See disclaimers on Chapter 1

Chapter 5

The next few days passed in a blur of activity. Dumbledore assigned Hermione new rooms near the Transfiguration classroom, quarters a great deal more spacious than the ones she had enjoyed as Head Girl. After the comparatively Spartan setting of the dormitories, it seemed faintly indulgent to her to have chambers which incorporated not only a separate sitting room and bedroom, but an office, as well. She also had her own bathroom, tiled in polished marble and dominated by an enormous claw-footed tub appointed with gleaming gold fixtures. Each of the living areas had its own fireplace, and the walls of the office were lined with enough bookshelves to house her personal collection with ease. When Professor McGonagall showed her the rooms for the first time, she looked around with her mouth agape. They were nearly half as big as her parents' entire house.

She spent much of the afternoon after her encounter with Snape moving her things from Gryffindor tower. She did her packing and unpacking methodically, without the aid of magic, enjoying the chance to flip through books she hadn't opened in years and to discard clothing that no longer fit. The physical activity felt good – it not only gave her a chance to work out the kinks in her muscles, it was the perfect way to distract her from reflecting on precisely why she was so sore in the first place.

She didn't want to think about Snape, not just now. Later she would lie in bed and pore over every detail of the experience in her mind, but for now it was easier to fold clothes and tuck them into drawers, arrange picture frames on the mantelpieces and lovingly place books in alphabetical order on the shelves than it was to think about him. His rejection of her after what they had shared still rankled, and although the rational part of her brain told her she had to prepare some manner of response for the next time she saw him, for once she allowed the emotional part of her to overrule that logical little voice.

"I'll figure out how to deal with him when the time comes," she informed Crookshanks, who was curled on her pillow with his tail switching, watching as she nudged a heavy box of books across the floor with her foot. He seemed to be adjusting to the move quite well, she was happy to see. "Right now, we've got some decorating to do!"

Abandoning the box of books, she drew her wand and stood in the doorway leading to her new office. "Now, what color draperies would look best in here…?"

****

Professor McGonagall asked Hermione to join her for an early breakfast on Monday morning, after which they would spend some time going over the course schedules for the next term. Kindred spirits in that they liked to tackle large tasks without delay, both wanted to get the preliminary work out of the way so they could concentrate on other matters. They were the first to arrive at the round table in the center of the Great Hall which served for staff meals during the summer holidays – which was not surprising, considering that the sun had only been up for an hour or so when they met.

The Great Hall felt very large and very lonely to Hermione with all of the students gone. When the four long tables were crowded, it frequently become so noisy during meal times that it could be difficult to hear someone sitting two seats away. But in its current empty state, she was willing to bet she could stand at the back of the room and whisper a message that would be heard at the High Table.

It was almost depressing.

As the two women chatted, helping themselves to the scrambled eggs, toast and crisp bacon that appeared on the platters before them, Hermione had her first glimpse into the true personality of Minerva McGonagall. For all that every Hogwarts student sat in McGonagall's classroom for seven years, no pupil could truly claim to know her. Following the example of respected teachers for centuries before her, McGonagall approached her classes with a business-like air, her back stiff and her mouth firm as she explained and demonstrated. Stern but fair, she presented the same bland face to all those in her charge, shedding it only on infrequent occasions of great excitement such as a Gryffindor Quidditch victory or the appearance of three first-year students huddled around the hulk of an unconscious mountain troll.

But this Minerva wore a different face. She had already come to regard her protégé as another member of the staff, treating Hermione with the same warmth and good humor she employed with the other teachers. Hermione found this very much to her liking, especially when Dumbledore arrived at the table and he and McGonagall included her in their good-natured bantering.

"Have you any new jokes for us this morning, Albus?" Minerva asked, after the two senior professors had caught each other up on their personal news. She glanced up at Dumbledore over the top of her spectacles, lightly dusting pepper over her eggs.

"No, but I've an old one," he replied, launching into an off-color joke that left Hermione both shocked and delighted.

"….and the wife replied, 'But honey, this one is eating my popcorn!'" Dumbledore delivered the punch line gleefully, his eyes crinkling merrily as the women burst into laughter.

"Surely you're not telling that old chestnut again, Headmaster," a silky voice drawled. "I thought it would have been put out of its misery by now."

"Ah, Severus!" Dumbledore said warmly as Snape appeared at his elbow. "You're back. Wonderful to see you." He gestured to the chair next to his. "Please, join us."

Hermione's heart leapt at the sight of him, her mutinous thoughts turning to the memory of being in his arms. She caught his eye, and cocking her head to one side, smiled slightly at him. No hard feelings, she thought.

But he simply glared back at her in response. "No, thank you, Albus," he replied. "I've only just come in to let you know I have returned. I'll be in my chambers."

He gathered up his robes and swept from the room.

Hermione stared down at her food, her face pinkening. What is he so bent out of shape about? she thought, hoping neither McGonagall nor Dumbledore noticed her reaction. I'm the injured party here, after all, what with his wham-bam-didn't-even-say-thank-you-ma'mm performance the other day.

Whatever was wrong, it was apparently wrapped up in this idea of her being an Empath. She resolved to spend some time in the library as soon as possible, trying to figure out what the hell was bothering Snape.

****

"I've decided that you will spend your time in the upcoming year teaching the first-year students," McGonagall said as she and Hermione settled into her study after breakfast. "Based on your many hours of tutoring Messers. Potter, Weasley and Longbottom, I know you are more than amply prepared to teach the basics. That leaves me free to deal with the upper-level classes."

Hermione beamed, proud that her efforts had been noticed.

They discussed next term's syllabus for the remainder of the morning, and Minerva assigned Hermione some reading on educational theory that would help prepare her for the rigors of teaching. As they finished their talk and McGonagall began gathering the parchments they had spread over her desk into a neat pile, she said, "You also have to remember that the purpose of your apprenticeship is not just to teach, Hermione. I want you to spend some of your time learning advanced Transfiguration techniques, as well.

"As you already know, the smaller the item you are attempting to Transfigure something into, the easier it is to do. Larger, more complicated objects require far more effort and skill. As an exercise, I would like you to choose something complex and work on Transfiguring it. Anything will do, so long as it presents a challenge."

The choice was an easy one. "A piano," Hermione said without hesitation.

For years, she'd wanted to have a Muggle piano at Hogwarts. At her mother's insistence, she had begun taking lessons on the family's battered baby grand at the age of seven, becoming an accomplished player in a short period of time. Her mother, a frustrated pianist herself, had often expressed the wistful desire that Hermione would take up playing professionally, and Hermione was considering doing just that until the day her letter arrived from Hogwarts. From that moment on, her mother's dreams of vicariously playing Carnegie Hall took a backseat to the demands of Hermione's magical coursework, which allowed her no time to practice during the school year. But she still played whenever she was home on holiday – it was her favorite way to relax, and she loved both the mathematical precision of music and the vibrations of the keys as they yielded beneath her fingers. It would be wonderful to be able to play more often.

McGonagall arched one sculpted eyebrow behind her metal spectacles. "My goodness, child, you certainly are diving right in," she said. "Are you sure you want to begin with something so… ambitious?"

Hermione nodded. "Quite sure, Professor."

"Very well, then," McGonagall said. "I have the utmost confidence in you. Check back with me in a few days and update me as to your progress. Good luck."

****

She stopped in at the library after lunch to pick up the books on educational theory that Professor McGonagall had assigned. After a careful perusal of the volumes on the surrounding shelves, she decided to borrow two additional books that looked like they might be relevant.

"Doing a bit of light reading, I see," Madam Pince sniffed as Hermione juggled the armload of heavy books up to the front desk.

"No rest for the weary," Hermione replied, smiling weakly at the intimidating old librarian. "The student becomes the teacher becomes the student again."

Madam Pince pursed her lips as she stamped the books out in Hermione's name.

"I was also wondering if you could help me with a project of a more personal nature," Hermione continued, unimpressed with the older woman's disapproving air. After all the hours she'd spent in the library over the years, she knew better than to fall for Madam Pince's sour act. "I'm looking for some information on Empathy. Any suggestions on where to begin?"

Pince narrowed her eyes. "That seems to be a hot topic today," she said. "Professor Snape was in here this morning asking about the very same thing." She turned around and removed a thick book from a metal cart behind her. "He seemed to find what he wanted in here."

Hermione glanced quickly at the front cover, amused to find that the book was titled Powers You Never Knew You Had And What To Do With Them Now You've Wised Up.

"That's a reference book, so you may not remove it from the library," Madam Pince informed her, glaring at Hermione over her glasses. "Have a seat."

Piling the rest of her books on the librarian's desk, Hermione chose a table deep within the stacks, away from the reach of Pince's rheumy eyes. A musty smell wafted from the pages as she opened the book, and she could almost imagine it wondering to itself why it had gone so long undisturbed and was now being bothered twice in the same day. Given the almost sentient nature of some of the volumes in this room, it wouldn't have surprised her a bit to learn that this was actually the case.

At least it didn't scream, Hermione thought gratefully, turning to the E section.

The section on Empathy was disappointedly brief:

In general terms, Empathy is the ability to understand and identify with the situations, feelings, and motives of another person without that person stating such explicitly. Adherents of the Imus the Impossible school of thought have argued for centuries that Empathy is not, in fact, a magical power, primarily because it is so common among Muggles. However, Muggles appear capable of achieving only the most rudimentary level of Empathy, allowing them to get only a vague sense of the emotional states of those around them.

True Empathy, on the other hand, is seen exclusively among those with a magical bent (though it is most common among witches and wizards of Muggle ancestry). In its True form, the Empath is able not only to sense the emotional state of another, but may actually experience significant events in the person's past through their thoughts, feeling the physical and psychological impact of these events as well as their emotional effects. Typically, the True Empath is able to achieve this connection with only one person, referred to as the Object of the Empathy. The closer the Empath and the Object are emotionally, the stronger the Empath's impressions become.

Fewer than two dozen cases of True Empathy have been documented since the wizarding community began keeping records on this phenomenon in 1063. It is widely believed that True Empathy is more common than currently known; however, the chances of any given Empath meeting up with his/her Object are so fantastically remote that this theory is impossible to prove.

And that was all. It was just three simple paragraphs, but she recognized immediately what a potentially profound impact that handful of words could have on her life.

She closed the book carefully, her thoughts in a sudden whirl. This could explain much.

Could she be an Empath? And more importantly, was Snape her Object?

How tantalizing the thought seemed! She had spent much of the last six months wanting to be close to him, to get to know him better… and now it looked as though she might have the chance to know him almost as well as he knew himself. Perhaps even better, because she would be able to see how the events of his past had served to shape him into the person he was now. And the things she might learn from him! The places he must have been, the things he must have done…

A frisson of fear suddenly crawled down her spine. My God… the places he must have been, the things he must have done…

Her throat worked nervously as she contemplated the horrific experiences that likely dominated his past. Merlin only knew what sort of mayhem and debauchery she might encounter, the people she might meet while strolling through the corridors of Snape's mind. She shivered at the thought of facing Voldemort, even in such a second-hand, protected manner. The very idea was terrifying.

No wonder he had shut down that way.

She gazed at the ceiling for a few long moments, her eyes unfocused as she uneasily daydreamed about the possibilities. Then, crashing back to reality, she shook her head in an attempt to clear it. The whole thing was ridiculous. If she really was an Empath and Snape her Object, why was she just learning about it now, after knowing him for seven years? It couldn't be true.

But she had heard Harry's voice. There was no denying that much.

Abandoning the book on the table, she hurried out of the library. In her haste, Hermione almost didn't hear Madam Pince shattering the usually inviolable quiet of her sanctuary by shouting after her.

"Your books, Miss Granger! You've forgotten your books!"

"Have a house elf send them along to my rooms for me, please!" she called over her shoulder, turning away without registering the look of indignation that crossed the librarian's face.

"Humph," Pince muttered as Hermione scurried away. "Some people are awfully high and mighty around here already!"

****

Snape held a block of wax in the flickering orange heart of the candle flame, rolling it to and fro until it melted sufficiently to smear on the edge of the rolled parchment sitting on the desk in front of him. Immediately, he pressed his personal seal into the wax, leaving an imprint of a highly stylized pair of capital Ss resting on a bed of serpents. A large horned owl stood nearby, preening its feathers in preparation for its long flight.

"Finally ready, old friend," Snape murmured, tying the parchment to the bird's leg. "Fly swiftly, now. I need you to return as quickly as possible."

The owl skree'd softly in response, ducking its head with pleasure as Snape scratched it gently behind the ear. Then it spread its wings and took off in a ruffle of feathers as Snape opened his office door. He watched it fly gracefully through the dungeon corridor, then shut the door firmly behind it and invoked a locking charm. That done, he finally took the time to remove his outer robes and collapse wearily into a chair by the fire.

The information on Empathy available in the Hogwarts library was woefully inadequate. It told him nothing he did not already know, and he hoped that the old wizard at the National Library of Scotland would be able to dig up something more concrete for him. There was a great deal at stake, and he needed to know exactly what he was up against.

In the meantime, it would be best to avoid Hermione Granger altogether.

Of course, he thought bitterly. Fate has kicked you in the balls once again, Severus Snape.

Amazing how even the smallest glimmers of happiness in his life always managed to get snuffed out. It was the first time he'd been interested in getting close to a woman – or anyone, for that matter – since… well, for more than a decade, anyway. And now, given the apparent circumstances, it just wasn't worth the risk. If she were to be sucked into the madness as he had been…

It didn't bear thinking about.

He was still sitting in the chair brooding before the dying fire, when he heard the rapping at his office door. He made no move to respond, and a few moments later it was repeated, more insistently this time.

"Professor?" her voice called. "Are you there?"

Strange that it should give him a twinge to hear her call him Professor again. It seemed like ages ago that she had been his student rather than just a few days.

Could she, even now, sense that he was there? Was he already that transparent to her?

He stayed rooted to his spot, staring into the glowing bed of embers until he heard her footfalls echoing away down the corridor. Only then did he sigh and close his eyes, tipping his head back against the chair cushions.

A/N: The joke Dumbledore tells at the breakfast table is a nod to the film Men in Black. You can read the entire joke here: http://www.geocities.com/gerardsplace/mibjoke.txt