Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Thirteen

            She slipped up from the loving sea of sleep reluctantly, in slow, steady ripples, pulled forward by a velvet voice that sought her out among the warm ocean…

            "Miss Granger?"

            Hermione sat up in the bed and pushed open the curtains, to be greeted by the sight of Snape's face in her fireplace. Inwardly, she grimaced; outwardly, she allowed herself a small frown. "Professor?" she asked sleepily. "What…?"

            "I have a student who needs to know something about Lux LeMalfois for… personal reasons. I assume you may be more informed than I about certain aspects of her life." The Potions master looked tired… weary, even, and sad. But knowing what she knew of Lamp-Bearer, it didn't seem an odd attitude for him to have.

            She nodded; this, at least, she could handle. "Is it the Guardian or the Witch? If the student doesn't know… I'm afraid I can't tell you. It wouldn't be my place."

            "The Guardian," Snape said quickly.

            "Good." She smiled. The boy, then; she rather thought the girl was still in France. "I'll be down shortly, Professor."

            The fire in the hearth extinguished itself with a faint Poof! as Hermione climbed from the bed. She closed her eyes briefly, once she was standing, and rubbed at them with the back of her hand, feeling achy, unsteady – a little tense.

            She needed the upper hand here. She knew how to get it.

            Swiftly, she drew the pink t-shirt she was wearing over her head, then neatly folded it and placed it atop her dresser. It hadn't been the look she was aiming for. The one she wanted required a garment rather in the bottom of her armoire…

            At last, Hermione found the silky, transparent white slip of a nightgown and slipped it on; atop that she added her woolen school overrobe, cinching it neatly at the waist with its belt. A small portion of the silky nightgown was still visible. She'd always liked playing with contrasts.

            She ran her brush through her hair a few times before gathering up her wand and murmuring the appropriate spell – "Ignatius." – while she reached up with her free hand for the whitish Floo powder that powered the school's internal networks. "Professor Snape's office," she said, stepping through.

            The floor that met her feet was stone, and cold, a rather drastic change from the carpets that littered her wooden one; damn, she'd forgotten shoes. Not as if they would make much difference in the perpetually icy dungeons.

            Draco Malfoy started, as if he hadn't expected to see her – but he must have, Hermione reasoned, Snape had called from here. "You're Walker of Two Worlds? A Mudblood?"

            There were times, she thought, that one's Sibyll status was meant to be shoved in the face of unbelievers. This was one of them. "You," Hermione said in a sharp, crisp tone that barely masked her desire to cause painful and grievous damage to the classmate sitting in front of her, "Do not call Sibyll Mudbloods. Ever."

            "What-"

            "I know the name of your mother," she said, this time in a light, teasing voice. Draco Malfoy shut up. She had the feeling she'd just confirmed his suspicions.

            She looked up from Malfoy's face to see Snape looming over her, again, looking confused.

            "Don't you know?"

            "Yes," he said, quizzical. "It's Narcissa."

            "Narcissa's never been able to have kids. Has she, Malfoy?"

            Hermione knew she was being cruel, oh, so cruel; wished the words had never come from her mouth. "No," Malfoy answered her, but the look in Snape's eyes dismissed the remark from her conscience. The pain, the sorrow, the look of betrayal.

            "It wasn't her choice," she said, trying to explain. She was too afraid to reach out a hand; she let her words try to comfort him. "He'd forced her, said he'd – kill her sister, her little brothers. Her mother, too. You knew her. She would never have let anything like that happen, not when it was in her power to stop it. She was very impetuous. At sixteen you think you're invincible."

            "Oh." Snape turned away, looked to Malfoy. He seemed relieved, though, which she was thankful for.

            "How did you know that?" Malfoy asked her, beseechingly. This attitude was rather an improvement for him, she noted. Lamp-Bearer had that effect on people.

            "Your mother was a vowed Sibyll – she could walk in the dream world. As you can, when she sends for you. As I can. But that's not part of being Sibyll, for me."

            "You're a seer," Snape said flatly. "You couldn't have mentioned this in the first place?"

            "I'm not a seer," she said, putting a special emphasis on the negative. "Margaret Trelawney is a seer. I walk in two worlds, that's all. One just has no notions of time."

            "Trelawney can't see past her exceedingly short nose," Snape objected.

            "My point exactly. So, Malfoy, what is it you want to know?"

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            Draco exhaled slowly, some part of him still not quite believing he was here, in Snape's office, asking a Mudblood for something. "Well," he said, trying to sound more grudging, "Er, how come I don't remember her?"

            Granger looked up at him, arms crossed in a stern manner. Sometime during the last few moments she'd perched on the chair in front of Snape's desk, turning it around to face him and the Professor. He wondered if she knew what a perfect view of her upper half she was giving them from there… "She died when you weren't quite three, you know. Before then she was kept in the dungeons. A prisoner. When you were two months old your father came for you – she was in France, then. She knew she couldn't stop him."

            He opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn't done. "She took a potion – I don't know what it was, exactly, but she was much more talented in that area than I – but it assures even now that you will always be loyal to her interests. It can be counteracted. But you should know that."

            Draco felt very cold, all of the sudden. "What does it do?"

            "Oh, it can't control you. It's just her little way of playing head games with Lucius Malfoy. He knows what she can do if she likes – it would be rather painful and ultimately fatal. But he's made the mistake of thinking she's dead." Granger rubbed at the back of neck, yawning – his eyes followed the clean lines of her throat, and then Professor Snape's gaze, and he understood what she was doing. He almost grinned. Very Slytherin of her. "I don't really want to know what you think of this now. I'm rather tired, and I think Lamp-Bearer – that's her Name, you know – would have done a much better job explaining this to you. Go talk to her, and if you think you can deal with the fact I'm a Mudblood – well, there are things that need doing, and only the Guardian of the Lamp can do them. That's you. Send me – no, send Ginny Weasley an owl, and ask her to meet with you when it's convenient. She'll let me know."

            "I think that's enough for this evening," Snape said then, very firmly. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy."

            "Thank you, Professor. I don't think – I don't think I'll be requiring the Dreamless Sleep potion."

            "I rather though you wouldn't."

            As Draco closed the door behind him, he heard Granger's voice say something, and the Potions master's answering lower tones. He wondered what was going on there-

            But he had the feeling it would probably not be a good idea to ask.

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Apologies about the wait for this chapter – I've had a hideous cold and then allergies for the past two weeks, both of which were highly tedious/annoying. I've also been working a very twisted bit of Snape/Hermione entitled Switch – it's up on my author page, if anyone's interested. ;)

Verity