Chapter Three:
"Dear girl!," exclaimed Professor McGonagall, as her favorite student opened the door, ashen-faced and trembling. "Come with me, Miss. Granger. We'll be going to the Infirmar – what do you have in your hand? " McGonagall broke off.
"A-A letter." explained Hermione, cursing her voice for cracking. "But, don't worry, Professor. It's nothing-"
"Of course," interrupted McGonagall worriedly. "Do you mind if I take a look at it?"
"No, not at all." Hermione handed the crumpled parchment to McGonagall, who immediately pocketed it. "It's just a load of tosh anyway."
"You don't seem well to me, Miss. Granger." The Gryffindor head continued more calmly, "I suggest you spend the night in the Infirmary. And perhaps in the morning, you and I can have a little chat."
"Of course, Professor. Might I ask why the need for a talk tomorrow?"
"It's rather late to have it now, don't you think?" smiled McGonagall kindly, while evading her student's question. The pair reached the Infirmary, and McGonagall spoke again. "I shall entrust you to Madam Pomfrey's care. Sleep well, Miss Granger, and I shall see you later."
At hearing her name, as well as a possible patient, the school nurse bustled over to them. "Come, Miss Granger. You might want to change out of your school robes, dear, and I'll hunt out a Dreamless Sleep Potion. Go on with you!" She urged, "Honestly, the poor witch looks ready to collapse… driving kids too hard these days…"
"Thank you, Poppy" McGonagall smiled and nodded briefly at each of them before turning on her heel.
And with that, Hermione's Head of House left her to the school nurse. A thousand questions exploded in Hermione's brain regarding the whole peculiar incident, all of them she had been to slow to ask before. Exhaustion slowly won over her body and her overdriven brain and Hermione reluctantly submitted to Madam Pomfrey's ministrations. Downing the potion in one gulp, she greeted sleep with much enthusiasm.
* * * * *
"Well?" Dumbledore inquired as the Transfiguration Professor stepped into his office.
"I've taken Miss. Granger to the infirmary. Poppy will take care of her." reported McGonagall tiredly, "She has received the letter from the Ministry, Albus, so she has some idea of what's going on. Poor child. I told her that I'd talk to her tomorrow."
"Not only you, but if Miss. Granger is strong enough, I would like to speak with her as well."
"Of course," McGonagall nodded. "And Severus too. She'll have many questions, that one. Most of which only he can best answer. Will you be there, Severus?"
Snape stirred from his place in the corner of the Headmaster's office. "If I must."
"Then, that's settled for now," decided Dumbledore, "Mr. Parker? Mr. Shacklebolt?" He turned to the Ministry Aurors. "I thank you for your co operation thus far. Please ask Minister Fudge if he can meet with me tomorrow. The two of us will have a lot to discuss."
"Righty-O, professor," replied Kingsley Shacklebolt, leading his partner out of the office. He waited until, for the briefest of seconds, he was alone in the room and then mouthed What about the Order? Dumbledore shook his head and Kingsley headed off. The three remaining Professors waited for complete privacy before continuing their discussion.
"Severus, go awaken Filius. Tell him to pack his bags for Caiorn," instructed the Headmaster, absentmindedly reaching out for a lemon drop as he dictated orders. "Filius must begin examining Zeirka's homelands immediately. Oh, and you might want to ask Remus if he'd like to accompany and introduce him to Mesolf and Warrick. Inform them both to come and obtain a Portkey from me at dawn."
"Will that be all, Headmaster?" questioned Snape, before moving away.
"Yes. For now." Dumbledore paused, and looked apprehensively at Minerva as his Potions Master briskly left the room.
"What, Albus?" she asked, taking the hint. "What do you need me to do?"
"If you could perhaps inform the rest of Order that they may resume their assignments?"
Minerva nodded in affirmation. "Alright. Will I be seeing you at the Infirmary in the morning, perhaps around eight?"
"I shall be there," Dumbledore promised, walking her to the door, before returning to his desk.
The old wizard resignedly claimed his second lemon drop and readied himself for a long night ahead. He collected a handful of Floo Powder and cast it into the burning fireplace, which obligingly sprouted green flames.
"Madam Pince." He called out in a rich voice.
Let the games begin…
* * * * *
Hermione's sleepy mind struggled to break upwards from the warm, intoxicating waves that submerged it. Her head felt like a bowling ball balanced on a toothpick – it was so heavy that she could barely use her body to lever it up from the pillow. She was in a heavenly, dreamy state, in which she would have indulged a little bit of snoozing, but something nagged at the back of her unconscious brain… something urgent. With a silent groan of protest, and a surge of inhumane willpower, Hermione pushed away her warm bed sheets, wincing as the cold morning air hit her. It was a necessary evil, one that gave her enough energy to groggily open her eyes and push away the untidy mass of sleep-mussed hair.
"Good morning, Miss. Granger." A voice rang cheerfully, almost hurting her sensitized ears. "Awake at last." It said with amusement.
Startled, Hermione blinked rapidly until the blurred, smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into her vision. He was sitting by her bedside. As her pupils focused, she realized that Minerva McGonagall sat beside the Headmaster, her face graced too, with a smile; though it was weak and forced. It was the image of her Gryffindor head that triggered the memories of the night before, each flashing scene more powerful and peculiar than the last. Hermione's throat went dry, and her eyes widened with recollection. A small mew of protest escaped her lips, confusion evident on her face. She turned to her two professors with expectant eyes, needing some answers.
"I have with me here," began Dumbledore quietly, pulling out something from between the heavy folds of his robes. Hermione recognized it immediately, her throat clogging up even more at its sight. "a rather interesting letter, wouldn't you say?"
She could barely trust herself to nod. Hermione had been waiting… feverishly hoping… for one of them to tell her it was a joke, but his words contradicted her beliefs. The reality, that the horrid letter spoke the truth, that the malevolent voice in her brain had been right, came crashing down around her ears. In that desperate moment, when everything she knew was seemingly… hatefully unreal, she turned to the best piece of ragged advice her mind had discerned in many panicky situations: Stay calm. Count to ten, then backwards and then go up till twenty.
Hermione counted, then nodded, and waited for the Headmaster's next words with the same stomach-churning anticipation as a convict waiting for his sentence to pass.
"Do you understand what it's saying?" McGonagall asked her gently, handing her the letter as if she'd better read it again.
Hermione bit her lip, fighting the urge to scream at her Head. What kind of idiot did McGonagall think she was? Her frayed nerves were exactly that – Hermione didn't think she could handle any more inane questions, considering she was about to snap. Again, she only nodded.
"I know you must have many questions," Dumbledore paused, "but I must ask you to hold them for the end. It is imperative that you listen to what we have to say."
"I only have one, sir." Hermione immediately handed Ministry's notice to Dumbledore, without giving it so much as a glance. "Explain." She whispered, referring to the parchment that was exchanging hands. Her voice was barely audible but her words echoed deafeningly loud in the peaceful quiet of the Infirmary.
Snape watched, from the doorway, as Dumbledore put his fingertips together and peered over his half moon glasses, the creamy parchment on his lap contrasting brilliantly against his deep purple robes. The trademark Dumbledorean pose, he thought wryly, and the surest sign of all that ill tidings are abound. A warning to those who possess more than an iota of sense.
The Granger-girl hadn't noticed his arrival, not that he had made much of an entrance. Catching the gist of the conversation, he saw Albus taking a breath. The old wizard's lips parted, as if ready to launch into a speech. It was time, he realized, that he made his presence known.
Snape cleared his throat, and waited for three heads to swivel in his direction.
"Ah, Severus." Dumbledore acknowledged warmly, although the twinkle in his blue eyes hinted slight annoyance. "So good of you to join us."
"And punctual too," glared McGonagall.
Snape imperceptibly tilted his head. It was his dubious version of an apology, but otherwise he remained silent.
Seventeen years of being a teacher, however disliked, had fined tuned his skills of observing human behavior. Granger was too sharp, too intelligent and independent, too adult to be mollycoddled by the likes of Minerva and Albus. It would achieve nothing: he knew that the girl would easily see through the false reassurance, the words of comfort and wisdom. She would easily be able to pick up on the horrific facts, and sheltering her would be prolonging the inevitable. They would lose her trust, her faith and any hope of saving the girl from the Curse would be swept away the moment Albus Dumbledore opened his mouth and allowed futile words to escape in a torrent. Perhaps the old man had realized that his traditional methods (like the ones he used on Potter) would be sorely inadequate here, but Severus Snape had seldom left things to chance. So, it was with those thoughts that he walked into Hermione's vision, allowed his body to rest against the foot of the bed and twisted his frame to loom dauntingly over the confused young girl lying miserably in front of him.
"Miss. Granger," he said in his low, deep baritone. There was nothing demanding about his tone, but six years of practiced obedience, of snapping to attention at the sound of his smooth voice revealed themselves, as Hermione's eyes automatically flew to his.
Anyone else coming? Perhaps Rita Skeeter? she thought darkly, cursing Professor McGonagall's version of a "little chat". What the hell is he doing here, anyway? In normal circumstances, she would have been embarrassed at being seen disheveled and unkempt in front of the three most influential people at Hogwarts. She knew she would have been more mortified at having to undergo Snape's intense scrutiny during the private hours of the morning when her appearance was less than flattering. Hermione might have been angered at the intrusion of her privacy during her most vulnerable moments of the day, as she was a person who safeguarded her personal space with zealousness expected of any Gryffindor. To top it all, the cool composed Head Girl was currently an emotional wreck… a wreck in public, for all the world to see. More importantly, she was sure the Snape was loading up on ammunition to fuel his future scathing remarks, as his black eyes greedily absorbed her distressed state.
But these were hardly normal circumstances, and despite her reservations about having to deal with Snape, all of the above scenarios scarcely passed her noticing. Hermione believed Snape to be a hardened man, proficient and professional in his duties. She deeply loathed his arrogant sneer and his infuriatingly superior attitude, but if Potions was anything to go by, she knew that he was merciless. Snape could be trusted to be brutally honest, in a way that went beyond the capabilities of her other Professors.
And, Hermione had always hated not-knowing; as well as hated being the last one to know. So it was fair to assume, after all things considered, that her current predicament was one that she entirely detested from the core of her being. Amidst her confusion and her ignorance of what seemed to be grievous events, she yearned for Snape's harsh demeanor and equally indifferent truthfulness. It would be a refreshing splash of cold water, she decided, that might jolt her out of this mess. Against her will, Hermione was comforted.
"Miss Granger," Snape said, "No doubt The Headmaster was about to enlighten you about recent events, but I am sure he will agree that that task is left to someone more capable."
When Dumbledore nodded for him to continue, the Potion Master folded his arms across his chest, beady eyes morphing into a deeper shade of black, something Hermione would have considered impossible. "What do you know about The Curse of Lady Zeirka?" he asked carefully.
Hermione frowned. A pop test on her knowledge about curses was the last thing she had expected. "Nothing much about the Curse itself," she admitted, "but I've heard of Lady Zeirka before."
"What have you heard?"
She shrugged, still unable to figure out where Snape was going with this. "Only that she lived in the age of the Founders and had a brief liaison with Salazar Slytherin. Apparently, she was considered to be very powerful, very rich but she was a bit crazed. Er… it was in Hogwarts, A History." Hermione explained, seeing the look on McGonagall's face.
"A grossly inadequate summarization, Miss. Granger," Snape stated smoothly, "and something that was to be expected." Hermione didn't know if there was an actual compliment lurking behind his words, or if it was her imagination.
"Listen carefully, girl. For what I am about to say, I will recite only once." The Slytherin Head warned.
"But, I don't underst—"
"Of course you don't understand, Miss. Granger, because you haven't listened yet." He said with a mocking air, treating her like an usually thick dunderhead. "Do not interrupt me again, girl. I will not have the patience for it. Have I made myself clear?"
"Indeed you have," admonished Dumbledore, frowning slightly.
He ignored the reprimand. "In the time of the Founders," began Snape, drawing a breath for a lecture, similar to his regular classroom pose. "roamed a witch who went by the name of Lady Zeirka. She had, under her ladyship, many sacred lands that reeked of raw magical power: power unlike what most wizard or witch had encountered in those days, and even now we have seen nothing similar. Zeirka, over the period of many centuries, became obsessed with manipulating, taming and trapping this raw power. She closely guarded the details of her experimentations, insomuch that they are inscribed in a complex code devised of her own cunning and comprehensible to none but her. For a more personal perspective, she also authored another text which we now know as the Memoirs of Lady Zeirka. Not long after her passing, it was discovered that both of her writings were beyond the realm of the Dark Arts. Hence, the wizards of that time agreed that all of Zeirka's scriptures would be safeguarded and yielded to none, for all were believed to hold details of ways to exploit raw magic, which was both unethical and unsafe." Here, Snape paused to collect his thoughts, briefly breaking the spell unknowingly cast by his mellifluous voice. "That is the extent of our humble knowledge."
"Where are the books now?" Hermione asked interestedly, the inquisitive intellectual side briefly taking over.
"In Wizberlot, under the protection of Lord Flabberly," answered Dumbledore, twinkling.
"That is besides the point," snapped Snape, redrawing their attention to what he believed was important. "The gist of the matter is… rather, was… that the Memoirs of Zeirka were stolen by Lord Voldemort barely four days ago." He waited, for the affect of the revelation to sink in, mirroring what Hermione had done countless times with Harry and Ron, while reiterating notable snippets of information to the boys to no avail. For the first time, Hermione was on the receiving end of the scenario.
"As unfortunate as that is, Professor, I still fail to see how it relates to me," responded Hermione, coolly meeting his impatient gaze.
Spotting his Potions Master's irritable expression, Dumbledore intervened. "My dear girl, the Memoirs contained an especially detailed account of a unique Dark Curse. As you well know, Lady Zeirka and our own, esteemed Salazar Slytherin had a short affair which ended rather bitterly. It was this bitterness that motivated Zeirka to devise a new curse with which to punish Salazar."
"How was he punished?" asked Hermione shrewdly, as the pieces began to click in her brain. "Salazar, I mean. Did Zeirka cast a Curse on him? What did the Curse do?"
All the three Professors shared meaningful looks. It was Snape who finally spoke. "It was described that six months after Lady Zeirka's abrupt departure from Hogwarts, Salazar experienced an upsurge of righteous emotion concerning the admittance of Muggleborn students. He had always held a biased belief, but the feeling behind it had intensified. More so, was the suspicion that his companions – Godric, Rowena and Helga – would lead the school to it doom and the fact that suddenly, he could barely tolerate their company. Salazar soon left Hogwarts, and we believe this hasty action to be an affect of the Curse."
Hermione hugged herself. She didn't know why, but the nagging feeling that had plagued her sleep had suddenly returned. While her mind was working furiously to process the information which she had been given to her, she felt that she was missing something, but she couldn't put her finger on it. "So, this curse… Zeirka's Curse, forces the victim to do something… evil? Disruptive? Hateful?" Hermione absently voiced her thoughts, searching for the appropriate words as she did so.
McGonagall beamed at her, as Dumbledore nodded approvingly, but his face was grim. "Very good, Miss. Granger. The Curse forces the victim to do whatever their heart least desires. To commit an action normally beyond their contemplation, something that clashes entirely with their true personality."
His words were followed by an eerie stillness. Three professors watched, as one of the most intelligent pupil that had ever graced their school, struggled while trying to make sense of her situation. None of them had any doubts that Hermione would make the mental connections independently – it was only a matter of time before she did. McGonagall tensed, waiting for the unfathomable to dawn upon her Gryffindor, one who was more precious than others, not that Minerva McGonagall regularly picked favorites, of course. They all saw her freeze, noted how her eyes quickly darted towards the letter that rested lightly on Dumbledore's wrinkled hand.
For Hermione, her world shattered the second time in 24 hours, as she grasped the whole meaning of the Ministry's notice. She looked desperately from Snape, to Dumbledore, to McGonagall; pleading with them.
Slowly, Dumbledore rose from his chair and sat next to her on the edge of her bed. He gently took Hermione's hand and placed it between his grandfatherly ones, blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, Hermione" He said quietly. "I'm am so very sorry that you will have to bear Tom's wrath. Yet, to your credit, I know you shall defy him."
Even as he said the words, McGonagall came up on her other side, her face filled with sadness and compassion. With Snape still standing at the foot of her bed, his expression indecipherable, the three professors had formed a ring of protection around her. It was comforting as it was claustrophobic. Strange, she thought, how some things make you want to cry with relief and scream with rage at the same time.
"N-No…You're wrong. YOU'RE WRONG" she shouted, opting for the second, more satisfying reaction. "I COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT. I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE IT. YOU HAVE THE WRONG PERSON. YOU'VE BLOODY-WELL-FUCKED UP! YOU AND THE MINISTRY—"
"We don't know how you managed to Apparate and Disapparate from Hogwarts," continued Dumbledore firmly, the pearly gleam to his eyes giving him away. "But, Professor Flitwick assumes that since the Magic controlling you, was as old as Hogwarts itself, you could have slipped through the wards and reached London. We also think that the nature of this magic, deprived you of your memories regarding the actual incident. They may return afterwards, but that is simply speculation—"
"—EXACTLY. YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING. THEY WERE MY PARENTS, FOR MERLIN'S SAKE. USE YOUR DAMN HEAD. I LOVE THEM. Did-You-Hear-That? LOVE, NOT LOVED—"
"Mr. Shacklebolt and Mr. Parker sighted you just before you returned to the school," McGonagall said taking over from Dumbledore, observing his weakening stance. "The Ministry realizes that you did not act of your own will that night, and they have allowed us to keep you here—"
"I DID NOT ACT OF MY OWN WILL BECAUSE I WASN'T THERE!" Hermione snatched her hand away from Dumbledore, pushed McGonagall aside and clambered out of bed. "I DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS—" She declared with her head held high, intending to leave the Infirmary.
Snape blocked her. "You will listen to this, Miss. Granger, because you need to hear it."
"Get out of my way, Professor."
Snape's upper lip curled. "Are you quite finished throwing a tantrum, Miss Granger?" He asked silkily. "Because we have better things to do than to waste our time trying to console a five-year-old brat."
"I'm eighteen, sir" hissed Hermione through gritted teeth. "And rarely a brat without reasonable provocation."
"I'm not going to argue with you, Miss. Granger" said Snape, his previous derisiveness oddly absent. "Deep down, when you have returned to your senses, you know just as well as I do, the nature of the truth. Save yourself unnecessary trauma, and use your trademark Gryffindor courage. Face up to the facts, Miss. Granger, rather than allowing them to face you down. Say it: you were Cursed by Lord Voldemort and murdered your parents under its influen—"
"HOW DARE YOU? YOU EVIL, ARROGANT BASTARD!" Hermione screamed, all rational thought processes abandoning her, self control vanishing with her innocence.
"—SAY IT, HERMIONE. DO IT. DEFY THE ONE WHO HAS BROUGHT THIS UPON YOU—" Instead of getting a coherent reply, Snape received punches and scratches from an 18 year old girl who had most definitely reached her wits' end. Not that he could blame her, Snape ruefully conceded as he warded off enthusiastic blows. A couple caught him under the chin and the sides of his face, others hitting his ribs with a gusto. If nothing else, he thought as his dark humor got the better of him, Miss. Granger will be undoubtedly popular for avenging the woes of countless students.
"Potion…left pocket… get…it" He managed to gasp, wrestling and almost losing the fight with the teenager.
McGonagall deftly Accio-ed the potion and grasped Hermione's chin, easing apart her lips and forcing the mysterious liquid down. "There, child. Drink it. It'll be better… you'll see." She soothed.
An instant later, Hermione fell limply unconscious in the Potions Master's arms. The Gryffindor raised an eyebrow at Snape.
"I'm assuming that I did not poison my own Head Girl?"
"I've never considered a stronger, modified version of the Dreamless Sleep potion as anything particularly life threatening, Minerva." replied Snape dryly, placing the unconscious teenager upon her bed with uncharacteristic tenderness and pulling the covers over her unresponsive body.
"I wouldn't put it past you to do something like that." said McGonagall, darkly. "You'd find it hilarious." Suddenly she sobered and touched the young man's arm. "Thank you, child. You did very well."
Snape felt uncomfortable by the sincerity in her words. "Nothing that you could not have done yourself, Minerva." He said, at last.
"Poppy will be able to take care of her since the worst has been weathered. You are a good man, Severus." added Dumbledore, patting his shoulder as the three made their way out of the Infirmary. "One of the very best."
McGonagall smiled inwardly, as the younger man glowered. It was as good as wheedling out a blush from the brooding Slytherin.
* * * *
A/N Boy, if I thought that the last chapter was hard to spit out, hex me, because this one takes the cake. However, looking at my "Plot Plan" , I have no idea how I'm going to pull off some of the future… (way in the future) chapters. Thanking everyone who reviewed. I know I haven't made personal notes to each reviewer, but I'll do them all at once in the next installment. As for the reviews themselves: please KEEP THEM COMING!! They inspire me to continue… I'm sure you guys know what I'm talking about. But for now, here is your complimentary set of questions:
Too dramatic? Too unreal? Just plain brilliant? Or does it make you wonder why you're still reading?
As I looked over my story, I picked up quite a few errors (many of them grammatical)… sorry bout that. I can usually spot my mistakes, but English isn't my first language, so the gut feeling "That-Sounds-About-Right" is still developing… until then, my dear, sweet readers will have to suffer. Also, to those of you wondering why Hermione's being charged even though the Ministry knows it isn't her fault… keep reading… *grinz*.
To those of you who care, Robert Harris's new book "Pompeii" has just reached my island… ha! I've been waiting (nay, drooling) with anticipation… do not have enough money to buy and so have signed up on the waiting list in local library… if you have read it, a few subtle hints wouldn't go amiss with this overly excited fan!!!
Right. I'll go now…
