Chapter Two
AN: Usual disclaimer that it's not mine.
A Half-Baked Prophecy
The one with the power to 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..." (Half-Blood Prince, JK Rowling, all rights hers and those others)
HP HP HP
Hermione Granger, her gold-streaked hair flying free in an ocean breeze, wiggled her toes in the sand of a tropical island's beach, and wept.
The crying of sea birds as they wheeled above the ebbing tide covered her tiny whimpering sobs.
It was summer holidays. She had to go home to her parents, explain everything (oh, what an everything it was!), and then hope that she did not spend her fifth year at Hogwarts. Or, worse, sitting exams to see if she could enter sixth form. It had been the plan, once, before her magic changed it all.
Before she met Harry.
He was not the boy who lived (a ridiculous moniker at best) or the savior or the chosen one or whatever nonsense and rubbish the magical sub-world spewed. He was just… Harry. Black messy hair, green eyes, kissable mouth, maturing into better sense and lighter heart. He was Harry, brave when she froze, and emotional when she was logical, and gentle and forgiving… And far from the United Kingdom and its disunited magical underworld.
Hermione couldn't help herself. She folded her arms, bent over, and sobbed from her very bones.
Why would such a wonderful young man want her? Her hair was unmanageable unless she charmed it; she had boring brown eyes; she was not particularly endowed in the ways men liked. She would end up in sixth form, crushed by walls and books and eighteen hours a day of study, exactly as her parents planned, but she no longer wanted.
Worst of all, if her parents yanked her out of Hogwarts, she and her parents would be given false memories. Her magic would be lost, too, but her memories! Oh, her memories! A troll, a basilisk, laughter, animagi, pumpkin juice galore! Feasts and laughter and Quidditch matches where her heart soared to see Harry happy!
Someone sat by her. She stiffened.
Remus Lupin, werewolf, defense professor, and something of a new mentor, said gently, "I can smell your fear. Full moon is very near, after all."
"Your potion!" she cried, forgetting her own sorrow. "Who will make the potions if you stay here forever!"
"The same person who has done so." He pointed to himself. "I am capable of it, although I prefer not to," smiled Lupin kindly. "Severus Snape is a great potion-maker, whatever one thinks of his teaching methods, and so it made sense to leave it to him. As it is, I am able to manage, and Sirius kindly made certain I have a safe place to deal with my problem. Now, what about you, Miss Granger?"
She dared not tell him. The International Academy of Magic had six more students for the autumn term, culled from the desperate-to-leave Hogwarts contingent. Neville Longbottom had been first to ask; someone named Lovegood quickly followed; Ron Weasley tried, but his mother howled him into submission; and the rest she did not know from memory.
It was part of her job, her joy, to help form a curriculum to cover what was necessary. Yet she might not return.
The unfairness hurt.
Sirius, as headmaster, owner, and general all-around overgrown kid, loved the idea of Charms, Transfiguration, Defense, and History of Magic. Remus promsied a strong Non-Magical Culture course, and he and Hermione agreed they needed to have Arithmancy, Runes, Herbology, Potions, and electives like Healing, Astronomy, Business and Economic Theory, Literature, and Art. The last five would be for fifth through seventh year only, allowing for four years in ten core subjects. Harry had added Flying, naturally, as well as Physical Fitness. It was ridiculously unwieldy at the moment, but it might smooth itself out in time.
Then again, Hermione would have argued to have fifteen courses a term if she could, before the last school year.
An enchanted artifact was meddled with, leading to Harry almost ending up in a potentially lethal tournament. Dumbledore did nothing to stop that, and took the extra step of kidnapping Harry back to Hogwarts for purposes never truly clarified.
"Hermione?" prodded Lupin.
She lifted her head, letting the onshore breeze dry her tears. "He'll forget me. I know that. I'm very grateful to you and to Sirius, that is, Headmaster Black, Lord Black… I'm very grateful to you both, for taking me in, and for taking my input seriously. I know it is very uncommon, particularly in the wizarding subculture."
"You keep referring to it as a subculture, an underworld," commented Lupin, and sniffed the air. "Rain coming. Let's get to the manor."
The manor was a sprawling complex of British colonial buildings in white stone, with tall windows, deep verandas, expansive gardens. Once, it would have held all the Black family, with everyone who married in, on long leisurely vacations of a sort only imagined by most. At one point, according to Sirius, there'd been a menagerie, too. It was on the list (oh, the never-ending list!) to rebuild one and allow for education on magical creatures.
They walked over the sand, up the stairs, the smell of the sea drowned by a dozen type of blooming flowers. As Lupin held open the gate at the top, he said, "You think you're leaving."
"Yes. My parents will want to know everything. I can't lie to them." Her cheeks burned. "If they pull me out of magical education… Harry will forget me. I'll be forced to forget him, but he'll forget me simply because."
"Other, prettier witches?" guessed Lupin in a soft way that made Hermione tear up again.
"Well, yes," she admitted. "But I shan't let Harry worry about it. Everything we've done, to teach ourselves, to get away from Dumbledore, it's… It's more than enough. No need to worry about what hasn't happened yet."
At which moment, Sirius came flying toward them, in a gaudy floral print shirt and twill shorts, a white space on his face that marked his recently removed mustache. His eyes were wide and wild.
"Harry," he gasped out. "Harry's gone. The old son of a…"
Lupin grabbed Sirius by his shoulders, shook twice, and snarled in vulpine fashion, "Focus, Padfoot!"
The appeal worked. Sirius leaned on them both, and said, "Dumbledore. I don't know how he got here, but he apparated into my house, our house, and popped Harry away before I could lift my wand!"
"Full moon is tomorrow," said Lupin grimly. "I'll be useless. Even with magic it'll take a couple of days to get to Britain."
Sirius's gaze fell on Hermione, beseeching.
Hermione sniffled, set her jaw and said firmly, "Then we'll take days. And this time, if that man upsets Harry, I will help you blast his kneecaps to Ethiopia."
Sirius embraced her in a hug that even Hermione found excessively tight, and she was infamous for her squashing hugs. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
"Thank her later," snapped Lupin, eyes flashing. "Rain's coming. Take the mirrors I made, get going, and if Harry's harmed? Ring me. Mirror me. Contact me! I'll bite that old sheep-bu…"
Before he completed his sentence, Sirius had grabbed Hermione and was racing toward the house to pack.
Just one school term without trouble, but oh no, screamed Hermione in her head. And to think we used to worry about Voldemort!
HP HP HP
To the surprise of neither, Minerva McGonagall met them outside the wards of Hogwarts.
To the shock of both, so did Severus Snape.
The latter spoke first. "Power is the most dangerous potion, and the headmaster has drunk far too much of it."
"Not exactly how I would phrase it, Severus," admonished McGonagall, "but accurate enough for the moment. Hermione, Sirius, yes, Harry is here. The problem is not that he is here."
"Yes, it bloody well is!" growled Sirius, seething with a magic that Hermione understood but feared. Azkaban hadn't broken him. It had twisted him. His life had frozen, then dropped into frenzied activity. She had seen him, on the island, racing along the beach for hours as Padfoot, his animagus form exhausting itself to calm the wizard mind within.
"Albus retrieved an object from the Department of Mysteries, then immediately went after Mr. Potter," said McGonagall in her crisp way. "He took half the time to reach Hogwarts that you have…"
"Thank you, Professor, we know we're not at his level," sniped Hermione, who now had another set of bad dreams to add to the list. Basilisk, troll, mistreated elves, evil lords, Dumbledore, more Dumbledore… "Nice roof," she added, chin up. "Is it new?"
Snape barked a laugh that became an awkward cough. "Ahem. Your pardon."
"How did the tournament go?" asked Hermione inanely. "Did you have a good time? Did anyone die?"
"The French won the cup, after their student used her abilities to, shall we say, override the good sense of the other two chosen champions." McGonagall's mouth thinned even more, if such were possible, and she tugged her robes straight. "Disgraceful display of adolescent hormones."
"Yes, well, we see it daily, don't we," drawled Snape, and gestured sharply. "This way."
As she walked near her former potions instructor, Hermione caught a whiff of a product she knew well. It was meant to force unruly curls into at least partial submission. The greasy git, it turned out, was overusing Sleek-Easy.
Having tried it herself, Hermione understood, while simultaneously not understanding, then gave up worrying about it. If Snape used a hair product that gave his hair that greasy look, rather than deal with a thicket of hair as she had, then so be it. She wondered idly if she could invent a version that didn't weigh down hair. It couldn't be that difficult, could it?
Later, idiot. Ask sensible questions now.
"What object?"
"A prophecy," said Snape, and stopped short, his cloak managing to reverse its billow. "I heard it in part, long ago. I reported it to him, and it cost me my dearest friend."
"And mine," spat Sirius.
"Excuse me, but what are you talking about?"
The men glared at each other, wand hands twitching.
McGonagall took Hermione by the elbow, and propelled her forward. "Leave them to it. The fools. In school, Harry's mother was a dear friend of Severus Snape's. Unfortunately, what with bullying and bad decisions, their friendship shattered. She married James Potter, but Severus never stopped caring about Lily Potter. When he realized what he'd done, he very nearly committed suicide."
"Good," said Hermione, then frowned. "Wait, why would he do that?"
"He told You-Know-Who the prophecy, as far as he knew it. It was what led that foul creature to the Potters. And the Longbottoms, but it was Harry who was marked." McGonagall paused, her stride unbroken, before she said in a rush, "But there is more to the prophecy and the headmaster is convinced of some things I think are in error."
Hermione had the distinct feeling that her professor just skipped over a few books' worth of information, but left the questions for later. "Where is Harry now?"
McGonagall evaded that neatly with a terse, "Harry took all of this quite badly."
They entered the Great Hall.
Hermione skidded to a halt, and squeaked in dismay. Then she yipped, "Badly? Don't you think that's rather an understatement, Professor?"
Sirius had, some months before, managed to remove the entire roof of Hogwarts in a fit of temper-fueled magic. Harry had done something that turned the stone floors of the Great Hall to wavy, brown-black glass. It reached some meters up the walls, as well, and the wooden tables and benches were nowhere in evidence.
Half awestruck, half appalled, Hermione knelt and ran her fingers over the glassy substance. "Obsidian," she said automatically. Her analytical mind always took over. Always ran her life. Always steadied her. "Volcanic glass. Is Harry all right?"
"Other than exhaustion, yes. He has gone to ground in his old room."
"What caused this? Fiendfyre?"
"No. Although that is a good guess, Miss Granger. No, we don't know. He simply screamed." At this, McGonagall the indomitable visibly shuddered. "He brought his fists down on the floor and…" Her hand waved across the scene. "When our vision cleared, here it was. Harry was right there."
Hermione sidled along the surface. It wasn't as slick as ice or proper glass, but it felt oily underfoot, and she clenched her teeth in fear of falling until she reached the tiny patch of unchanged stone.
She put her hand on it. She swore the castle cried out to her in pain. She dismissed that illogical thought for later. Harry was emotional; he needed her to be logical. That was how they worked. "How… Is… Why weren't you or…"
"I do not know," said McGonagall gravely, clasping her hands. "I believe he intended no harm to people, but the magic needed to go somewhere. The headmaster was quite unnerved."
Hermione didn't blame him. She was quite unnerved. Harry diving on his broom to catch a snitch seemed like entertainment compared to the ruin of the Great Hall.
She rested her fingers on the stone again. She frowned. "It's crying," she said. "I thought I imagined it."
"No, Miss Granger. He cried. The effect will fade. Hogwarts will heal"
Hermione brushed her fingers over the tiny patch of unaffected stone, her heart swelling with anguish, then stood. "Right, then, let's see Harry and sort this. He needs to put this behind him for good and all."
"Even if it means leaving you behind?" said a familiar, now-loathed voice, very like a reproving grandfather's.
Hermione's ribs actually tightened around her insides, forcing tears from her eyes, but she looked at the speaker, and said coldly, "Yes."
She could not stalk grandly away as she wanted, but Hermione nonetheless managed (she hoped) an elegant disdain in her posture as she turned her back on Dumbledore.
HP HP HP
Hermione sat and read again, then again, and finally a tenth time. There was no point rushing to Harry if he wanted to lock away the world. He would only say something he'd regret, and she'd resent, and so it was better to pick apart the world-class drivel of this Sibylline non-oracle named Trelawney.
"What nonsense," muttered Hermione, scratching out notes with her ballpoint pen, on perfectly everyday paper. Parchment was not something to be easily found on Sirius's island, whereas pen and paper were. Also, they were far less expensive. "Yes, it makes perfect sense until the end. Blah blah et cetera and so on, then this! It's utter nonsense! Tripe! Vague to the point of opacity! How silly is it to say and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives?"
Sirius had given up pacing and had sat down with his back against the door to Harry's old room in Gryffindor tower. He raised his head wearily. "That prophecy ruined enough lives. Leave it. Help me get Harry and get out of here!"
"I am helping," retorted Hermione, and scanned the words over and over again. "This is what is known as a logical fallacy in non-magical terms, or in everyday terms, a big lot of nothing! Leaving aside how vague it is to start…"
Sirius groaned and let his head thump back against the wood.
"Defying the Dark Lord three times is hardly unique, and July is a very common birth month. While it's hardly the most common, I think that might be September, you know, which really makes you wonder how people celebrate Christmas…"
"Gah!" Sirius pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Not an image I required, thank you, do you realize how many people I know born in September?!"
"I'm among them," answered Hermione tartly, and caught her lower lip in her teeth. "July, August and September are the most common birth months in the United Kingdom, and have been for decades. In fact, I read that July was the most common in the 1980s, a trend we can extrapolate as having extended from the 1970s."
Sirius waved a hand. "Hello? I was alive then. I do remember."
Hermione sent him a withering glance. "Then you can confirm data?"
"Well, no, but I was alive, not paying attention!"
"Unbelievable," muttered Hermione to herself, since nobody else was listening to her. "Useless. Absolutely useless."
"I blew the roof off this building once, I remind you!"
"Yes, that was very impressive, Sirius, but you can't even get Harry's door open at the moment."
"You remind me vividly of Lily Potter in her worst moods."
"I take that as a compliment," returned Hermione sweetly, then went back to work.
Parse it out.
"Either must die at the hand of the other"… Why this phrasing? Which is the other? Is that Voldemort and Harry, Voldemort and Neville, Voldemort and any child born in late July over a period of unknown time? A prophecy can take decades to fulfill, if the things hold any legitimacy, which I doubt.
Ignoring that, we also know dozens of families defied him far more than thrice.
She tapped her pen against her front teeth. She stared into space, rearranging facts on a mental chalkboard.
Person A must die at the hand of B, or Person B must die at the hand of A. It is decided by whom, I wonder, that Voldemort is one and Harry the other? Technically, it can be any Dark Lord and any other person born in late July. A prophecy may take a century or more to fulfill. Of course, I have to take it as granted that a prophecy isn't utter nonsense in the first place.
Hermione huffed through her nose in disgust at the thought of a legitimate prophecy. They were, as was once said, part of a very wooly discipline.
Clearly, people decided Harry's scar marked him as Voldemort's equal. Why? It's simply a scar. Mad-Eye Moody has dozens!
Tapping her foot, Hermione scowled at the prophecy yet again.
"For neither can live while the other survives". Survive, live, exist, be not-dead. One can argue subtler meanings in the words, but in reality, on the face of it, it simply means, all over again, "one has to be dead for the other to be not-dead". Preferably at the other's hand. Why a hand, not a wand? Not a delegate? At a command?
"Sirius?" she called, over a distance of exactly two steps. "This sounds rather peculiar…"
"As opposed to your usual conversations?"
"…but would you think this prophecy is, forgive the word, overkill? One must kill the other, die at his hand, however you wish to put it, but to state it essentially twice?"
"Prophecies aren't known for precision," said Sirius, but scooted down to sit by her on the steps. "What're you on to?"
"Do you think a scar is marking someone as an equal?"
Sirius shrugged. "Never thought about it. How would You-Know-Who mark an equal?"
"Exactly!" squealed Hermione, glad someone else was asking the questions roller-coasting through her effervescent mind. "We don't know! It's all too obscure! Yet for some reason, Dumbledore felt strongly enough about his interpretation to kidnap Harry…"
"Again," snarled Sirius, slamming his fits against his legs.
"But Neville Longbottom is a candidate. For that matter, there are other boys at Hogwarts born in late July of the same year as Harry! What if it was someone born in 1983?"
"The one approaches," said Sirius slowly, tracing the words on her notebook with a fingertip, "not will be born a specific year. Dumbles assumed it was someone born that year."
Hermione frowned.
Hold on… Harry was born in 1980!
She blurted, "You-Know-Who didn't attack until 1981!"
"I know, I was…" and Sirius Black trailed off, eyes flicking brighter as if someone had turned on a switch. "Let me see that timeline!"
He grabbed it, held it out at arm's length, and said something inaudible, but likely very impolite.
Hermione felt her hair prickle along her scalp. "He waited," she whispered. "But… Why?"
A tart voice from below informed them, "If you would be so kind?"
They hurried down, because that was the inevitable response to McGonagall: obedience.
"I could hear you from the common room," said the woman stiffly, "and I do believe you may have valid concerns."
Before Hermione finished asking the question in her head, Sirius smacked his forehead. "Didn't look for the cat!"
Hermione didn't smack herself, but she wanted to. Idiot! She's an animagus!
"Really, you two. I wasn't going to leave Mr. Potter alone," continued the transfiguration professor sternly, and sat down with her back ramrod straight, her mouth thinner than a thread. "Nor shall I. I suggest you ask the headmaster of this institution a few questions, as well as Severus, and be polite, please, Mr. Black. Severus has had to play a role that no longer suits him, for years, and it has not improved his temper."
"Nothing could," said Sirius, but it was clearly an afterthought. Hermione hesitated, looking after Sirius, then up the stairs towards Harry's room.
"I think, Miss Granger…"
"Of course, yes, you're right, thank you," she agreed, scooped up her pen and notebook, and charged after Sirius.
HP HP HP
Hermione Granger sat in Professor Severus Snape's office, writing down every known date, as Sirius and Snape conversed.
That of itself was a minor miracle. The two were no fonder of each other than she was of, say, Draco Malfoy. Less, perhaps.
A long minute of silence caused her to look up. "What is it?" she asked, her face going cold and her heart racing. "What? What is it? What?"
"Fear," said Sirius and Snape simultaneously, then grimaced in concert. Any other day, Hermione would have laughed to see the two dour black-haired men playing at twinship. This day, she shivered.
Sirius nodded to Snape, who then leaned back, fingers steeped in front of him. "Fear, Miss Granger, as you demonstrated a moment ago, clouds logical thought. I delivered that prophecy. Yet he did not move until nearly eighteen months after he learned of the prophecy. You are correct. It makes no sense. None. At the time, we all lived in a state of profound anxiety."
"You mean you were as terrified as the rest of us," inserted Sirius with a mocking half-grin.
"Quite," agreed Snape, without visible expression.
The world has ended. They agreed. Twice in five minutes. I think my neurons have frozen solid, thought Hermione, before her hand began scribbling, apparently of its own accord. Ah. Logic. Books. Cleverness. Oh, Harry!
"He laughed, at the time. It made even the most ardent of his followers cower. Bellatrix Lestrange did not, but she was quite mad, what the muggles call certifiable." Snape scowled into the past, and tapped his forefingers against each other. "Why wait, indeed. He had controlled so many, for so long, that he felt himself nigh invincible. Yet that changed. Why? What changed? Why did I not see this discrepancy then?"
In the terrible heartbeats of silence, Hermione wondered if perhaps it wouldn't be better to be far away from Snape. Brazil? Singapore? What is a safe distance when a wizard reaches critical mass?**
Snape surged to his feet, startling Sirius into lifting his wand, and Hermione into wielding her pen. It was not, she noted, going to be mightier than a sword. Or a wand. Oh drat.
"That conniving evil…"
"Cover your ears, Hermione," advised Sirius.
She did, although she had a fair idea what exactly Snape was saying. Her father used that language about referees, and small children whose parents laughed when their small children bit him.
After Snape's color returned to its typical pallor, she uncovered her ears and raised a hand.
"You are not in class, Miss Granger!"
"This means the prophecy wasn't important to him until after he killed Harry's parents?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He does not yet know the full of it. Only that Harry survived the killing curse, and he sees that as evidence Harry is the one in the prophecy," stated Snape with infuriating calm. "The one capable of vanquishing him, as Harry did not die. Yet as diminished and depleted as he became... The Dark Lord was not vanquished. We believed it. We wanted to believe it. Still, we had no proof!"
How odd that nobody double-checked, thought Hermione. Wizards truly aren't terribly logical.
"Based on what he did know, however, his obsession with Potter since then makes no sense."
Sirius stood, and pulled Hermione up with him. "Unless, of course, he did know the whole prophecy, and understood it a certain way. Who could tell him all of it?"
"A true prophecy is never remembered by the one who gives it, only the one who hears it," said Hermione promptly, and hated herself for sounding like an overeager know-it-all bookworm. Someday, I won't care so much about my schoolwork. Then I'll have an ulcer over my work-work. I'm only a kid! Why am I involved in this?
The answer came to Hermione, and it answered many questions indeed.
She staggered a little.
"Dumbledore!"
HP HP HP
Armed with a timeline, her courage, and a very unhappy Sirius Black, Hermione Granger marched to the office of the headmaster.
Sirius winked at her, blocking her appearance before he tried to tell the gargoyle the password du jour. As it happened, it was macaron, a confection of which Hermione was deeply fond, on the occasions she could sneak one past her parents. Alas, it had rarely appeared on the school menu.
Rather understandably, given past events, the headmaster did not let them in, but came out with Fawkes on his shoulder. The phoenix trilled nervously.
"Awkward as this is," said Dumbledore with a smile, "might we walk as we hold this discussion?"
"Might we sit in the Great Hall?" answered Sirius mockingly. "Oh, we can't. It seems someone upset my godson enough that, after I took off the roof a few months ago, he melted the floor!"
"Ah, that."
"Ah, that?" echoed Hermione, dodging from behind Sirius. "We know the full prophecy. We know there was no reason for V-V-Voldemort to wait. So why didn't he move against the Potters and Longbottoms until 1981? What did you do that made him attack?"
"I? I did nothing!"
"Her point, precisely," said Sirius, through his teeth.
"Sirius!" shrieked Hermione, trembling with rage. "Let me think!"
She pressed her hands to her face.
Something made Voldemort wait.
Someone?
It doesn't matter.
Dumbledore knew the full prophecy, and takes it to mean that only Harry can defeat Voldemort, so he didn't try to stop Voldemort?
Wait.
That doesn't work.
He took the prophecy to mean that he couldn't do it.
So he just let it all happen?
As the logical conclusion simmered to the surface of her mind, Hermione Granger did one thing nobody ever predicted.
She punched Dumbledore.
The old man blinked down at her as if he'd been swatted by a butterfly.
"Liar!" screamed Hermione. Her magic swirled around her, sparkling in vivid icy colors, forming a tiny vortex centered on her clenched hands. "You want Harry to do the killing!"
He'd prefer Harry to do it so he doesn't have to!
When Dumbledore stumbled backwards, it was not from her punch, nor from the ball of sparkling magic between her hands. It was from her words.
Oh no, I said that aloud!
Sirius punched Dumbledore next, then howled, "Ow! How do you muggles do that?"
"Thumb outside the fingers when you make a fist," said Hermione absently, as her ball of magic began pulsing.
Sirius opened his mouth, shut it, and retreated as Hermione advanced on Dumbledore.
"How dare you. He trusted you. He thought you told him the truth. We all did! You disgraceful, conniving, weakling! You coward!"
Her magic blew up.
Or, rather, blew into Dumbledore.
Hermione followed the ball of glowing magic that encased Dumbledore as Dumbledore backed away from her. With every step, she uttered a word.
"You miserable has-been! You pathetic fraud! You are not the only one Voldemort feared! He is the one you fear!"
Her magic contracted around Dumbledore as she squeezed her hands until her nails dug into her palms.
"How dare you with your ludicrous robes and your titles! How long have you run this, this… This flimflammery? What did you tell Harry!"
The sphere around Dumbledore imploded.
Then it exploded, at a flick of Dumbledore's fingers.
Oh drat, thought Hermione. This will hurt.
A silver wall stopped the rebounding magic from striking Hermione.
A young voice droned out, "He told me the prophecy meant I have to die before Voldemort can."
Hermione spun, and hurled herself at Harry, knocking him back a few steps. Sirius caught both of them, his face paler than Dumbledore's. "Harry," he rasped. "Drop the shield. I think we've proved he isn't the greatest wizard of the age."
"Books and cleverness don't make greatness," bit out Hermione, tears streaking her face. "That's all the headmaster has. Books. Cleverness. Illusion. Bravery and heart make greatness. He doesn't have either of them."
Dumbledore lifted a placating hand. "The only way for the evil to survive…"
"To survive what? My mother!" shouted Harry, knocked Hermione aside, and nearly escaping Sirius as well. "It was my mother's magic, you said! Then she defeated Voldemort!"
"There is a connection between you… The scar…" whispered Dumbledore. "If I killed him, it would kill you."
"You heard the prophecy before I was even born! You knew before I was scarred! Hermione is right! You can't take him!"
Sirius took over for her, thrusting both teens behind him and raising his wand. "So you leave Harry to distract Voldemort, and then you do what? Kill Voldemort from behind? Wait for Harry to weaken him somehow?"
The blast of magic from Sirius turned Dumbledore's shimmering magical shield into flying fragments of light, which withered and fell like scraps of burned paper.
Hermione, eyes hot, pointed her wand at Harry's scar. She drew on her anger at Dumbledore, her fear of the future, her love for Harry, and her desperation.
The scar ripped away from Harry, who dropped to the floor, unconscious, without a sound.
Hermione swished her wand violently.
Intent makes magic work more than anything…
I intend him to hurt!
The scar slammed into Dumbledore's forehead.
The elderly wizard cried out in pain.
"Now you are marked, that scar is yours, the connection is yours," said Hermione bitterly. She wrapped her arms around Harry, and burst into tears, the salty drops washing away the blood.
Oh no what have I done?
"What have you done?" demanded Dumbledore, ashen under his white whiskers.
Whatever I had to do, for Harry.
She pressed her lips to the wound she caused.
Please, heal. Please, be healed. Please, be well.
Please forgive me.
Sirius picked up Harry's limp form, grunting with effort. "We'll take his floo to St. Mungo's."
Hermione followed blindly, belatedly aware of the fact that Fawkes was weeping, and the bird's tears were healing Dumbledore.
She made it through the green flames to St. Mungo's before the exhaustion registered, and she fell into the darkness.
HP HP HP
*Taken from the book, obviously.
**Critical mass is, in loosest terms, the smallest amount of something needed to create a sustained nuclear chain reaction. In weapons, it means the least amount of whatever required to make the mushroom cloud.