Disclaimer: All the recognisable characters from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter novels belong to her, and the Luggage belongs to Terry Pratchett. The idea of Rowena's nickname being 'Roie' comes from a character of this name in Ruth Park's The Harp in the South. This story is by no means intended to rip-off either of these authors; nor is it an attempt to rip-off any other fan-fiction authors who might have dealt with similar themes in any way throughout their stories.
Witch in Exile
Chapter Five: Quills & Mirrors
Mrs Norris was stretched out on the cobblestones of a sunny corridor when she met the trunk. At first she regarded it with surprise, then with suspicion, and finally with downright hatred, when its lid swung open menacingly and started to clang. She yowled. She had never encountered anything like it.
The luggage had never encountered anything like Mrs Norris either. If it wasn't sure exactly what to make of Crookshanks, at least he belonged to the Mistress, and the luggage was quite happy to…tolerate…anything that belonged to the Mistress.
But this strange little furball that was hissing in such an alarming fashion most certainly didn't. It was all alone and unprotected, and the Mistress was nowhere to be seen.
Besides, the luggage was hungry.
In the library, Hermione Granger had flicked pages until she'd come across the reference she'd been looking for. And it was this book she brought with her now to the hospital wing, and Professor Snape, for it raised a most interesting puzzle, which she hoped that he could help her with. If he would. Dumbledore had been her first choice, but he, master of disappearing opportunely, was nowhere to be found. She still wondered about that time in their first year that meant they'd gone down that trapdoor by themselves, resulting in Harry defeating Voldemort and them winning the House Cup for Gryffindor; though 'not at Hogwarts' when they'd asked Professor McGonagall, the supposed summons from the Ministry had not kept Dumbledore from turning up exactly when he was needed.
Flitwick was no help, and McGonagall, regrettably, was in Ireland studying the Transfiguration techniques used by the Sidhe. Hermione had once helped her order her notes on the subject.
So she firmly told her stomach to go back where it ought to be, instead of floating around near her breastbone, where it was, and walked into the hospital room.
Snape returned her greeting perfunctorily.
He didn't look as off-colour as he had during the night-– though with Snape, who could tell? She stifled a nervous laugh-– but he didn't seem as forbidding as normal, either. Hermione put that down to Madam Pomfrey's décor. Ruffled pillows and comforter would make even Arugs Filch look momentarily not as bad.
It did nothing for the sour look on Snape's face, though. More likely, it was at least part of the cause of it.
"You wanted something, Miss Granger?" The wizard regarded her with clear amusement as she pulled up a chair and sat hesitantly beside the bed, cradling a heavy, leather bound tome in her arms. The girl's slender fingers played nervously across the symbols stamped on the cover, tracing their patterns with light, trembling touches.
"I wanted to ask you a few things, if you don't mind…"
"Go ahead, I'm not doing anything anyway." And his eyes roamed the room dismissively, disgusted with the surroundings. When they came back to the bed, he actually shuddered.
Hermione nodded, and smiled a little. "I can see that-"
"Most observant."
"-but where's Madam Pomfrey?"
Snape made a half-snorting, half-choking sound. "Hagrid wanted her to have a look at Fang," he explained delicately, and his thin lips curved into what was definitely an evil smirk. "He has a sore paw." The way he said it made her laugh. Hermione found herself meeting his expression with a similar one of her own. "Poor Fang," she said innocently.
"Poppy went out with enough equipment – and padding – to suggest she thought she'd been asked to treat Norbert." The wizard snorted properly.
Hermione started, a puzzled look on her face, and the library book momentarily forgotten. "You know about Norbert?"
He nodded. "Yes, all the staff do – after all, with Hagrid sobbing into his beard for weeks afterward everywhere he went, it would have been a little hard to not find out. Besides, Mr Malfoy informed me quite gleefully that Hagrid was keeping an illegal dragon, and I made my own inquiries." He paused, and she could see he was smiling again, just a bare twitch of his lips, a small hint of a sneer. "I wasn't sure you knew, though, but I had a suspicion you were involved in Norbert's 'getaway'."
"Perhaps I'm involved in more things than you know." And she shrugged, deliberately trying to seem casual to stop him asking questions about Harry and Ron's involvement.
"I doubt it." His dark eyes watched her closely. "I have never met a Gryffindor whose secrets I could not discern within a moment of their time…You might be clever, Miss Granger, but when it comes to hiding things, you are really no different from the rest. Incompetents, open books, the lot of you. If any Gryffindor ever had a secretive bone in their body, I'm sure they'd have it removed in case it was contagious. What did you want to see me about?"
"Two things." It was hard to keep her voice steady, even harder not to throw Hogwarts, A History, Ed. 67 with colour supplement and additional notes by current Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, at him and march out. But her own curiosity and desire for knowledge kept her pinned to her chair as firmly as though she'd been tacked there.
"Firstly, I wondered if you knew where Professor Dumbledore was – I asked Professor Flitwick at breakfast, and he checked his office and said he didn't think he was at school."
"Flitwick couldn't find the Headmaster if he were standing in front of him waving a flashy banner."
Hermione dug her nails into the book's cover. A frown crossed her brow. "I highly admire Professor Flitwick," she said, raised her chin and glared at him, "and I don't think you ought to insult him until you can manage to actually teach a class where more than one or two students learn anything except how much they hate you. Sir."
She continued to meet his gaze, even as a thick silence descended on the room and a murky crimson flush started on her cheeks. Hermione burned in shame. I was rude to a teacher! She thought miserably. Oh, he's bound to get me expelled, or at least kicked out of school for the holidays. What has come over me? What would Professor McGonagall think? The thought of her stern Head of House made her tremble even more. She'd understand the circumstances, she had to! But Hermione still felt miserable. He was a teacher, and she'd been rude! Never mind that Harry and Ron would probably carry her around the common room on their shoulders if she told them!
A low moan escaped her lips and she quaked in her seat.
"Oh, I'm well aware of what you think of me, Miss Granger," Snape drawled, and brought her sharply back to awareness. "But the opinions of a student have never had any bearing on what I say, or how I act. You would do well to remember that. If this were school time, I would deduct points from Gryffindor."
"Yes, sir," she said quietly.
"Still…well done, Miss Granger."
Puzzled, Hermione looked away from his face, which was a study in amusement, and stared at the potions cabinet. She flushed even redder. Was that a compliment, from Snape? It sounded like one, if she ignored the way he'd said it.
"Thank you, sir."
"For what?"
Hermione met his raised eyebrow with her quirk of her lips, and after a moment, he smiled. Point conceded. They sat in silence.
As she regained her confidence, the blush began to creep away up into her hairline. "So, Professor, do you know where Professor Dumbledore is?"
"Actually, I do." Seeing the interest she was giving him, Snape watched her for a few seconds before continuing. It was…interesting to see her finally find her backbone. Normally she would just hide behind Masters Potter and Weasely. He hadn't thought she'd pull off that imperious tone quite so well, or manage to keep looking at him though obviously scared to the hem of her robes. But even Gryffindors grow up, he reminded himself, and if they couldn't keep secrets for a room full of galleons, they were known for their bravery.
He wondered what Neville Longbottom was doing in that House.
His eyes narrowed out of habit, as always when he was trying to dislodge a thought he didn't particularly like. Firmly, he pushed Longbottom's pudgy face as far into the depths of his memory as he could. Bad enough that he had to put up with him during semester. He didn't have to intrude on his holiday time as well.
"To my understanding, Miss Granger, the Headmaster will be back this afternoon. I believe his important business had something to do with-" how to phrase this? "-visiting a student's parents. Routine, I should think…"
"Like hell." To his pleased surprise, the Granger girl was regarding him with an irritated glare. "He's gone to see my parents, hasn't he? Tell me. Sir."
He snorted. "Yes, he has gone to talk to your parents."
"Great. Just bloody wonderful." She slumped back in her chair, and passed a hand over her eyes. "I was hoping he wouldn't do anything like this."
"To give Professor Dumbledore credit, he's not really in a position to do anything else, is he?"
"Isn't he?" she asked darkly.
Snape shrugged. "He's the Headmaster. Look at it this way. According to Muggle law, you're still underage, and you are most certainly a citizen in that world as well as ours, so Dumbledore isn't really allowed to let you stay here without permission from your custodians…Of course, knowing Dumbledore, he'd let you stay with or without permission," hearing this, some of the tension drained from her body, "but he likes to try and get the formalities out of the way first."
She nodded. Something else had caught her attention. "You said, 'under muggle law.' Does that mean I'm a legal adult according to the Ministry?"
"You're eighteen, aren't you?"
"Yes…but only by use of a Time Turner…um…" she tried to cover her slip, but failed miserably, and some of the crimson started to creep back into her cheeks. He sneered at her confusion. "Don't think that I'm not aware of your little experimentation with a Time Turner in the course of your studies, Miss Granger. I know all about what you used one for in your third year."
I bet you don't, she thought, but kept that to herself. Explaining about Buckbeak – and Sirius Black – didn't exactly sound like a good idea. Instead, she said "I expect Professor McGonagall told you?" and wasn't surprised when he nodded.
"She was rather pleased at the chance to 'rub in' how well one of her students was doing…but then, she has so little to gloat about, with the likes of Longbottom in her House, that it's understandable."
Hermione bristled. "We won the House Cup!" She protested. "Six times! And Neville's earned lots of points for Gryffindor!"
"Not as many as he's lost," Snape sneered. "I imagine he nearly fainted whenever he was awarded points."
The fact that this was true did not make Hermione any less angry. You low-down creep, she thought.
"You shut up about Neville. You just bloody shut up. He's a fine person and he's worth ten of any bloody Slytherin!"
"Ohhh…" His lips curled.
"Such a Gryffindor," he sneered. "Always leaping to the defence of others weaker than herself…one would think that someone as smart as yourself, Miss Granger, even a Gryffindor, would realise when it was time to throw away the deadwood."
"What right have you got to insult my friends?" She was on her feet now, the book dumped unceremoniously on the chair.
A twisted half-smile emerged on his thin mouth. "Who needs 'rights', Miss Granger?" he asked, making the sound of her name into something less than savoury. "When do rights come into anything? When does anyone – or anything – respect 'rights'?"
"Anyone with any guts or moral integrity does. Then, being a Slytherin, you probably need me to explain those concepts to you, Professor. Where should I start? Maybe with respecting others?"
Snape's face had barely changed expression; he continued to glare at her, and his trademark sneer stayed firmly in place. But Hermione could not continue speaking beneath the horrible feeling that she'd finally gone too far.
"That's a very good idea," he purred. "Perhaps you could explain to me how you Gryffindors respect your Professors. Am I an exception, or are you this 'respectful' to everyone who must try to lodge some little speck of knowledge amongst all this 'guts and moral integrity' of yours?"
Her stomach resumed its residence in her throat.
"They must be honoured to be the recipients of such kind and polite manners. So happy, to have such wonderful, nice, respectful students in their care. Tell me, Miss Granger, did Mr Harry Potter teach you all about politeness, or did you work it all out for yourself?"
'I'm going to be expelled, I'm going to be expelled…' She clenched her hands into tight fists and wavered slightly on her feet. A little thought raced through her mind, laughing jeeringly at her. It said, How could I be so bloody stupid?
"Perhaps Mr Weasley helped you refine your tact. That's certainly something it must to difficult to master alone, I mean, to develop such a high level of skill in this area…it must have taken a great deal of practice, hmmmm, Miss Granger?"
"I'm s-sorry, Professor." The red of shame was back on her face, glowing more than ever. She shut her eyes against the vicious pleasure etched upon Snape's features.
He drawled, "I don't think I quite heard that. Perhaps you could demonstrate your incredible respect for me by condescending to repeat that?"
"I'm sorry. Please don't expel me!" The words came out in a rush, and she opened one eye, and a moment later the other, to find Snape viewing her with an almost proprietary pride at his achievement in making her tremble. You bastard, she thought again, but she didn't have enough strength to do anything but stand silently and wait for him to say something.
Snape's dark eyes flickered. His face smoothed. Then a moment later, he laughed.
"Afraid, Miss Granger?"
She could only nod.
"Then don't insult me."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Is it sorrow, or fear, that makes you say that? No matter." The last was in an undertone, as much to the greatly-despised doona or the potions cupboard on the wall as to Hermione.
"Perhaps your righteous ire has led to gaps in your memory. If you cast your thoughts back to your second year, you'll remember that no student can be expelled without the approval of both Headmaster and their Head of House. Neither of them are here…and I doubt they'd want to see such a bright little star go because she lodged her feet in her mouth." His expression became one of disgust. "You can stop trembling, girl, you're not going to be kicked out before you can take your exams."
The audible sneer went unnoticed. Hermione sank wearily in relief back into her chair, remembering only just in time the book she'd left there, and snatching it up with a little gasp. Snape chuckled.
"Perhaps you could tell me the other reason you came to grace me with your presence, then. I take it it has something to do with that monstrosity you're lugging around?" Wondered at his sudden mood change, she accepted the words as a peace offering and bit her tongue before it could get her into even more trouble.
Hermione opened Hogwarts: A History to her bookmark and fixed him with her best studious expression, former embarrassment fading away as she recalled what had brought her here, to him, before he'd made her feel like a nervous first year confronted with the Whomping Willow.
"I found something curious in my room that I thought you might be able to help me with."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." She found her place on the page. "Listen to this. 'It is believed that the talking mirror, a standard fixture throughout Hogwarts and now many wizarding homes as well, was first the creation of Rowena Ravenclaw. After observing that certain substances responded more strongly to magic than others, she performed a series of experiments, finding conclusively that it was indeed possible to create something resembling 'life' in objects by exposing them to the correct influences and encouragement. Legend has it that her first success manifested itself as a form of the talking mirror we know today; 'life' was engendered in a mirror belonging to Godric Gryffindor as a result of Ravenclaw's experiments. This particular 'magic mirror' possessed a more pronounced temperament than other models produced by Ravenclaw, whose later experiments created the very mirrors that hang throughout the Houses of Hogwarts today. According to Hedgemore, 1651, Wise Olde Ravenclaw, the mirro disappeared during Ravenclaw's later years, when the then irascible old witch retired into virtual seclusion. In rumour it resides somewhere within Hogwarts, but if it does, Rowena's looking glass certainly keeps a low profile."
Hermione took a deep breath and looked up at Snape, who was regarding her with a mixture of puzzlement, amusement, and fascination.
"I am familiar with that passage," he said finally, "but I am unaware as to what it has to do with me."
"Well, there's a mirror in my room – you know Professor Dumbledore arranged for me to stay in the dungeons – and I got into quite an interesting conversation with it this morning…"
There was no mistaking the grimace on his face. "Yes?" he asked.
"…and I think it might be the original mirror that the book mentions."
"That's quite a leap of reasoning, Miss Granger. What evidence do you have to support your supposition?"
"It mentioned someone named Roie, and I was remembering what the book said about magic mirrors, when I realised that it was going on about someone called Rowena, and the mirror was talking about someone called Roie, and I kept thinking about it, and I wondered if they might have been the same person. It certainly sounded like 'Roie' cared about it a lot…"
"…and Ravenclaw could be expected to care about one of her creations." Snape finished her thought, steepling his fingers under his chin in deliberation. It was an interesting gesture, Hermione decided, on someone lying propped up in a hospital bed. It somehow lacked the usual authority it had when he used it in the classroom – and it had nothing of the icy strength with which he'd blasted her before.
"It's possible, I suppose." Underneath his smooth façade, his interest was well and truly inflamed. He liked a good academic puzzle as much as the Granger girl; he couldn't expect the student who once handed in a twelve-foot essay on the uses of shrinking potions to bring him such a puzzle without some evidence to consolidate her theory.
"I asked it if it had belonged to Roie – Rowena, but it said it had belonged to a friend of hers; it was pretty disgusted about that, but it implied this friend gave it to Rowena, or that it saw a lot of her, regardless. That fits; the friend could have been Gryffindor. And the mirror certainly has more presence than any other I've ever encountered."
Snape shrugged. "Yes it does, doesn't it? It's certainly been here a lot longer than I have, anyway."
"In that room?"
"Probably."
"Which would account for why Hogwarts: A History says its presence at Hogwarts is only rumoured, because hardly anyone would have seen it." She frowned, and added "That would also explain why it feels neglected, then. That poor mirror has no one to talk to, and it's terribly lonely. It must be terrible, sitting on a table in a room no one goes into, year in, year out. Why doesn't anyone talk to it?"
He snorted again. "You've talked to it."
"Yes!"
"Then, you know why. Try putting up with that on a regular basis. It would drive anyone mad."
"Not Roie." She said it with the air of someone pulling out a trump card.
Snape thought for a moment then nodded, conceding the point. "Or Rowena, as the case may be."
"I wonder…" Hermione started to voice another thought that came to her, but trailed off in concentration, mind racing. Absently, she bit her lip. Bit a hole right into it, in fact. This she only noticed when Snape used the opportunity to point out, in an infuriatingly calm voice, that she was bleeding.
She came back to herself with a start. "I'm what?"
"Bleeding, Miss Granger. Dripping blood. Leaking bodily fluids…" His silky tones caressed the words mockingly. "If you absolutely must start chewing portions of your anatomy, I suggest you acquire some food before you damage something irreversible."
"I'll do you some bloody damage," Hermione muttered, but she hopped down off her chair and made her way across to the potions cabinet. "There ought to be some Cut-Repair potion in here somewhere, shouldn't there? Ah, here." She extracted a slim, blue bottle from its nook on the shelf, and poured herself a small dose into a glass. Replacing the bottle, she downed the cup and grimaced at the taste. Snape observed in silence. He would have only said something if the young witch selected the wrong potion; after all, a good cup of Skel-e-grow or something similar when it wasn't needed could have disastrous effects, but she was faultless in her choice. Within moments, the skin regrew on her lip, leaving her to finger a rapidly shrinking scab. "I had no idea I did that," she commented idly, shaking her head in bemusement.
"Deep in thought, hmmm?"
"Uh-huh."
"Explain."
"When I spoke to it, and it was reminiscing about its beloved Roie, the glass became all fogged and misty, and I could almost pick out images in the 'clouds'. I was wondering if it would be possible to get the mirror to show scenes, and people, on request."
"Sort of like a scrying glass."
"Yes. And then it could show us Rowena, and Godric, and the rest of the Founders, and probably Hogwarts when it was getting built! If we could find a way to then transfer the images to parchment…"
Snape stared at her. There was no guarantee it would work, of course, but he was starting to like her line of reasoning more and more. "It could clear up whole mysteries about the Founders' time," he mused, and Hermione nodded enthusiastically.
"Perhaps a describere spell, or something similar. Like a dicto-quill for pictures, so it only had to see the scene in the mirror to be able to copy it out. Maybe I could modify the spell on a quill. I think Harry has one; I'll write to him and-"
"I don't think Mr Potter would take too kindly to your destruction of his property, even in the pursuit of study. Besides, it will probably take more than one quill to perfect the modifications of the spell. I'm sure there's some here at school you can use. And remember that we're still not sure that this is Ravenclaw's mirror. If it's not, you could waste a great deal of time and energy altering a dictoquill for nothing."
Hermione wasn't deflated. "I'm sure, it has to be," she said firmly. "There's nothing else it can be…"
She jumped up and made for the doorway. "I'll go over to the library and see what I can find on dicto-spells, and bring it back here. I won't be too long."
"Go to the staff stores too, then," Snape commented when she was halfway out the door. "There's a box or too of dicto-quills in there. I'm sure you know where the supply cabinet is."
"Yes, Professor," Hermione Granger replied, and she was smiling when she said it.
From the bed, Severus Snape returned her grin with a small, careful one of his own.
"This is the Great Hall," Professor Dumbledore said, indicating the room with an expansive wave of his hand. "This is where everyone has their meals; you can see the four long tables, one of those belongs to each house. The table up the top is where the staff sit, so we can keep an eye on all the students while we're eating. Can't be too careful, you know," he beamed.
Frank and Susan Granger stared around them with a mixture of incredulity and disbelief. Despite what Hermione might have thought, the strangely dressed man who had turned up on their doorstep early that morning had persuaded to come to Hogwarts, if only because they were curious to see where people like him came from. The thought neither of them could escape was that Hermione went to school to become a magic user like this man, and the chatter of her holidays was often filled with references to Professor Dumbledore, "quiet possibly one of the greatest wizards to ever live, after Merlin of course, but then Merlin is somewhat of a legend…"
So it was with puzzlement and bemusement, and no small bit of trepidation, that they had allowed this Professor Dumbledore to shepherd them into their own fireplace, and bring them out into a luxuriously furnished office. Now they were receiving the grand tour. It was hard to know what to make of it.
And where their daughter fitted in. The whole castle was like something out of a crazy dream. It was even stranger than Hermione's tales of spells that levitated you, and a half-giant that was "really friendly once you got to know him, because he hasn't a vicious bone in his body – quite like Fang really, Fang's his dog", or half-sized elves whose sole purpose in life was to serve humans. Already, Susan had nearly fainted when a staircase changed position while they stood on it. ("Not to worry, not to worry, they do that all the time," encouraged Dumbledore, "anything would get restless if it had to stay in the same place all the time! Good thing we don't need a map of this place!")
"Perhaps you could show us where our dau…where Hermione sleeps," Frank said, watching the old wizard very carefully. He didn't trust him. And he didn't trust his castle, either. Better to be back on solid, normal, trustworthy ground. Safe ground.
Dumbledore didn't miss the hiccup in his words, and it made him very thoughtful. Perhaps the problem was greater than they'd thought, he mused. All the staff members made a little job out of watching after the muggle-born students, even if they didn't make them aware of it, just to see that their families were coping and everything was alright at home. With Hermione, there had never seemed any need to worry. Dumbledore's thoughts had always been with Harry, and he was starting to inwardly kick himself for his negligence. Obviously, there was a need to worry with Hermione. Although the problem wasn't too severe, since she had never, as far as he could see, been mistreated, and she would be taking her NEWTS this year. Soon she'd be an adult witch – and a very good one too, of course. She was a Gryffindor, after all. And Dumbledore beamed. To a former Head of that House, it was clear that all the best students were Gryffindors.
But he still wanted to smooth things over with her parents. He never liked to see a child rejected by their only family, one of the reasons he was so protective of Severus, when Severus would let him. He had failed him as a student. He wouldn't fail Hermione.
At least, he mused, being muggle-born, there wasn't the opportunity for her to ever have been dumped at the school during the holidays, by parents that never wanted to suffer the sight of her again.
"Come along then," he said, "Gryffindor Tower is just this way."
But as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady (who was very curious at their arrival, Sir Cadogan having run ahead to tell her about the scurvy muggle curs that the Headmaster was taking around the school), they ran into a very unusual sight indeed.
Unusual even for Hogwarts, that was.
A large, wooden trunk, bound with golden metal bars across its sides, and latched with a heavy metal lock, was sitting in the middle of the corridor. Around it lay splotches of fur, and a thin leather collar with a little silver bell.
The first other person that the Grangers had seen at Hogwarts stood in front of the trunk, giving it a piece of his mind.
"…And I don't care whatcha are, or where you've come from, but you, you nasty piece of furniture, have eaten my cat, and I want her back! Don't play the innocent with me!"
Who, me? The luggage seemed to say.
"I know you!" He announced triumphantly. "I know all your tricks. I know that you're deliberately out to get me, and poor, poor Mrs Norris-" he gave a loud, sniffing sob, "is the victim! The poor darling never knew what hit her, did she? What did you do to her? How long did she suffer? Tell me! Why have you done this? What did she do to you?"
She scratched my surface. Couldn't this funny man see the marks? The luggage radiated innocence. One of its hairy little feet stood on another and it had to shift position to retain its balance.
The man in the loose pants and long coat seemed to interpret this as guilt. "Feeling sorry for yourself, now, are you?" he hissed at the trunk. "Feeling guilty for what you did to poor Mrs Norris? Maybe you should suffer like she did!"
Maybe you should. Maybe you can join her. The innocence around the chest melted into something far more menacing. No matter that it was a box on a hundred of little legs. For a moment or two, it actually looked threatening. More like it would if it were mounted on a big white charger, and carried a longer curvy blade, and had lots of little sharp teeth filed especially for the job. But it was, after all, a box of hundreds of little legs…though it did a very good job of looking menacing.
The man obviously thought so, too. He took a few steps back and glared at it from a safe distance. "You shouldn't go around doing things like that to people's cats, you know," he scolded, and shook his fist, but he didn't sound too convinced any more. The luggage had a way of doing that to people.
The luggage itself was wondering when the Mistress would turn up. After it met the strange little furry thing, that was like the Mistress' pet but made even stranger noises – and didn't taste very good at all – it had gone looking for the Mistress, but couldn't seem to find her anywhere. It was in a dilemma.
"Ah, hello Argus," said Albus Dumbledore, and the man in the long coat jumped with surprise. "Headmaster!"
"Having problems?"
"I'll say! That blasted piece of – furniture - ate my cat, that's what! And it won't give her back!"
The Grangers shared a look that had a little of when can we get out of here, the man's crazy, and that trunk looks familiar.
"That's Hermione's trunk, isn't it?" her father asked.
The man jumped again. He did really seem to be awfully nervous.
"Hermione's? So you know it, do you?" He folded his arms across his chest and glared at them. They seemed a safer target for his glare than the luggage.
"Well, it looks like hers…" Susan murmured.
Dumbledore said pleasantly, "I believe it is. We're old friends. But it does seem far more attached to Miss Granger than it ever was to me. Ah, well. The changing affections of a suitcase. They can be very fickle, you know." He looked at the others wisely. With the possible exception of the luggage, no one could tell if he was joking or not.
The luggage sat and looked innocent again. If you stared hard enough at it, you would almost swear that it had a little, golden, suitcase like halo. But that was impossible.
"It still ate Mrs Norris," the man called Argus said stoutly.
They all took a moment to stare at the trunk. "Well, I don't know how we're going to get it open if it doesn't want to be opened," said Dumbledore, scratching his beard. "When it's in a locked mood it doesn't do anything that anyone else wants it to. I'm afraid it's a bit difficult, really."
"This…case has a mind of its own? You're telling us this THING is alive?" Susan was feeling particularly weak. This 'case' was not helping things.
"Yes, it is rather temperamental," the Headmaster told them, eyes twinkling. "You don't think you could have a word with it, do you? After all, it does belong to Hermione, so it might listen to her parents."
"I'm not going near that thing," Susan snapped, and her husband agreed. "That's right," he announced, "We're going home. This bloody trunk is crazy, you're crazy, he's crazy-" directed at Filch "-and this castle is plain hilarious! This can't be real, any of it. It's too much to believe!"
"There are things," said Dumbledore, fixing him with a steely blue glare that had lost nearly all of its twinkle, "that it is better to take on faith than try to find an explanation for. Do you explain the sky? Do you explain why colours are? You can't, so don't try to explain magic either. I fear it would be a task far beyond human comprehension."
Then the smile was back, and he fished in his pocket and brought out a slightly sticky paper bag. "Do you feel like a lemon drop?" the Headmaster asked.
They didn't. They just felt like getting out of the crazy castle before the corridor leading to the exit changed location, or some monstrosity like this suitcase – that belonged to their daughter, no less! – decided to devour them.
"Can we please go home now?" asked Susan, feeling a headache coming on.
"I think there's one more thing that you need to do here first," Dumbledore replied gently, replacing the bag of lollies in his pocket. "Don't you think you should talk to Hermione? After all, that is why I brought you here – and the thought you might join me in lunch, too, of course – so you can talk to her, and maybe come to an understanding of sorts. You may not like this world she is a part of, but she is a part of it, and it's a part of her, and neither of those two things will change. But she's also your daughter, and I don't think you should push her out of your life just because you don't understand everything in her world. Some things transcend understanding. Some things are far more important than magic, or what's normal, or what isn't, and I think family is one of them."
He clapped his hands. "But I think first, perhaps, we should trundle along to the Great Hall and fast our eyes and stomachs upon the great feast the house elves have undoubtably prepared for us. Shall we?"
Uncertain, unhappily, but unable to see any other option, the Grangers nodded, and the old wizard gave them a beautiful smile. He directed one long glance at Filch before nodding to himself and murmuring something under his breath, then held out an arm to each Granger and said "Let's go, then. Our repast awaits!"
Deftly he steered them along the corridor, deliberately choosing a route that held as few portraits and wizardly regalia as possible. His guests walked slowly, dazedly, by his side, neither realising that they still hadn't seen the tower that they'd walked all this way for. It was too much to take in.
In the passageway outside Gryffindor Tower, the luggage waited a moment longer, exchanging inscrutable looks with Argus Filch. Then it extended its many legs and padded along the passageway.
Filch watched, silently. Then he sagged and leant against the wall. "Poor Mrs Norris," he murmured. "Poor, poor, Mrs Norris." Another little sob passed his lips. Tenderly he picked up the scruffs of fur and the tattered collar and held them close to his chest.
"My sweet…"
Poppy Pomfrey hadn't expected Snape to be in a particularly good mood when she returned from Hagrid's hut. She certainly hadn't expected to find him up, sitting at a table piled high with library books, and murdering dictoquills with a student.
Her footsteps in the doorway made them both look up. Severus Snape and Hermione Granger were wearing equal looks of guilt and embarrassment when they noticed her.
"Um, hello, Madame Pomfrey," the girl said carefully, and brushed aside the charred remains of her last quill. Snape made a quick notation on the parchment in front of him.
"Hello." She dumped her bag down on the table and stripped off the dragon-hide gloves she was still wearing. "That's the last time I ever go doing a favour for Hagrid! That critter of his had an ingrown toenail, and he expected me to clip it!"
"Did you?" asked Snape.
"Yes," she muttered. "And look at me!" They both did.
Then, puzzled, Hermione asked "What's wrong?"
"This!" Pomfrey an arm under her nose. "I have been slobbered on, licked, chewed, sat on, shed on, whimpered on, drooled on and just about anything else you can name, by that big coward Hagrid calls a guard dog! When I entered the hut, the thing hid under the bed, would you believe?"
"I guess he knows exactly what to be afraid of," Snape said with a straight face.
"Certainly seems to have his priorities straight," Hermione agreed, her expression equally blank. "Do you think he might be smarter than we give him credit for?"
Snape nodded thoughtfully. "You know, Miss Granger, I think you might be right."
They both turned to study Madame Pomfrey, who snorted, and said, "Okay, you can leave. You're dismissed, Snape. Now both of you, get out, so I can nurse my lick marks in peace."
"Yes, Madame Pomfrey," they said together. The mediwitch merely shook her head and marched into her office. "Oh, and please clean this mess up, will you?"
Hermione looked at the table, seeing it properly for the first time. Then she looked at the floor, and at Snape. He smirked. "Don't worry. I'm sure the scorch marks on the furniture aren't permanent."
Between them they collected their notes, books and remaining quills. "My workroom, I think," Snape said thoughtfully.
Followed by a pile of floating books, courtesy of 'wingardium leviosa' and Snape's wand, they walked off together down the passageway.
Author's Notes
Amy Lee – thank you for your comments about the scene at Malfoy's! I wasn't sure how it would come across, but I had to put something like that in. wipes brow, incredibly relieved.
packers*insane*insomniac* - I don't intend to keep anyone too much in suspense about Roie.
Snapesophelia – It's getting more romantic, I promise. But I have to build up to it, or it wouldn't be in character!
S. Arallion – that is an incredible compliment, and I hope that I can live up to it!
Irene – Firstly, I wish that you'd left your email address, so that I could contact you privately. But it interests me that most people who write derogatory comments in their reviews don't usually have the gall to leave their address – or even to log in to ff.net. I have to say that I am inspired by many fanfictions by other authors, and I believe I've even mentioned that somewhere, but I assure you that it most certainly is not my desire to plagiarise anyone else! That said, when there are so many excellent fics out there, it can be a little difficult not to be inspired by some of them. But I repeat, this is not an attempt to 'shamelessly rip-off' (as I believe you so elegantly framed it) any other author; that it could be, I was not aware until you were so kind and thoughtful to point it out for me. Thank you.
To everyone else who reviewed, thank you very much indeed! I'd write more acknowledgements if I had time.