Beggars Can't Be Choosers
by Verity
Chapter One September 1, 1997Hermione Granger silently cursed whatever architect had designed Hogwarts. He (or she, though she rather thought it was the former) had been a rather sadistic bastard and completely incapable of constructing a room for Gryffindor's Head Girl (when it had one) without a long passageway full of several flights of stairs leading to it… which she was dutifully ascending at the moment. At least you've got your own room, she reminded herself. Though at this point, she wasn't quite sure if she was in Gryffindor Tower at all.
Finally, rounding the umpteenth corner of the long, winding corridor, she found the door.
It was a singular piece of wood – carved as if it had been made to fit the marble archway it stood it – and, upon further reflection, she decided it probably had been. The wood was a light brown with a hint of red to it, more charming than majestic in appearance. As for the carvings, she doubted that in all of England there was any orchard half so ripe and lovely. Well – at least not in September.
The door served to pacify her bad temper somewhat, and it was with a smile that she lifted a hand to open the door. Oddly, it swung open of its own accord. But Hermione pushed this to the back of her mind when she saw the room that lay behind it.
The draperies and the curtains on her bed were of a heavy gold silk, tied to the sides of the window and the posts of the bed respectively. The walls put on their own show of opulence with their cover of red velvet; the trim was painted gold as well. Otherwise, the furnishings were all of elegantly but sturdily carved ebony. The sole window was a miniature of the doorway's delicate arch. The room was beautiful.
It was also stuffy and hot in the extreme. She was sure that Ron (who was finishing his seventh year in Egypt with Bill and most of the Weasley family) had it easy in the Sahara. Pausing only to exchange her slightly small wool school robes for a black linen cheongsam she had bought the previous week, Hermione flung open the window. She breathed in the cool, sweet night air and expressed her relief with the sort of sigh Ron might have given upon seeing a fertile, hydrated oasis. Hermione had never been overly fond of small spaces that reeked of mothballs. They made her claustrophobic.
So she only hesitated a moment before pushing herself out the window, onto the ledge beyond.
Once she had settled herself on the ledge, she had to admit that it was quite comfy. The cool wind blew past her face gently, loosing a few strands of still-bushy light brown hair from her hastily done chignon. (Amazing that her hair had stayed put the entire feast, really.) She smiled, leaned back against the castle's sturdy wall, and stretched out her legs, the ledge being perhaps three feet wide or so. Entirely comfortable, serene, content, and blessedly cool, Hermione relaxed entirely.
Too much, perhaps.
The vision took her by surprise – not they always didn't, but her years of practice had kept their appearance to her times of meditation only, save a scant handful of times when she'd been very young. But she reminded herself that the cool wind always brings with it news – and this might be a convenient new place to meditate. She'd have to see.
Then the vision took hold of her, and she blanked her mind in submission, prepared for whatever would come.
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Stars glitter in the velvet sky – see the stars? the mother says to the child. They are high up in what is not so dissimilar to Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower. The girl turns away.
Sybil, the mother reproaches, you have always been at my service. At the service of the place-where-light-is-gone-but-darkness-does-not-come. It is strange of you to turn away.
The child nods solemnly, smoothes her brown hair. I am sorry, mother. I want always to be ready when you call.
That is good of you, my child. But you need to be prepared for the unexpected.
Yes, mother. Have you something to show me?
The mother nods, hands the child a hand mirror that had been hidden the folds of her skirt. What do you see?
The images are a river, a flood, a stream that inundates her body and soul.
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The Boy lights the corridor with a torch. He speaks her name. "I need you. I cannot win without you, Sibyll."
"That is my title; have you forgotten what it means? You will not win without me. I will be with you in ways you cannot even comprehend, for that is the way of a Sibyll."
"He will be with me," says the Boy. She shakes her head.
"He has forsaken the vows of the Sibyll. As will I if I should go with you. When he calls upon his powers, they will not return to him; for he has entered the Darkness beyond the place-where-light-is-gone-but-darkness-does-not-come. The powers are loyal only to their home, Boy. Lightness and Darkness shatter them." She takes the Boy's hand in hers. "Oh, Boy, I have seen a green light coming out from under those doors of the Great Hall. You must not let honor halt you in your mission."
"You want me to kill him in cold blood? You've changed, Sibyll."
"They say to fight fire with fire."
"Did you ever love me?" His face is harsh in the firelight.
"I still love you," she says. "Mother save me from my sins. But never… like you wanted me to."
The Boy nods slowly. "I understand." He turns from her, walks swiftly up the passageway.
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The vision came to an end slowly, and Hermione leaned back against the wall as the tide ebbed. Quite unconsciously, she'd resumed her meditation position, which she noted with no small amount of amusement. When she felt her strength had been adequately restored, she stretched, rubbed her stiff neck, and yawned loudly. The stars informed her that it was nearly midnight and high time to get to bed.
Unfortunately, her yawn seemed to have awoken her neighbour – I have a neighbour? she wondered groggily – whose window, about six feet to her left, was suddenly bright with its room's light. A vague muttered curse could be heard from behind the other window.
That window was abruptly flung open, and the Potions Master stuck his head outside it.
"Why- on earth-" he sputtered after a few speechless moments. "Never mind, Miss Granger. I'm not sure I want to know. You can tell your story to the Headmaster."
"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked incredulously. "For that matter, you live in the dungeons. What on earth are you doing in the room next to the Gryffindor Head Girl's?"
Snape had the decency to look slightly taken aback. "Your room is next door?" He shook his head. "I'll talk to Albus in the morning. You'll have to be moved."
"Why? I've earned this room." Some of the irritation she felt voiced itself in her tone. "And, as I said, why does the Head of Slytherin have business outside his dungeons at this hour, anyway? Especially in Gryffindor Tower." She scowled at him.
"For your information, Miss Granger, this is not Gryffindor Tower, it's Orion, which is next door and several staircases away. And my room has been here ever since one of Peeves' tricks wreaked havoc in the dungeon plumbing."
Hermione thought of several responses to this rather astonishing statement, none of them plausible. Finally, she tilted back her head and laughed.
Snape frowned at her. "Don't think that Dumbledore won't be hearing about this. And get off that ledge." With that parting shot, he slammed his window closed.
She could do nothing but laugh for several minutes, before she regained enough control of herself to climb back through the window and tumble into her bed.
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Credit to be given:
The idea of the mother is slightly pilfered from Jane S. Fancher's Dance of the Rings series. (Which is quite good – go read it!)
And thanks to all the authors on WIKTT (whose works are so inspiring), especially Riley for all the discussion and recommendation of books!
- Verity
