Beggars Can't Be Choosers
by Verity
Chapter ThreeAlbus Dumbledore lifted his eyes from Severus to the girl that stood behind the younger man. Oddly, Miss Granger seemed rather more composed and resolute than most who had occasion to visit the Headmaster's office did – at least, upon arrival. She pressed her right hand to her chest, just beneath her throat, a gesture that seemed an involuntary one of reassurance – and that was even stranger, for it belied her calm demeanor. However, the Headmaster nodded slightly, Miss Granger relaxed, and Severus wondered if he were going batty.
"Severus, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us," Albus said with another sweeping, kind smile.
"I understand," he said, rising from the chair in a manner that set the skirts of his robes swishing.
"Sirius once said that you have a flair for the vaudeville equal only to your distaste for it," Miss Granger commented from the doorway, apparently unable to contain herself any longer.
Albus' eyes danced. Severus Snape glowered. He made sure that his robes were utterly still as he exited the room.
And as he descended the stairway outside, he heard Miss Granger giggle, and gritted his teeth, thanking any higher powers who might be listening that he had not been cursed by being sorted into Gryffindor.
Then again, he reflected, where could the Sorting Hat have put me, save Slytherin?
Once back in his laboratories, Severus fussed over some Healing Draughts – Madam Pomfrey had insisted that she would need them in bulk, seeing that the Quidditch season was starting up again, and five of Hufflepuff's team members had just left – and found a few minutes to read the latest about Peaseblossom's research on a potion to combat the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse.
However, his mind kept wandering back to Miss Granger, and Albus' insistence that he keep an eye on her. What was there that could make Miss Granger an object of such concern? Even Harry Potter (Gryffindor Head Boy – had anyone expected anything less?) didn't merit a private room as well as a guardian.
Severus Snape wondered, and as he wondered, stirring the Healing Draughts at various intervals, an image firmly placed itself in his mind – Miss Granger, determined and serene in the doorway, clasping a hand to her breast. Was it a signal of some kind?
And then his Dark Mark burned. He cursed the Dark Lord to high Heaven, Hell, and everything in between, and he promptly forgot all about Miss Granger. He quickly bottled the Healing Drafts, set them in the chillier corner of the office, and Summoned his mask and cloak from his quarters.
There was nothing except him and the terrible, searing fire in his arm on his mind as he Apparated, which was perhaps for the best…
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"When can you perform them?" Hermione Granger asked as she sat back in the armchair before Professor Dumbledore.
The Professor in question inclined his head to the left and was lost in thought for a moment. "October," he said finally, decided at last. "October 31st. The vernal equinox. You will, of course, need a non-Sibyll mentor."
"Who was yours?" Hermione asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
"My wife," he said fondly. "Opal would have liked you very much, Miss Granger, and I know she'd have been happy to mentor you, as she would have Margaret. But she's been dead… oh, forty years now. And Margaret is a born-Sibyll, not suitable at all. Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Not Margaret Trelawney." She was not going to cave in on that issue.
"No, no." Dumbledore's eyes sparkled, as if in silent laughter. "I know your feelings, on that at least. Are you sure, though, that you're ready?"
"Mother asked that."
"She would." More amused twinkling of the eyes. "Good of you, then. Miss Granger-" he was earnest now- "I would not have slept easily knowing I was the only vowed Sibyll left. Katherina was murdered last week."
"Murdered?" Hermione gasped, horrified. "But Madam Dowling- she was in hiding- the Fidelius charm-"
The Headmaster shook his head sadly. "Tom Riddle was a born-Sibyll," he reminded her gently. "Even they can track down another, given time, if it is mother's will. But you- mother has said enough to me, that I know he does not know of your existence…"
"But he will, if I choose Harry for my mentor, won't he?" she asked, feeling the beginnings of dread wind their tentacles about her. "Because of the scar – Harry can't know… nor Ginny…"
"I think Minerva would do so, though, if you are willing."
"I'll have to think about it, Professor." She rose from her chair, then turned to face him again, clasping her hands in front of her.
"I understand," Dumbledore said kindly. "And it has been a busy day for you. Think it over."
She nodded, reached her hand to the little lump that hung over her breastbone.
The Headmaster laughed. "Swearing so small a promise on that, are you?"
But Hermione was serious. "It could be a matter of life or death, couldn't it? I don't know about Minerva, Professor… I might ask…" But there was no one she could think of, save Harry, Ginny, and the rest of the Weasleys so far away in Egypt.
"Mother bless you," Dumbledore said after an agonizingly long moment of silence.
"You as well," she said, and then she was gone, wondering why mother had chosen her, of all people, for such a task…
She went out on her ledge to meditate again before bed, and this time mother did not speak to her, only threw the hand mirror at her and threw up her hands in dismay. Hermione knew that this would be no future sending, only a glimpse of here-and-now…
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A moor. A high, windy place, the chill of death a breeze across the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death's face. A circle of nineteen men and women and one more in the middle with the Man. The Dark One.
The Dark One does not need a wand to inflict his torments. One of the benefits of being a born-Sibyll, really. He reaches out a skeletal white hand over the head of the Man. "Crucio."
The Man writhes and moans; she sees the cold sweat beading on his forehead and the back of his neck. She leans forward to help, but the mother slaps her hand. Bad Girl. She knows she will have a welt there later on, but it will be a well-deserved one. Sibyll do not interfere.
Finally the Men and Women of Death and the Dark One leave the Man alone, lying in the dirt, his robes sodden with sweat.
"Someone has leaked word about our plans," the Dark One says. "Let the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death serve as an example to you all. And should he be innocent – when I discover who has spoken, they will be given a much more thorough flogging. That I can assure you."
The Men and Women of Death depart, and the Man cries in his grave of dust. Finally, he musters the strength to Apparate.
Now, the mother says, you may act.
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