not to read the mind one invades; but the tradeoff is that it can be cast without eye contact."
"Ah, I see," she said warily. "Hm. Let's carry on then."
"Oh, never mind that," Dumbledore waved away. "We must not rush into things. I shall have you practice some more tomorrow evening, if you don't mind?"
Hermione drew out her schedule from her robes' right pocket.
"Er," she objected, "I'm afraid I already have an engagement tomorrow evening. We're having a sort of Marauder party with Remus, Harry, Ron, Maximilian and the Twins… And Hedwig of course… Well, I could always Time-Turn, of course, but —"
"No, no," Dumbledore desisted, "no need to alter the flows of Time for this old man's sake. Let us say Saturday, five p.m.?"
"Saturday's okay," she answered after checking her schedule. "…I think."
"Good," said Dumbledore. "…Well then, I believe we were discussing Divination?"
"Right, that!" she suddenly remembered. "Well, I told you the facts. Professor Trelawney is a sham. I'd argue it's even worse than Professor Lockhart, because he was trying to teach something real, whereas most of the books I've read suggest Divination — at least the sort that tries to predict the future — is just superstition."
"I wouldn't be quite so certain," Dumbledore argued. "Fate is fickle. To state a prediction might alter its veracity, no?"
"You mean…"
"I find it plausible," he explained, "that Sybill may have thought many predictions that did come true, but spoken aloud a few whose accomplishment was impeded by the targets' newfound knowledge of their content."
"Quantum Divination," Hermione summed up ironically, rolling her eyes. "It's true, except it's not anymore as soon as you start using it. (sigh) That sounds suspiciously like an excuse. And even if it's not, then learning it isn't of much use, is it?"
"What can I say, my dear?" he answered. "You chose to learn it. Nobody forced you."
"But I assumed —" she objected, "like any reasonable student would, that the course was actually useful. With Hogwarts' reputation, that didn't seem to be in question. But — ugh."
There was a long moment of silence. Dumbledore's skillful hands were still working on the cuckoo clock, but more to give himself a countenance; indeed, Hermione was pretty sure that for the past two minutes he'd just been taking random gears apart and screwing them back together, just to give himself something to do.
"Listen, Hermione," Dumbledore finally said, looking uncharacteristically worried, "I can hardly believe it, but you have uncovered another important secret. Yes. Sybill Trelawney should not belong at Hogwarts. But…"
"What," Hermione asked snarkily, "she's secretly the daughter of Grindelwald? She holds the secret of the Fountain of Fair Fortune? What?"
"Not quite," he replied, "but not too far away from the truth, actually. No, Professor Trelawney is, in fact, a Seer."
There was another long pause.
"Er, yes, you would expect such from a Divination teacher," Hermione said. "In theory."
"No, I mean she is a true Seer," Dumbledore insisted; "not a mere Diviner, but one with the born gift of channeling Prophecy. And say what you will about the rest of Divination, Prophecy is no mere hoax."
Prophecies, huh.
Ahah.
Hm.
That was real, wasn't it.
Oh, she just knew where she was going.
"…There's secretly a Prophecy about Harry and the Turban, isn't it? She made the Prophecy? Only it's a secret? And you have to keep her close? Protected?"
Dumbledore gawked at her quite ungracefully. That was plenty enough of an answer.
"Who wrote this reality!?" vented Hermione. "The closer I look at it, the more my life — no, Harry's life, in which I am apparently a secondary character now — it seems to follow every literary convention in the book! The orphaned hero! With the distinctive scar! Sworn enemy of the Dark Lord! Raised by awful relatives, unaware of his past! Gah! And now a bloody Prophecy, which the mysterious old wizard mentor knows about, because of course!…"
"Hermione, calm down!" Dumbledore pleaded. "I am aghast that you have guessed so rightly, but this is no reason to get in a state—"
He pushed the refilled cup of lemonade towards her lips.
Oh well. If you can't beat them…
She gurgled down the lemonade and then took a deep breath.
"Right, right," she said, doing her best to stay cool. "What does the Prophecy say, exactly?"
Dumbledore was about to say something and then silenced himself.
"You do swear you will devote your best talents to Occlumency, as soon as possible?" he asked severely.
"I do," she answered without a second thought.
"Then. The words of the Prophecy, spoken in 1981, are as follows:
The one with the power of vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,
Born to those who have thrice defied him,
Born as the seventh month dies…
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,
But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…
And either must die at the hand of the other,
For neither can live while the other survives.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born
As the seventh month dies."
"Blah," Hermione remarked. "It doesn't even rhyme."
"Miss Granger!"
"Right, right, that was uncalled for," she admitted. "Hmm…"
Hermione slowly repeated the words of the Prophecy in her mind. Already she was considering potential loopholes in the Prophecy; it was simply second nature at this point.
"Are Prophecies binding?" Hermione asked. "It is certain that this must come to pass?"
"Well, all evidence points towards it," Dumbledore answered, thoughtful. "History suggests that a Prophecy is the reverse of a prediction — where a prediction is only likely to come to pass as long as its targets do not hear of it, a Prophecy is but one of a thousand possible futures, until those whom it refers to have learned of it. Then it is almost certain that the actions they will take shall lead to the Prophecy's fulfilling."
"And the Turban has heard the Prophecy, I presume?"
"Obviously," answered Dumbledore. "Or, to be more precise, he has heard the first two thirds of it. But I do not believe that this will affect Fate. The Prophecy must come to pass, somehow, sooner or later. All we can do is hope."
"But is it the wording, or the spirit, that must be followed?" Hermione asked.
"I would say the wording, for our purposes," he answered after considering the question, "as the spirit of a Prophecy is usually only clear when it has been fulfilled. Well, except for the fact that it is doubtless that Lord Voldemort is the Dark Lord, Harry Potter is the One, and his scar is the Mark."
"That's why he killed Harry's parents, isn't it?" Hermione asked, suddenly struck by the thought. "He learned the Prophecy, deduced it had to be about Harry and the Potters… oh God."
"You would guess correctly," Dumbledore confirmed, forlorn. "But as to your question considering the wording… I suppose you would seek out a loophole? I will not stop you, but though I may not have your knack for it, I have considered the Prophecy long and hard… and as best I can parse, we can only hope that Harry kills Voldemort someday, rather than the opposite. Though his Petrification certainly gives us some time to ponder."
"But… that can't be right," Hermione insisted. "We'd be killing him in cold blood… He's harmless now, as a statue, and someday, when the world is a better place, we'll figure out how to give him a body without his escaping, and, and we'll rehabilitate him… Someday…"
"Hermione," Dumbledore chastised, "I admire your idealism… but this death is necessary, I fear it is a responsibility we must face. And if ever a man deserved to die for his crimes, Lord Voldemort is that man."
"No man did," Hermione ruled, steadfast. "I'll find something. Some way. They'll both live, upon my word. There has to be a loophole. There's always a loophole."
The young girl and the old man looked at each other sadly, each envying the other's resolve. Finally the silence was broken:
"I believe I'll let you sleep on that, my young friend," said Dumbledore. "This clock may stubbornly get the date wrong, but I trust it enough to know it is late in the evening."
"Yes, on the subject of this clock," Hermione said, "where did you find it, exactly?"
"Ah, how funny that you should ask," Dumbledore answered, "it was sent to me yesterday by two anonymous admirers. Quite thoughtful of them."
Hermione grinned. "In red wrapping?"
"…Yes?"
"Albus, who do we know who act in a pair, are associated with the color red, and might want to send you a fake cuckoo clock on purpose?"
Dumbledore blinked twice and then began to chuckle.
"Good one! Good one! Ten points to Gryffindor! And do congratulate our dear Weasley friends on my behalf! Good night!"
