New Perspective 1

THE CHOSEN

By Bellegeste

A/N: Thanks all. Maybe it is only AK that can be blocked. Hmm, how to get out of that one? Maybe blocking Unforgivables is a 7th year topic, and up until then they lump all three together as being dangerous and unblockable (to stop younger students experimenting?)

Thanks, Cecelle for the 'locoweed' reference. I'll add it in to this chapter.

Chapter 5 :BIRD BY BIRD

The next morning there was another bizarrely addressed envelope waiting on the breakfast table for Hermione. Still no Daily Prophet though. Still no letter from Ron.

'Dear Hermione,

Good thing you left when you did. Not long after, N came into the garden with B and they had a big row.'

Judging from the terse style, Neville had written the note in a hurry, possibly in order to catch the last afternoon post. At least he'd had the nous not to spell out the real names. B? The parchment trembled in Hermione's hand as she realised that Neville had to be describing an altercation between Narcissa and her sister. She prayed that he'd had the sense to stay out of sight - all that 'Trevor' nonsense wouldn't fool Bellatrix for a second. She'd recognise him instantly from the battle in the Ministry.

'B came poking about round the Datura plants and said they looked ready to cut (they're not; couple more days). Then she asked N where she'd got them from and N said from the 'fat urchin' who does the garden (huh!). B said wasn't that a contradiction in terms? B said he (Y-K-W ?) was getting impatient because he (S?) couldn't do his job properly without them. N said she trusted her gardener (!). B said he (D?) was a liability and had stuffed things up for everyone and he (D?) had to suffer the consequences. Then she said that he (Y-K-W ?) could not wait much longer and that if she (N?) didn't get her act together the consequences could be fatal. N was crying that he (D?) was just a boy and that it wasn't his (D's?) fault. B called her a 'snivelling blonde bimbo' and said it was up to N to sort things out p.d.q. or else…

Thought you'd be interested. Have been thinking: maybe D took a spell during the fighting and needs medical help. Or maybe Y-K-W has punished him. Otherwise why was N at St M's?

Love, Neville.

The 'love' part of the signature made Hermione smile. It was the only straightforward thing in the whole letter, sweet and uncomplicated. It was obvious Neville had written it without even thinking, like signing a birthday card to his gran or his parents. She could imagine Ron agonising over that single word, debating whether it implied too deep a level of commitment, whether Hermione would read too much into it, whether to leave it in or take it out, whether to keep it but spell it 'luv' because that sounded less serious… or whether he fondly believed it would have her swooning with pleasure, or doodling round the four letters in lavender (ooh, bad choice of colour) ink, enclosing it in heart-shaped squiggles with an arrow piercing its centre, and their initials…

So, Voldemort was unimpressed with Draco's performance, was he? That was how Neville read the situation. Did that explain Narcissa's involvement? Was she trying somehow to atone for her son's failure? Hermione almost found herself feeling sorry for Draco - he'd screwed up his first dark Death Eater challenge. Lucius wouldn't be too thrilled either, when he got to hear of it, though he was hardly in any position to criticise his son. And Snape had bailed him out at the last minute and was now working for Voldemort. It certainly sounded that way.

Theories and suppositions were sprouting in Hermione's brain like cress on a sponge. But what she needed was facts. Packing her bag with a notebook, quills, an unopened half-bottle of 'Famous Old Grouse' and two tins of Crookshanks' favourite 'Mousey Morsels', she prepared to Apparate to Hogwarts.

XXX

Sometimes, Hermione mused, things slot into place perfectly, as though they've been planned. You know the sort of things: milkman actually delivers milk before breakfast; cat sicks up chewed grass outside, before coming back into the kitchen; friend meets enemy witch in hospital foyer, gets offered cushy holiday job, discovers legendary talisman…

Sitting in her favourite bay in the eerily deserted library at Hogwarts, Hermione reflected that, even though she hadn't touched a drop of Felix Felicis since the end of term, she felt this was going to be a lucky day.

Psyched up for a confrontation with Filch, and willing, if necessary, to resort to bribery, grovelling and (if pressed to the limit) to revealing the location of a stash of Skiving Snackboxes, in order to gain access to the library, Hermione had been delighted when it was Hagrid and not the curmudgeonly caretaker who had stumped down to the main gate.

"Hello Hermione. I'm not allowed ter let anyone inter the grounds," Hagrid announced, unlocking the magical chain with his singed umbrella and holding open the gate for her to pass. "Unless," he now spoke with slow emphasis, quoting regulations, "they can supply proof of identity and can produce the password when prompted ter do so."

Stepping under his raised arm, as through a Gothic archway, Hermione thought to herself that it was a little late for formalities.

"How are you, Hagrid?" she asked, aware that the reserve of the past year was not entirely forgotten.

"Can' complain. Can' complain," the half-giant grunted, looking glum but pleased to see her nonetheless.

For the next few minutes Hermione fended questions about Harry (concerned, conspiratorial nods from Hagrid…) and Ron (sympathetic, suggestive winks from Hagrid…). When she enquired about the fire, the massive shoulders slumped.

"More like a flood, if yeh ask me. Tha' Aguamenti's more powerful than I thought. Perhaps me an' Harry shoulda only used it the once… Eh, everything was charred, like a batch o' rock buns. The other teachers 'av bin helpin'. Professor McGonagall transfigured me some furniture, but I couldn' be doin' with it. It was too new. I wanted me old stuff back. Professor Flitwick did me some Agein' Charms on the table and so on. Better now; more homey. Not the same as if…"

…as if Professor Dumbledore had been here? No, nothing would ever be the same again.

Hermione explained that she had some pre-term Potions research to do, implying without explicitly stating that she was here with Professor Slughorn's permission and approval.

"Ah, that's alrigh' then." Hagrid trustingly unspelled the door of the castle. Since Aragog's funeral he had had more time for the Potions master whom he had previously referred to (though never intentionally in the students' hearing) as a 'fat, slimy parasite' or a 'two-legged Lobalug' or merely 'Pineapple chunk'. "Come over fer tea when yer done. I could do wi' a bit of a chat," Hagrid invited.

XXX

The books stacked on the table in front of her could be divided into three categories: Mythological, Healing and Herbological. Lesser scholars might have baulked at the task, but Hermione was undaunted. When faced with an overwhelming, seemingly insuperable quantity of information, her approach was systematic, methodical and persevering. Years ago she had read a piece of advice which had impressed her enormously at the time and had stayed with her ever since. It was advice given by a father to his ten year old son trying to do a project on ornithology: 'Take it bird by bird'(1).

So, picking up 'Magical Mythology' Hermione turned to the index and began. Bird by bird. Lamb by lamb.

It soon became patently clear that Neville's own research had been more thorough than Hermione had given him credit for. The Borometz was an elusive and enigmatic vegetable, she concluded, as her list of page references yielded little but inconclusive, anecdotal evidence. Though, if all the 'chosen' custodians or witnesses of the Borometz guarded the secret as jealously as Neville, it was hardly surprising that hard data was in short supply. She ticked the texts off, one by one: Dioscorides, Heroditus, Theophrastus, Baron von Herberstein… There was even a version of the Hebrew legend in which the yidoni of the Talmud is said to grow as a lamb rather than a humanoid.

Hermione's brain was woolly with ovine observations. As light relief she turned to the woodcuts and illustrations: Duret's Histoire Admirable des Plantes showedan uncomfortable lamb balanced on a sturdy navel like a sheep-shaped lollypop on a stick. The only photograph - the Lambeth Lamb(2) - was a four-legged but otherwise unrecognisable lump of carved rootstock.

European herbologists placed the Borometz almost unequivocally in the realms of the legendary, the extinct or imaginary. Hermione doggedly turned to the great oriental master-work : the Nei Jing, medical classic of the Yellow Emperor, and his followers Li Shizhen, Hua Tuo, Zhang zhongjing… Here she found recipes for the flesh, the fleece and wincingly specific portions of its anatomy, but it was listed only as an acknowledged component of traditional Chinese herbal medicine.

Even the wizard world, while conceding its existence, was sceptical of the Lamb's putative powers. Hermione, remembering the soft, white creature, daintily nibbling its way to a certain, circumscribed death, didn't know or especially care if the Vegetable Lamb was magical, but she knew it was not fictitious.

By contrast, the information available on Datura could have filled several volumes. Its various names alone took up half a page: Stinkweed, Jimsonweed, Jamestown weed, Hierba del Diablo, Devil's Weed, Charnico, Herbe aux Sorciers, Thornapple, Locoweed, Mad Apple, Devil's Apple.

Hermione took copious notes, listing the properties of several species and cross-referencing them with their medical applications. Datura was one of those versatile herbs that seemed to do everything. Depending on which part of the plant you used – the leaves, flowers, pollen, sap, seeds, stem or roots - it could serve as a poison, narcotic, anaesthetic, aphrodisiac, antiseptic, stimulant, relaxant or hallucinogenic; it was an essential ingredient in numerous potions. Highly toxic (poisonous if improperly handled) it was rated with five cautionary stars on Magical Medicine's 'severely restricted' list, though it was agreed to be uniquely effective in therapeutic doses.

Blah, blah… Hermione skimmed through more recipes for Datura tinctures, creams, drenches and decoctions than she would have believed possible. Blah, blah… She was losing interest now. Much of the information was fascinating in itself, but of little relevance to the job in hand.

The Mexican and ancient Aztecs, she read, embraced the harmful, visionary side-effects with the self-destructive, compulsive greed of hamsters in a store of sunflower seeds. They would drink it, chew it or smoke it, incorporating it into their religious, divinatory and shamanistic rituals, living in a semi-permanent state of Datura-induced euphoria and ensuring for themselves an early but colourful one-way trip to the Underworld.

Shaking the cramp out of her writing hand, Hermione decided that enough was enough and it was time to take Hagrid up on his offer of a cup of tea.

XXX

Hagrid wasn't in his hut, so while she waited for him to come back, Hermione leaned on the fence watching Buckbeak - Witherwings - in his paddock. The purpose of this enclosure was beyond Hermione, as the Hippogriff was not tethered and could have flown off at any moment if he so chose. Presumably Hagrid hadn't thought of that. The beast was pecking half-heartedly at a small, furry mess - a dead ferret by the look of it, though Hermione didn't want to investigate too closely – but to the girl's untrained eye he looked bored rather than hungry. Catching sight of her, he emitted a guttural screech, tossed the ferret into the air with a flick of his sabre-sharp beak, caught it again and swallowed it in one fluid, ferocious movement. Then, deliberately, he paced across the grass, stopping a mere twenty feet away, snorting and pawing the ground with his talons. Hermione could see the whites of his eyes.

"Good Buckbeak. There's a good boy. Nice boy," faltered Hermione, thinking that if ever there was a time for bowing this was most definitely it. Aided by the jelly-legs effect of being out-stared by an unpredictable, only notionally tame, flesh-eating orniped, Hermione wobbled into a low curtsey. Anxious aeons elapsed before the Hippogriff warily but unmistakably ducked his head.

He backed off when she first stroked him, rearing his head away from her touch, wide eyes flashing. She reached up and stroked again, trying not to flinch, wishing that there were some sort of hormonal 'occlumency' to mask the scent of her fear. Slowly the rhythm of her hands started to sooth the animal. She worked across his winged withers and back, over the grey haunches towards the swishing tail, massaging the tense muscles bunched beneath the skin, feeling them beginning to relax.

"Hermione!"

With murmurs of 'goodbye' and 'good boy' and 'thank you', Hermione edged away. Assisting her over the fence with almost unseemly haste, Hagrid glowered at her.

"Didn' yeh learn nothin' in me classes? Nothin' at all?"

Hermione hoped it was a rhetorical question.

"Don' yeh remember me sayin' you must never, never walk round the back side of a Hippogriff? Them back legs'll kick yeh as high as the Astronomy Tower."

"He was fine; he wanted to be friendly." Hermione stretched the truth so thin you could have used it to trace a map of the castle.

"Well, yeh was lucky, that's all I can say," muttered Hagrid darkly. "Since the fire, Buckbeak - I can' be doin' with all that 'Witherwings' baloney, leastways not in the holidays – he's 'ad the very devil in 'im. He could have slashed yer hand off, or trampled on yeh, or gored yeh ter death."

But Hermione had known it was going to be a lucky day…

"Shouldna yelled at yeh," Hagrid apologised. "Least said soonest mended, eh?" His attempts to be cheerful were far from convincing. "Bin a rocky old few weeks since the… the… the funeral." A single commando tear slipped silently out of one eye and took cover in the dense undergrowth of his beard. "And with the fire an' all, and now the birds and the - " The final word was drowned in a hearty sniff, but it sounded worryingly like 'bees'. Hermione feared she might be on the verge of far too much information.

"How's Fang?" she enquired hastily. "Is he better now?"

"Eh, he'll do, he'll do." Hagrid's whole demeanour softened at the mention of the hound. "Developed quite a taste for Burn Balm, he has: keeps lickin' it off. Got through six pots in a fortnigh'. Yeh'll see him in a minute. How abou' that tea?"

"Buckbeak looks a lot happier now than he did at Sirius' house. He must like living with you, Hagrid." This winning flattery elicited a sceptical 'harumph', but the gamekeeper was already half won over. He could never stay cross with Hermione for long. "A Hippogriff bite's not fatal anyway, or is it?" she asked next, making conversation as they walked to the hut. She was trying to avoid looking into the bucket Hagrid was carrying, which appeared to be full of dead, defrosting baby mice. She prayed he wasn't nursing another ailing Acromantula. "Draco recovered alright, didn't he? In our third year I mean." (As if Hagrid would have forgotten his first and almost last lesson as Care of Magical Creatures teacher.) "I know he kept that silly sling on for days, but that was all part of his martyr act, wasn't it?"

"Shoulda left that two-faced runt ter fester. No need for all that hollerin' and carryin' on. He got the antidote in plenty o' time. History onyx (3) - that's what it were."

Hagrid swung the bucket higher with each stride. Any moment now Hermione saw herself being bombarded with a shower of frozen pinkies, their little bodies curled cold and hard like verminous, four-footed hailstones.

The first thing Hermione noticed on entering Hagrid's hut (she would have had to be blind and wearing nose-plugs not to notice) was that it was full of owls. Owls of every conceivable type and size: barn owls, tawny owls, long and short-eared owls, screech owls … Asleep, roosting quietly or blinking sleepily, they were everywhere: perched on the backs and arms of chairs, on the curtain rails, the window sills; there was even a scraggy Skops owl balanced precariously on Hagrid's wooden mug-tree next to the cracked, commemorative Hogwarts mug.

"What on earth?" Hermione exclaimed, covering her nose and trying not to breathe in the foetid, feathery fug.

"Saves me traipsin' up ter the Owlery all hours of the day and night. Can keep an eye on 'em better in 'ere. Tea?"

With a sweep of his huge, beaver-skin sleeve across the table, Hagrid cleared a space of droppings and detritus, and plonked a mug in front of her.

"Yeh've not bin readin' yer Prophet, have yeh?" he remarked. " 'Bout the owls an' all."

"I would if I could," Hermione protested indignantly. "The shop's messed up the delivery for the past week. I've been meaning to have a word with them. They owe me a refund."

"Nothin' ter do wi' the shop - it's the owls. Poor blighters. Look at 'em."

Hermione did look. Now that he mentioned it, the birds did seem off-colour. She had assumed they were dopey because they were nocturnal. Looking more closely she could see that they were moulting, their plumage drab and bedraggled, bare patches of grizzled skin showing through the feathers. Neville had also said something about owls, hadn't he, but at the time she hadn't taken much notice.

"What's wrong with them? Are they dying?"

"Not if I can 'elp it. But they're proper poorly – won' fly, won' eat. No way they'd be up ter de-liverin' a pygmy vole, let alone a letter. And it's not jus' Hogwarts' owls neither, it's all over the country. Blessed if I know what's goin' on."

Hagrid ran his great fingers through his shaggy matt of hair and then suddenly slammed his mallet of a fist onto the table. Hermione and half a ton of dubious debris jumped a foot into the air; the owls shifted lethargically on their perches. Fang gazed up from his basket, his bald tail thumping at the sound of his beloved master's voice.

"I jus' don' know how ter help 'em!" cried Hagrid. He was near to tears again. The floodgates had been opened at the funeral, and it didn't take much to set him off.

"Is it some new strain of Avian flu? One that only affects owls?"

Hermione was thinking about Harry - he'd be devastated if anything happened to Hedwig. Somehow she didn't think Ron would be too bothered about Pig - he'd never loved him the way he once did Scabbers. Not that it would help much but… Hermione fished the whisky and tins of cat food out of her bag.

"Here. I brought these to bri- as a present for Mr Filch and Mrs Norris. Would you like them, Hagrid? Maybe you could tempt the owls with 'Mousey Morsels'."

Hagrid looked doubtful, but he pounced on the half-litre whisky bottle.

"Thank yeh, Hermione. I'm partial ter these 'ere miniatures."

The presents provided only a brief distraction. Hagrid shook his head sorrowfully and resumed his ecological lament.

"And if it's not the owls, it's the trees! What's happenin' ter the world?"

"Birds and trees?"

"Look out the winder at the lake. Pretty, innit, with all them colours? Yeh might call it 'autumnal'. But it's only the beginnin' of August! They're dyin', Hermione. Oak trees, holly trees, willow trees, ash trees…"

"In other words, wand trees," summarised Hermione.

"I hadna thought of it like that, but yeah. Somebody's got it in fer us wizards."

And I wonder who that could be?

xxx

The girl set her mug down, matching its base to an existing, pale tea-ring on the wooden table (Flitwick had done his job well), twisting it into a perfect fit. Hagrid, equally thoughtful, picked up an owl dropping and dipped it into a puddle of spilt tea, watching the brown liquid soaking up through the nugget like espresso on a sugar cube. Hermione (who had always considered her mother's kitchen hygiene – intermittent blitzes with an antibacterial wipe – to be on the poor side of perfunctory) shuddered and looked away.

"It's all my fault!" Hagrid burst out. (First McGonagall, and now Hagrid.) The dismal wail foghorned round the hut through mists of misery. "I shoulda kept me big mouth shut. Tha' treacherous turncoat! The number of times Harry and yeh lot said yeh didn' trust him. But did I listen? No, I goes tellin' Harry not ter go readin' too much inter it…"

Hermione would have liked to argue that she had never accused Snape of being untrustworthy, but Hagrid didn't look in the mood for debate.

"There's nothing you could have done, Hagrid. If Snape was intent on…" She had been going to say 'fulfilling his Vow', but at the sound of the hated name Hagrid cut in.

"Azkaban's too good fer that double-dealin' dibble. Dementors are too good fer 'im. Suck out his soul? He hasn' got one. Know what I'd like? I'd like ter see him locked without a wand in a room full o' Boggarts. And when he's screamin' fer mercy, I'd drown him in a barrel o' boilin' brimstone, and put Bowtruckles ter bite out his eyeballs, and peg him out like one o' his dissectin' specimens, and pour poisonous potions down his scrawny throat till he choked, and then I'd string him up by his – er – whatsits and let Buckbeak and the Thestrals fight over his entrails…"

Hagrid had obviously been giving the matter some serious thought.

Knowing she was had little hope of shaking such an entrenched dislike, Hermione still thought it worth making a couple of points. She might never change Hagrid's mind but she might make him think.

"But why then, why that night of all nights? If Snape was determined to kill Professor Dumbledore he could have done it anytime over the past sixteen years. It doesn't make sense. Why didn't he do it that night when they had the argument – it would have been the perfect opportunity. You heard him, Hagrid - did he sound murderous?" Defiant? Reluctant? Upset?

"No, but…" Hagrid floundered, then recovered his prejudices. "He woulda done it, but he was bidin' his time; waitin' fer a signal. Doin' that darned Draco's dirty work fer him. Vowin' ter protect that whey-faced ferret. They look after their own, the Death Eaters; they're all as bad as each other. Putrid pig-swill the lot of 'em!"

"But what if he had a reason - you know, for what he did?" she urged.

Hagrid turned hostile eyes upon her.

"Surely yer not defendin' that murderin' monster?"

"No. No. I just think he should be given the chance to explain his motives. He deserves a fair trial like anyone else."

"He deserves ter rot in Hell!"

"Did you know he was a Half-blood, Hagrid?" Hermione didn't want to dwell on the subject of Snape's eternal torment; she imagined his life was hell enough already.

"Half-blood, pure-blood – what does it matter? In the end he sided with that evil, melagomaniac bastard… How could he? A great man, Dumbledore. The kindest, wisest, gentlest wizard that ever lived…"

Another tear halted on his eyelid, made a quick 'reccy' and tracked his comrade into the bush.

"Hagrid, have you ever seen a Borometz?" Hermione asked out of the blue, wanting to take his mind off the owls, the trees, Snape, Dumbledore…

"Borometz? That's one of them pockrifuls, innit?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A pockriful. Yeh know, made up. Don' exist. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I read about one somewhere, that's all." She sighed, standing up. "I should be going. I've got to write a letter."

The half-giant supped his cold tea, feeling in some indefinable way that he had let her down, though he couldn't for the life of him fathom why or how. There was a faraway, dreamy expression on the girl's face that he had never noticed before. She was playing with some long strands of loose hair, winding them absent-mindedly around one finger and then rolling them slowly back and forth until they twisted themselves into a ring.

"Eh! Don' let Ron catch yeh at that," he joked, comprehension crinkling his eyes. "Poor lad'll run a mile…"

End of chapter. Hagrid has unknowingly confirmed Hermione's theory. Will she be writing to Ron, or someone else?

Next chapter: THE WEAKEST LINK. Hermione takes a trip to Lancashire. Neville takes a reality check. The Borometz takes its place in the scheme of things.

1 'Bird By Bird' by Anne Lamott.

2 Lambeth Lamb. On display at Lambeth Museum of Garden History, England.

3 Histrionics: exaggerated, stagy, hypocritical behaviour