Mine Protector

Chapter 14: The Difficult Part

Each morning her eyes opened to the same thing: the slight swaying of Gryffindor-red bed hangings, prompted into life by the draft that leaked in through the rounded window above her head.  In those moments, dreams were teetering on the cusp of her mind--floating images that were kaleidoscopic in color and clarity, merging from time to time to create a picture that she could almost put a name to....almost.  It was like a taste on her tongue she could just barely savor before it receded away, leaving only her own disappointingly familiar breath and saliva behind. 

The same thing happened when Hermione tried to remember the man who had touched her during her ill-attempted bath...somehow her skin had memorized that touch--the ragged calluses on his thumb and wand fingers, for example-- but her mind had nothing visual to reference.  His face had felt like any other face--warm, expressive, and made of human flesh.  Though as several days passed she questioned the very reality of what had happened.  Was it possible she had merely experienced a VERY tactile, lucid dream?  She might have thought so, if she didn't so clearly remember the sound of him running from her. Since when did dreams flee from the dreamer?  Or seem to fear the dreamer, at that?

-First vaguely threatening notes....now an invisible spy, if that's what he was...- She frowned at the prospect.  If he was a spy, he hadn't wanted to hurt her; of that much she was certain. 

So what *did* he want, then? 

Ordinarily, the tugging stress of this situation might have threatened to undo her, but she found that she wasn't particularly worried.  She may have mourned the death of the old Helena--it was the girl she had been in her youth, after all--but she most certainly did not mourn the death of Helena's all-encompassing, bottled-up insecurities.  As a result, she approached the situation with a refreshing pragmatism, figuring the best thing she could do was continue on with her training. 

-Constant vigilance...- she thought, somewhat sourly, echoing the words of Alastor Moody. Whatever was happening, she didn't doubt she could handle it. 

Not to mention that other things were occupying her thoughts.  Like Anaemus, for one.

"Albus, the Anaemus...there's so many questions I have about it....them.." she trailed off, looking up at him from where she sat, which at the moment was in a roll-up chair that she'd pulled up to Dumbledore's library books.  The floor-to-ceiling shelves circled much of the room, and Hermione suspected that he had many others stored back in his private quarters, as well.  But what he had in his office was enough to make her head spin; the smell of ancient dust and binding was a potent magic in its own right.

"I imagined you would," he said, the lines around his eyes deepening as he smiled.  He rose from his desk and moved to join her at the bookshelves.  He placed a casual hand on her shoulder and squeezed slightly, a motion that sent warmth over her body like a soothing balm.  Albus Dumbledore was the closest thing she'd had to a parent throughout much of her life; physical contact from him was rare, but when it was freely given she felt an unspoken flood of fondness for the old man--and maybe even something like love. 

"I believe I told you that no publicly known Anaemus writings are in existence today. ...did I not?"  He remarked, not unkindly. 

"I remember," she said, nodding.  Though silently she still held out hope that there must be a book somewhere that would give her some insight into her new-found abilities (which, to be fair, she had been unable to re- create in the week since she had contained and returned that curse, nearly knocked Albus Dumbledore into unconsciousness).

"What I did *not* tell you is that there is at least one of these non- publicly known writings in my very possession," he continued, and she glanced upwards at him in surprise.  He had his familiar all-knowing expression in place, and it appeared that he was struggling not to clap his hands together in excitement.

"You mean a secret text....written by an Anaemus?" she asked, allowing a little bit of hope to creep into her voice.

"Not exactly..." he paused, looking a tiny bit deflated.  "The Anaemus weren't collectively in favor of having their beliefs and practices recorded.  They believed that to do so would betray the magic on which their knowledge was based."

Mulling this over, Hermione felt herself grow increasingly perplexed by his statement.  Throughout the ages, witches and wizards had passed on the secrets of magic primarily through books.  Books were the tomes that unlocked the survival techniques necessary to fight the dark arts, to maintain the progression of magical discovery, to recreate complex potion recipes, to record newly discovered magical creatures, and more--in short, books were the foundation of almost all mystic beliefs.  Just what kind of witches and wizards would object to books, to the passing of vital knowledge on to future generations?

"The Anaemus weren't..." she began, uncertain how to phrase her concerns.  "...they weren't like the death-eaters, were they?"

"How do you mean, my dear?" he asked, looking at her curiously.

"I mean...they didn't want to restrict knowledge from reaching others, I hope?  They didn't have ridiculous notions about ancestry and blood and who was more *deserving* of magical skill, did they?"

The old man shook his head vigorously, and in that action his beard brushed against the top of her head as if to emphasize his point.  "Good heavens no, child." he said, much to her relief.  "They merely believed that Anaemus magic was too powerful to be taught in traditional practice.  To them, the uses of Anaemus varied greatly from person to person....thus they also felt to describe it would be fruitless.  But really, there's even more to it than that.  Please....wait for me a moment."  And with that, he approached one of his many bookcases; there, he pulled a large blue book out a few inches, then pushed it back with little ceremony.  Following a massive *creak*, the bookcase swiveled like a turnstile, and her headmaster disappeared into a room that was just beyond her line of vision. 

When Dumbledore entered the office again, he had nothing more than an elderly-looking scroll in his hand--this disappointed Hermione a little, as she had been hoping for one or more very fat books on the subject of Anaemus magic.  He handed it to her wordlessly, and upon closer inspection she found that the scroll was *very* old, indeed; the parchment was soft to the touch, as if it had been unrolled and handled for many years, and the ink was quite smudgy in spots.  Worse yet, the entire thing was penned in untranslated Latin. 

"This is heavy reading...even for me," she remarked, squinting at the spidery-fine writing.  Whoever wrote the scroll had impeccable penmanship, certainly, but it was also impossibly tiny.  It took her nearly a minute just to read the title, which she roughly translated as: "The Forms of Anaemus: A Speculative History". 

"Ahem..." Dumbledore cleared his throat lightly, then tapped the scroll with his wand, instantly transfiguring it into a small, hand-bound booklet that was printed in neat typeface, and completely, expertly translated. 

"Wow.  Very nice!" She exclaimed, turning the booklet over in her hands.  "But how...?"

"A Dumbledore's privilege, Hermione," he replied, then again with the tip of his wand gestured at the titled page.  Following his motion, she saw that the author of the booklet was one Galway Redd Dumbledore the Third.  "A long-dead cousin of mine," he explained, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  "Several times removed, of course."

"An Anaemus?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," he mused, rocking from side to side a little.  "Or perhaps just a fan.  But I find that his theories are less....convoluted....than any others I've come across.  But I'm afraid even Galway's deconstruction of the Anaemus is on the heavy-duty side.  Considering that, I'm thankful that he only wrote a half-roll of parchment's worth."

She fingered the newly-bound booklet, admiring the silky cover.  "May I take this from your office, Albus?" she asked, not certain he would grant her permission to do so--especially since the text was a Dumbledore family heirloom of sorts. 

"Of course," he said.  "What you hold in your hand is just a copy, so keep it as long as you like.  I have the original in a private vault."

"You don't think reading something of this nature will attract the attention of other students?"  She asked, a little surprised that he had agreed with so little argument.

"If any other student at Hogwarts has heard of Anaemus--which I doubt--they would assume this book to be little more than fantastical pulp novel," he assured, looking mostly unconcerned.  "Though you may want to take care that none of your professors see you reading up on Anaemus.  To do so is certainly not forbidden...but it may cause them to wonder."

"I suppose so," she said softly, focusing her gaze on Fawkes, who was looking at her from his cage steadily.  He was in his resplendent stage, all fiery and crimson plumage.

"Ahh, so it's come to this.....there already *is* someone at Hogwarts who wonders about you."

His voice came from behind her, gentle as always, but a shiver journeyed down the length of her spine nonetheless.

"He *was* wondering about me," she replied, her gaze still held to Fawkes.  "But I don't think he is now....not any longer."

"He knows, then."

"Yes."  She sighed, finally gathering the will to turn and meet Dumbledore's eyes, which searched her without accusation...only concern.  "Severus Snape knows who Hermione Granger is....who she really is.  Or was, I should say." 

"I see," he said simply. 

She swallowed, tasting faint sourness.  She couldn't leave it there, not like that.  This was Albus--the only real confident she'd ever had.  The man who had an appetite for curry that matched her own, who understood her own apparent inability to match her socks or part her hair properly.  Hesitantly, she continued on:  "He didn't seem particularly shocked at my revelation.  Uncomfortable, yes, but I...I almost think he *wanted* me to confide in him.  Though I don't know why.  Even before--before Hermione, I mean--he didn't seem to like me much.  But I never felt that he didn't *not* care."  At her own words, she felt bewilderment spread across her face like a fever.  "Am I making any sense?" she asked, fearing that she wasn't at all.

"Yes, Severus does care," he replied, his voice oddly dry.  "He hides it well, for reasons of his own, but he does care.  And so do I."

"Oh, I know that," she said abruptly, then drew back slightly when she saw that the Headmaster's usually cheerful, benign expression had shifted into one of....quiet sadness?  Or resignation?  What was it? 

"I fear I've done you a great disservice," he said gravely.  "I owe you an apology...Hermione."

She blinked.  Before she could think of a response, he went on.

"When I recruited you into the order, I told myself I was giving you an opportunity for a better life, for the chance to use your talents in a productive and helpful manner.  I thought--"

"But you did give me all those things!" she interrupted, though her mind was wracked with confusion.  All these years...she had feared nothing more than letting Albus Dumbledore down, and now he was acting as if it were *he* who had done wrong against *her*.

He smiled slightly, though the expression did not reach his eyes.  "Yes and no," he said.  "Your talents and skills have benefited enormously, that much is obvious.  But I'm afraid I behaved rather selfishly when it came to matters of your personal well being.  I ignored your youth, for one.  And I never stopped to think what a lonely position yours would be...charading as someone you are not, pretending to be years younger than you actually are.  It must have been....incredibly difficult."

"It wasn't." She shook her head, unable to stop the lie from leaving her mouth. 

He smiled again, genuine this time.  "We both know that's not true," he said, and she felt his words echo in her chest as if she had said them herself, a whisper of something he had once said to her in the past.  What was it? 

*Voldemort's dead... *

*We both know that's not true... *

Perhaps the memory of that exchange should have chilled her, but it did not.  She straightened up in her chair, tapping Galway's booklet against her chin a little bit, then finally said:  "Very well...it is true.  But only a little.  My life has a focus now--after years of feeling helpless and angry, I finally feel as if I'm doing something to the benefit of both myself and others.   And...I know they're both younger than me, but Harry and Ron are my friends.  Looking back it seems funny that I had to go through school a second time to find real friends, but that's just what they are."  She paused and smiled a little, thinking of those two boys-- young men now, really--who seemed so much younger than her on occasion, who had now and then driven her completely batty with their thoughtless antics, but who had nonetheless proved themselves to be strong, loyal, and determined, time and time again. 

"I could never tell them the truth about myself, though.  Never.  That's the difficult part..." she finished, those last words nearly a whisper.



---



As he expected, Severus Snape was summoned to Dumbledore's office shortly before Saturday's afternoon tea-time; after finding Hermione near Dumbledore's office last week, Severus had correctly surmised that she and the headmaster engaged in some type of private meeting on most weekend afternoons.  Hoping to avoid a run-in with her on the long trek up from the dungeons, Snape opted to travel by floo powder into Dumbledore's fireplace, in front of which he found the old wizard himself slouched into a comfortable armchair, puffing on a long, ivory pipe. 

"I was indulging, Severus," Dumbledore said, blowing smoke-rings in response to Snape's look of disapproval.  "Can I tempt you?"

"Certainly not."  Snape wrinkled his nose faintly, though he wouldn't have so quickly refused if the headmaster had offered him something along the lines of a stiff scotch.

"Any changes this week, then?" Dumbledore asked pointedly, his eyes flitting to Snape's arm; the dark mark, which was burned in to the tender flesh just inside the crook of his elbow, was plainly visible below the rolled-up sleeve of his black and green robes. 

"Their search continues," Snape said flatly.  "As I've told you before, they suspect that someone close to Potter must be removed.  Only this time, they have the rather genius idea of *not* going after the boy himself, and are settling for anyone who might stand in their way."

"Hmmm..." Dumbledore murmured, sucking on his pipe thoughtfully. 

"I had assumed that the person they were looking for was Sirius Black, since I am certain Pettigrew must have explained Black's relationship with the boy to Voldemort."

Dumbledore met Snape's penetrating gaze.  "You *had* assumed, Severus?  I take it that you no longer feel Black is a target, then?"

"Oh yes, Black is a target," Snape replied silkily, allowing a bit of accusation to enter his words.  "I merely had the wrong Black in mind all along, didn't I?"  

"You speak of Hermione."  Dumbledore continued to smoke, seeming unconcerned.

"You mean *Helena*," Snape spat, suddenly pushing his sleeve down, wanting to hide that mark...ridiculously worried that it might announce her name, and the outline of her very face, right into Voldemort's head, no matter how many miles away he might be.  

"She's not the girl you remember anymore, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice irritatingly rational--the kind of voice one might use on a tantrumy child.  "She's a grown woman who has done as much for Harry Potter as any of us.  Maybe more."

"More?" Snape asked, astounded.  "How can you say that?  Because of Potter I've been stunned, humiliatingly levitated while unconscious, had my robes set ablaze--"

"Yes, Severus, I know," Dumbledore interrupted.  "Because you willingly took on the role of the intimidating authority figure.  Just as I am the sage advisor, and Sirius the replacement father.

"And Hel---Hermione?  What is her role, then?  Potter's brainy accomplice?  One-third of the terrible trio?"  Snape did his best to sound bitter, but the words were only half-heartedly so. 

Dumbledore's expression warmed, as if sensing that Snape's temper was tepid and fast-fading.  "Not an accomplice, but an ally of a very unique sort.  I'm sure you remember that she has experienced a great loss similar to Harry's," he pointed out, and Snape reddened slightly.  "Additionally, both Harry and Hermione were born with certain gifts that will no doubt be a burden to them throughout their lives; I imagine they will be glad they have one another to rely on in the years to come."

"Gifts?" Snape implored.  "I'll admit that the girl is incredibly bright-- thought it's unfortunate that she's so gloatingly aware of her cleverness.  But Potter is only a slightly-above average young wizard, and that's with Hermione whispering the correct ingredients to him during potion exams."

"Aha," Dumbledore said, brightening.  "I see that you have finally recognized her true talents at potion-making, then?

"I will admit that she is somewhat inclined towards the practice...she did get a perfect score on her midterm."

"Severus..." Dumbledore began, his eyes laughing silently.  "I was referring to your recent age-regression.  You caught her making VesClotho, didn't you?"

"Yes," Snape said, unable to hide his surprise.  "How did you know?"

"She told me, of course."

"Oh?" Snape asked dully, wondering what else Hermione might have told Dumbledore about their recent run-ins.  His fingers knotted together at the memory of the hair that had brushed against his knuckles, glossy and fire- lit.  He steered his mind towards more familiar territory.  "So you knew about VesClotho, then.  That explains where she got the phoenix tears," he said, glancing at the snoozing Fawkes.

"Yes, I did."  Dumbledore looked at Fawkes too, apparently admiring his loyal familiar.  "Before I accepted Hermione into the order, I told her she would have to prove herself as willing and able to train as an Auror.  As a test, I asked her to concoct a disguise convincing enough to transform her into a Hogwart's student--a disguise that could represent her from ages eleven to eighteen."

"And she invented VesClotho?"

"She did," Dumbledore said, chewing on the end of his now burned-out pipe.  "I wasn't expecting her to come up with something so sophisticated.  Or so brand new, for that matter.  I thought she would merely research up on the glamour charms used by Ministry Aurors, but the VesClotho lasts much longer than any glamour--and the confundus effect is helpful, too."

"Until it reverts onto your own body," Snape said sourly, not at all looking forward to the paranoia and confusion that apparently came with the territory of VesClotho. 

"You'll be fine, Severus," Dumbledore predicted, his smile knowing.  "Now why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?  Are you upset that I did not inform you of Hermione's identity and purpose earlier?"

Snape hesitated.  He thought he had been angry for that very reason, but now he wasn't so sure.  Dumbledore wasn't in the habit of letting *anyone* see all the cards that he held--the only cards necessary were the ones that got the job done, after all.  Being left out of Dumbledore's great plan wasn't too much of a blow….-the real problem is that I now know more than I want to..  More than I feel comfortable with.- 

"That's not it, Albus," Snape said slowly.  "What concerns me is that I now know the name of the one whom the death-eaters seek.  The fact that I have this information may very well put Hermione in danger.  What if the dark mark allows Voldemort and his followers direct access to my mind, and in there they see her true purpose, and from there they may hunt her down..." he trailed off helplessly, gazing at his own palms as if he found them untrustworthy.

"You're worried about her," Dumbledore implored, though his expression said that the old wizard himself was more concerned for Severus than Hermione.

Snape checked himself again, aware that there was a snippish remark on the end of his tongue that he couldn't bear to give voice to.  "Yes," he finally admitted, swallowing the knee-jerk sarcasm away.

"Severus, Hermione knows that she couldn't work alongside Harry all these years and remain un-noticed.  She has been hard at work, preparing for the day when Voldemort and his followers recognize her vital role in our defenses.  If the death-eaters seek her out, I doubt it will be because her true name is imprinted into your consciousness."  The old man searched out Snape's expression briefly, then continued on:  "I hope that one day you will see your mind as something other than a connection to Voldemort and your past, Severus.  Your mind has, after all, helped us more than you will ever know."

Snape sighed, and was compelled to look away.  To voice his doubts would be of no use; the headmaster would be sure to have the last word, as usual.  If only his doubts didn't number so highly--then the conversation between himself and Dumbledore might have actually put him at ease, if for only a moment.



-----



At the very same time that Dumbledore and Snape were speaking of her welfare, Hermione was curled up in a common-room armchair, trying valiantly to conceptualize the written words of Galway Redd Dumbledore the Third.  The headmaster had not been joking when he had called the reading 'heavy', but there were at least a few passages that struck Hermione as particularly resonate, and she spoke them silently in her mind for several minutes:

 

//The worldly elements that surround us are nameless and voiceless, to be dispensed by human hand or not.  When elements are given a name, their meaning is shaped, and the resulting words create a quilt that defines a particular human system.  A certain element may be named "fire", for example, and through its use becomes associated with heat, pain, and even renewal (see: phoenix), depending on the context in which the element is employed.//

//Just as religious language serves the needs of a church, Wizards and Witches have a similar system of language that quilts together the values of the magical community--thus the need for incantations in spell-casting, the need for naming potions and magical creatures, and so on.  Before a summoning charm could be utilized and taught in a universal manner, the Wizarding community had to shape and define that element with the creation of a specific word: 'accio'.//

//To practitioners of Anaemus, the nameless elements of our world lose power once relegated and systematized in human contexts.  To use the elements and accept them as nameless is to work a purer form of magic that exists outside the restrictive naming system.  Elements are though to be more powerful when they remain nameless, because they are then free from the potential abuses of humans who have been known to wield magic in the name of greed and corruption.  The wizarding community that named the relatively benign "accio" has, after all, named countless other elements in the name of harm and destruction.//



Before now, Hermione hadn't taken much time to consider the relevance of words and incantations in spell-casting.  Even as a child, she knew that "accio" was the word that summoned, just as surely as she knew a chair was a something comfortable to sit in, or that a Unicorn was a very rare and magical creature.  The language behind magic had always just seemed to be a part of her, like how slightly turned-out ears and double-jointed thumbs were just *facts* about her body--things she was born with for reasons unclear even to her, or perhaps for no reason at all.  It was quite startling to realize that the wizarding world she had grown up in had also invented words like Crucio and Avada Kedavra; words that they were willing to call 'unforgivable', but were still willing to use, under certain circumstances.  Somewhat troubled, she read on:

//To discover ones Anaemus abilities is no self-conscious act of discovery; rather, one most typically discovers such ability by accident, at a moment when the will or self is at a critical breaking point--this being because only surrender from order can call the nameless to a wizard or witches side.  This humble author would like to apologize for such an obtuse definition, but to clarify this in any clearer terms would of course be anathema to the very existence of the nameless.  Because of this paradox, the phenomena of practicing Anaemus remains a somewhat of a modern-day mystery.  According to myth, however, the nameless often first assist an unaware wizard or witch in moments of great personal distress or life- altering experience.  But it is rarer that the wizard or witch even comprehends what has happened--if they do happen to comprehend, and are of the right temperament, they may be considered Anaemus material.// 

Hermione squinted at the paragraph before her and let out a muted sigh.  Her discovery of Anaemus magic had certainly been accidental, but she didn't understand how her experience could be perceived as a "critical breaking point".  She had been in the middle of a training session with Dumbledore, something she had done on countless occasions; she had never feared for her life or health during such training sessions--in fact, the headmaster was one of the few who she had ever felt truly safe around--so why had she flung Dumbledore's attack back on him? 

"Heavy reading?" a voice implored, coming from somewhere behind her.  It was Harry, and before she even turned around she could tell from his tone that he was weary--no doubt from the vigorous Quidditch practices that he himself had captained. 

"Not really," she said, flipping Galway the Third's booklet shut.  "Just some information about ancient magics that might come in handy for the N.E.W.T.s."  He stared at her dubiously, which caused her to add: "Well, you never do know, Harry!  It doesn't hurt to be prepared."

"All you do is study lately."  He pouted dramatically to indicate he was joking, but she knew that his expression must be veiling real hurt.  She *had* been busy, after all.  It was just that Ron and Harry assumed she was busy in the usual Hermione-way: studying, brown-nosing to professors, more studying. 

"I know," she admitted, softening.  "Look, let me run up and change my clothes, and then we'll play some exploding snap before supper.  What do you say?"

"Sounds good," he said, grinning, and she was momentarily taken by the simple beauty of that gesture.   

"Back in a flash," she said, and hurried off to her dormitory.  Climbing the stairs, it struck her as remarkable that after all that Harry had been through, and after all that was expected of him, he could still laugh and smile over the smallest of pleasures in a manner that was nothing but genuine.  At this thought, she felt buoyant with admiration for him--and equally shamed to realize that there were dozens of things about herself that she could never, ever tell him.

Burdened by this thought, she entered her room and sat on the bed, pulling a sleeping Crookshanks over to her lap.  The room was hazy with early- winter sunlight, and the first fire of the season had been lit in the small fireplace, infusing the air with a crisp, piney scent.  Lavender was on her own extremely-pillowed bed, painting her toenails with a cosmetic colour- wand, and Parvati sat at her desk writing in what was most certainly a very- secret diary.  Finding that the room was particular cozy today, Hermione felt the burden wash away.  Looking forward to exploding snap, she opened her wardrobe in search of something appropriate for dinner, not because jeans were inappropriate attire for a Saturday night, but because as a prefect she was always expected to look at least somewhat sharpishly dressed for all-school events.  Her clothes hung like silent girl-ghosts: modest skirts and scholarly sweater vests.  –Ugh-... she thought disdainfully, feeling uncharacteristically annoyed at the thought of dressing like a sixteen-year old.  On a whim, she pulled out a red, button- down dress and held it to her chest, eyeing the rest of her clothing critically, and as she did so, a slow, now-familiar feeling of unease fell over her, causing her hair to stiffen at the roots. 

Hermione was an orderly person, but she had never been overly neat.  She didn't categorize her clothing according to colour and season, as Lavender did, but it suddenly struck her that the clothes in her wardrobe had a strange fussed-over quality about them, as if the hangers had been lined up with some purpose in mind.   She put the dress back and closed the wardrobe, frowning.  Not sure what was causing her sudden feeling of defense, she approached the large steamer trunk she kept beside her bed in lieu of a night-stand.  Inside, she discovered that her clothes had that same too-tidy appearance.  She pawed through them, noting that her spare parchment, which she always kept on *top* of her extra robes, had now slipped to the back of the trunk.  Wary now, she thrust her head upwards and glanced around the room, her eyes darting to the rafters, to the pleasant fire, and back to her own bed.  Something was not right--because everything seemed *too* right, peaceful in a way that struck her as forced. 

"Parvati....Lavender..." Hermione said, her tone careful.  "Did either of you go through my clothes?"

"What?" Lavender looked up from her toenails, clearly put-off at the idea of borrowing Hermione's clothing.  At her desk, Parvati didn't move except to continue on with her writing.

"Parvati?" Hermione prompted, once again neutral.

"Oh, what is it?" Parvati grumbled, smacking her diary shut and turning to look Hermione head-on.  "I only borrowed your suede trousers...you know, the ones from Halloween?  Look, it's not like YOU will ever were them again, is it?" 

"I saw you take the trousers, Parvati.  Remember?  You can even keep them, if you like."

Parvati blinked.  "Oh.  Okay."

"Look," Hermione said, addressing both girls. "I just get the sense that someone has been at my belongings. And yes, I'm perfectly aware that neither of you have an interest in my clothing, so I'm just wondering if you two have had any visitors recently."

"Like boys?" Parvati asked, her eyes widening.

"Erm...sure."

"Never," Lavender replied succinctly, rolling her eyes a bit. "It's us who pays visits to the boys...not the other way around."

Hermione sighed. "Alright then," she said, shutting the trunk. She was dying to see if anything in the truck's secret compartment had been touched, but knew she couldn't very well do that with Lavender and Parvati in the room.

As if in response to the situation, Crookshanks flicked his fluffy tail, looking at her through slitted eyes, and she was drawn his spot at the foot of the bed. On her knees so they would be eye-level, Hermione placed her hands on either side of the cat's wide face, stroking his whiskers. "Hello, my handsome boy," she murmured, her voice low. "Did you see anyone looking through my trunk, Crookshanks? Did you?"

Ignoring the -she's finally gone dotty- glances that her two roommates were most likely exchanging, Hermione watched as her cat lazily blinked his eyes shut twice. "No then, is it?" she said, patting his head. Then, struck with an idea, she thrust her hand back into the trunk and pulled out her spare parchment, tearing off a scrap and waving it under Crookshank's pink nose. "Smell anything spotty, boy? Anyone who you wouldn't know or trust?"

Almost mournfully, the cat blinked twice again and gave a half-hearted purr. "There, there...it's not your fault." Hermione crooned, tickling his chin. "You must have been bothering the house-elves when we had our visitor." -But don't you worry, I'll find out who has been checking up on me-… she added silently.

She reckoned that tomorrow she would put her Anaemus readings on hold and start looking into ways in which one could become invisible--without the means of a cloak.

------------------------------------

Readers: Thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter. I wrote most of it on while on vacation, and now have the entire story outlined (plus some ideas for a potential sequel—which I may write if this story is continually received well).

A few small acknowledgements: The ideas presented in the Anaemus booklet by Galway Redd Dumbledore the Third are (very!) loosely based on linguistic/literary theories by Saussure and Zizek

"Handsome boy" is what I call my own cat, Pogo (who yes, often blinks at me), so it just felt right to give Crookshanks the same nick-name.

Please review =)