AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another fast update. Again, please tell me what you think in review form, be it good or bad! Speaking of which: a Guest complained that my "no shipping" pledge seems to be in conflict with the occasional allusion to Ron's crush on Hermione (and Harry finding Cho Chang pretty). I beg to disagree. What I meant by no shipping was that I have no plans to develop any of this into a true romance that would have a major role in the story. If the mere idea that any of these teenagers could temporarily find each other attractive at one point of their life offends you, then folks, I cannot help you any further.

Chapter XXXII: Conflicts

Hermione Granger had no small amounts of trust in Albus Dumbledore. Professor Dumbledore was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, an academic genius, had a moral fiber the width of an old oak tree, and was widely believed to be the greatest wizard alive. Professor Dumbledore was the only man the Turban had ever truly feared. Professor Dumbledore was one of the reasons, if not the reason, that Wizarding Britain hadn't long ago plunged into chaos.

But all this knowledge wasn't quite able to comfort her in the tense minutes as Dumbledore just stood in front of the iron door and the Durmstrang people banged against it and shouted imprecations in various tongues.

What had they gotten themselves into? Quick, think of something, anything.

"…Albus!" she said in a flash of inspiration. "Don't you have a Phoenix? Call him! Get him to take us out of here!"

"Hermione," Dumbledore explained calmly, "this is very sensible thinking, but I'm afraid I must face the consequences of my rash actions myself."

"What about me?!" she hissed through gritted teeth.

"And," Dumbledore continued smoothly, "at any rate, Fawkes is recovering from a Burning Day, and in no condition to transport anyone."

"Oh no…" Hermione said, both in response to Dumbledore, and as she saw electric-blue sparkles begin to melt through the door. But the Headmaster stood steadfast in front of the gate. "What are you doing?"

"My dear, I find your lack of faith in my abilities… dismaying, to say the least," came Dumbledore's répartie as the guards' spell finished melting away the door. "I am adept at politics, my dear, even as you. I even daresay my experience gives me a step up."

The incomers were varied in identity and costume — some were students, Sixth- or Seventh Years by the look of them, others had an air of Professorship about them, and three looked like law-enforcement officers of some sort, whether Norway called them Aurors or something else Hermione didn't know. But their varied appearances, occupations and costumes melted away underneath the identical expressions plastered on their faces as they saw Dumbledore — a mix of anger, shock, and utter, utter confusion.

"Albus Humlesnurr?!" said one of the Durmstrang people. "Hva gjør du her?"

"Nur ein bisschen Sightseeing, Herr Czarodziejski," Dumbledore answered in German.

"Dies ist ein eingeschränkter Bereich!" one of the Professors said accusingly, wagging a finger.

"Czy jest teraz?" Dumbledore said with a falsely innocent air. "Przepraszam! Nie wiedziałem o tym."

"Vould you shpeak always same, da?!" said one of the probably-Aurors. "This merkelig enough now, no more wid! Humf!"

"Mais bien sûr," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "La langue de Molière vous serait-elle agréable ?"

"Blast you! Shtop messink vit us, Dumledsnurr!"

"Gladly," Dumbledore finally returned to English. "We were just going on our way, Hermione and I."

The presumably Norwegian Auror spluttered some, looking for his ords. "Bot — na, no! You cannot! Is you… you can, you crimin- me arrest you, fergotsek! Due process! Law!"

"Dear me," the British wizard said with a pained look, "that all seems quite boring. Are you sure that I can't just go home?"

"Dat ridikulous!" the Auror said. "You is arrest."

"Certainly not," Dumbledore continued with confidence. "Now just get me to the nearest facilities for purchasing a Portkey, and—"

"YOU IS ARREST!"

"I deny that statement."

"Follow! To cell!"

"On what charges?" he asked with naive curiosity.

"…spyink, maybe? Interferring with due processes?"

"I'm certainly not spying, and I'm not interfering with anything, it is you who won't let me and young Miss Granger go. This was just a perfectly innocent school outing."

"To ay crime skene?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts class," Dumbledore said as if that explained everything. "Is it not obvious that some very Dark Magic has been committed here? Perfect for some hands-on experience."

"Dat is most ridiculous story I ever hear," growled the Auror. "That vill never—"

"If there is a trial," Dumbledore said weightily. "But if there is a trial, and, as expected, I win it, well, in all modesty, I do not believe arresting Albus Dumbledore on erroneous charges would look good on your résumé."

The Auror and the others continued gaping. Dumbledore then simply began walking forward, through the crowd, and Hermione followed behind with a big admirative grin.

Hermione had but a few words as soon as the pair rematerialized in the Headmaster's Office.

"You are good. That was quite amazing."

"I suppose," the Professor replied with a tired smile. "It loses a lot of its appeal after eighty years. But yes, I am rather good at this little game."

"Your influence must help, I suppose," she thought out loud.

"It does, yes," Dumbledore answered as he sat back down in his red armchair. "Now. I believe you had a theory you meant to share with me?"

"Ah, right, yes, I do," she got back on track. "You do remember how Crouch got into the Third Floor Corridor months ago?"

"I do," the wizard nodded."Barty had somehow exploited the Serpent's Mark to be pulled to Apophis, instead of Apophis being pulled to him… bypassing all wards, of course. An impressive display of magical mastery, especially considering the Mark initially tied Apophis to Lucius Malfoy, not to him. Barty always was an extremely brilliant student… For the third time, it seems I had failed to see the signs of budding darkness inside an eager mind."

Dumbledore appeared lost in contemplation for a moment. A ringing from one of the silver instruments cluttering the office jolted him back and he said:

"Well, what do you make of it?"

"Albus, don't you see?" she continued her explanation. "The Dark Mark — the Heir of Slytherin — the Serpent's Mark — it's all connected! The Dark Mark is a variation of the Serpent's Mark, that's where the Turban got the idea — Voldemort cast both Crouch's Dark Mark and Apophis's Mark, and so there was the connection! He —"

"Of course…" Dumbledore said in a faint voice. "I should have seen it before… Clever, very clever, and so terrible. And if Crouch could do this, then an extension of the same principle… he summoned Karkaroff to him like Voldemort might have, using the link of their Dark Marks…"

"Well," Hermione said with a grin, "that's that, and at least we know he can't do the same to any of us."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at her.

Oh, right.

"Snape."

"Yes."

"That… is an issue."

"Yes it is."

"We should do something."

"Indeed."

"…I don't suppose cutting off his arm is an option?"

"NO! No. Definitely not!"

"It's only a forearm, Professor Snape."

"No!"

"It's for your own good."

"No!"

"You can regrow it later…"

"I SAID NO!"

The instruments whirled and puffed.

Dumbledore was bent over his desk, one hand clasped to his forehead.

"Hermione…" he said. "Do you quite realize what you have done here?"

"What Sirius and I did. With the help of Harry Potter and the Weasley Twins. And the Portrait of a Large Pile of Ash. I mean, not that he helped much, but Ash did seem like he considered himself a part of the plan."

"Hermione," Dumbledore said, "please. Be serious about this."

"I can't be Sirius. Sirius can, thought."

"James Potter," Dumbledore said after a deep breath, "made that joke ten years ago, to the letter, and even then it did not make me laugh very much. At the time, however, James Potter had not cut off the arm of one of his teachers in his sleep."

"Forearm," Hermione said in a small voice. "Just the forearm."

She had the sinking feeling Professor Dumbledore wasn't taking her latest scheme in the spirit it was intended.

"Hermione," said Dumbledore, "I hate to lose my temper in front of a student, but YOU BRUTALLY CUT OFF SEVERUS SNAPE'S FOREARM."

"Not brutally," she corrected. "I did that as humanely as possible, I read up on, and practiced, all the charms involved. It was perfectly safe and Professor Snape did not feel a thing."

"You cut off his forearm!"

"So?!" she defended herself, also rising in tone. "He's already brewing up a potion to regrow the bone! I've written Nicolas Flamel, and a bottle of Elixir of Life will arrive tomorrow to do the rest! Please believe me, I thought this through!"

Dumbledore had worked himself into quite the tantrum, but these words seem to calm him down somewhat. Somewhat.

"Hermione," he said, "you still cut off an unwilling man's forearm. That is simply wrong."

"Alright," she vented, "so maybe it was not the nicest thing, but Professor Snape was just being irrational about it. And it worked! It worked! He's free, free of the Dark Mark, for good! Why, I'm sure in two years' time, he'll look back and agree this was for the greater good."

This perfectly reasonable argument, on the other hand, did not have the soothing effect it was meant to.

"Hermione…" he said in a low rumble. "Please…"

"Please WHAT?!" she shouted.

Some part of her was screaming at her that Dumbledore was obviously bothered by something, and that she was her friend, and that he should be nicer, and that where had her manners gone to, and what would her mother and father think if they could see her right now? But the main part of her spirit was overwhelmed.

"Please APOLOGIZE?!" she continued, glaring at Dumbledore with fury. "Apologize for HELPING?! Oh, it's fine to follow along and-and learn Occlumency and clean up after you and Cornelius, on top of very demanding schoolwork I'll have you know and I'm busy and — and — but the moment, the moment I start taking initiatives to save the life of an utterly loathsome man YOU want to keep safe — then — then I've overstepped my bounds, hm? Sure, I PREVENTED A BLOODY WAR, that's always nice, and manipulating Malfoy's all fine and good, but if I mess with your — your — your pet potioneer, then oh my! Little Hermione hasn't been a good girl! I'm beginning to think-"

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore rumbled, and suddenly a force snapped her back into her chair against her will, "that will be quite enough from you. It pains me to do this, but, and sorry to engage in irony, it is for your own good."

"D-D-Detention…" she sobbed. "He gave me detention. And lines."

"Oi, cheer up, Hermione…" Ron said with a sympathetic smile.

"It's not the end of the world, believe me," Neville offered.

"It happens to everyone sooner or later…" Harry added.

"Not to me!" she continued crying. "Not from Albus… How could this… I was helping!…"

"You've got to admit, Hermione," said Fred.

"Cutting off Snape's hand," George continued, "might have been… er…"

"…a little extreme?" Fred finished.

"Quite, brother mine."

"I concur!" Percy added, walking over, looking concerned. "Miss Granger… Hermione… I've been very lenient with you these past three years. I… will admit that this was mostly because I was often out of my depth with you. But I do draw a line at severed limbs."

"Won't you lot just shut up!?" she screamed suddenly, whirling around.

All her friends of Gryffindor (plus Luna) looked at her with shock.

"I… sorry," Hermione. "Sorry for that… outburst. But, I mean… look… it worked! I've found a foolproof to get the Dark Mark off of people! Doesn't anyone realize how important this is?!"

Ron shrugged apologetically. "Er… nno…?"

"Look, detention won't be that bad," Harry said. "Who's it with?"

"Filch…" she groaned.

"Okay, we take it back…" said Fred.

"That is terrible," George finished.

She smiled weakly.

"Eh, maybe not so much… He can't hurt me too much, we have a little arrangement going on."

"Can't you get out of it altogether?" asked Ron, also looking concerned.

"I could…" she said sadly. "But I don't really want to. Dumbledore would find out, doubtlessly, and it would feel like betraying him, you know? Denying his authority. And I don't want to do that… even if he's wrong on this."

"I think I see what you mean," Luna said sympathetically. "Good luck, then."

M.,

Please cut off your left forearm. Now.

H. G.

Lady Granger,

…I'm sorry?

Lucius Malfoy

M.,

I said cut off your forearm. The one with the D. M. on it. I'm serious.

I'll have it regrow in no time, you pansy!

H.G.

Lady Granger,

Surely you cannot be serious. That can't possibly work. I don't believe it.

Lucius Malfoy

M.,

You'd better reconsider, because it does. I've tried it on Prof. S. S. He just regrew it today, no D. M.. He's free. You could be too.

Think about it. Why wouldn't it work?

H.G.

Lady Granger,

…Are you aware that regrowing limbs is a year-long, extremely expensive process?

Lucius Malfoy

M.,

Not if you've got Elixir of Life.

H.G.

Lady Granger,

…I would ask, but that would probably be pointless. Do forgive me if I put off the deed until you have sent me the Elixir, however.

Lucius Malfoy

Lady Granger,

…It is done. I must admit you spoke the truth.

Thank you, I suppose.

Lucius Malfoy

"So," Filch grumbled from behind his crowded, albeit very clean, desk. "You've come, have you."

"Yes," she said neutrally.

"You know I couldn't keep you here, not really, but you've come," Filch repeated slowly.

"Yes."

"What are you playing at?" he asked suddenly.

"Nothing," she answered, "I just don't want to break the rules today. Also, I suppose I've been somewhat rough on you these past two years, and I thought you could use some help."

"Some help?!" Filch huffed. "I don't need your help!"

"You never know," she said with a small helpful smile. "I'm rather good at finding clever new ways to do things."

"I don't need new ways!" Filch said defensively. "Especially not if they're your ways!"

"We shall see."

"Hmf!" growled the caretaker. "Follow me. We've got us a lot of work today."

The old man got up from his chair with a creaking sound, picked up his earthbound broom and headed for the Fourth Floor with Hermione in tow. She, meanwhile, could plainly see in Filch's beady eyes and slumped posture something she had only had an inkling of.

Argus Filch looked exhausted.

That was another reason she had accepted her detention.

Neville's outburst in the Forest had helped her realize that she had, indeed, treated a certain number of people as just automata with whom she interacted in preset ways to get through a day. Argus Filch, ever since she'd found out he was a Squib, had been one of those people; just a defanged everyday threat. She hadn't thought of him differently than of an annoying neighbor's dog who'd bark at you helplessly when you went out for a walk. She hadn't paid any mind to his feelings.

Beneath the shabby clothes, mop and scowl, however, Argus Filch was a person, with feelings. And he was very, very tired.

"You shouldn't work yourself so hard, Mr Filch," she remarked sympathetically.

"Not work so hard!" huffed Filch. "D'you want that castle to be clean in the mornin', or not?"

"Do you mean you actually clean the whole castle every day?"

According to Hogwarts: A History, a complete tour of the Castle on foot took at least two days. If Filch really did clean the whole Castle every day…

"You bet I do!" Filch said with an air of wounded pride. "Well, I try, anyway. Sometimes it takes me more like a day'n a half to get through it all. But the main corridors and classrooms, everyday, yes, siree! The passageways too. The Elves ain't got anything on old Argus."

"But that's insane!" she told him whilst beginning to apply Scourging Charms to the suits of armor. "Why don't you just ask the Elves for help? I'm sure they'd be glad—"

"I don't need no 'elp!" Filch protested, angered. "Alright? Just because I don't have any magic or fancy telekinesis don't mean I can't clean the Castle all by myself, and better than a wizard, alright? Alright?"

"Mr Filch," she argued, "I know it must be hard being a Squib, but there's no need to go to superhuman lengths to prove yourself. If you do clean the whole Castle on your own, on top of handling discipline you're already doing more work than is even legal in the Muggle world! Be reasonable. You don't have to clean all of Hogwarts every day, that's just insane…"

"I. Don't. Need. HELP." Filch insisted. "And I'll 'ave no more of this talkin'! Here, your fancy charms have done all they could, but see that Vanishing residue there, hm? Now get that mop and scrub that off, alright, the normal way!"

"Fine, fine…" Hermione said. "I'm only trying to help."

Her Saturday of detention had begun at ten in the morning, and it was five hours later that the cleaning pair ran into a message on the wall, written in glittering purple paint.

"Oh, no!" Filch wailed, stomping in frustration. "Not again! Ugh! Not enough with the regular crap, they gotta do things like this too! Bet it's the Twins, those two right bastards! Grrr!"

"Please stop insulting my friends," Hermione said off-handedly. "That's not their work, anyway."

Filch began uselessly trailing his wet mop on the wall, but the letters stayed intact, seemingly vanishing the water and soap as it touched them. It looked like Wilkes had gone to no small expense in carrying out the first part of the scheme.

""And just so you don't waste your time," she added helpfully, only barely suppressing a grin, "I don't think that's erasable paint. Except with Basilisk Venom, anyway."

Sprawled in big ornate letters, in a corridor where nearly all of the student body were guaranteed to pass, was the following inscription, taken straight from the note she'd given Douglas:

The Other,

He as Mysterious as he is Powerful,

He the Enemy to Ants,

Doth claim this Castle as his domain,

His to protect,

His to defend,

His to roam.

Enemies of the Light, Beware.

Oh, and Ants too.