the

R A P U N Z E L

C O M P L E X

- Saeriel -

- Dim Aldebaran -

:i:

Chapter Six

Through the Looking Glass

"Falling, falling, falling down. Look yourself in the eye before you drown."

The Indigo Girls

:i:

She Apparated to Grimmauld Place.

It was, after all, the safest place she knew.

No Death Eaters, no Voldemort; no Gryffindors, no Dumbledore.

Lupin was the only resident, nowadays.

Grimmauld Place had been her home over the summer, and it had accommodated her like one of Lupin's cloaks; old, worn, but so startling familiar she could not imagine anything else had ever been home. Her parents faded into the distance, and the whirlwind of the events within had taken her.

Somewhat dazed, she saw that she had found her way into the kitchen, the nexus of the house; more surprisingly, she had found her way to someone's lunch.

Lupin's, by the scent of raw meat.

She wrinkled her nose against the beginnings of rancidity. Undoubtedly, he had left on unexpected Order business.

She closed her eyes. She felt as if the world would tip over at any moment, like a coin spinning on the table, beginning to lose nerve… She felt herself grow dizzy, her thoughts tangled up so thoroughly with emotions that nothing was impersonal and everything was impossible.

Merlin—she clutched at the thick table; the sturdiness of the oak did not comfort her. Everything was falling around her, everything was falling and she would fall too—

A few rational thoughts formed, crystallizing from that flood of thoughts into a lattice that could suspend her over the abyss she fell so rapidly into. Artemis was a Muggle. In her mind, he had represented himself as a young businessman; and how many young businessmen were there in Ireland with the name of Artemis?

Her mind began to spin in a more constructive manner, given direction and flow. Other things—other things could wait until later. Artemis' Muggle identity hung before her like the Holy Grail, and nothing could stop her, not even thoughts of loyalty.

Near the end of the summer, Snape had abruptly decided that they would go for a walk in town. Of course, this was as much a walk in town as him locking her in a room laced with curses was a tour of the house, but it was surprisingly mild, as far as Snape's surprises went. One of their stops had been at a local internet café, where Snape had had her practice planting thoughts and ideas in people's heads. He had selected this place in particular, she later concluded, because so many of the café's patrons had been downloading pornography, which was something she was very naïve about. Several hours later, she was thoroughly enlightened on the subject, and her implanted thoughts were already bearing fruit: on her last visit, there had been considerably fewer Muggles downloading porn, and more attending to less distasteful matters.

The righteousness to it—correcting the twisted morals that grew in such a rich forest of people—had far outweighed any qualms she had in going in and altering a man's mind without his consent at the time. For other cases, though—for selfish gain—she was at an impasse with herself. Muggles were not Wizards; what chance did they have of defending their innermost thoughts from her? But how would they know, what difference could they sense in the before and afar? They were children to her, to be protected and taken care of.

But this was now—did she even need an honest reason, anymore?

The thought dwelled on her mind briefly, but was then driven away by the relentless thought of Artemis.

She stood, made herself presentable, and went out the door with as brusque an air as she could manage, to convince herself as much as anyone. She would be going to an internet café to use Muggle technology. The very thought would appall most wizards—including Snape—but she didn't mind much. She had been a Muggle once, and some things just never leave.

Like computers.

It only took her a few minutes to get there; upon arrival, she transfigured a piece of litter to some currency, and used it to pay for her booth. Surely, helping the environment canceled the sin of cheating the serviceman.

She bought a cup of Chai and settled into her chair.

The thought—twisting a man's mind into liking her more—did not bother her; and this very lack qualms bothered her. He was not even a Wizard; what chance did he have of defending his innermost thoughts against her?

She stared at the computer screen, half-remembering the days when her skin was bleached pale with that halflight. Before Hogwarts, she had been rather fascinated with computers, learning all the latest programming codes and dabbling in her own hybrids.

After, she had always been sure to devote some of her summer time to Muggle matters: even then, it was obvious to her that linking the best of Wizard magic and Muggle technology would be the most powerful tool of the age. She had not nearly the expertise in either to do anything with this idea, and had so kept it in the back of her mind, ready for the time when she was.

Even now in cryptography and decursing, she had made baby steps towards her glorious abstract goal. Many of her decursing was based off of programs used to encrypt data—creating magical spells that did the equivalent had been a major key, in both decoding actual messages and in unraveling spells, which were so easily equitable with those same programs. Soon, more literal connections could be made between the two, and spells could be cast by the click of the mouse…

She reprimanded herself with a cluck of the tongue, and brought up Google, using the easy search 'Artemis' and 'businessman'. She had over a million results; scanning the first page, she noted none of them were Irish. Her terms were clearly too broad, so she added in another: 'Irish'.

Her heart thumped as she saw the results: about a hundred pages worth, mostly news headlines. Fascinated, she began to read: of the Fowl dynasty that stretched across the millennium, of the Butler servitude that paralleled it, of Fowl Manor's notorious defenses, of the Fowl Star and the Mafia, of Angeline Fowl's madness and her sudden recovery.

Her heart thumped at the mention of Artemis' name. Married to Angeline? Killed in the Fowl Star, then found miraculously alive two years later? Surely—

She flipped through some more results. Of course—two Artemises (Artemii?) I and II. Vaguely, she wondered whether the former called the latter 'Junior'.

She narrowed her search in regard to the son. His infamy with Muggles was clear; much like Al Capone, everyone knew him to be guilty of spectacular crimes, but nothing could be proved in the least. This alone could fascinate the public, but reading on, she saw more—the startling breadth of his genius, spanning from Carnegie Hall to a Nobel Prize in Physics (for handling the matter of string theory in a spectacular manner, as she understood it), from the halls of the Louvre to the worldwide shipping industry.

Much of it seemed like perfect stepping stones for Death Eater business: a ruthless criminal history which he had inherited in a splendid manner, fatherless at an early age, though returned to him, a (temporarily) insane mother, and great wealth that could only spoil.

However, in the vast population of the Muggle world, there were hundreds of criminal dynasties, from Antonelli to Nguyen; and the patriarchs of these dynasties often died young. What made Artemis special to Voldemort?

Without a doubt she knew it to be his genius. Such depth would take her breath away even in an idiot savant; but he possessed full understanding of every field of study, and those few he did not, he could very well become so in a few short weeks. In short, he was that very rare genius was intuitive about everything; that could be what attracted Voldemort so, since such a mind would clearly have great capacity for magic, and would thus be a powerful tool in the War.

So why didn't he appear in the Wizard records?

Most dynasties, even the ones known in the Muggle world, had their share of Wizards—Mafia, Tudor, all of them. Not only was it a statistical certainty, but considering the intense intermarrying of the dynasties, even to the point of inbreeding, the blood was simply so pure…

Internally, she cursed her lack of knowledge on the subject. Bloodlines had never interested her; her intense of dislike of even a reminder of her Mudblood heritage drove away any curiosity she might have had on the subject. If she knew the intricacies of Muggle-Wizard dynasties…

It wasn't anything she could find on Google, in any case.

She shut the computer down. Her search had given her adequate information on Artemis—or Artemis Fowl the Second, as she now knew him as—to aid future questioning in the Wizarding world. With a dynasty name, she could search the genealogy texts at the Library for relationships to more firmly magical dynasties, like the Malfoys or the Blacks. From there—

She stood, and pushed her chair in. Her chai had grown cold; as she went out the door, she deposited the cup into a garbage can. She was unused to so much waste; plastic cups instead of ceramic, paper napkins instead of cloth. Disgusting, really, how much garbage Muggles produced—

My parents are Muggles, she reminded herself. Are they disgusting?

Muggles can't help it. They're Muggles.

She stopped suddenly on the sidewalk. I'm a Muggle.

…no, you're not a Muggle, you're a Wizard, you're better than them…

Briskly, she started walking again. It was ridiculous, really, how she was degrading Muggle practices, when she had just used their Internet, which had no equivalent in the Wizarding world. Let alone Google. Merlin, did she love Google…

Grimmauld place arrived quickly; she stepped off of the sidewalk and into the barren lot. After a toddler on his tricycle passed her by, she murmured the password; the house appeared before her, and she stepped in.

A note hovered in the doorway; plucking it from the air, she noted the sharp words:

G.-

You are to report to Dumbledore IMMEDIATELY.

She burned the note with a quick spell, though the message was harmless. She had scarce been gone an hour; compared to that endless night in the Forest; why such a hurry? She had never been rushed before in any of her research follow-ups to a decryption project. Indeed, she had always been told to take her time, to explore every possibility once push came to shove and she had to do some research.

And the penmanship on the note had not been Lupin's. She frowned. Lupin was the only one she had expected to be here, with most of the Order busy with their 'other' lives on a Wednesday morning. The full moon was approaching, which was why she thought Lupin might be here, to put himself away where he couldn't hurt anybody.

But it wasn't Lupin here.

She drew her wand. She could spare a few moments to search, surely; a potential security breach, a possible attempt at subterfuge?

Hermione closed her eyes, spreading out magical tendrils to search the grounds. Though this sort of thing was far easier when she could see, there happened to be walls in the wall. Her mind was still busy adjusting herself to the idea that it could 'see' magic, let alone that magic didn't behave like visible light and went right through walls. For now, eyes closed.

Grimmauld Place was a great haze of old spells—not the even haze of the Forest, but a blotchy sort, concentrated around the artifacts where the spells had begun to disattach, like the fraying of rope. Buckbeak was a dim glow, like an old kerosene lantern; the master bedroom was rimmed with light from the protective enchantments; the broomstick cupboard glimmered like a candelabra; and a silhouette of fire blazed in the corridor.

She opened her eyes, smiling slightly to herself. The magical signature was unmistakable: Severus Snape. With her tutelage in Occlumens, she had grown to recognize his presence even at great distances with this familiarity.

Hermione pocketed her wand. "Snape?"

He emerged from the corridor gloom. With her eyes open, she could detect more subtleties in his appearance; his magical aura was clearly faded, as if dense fog had evanesced in the unrelenting sun. Physically, his skin was more sallow, his hair more lank, his eyes more sunken: though his sneer was as disdainful as ever. "Miss Granger."

She inclined her head in respect, though at the present she felt nothing but curiosity. It was rare for Snape to be called out to Death Eater duties two nights in a row; something was brewing, and it was something that she wanted to be involved in.

His lip curled as he considered her appearance; she felt a blush rise in her cheeks, and she ordered it away desperately; even now, she was such a child… "Out late on business, I presume?"

She raised an eyebrow, forcing her manner to be as calm and collected as his. "May I assume the same?"

He took a seat, reclining with all the grace of a Stoker vampire. Even sitting, his presence was demanding, haughty. "One of our number was missing last night," Snape began, idly tracing the woodgrain on the table. "A chair, empty at the Dark Lord's side. A chair—a chair not normally there. You see, Miss Granger—the Dark Lord sits alone at the head of the table when we feast, reveling in death and damnation." His fingers reached the edge of the table; one by one, they stood on end, poised. "Miss Granger, do you have any idea where the occupant of this chair might have gone?"

There was something in how he twisted the words—something in that hooked knife in his voice, something in how it reached in and forced guilt from her dying conscience, that made her blush hotly and respond in all truth: "Yes, I do."

One by one, his fingers marched themselves off the edge; fascinated, she watched, the long, pale fingers that were silhouetted against the gloom of Grimmauld Place. "Care to share, Miss Granger?"

She opened her mouth to reply—then hesitated. Why doesn't he already know?

—does he no longer posses Voldemort's confidence?—

—does Dumbledore no longer trust him?—

—or does he simply want to hear me say it?—

"Now, Miss Granger?"

It spilled out before she could help it: "It was Artemis Fowl, sir—he came to the centaur affair. He—" She stopped herself; Merlin, she was letting this all out before even reporting it to Dumbledore—

"He what, Miss Granger?" He leaned forward; his dark eyes bored into hers. She could feel an Legilimens connection begin to simmer between them as he probed through her mind.

She steeled her mind against him; but it had already been violated once this day, and she was weak; however much she struggled, it was like a cat in a bag in a river, and as he plucked through her memories she could only hide her deepest thoughts from him, the darkest thoughts possible for a member of the Order—

He broke the connection; she felt a sharp chuckle cut the air between them. "Really, Miss Granger—I never would have dreamed—"

She closed her eyes; she felt so tired, suddenly, her mind raped and her emotions stretched taut and now quite limp. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He considered her from the chair; the dark eyes only seemed to violate her again. "There is nothing to apologize for; such thoughts are delicacies to the cultured mind. Lucius, for example: he always takes the orphans, for they always have the most intriguing fantasies of wealth and power." His lips curled into a cruel smile, like a cat pondering its prey. "The Dark Lord insists upon this: rape the mind before the body. Else, fools like Macnair would be quite useless at breaking the Aurors."

She looked up with a sudden fear. "Sir—"

He laughed; rich and bitter like an old wine. "Never fear, Miss Granger. I don't take sport in such things. He reserves me for higher things." Abruptly, he changed the topic: "But you will thank me for all this, when the time comes. You see, you will not be given to Lucius, or to Macnair, though they would both love to have you—you will be for the Dark Lord himself." His voice changed to a sort of low purr, darkly self satisfied. "At the end of all things, you will be what I have against him, you will be what strikes, for you will be the only one who can deceive him—"

Her fear swelled within her. "Sir, surely I will not be captured—"

He laughed again, not with that richness but with an edge, the sort on a razor that you turn against yourself. "Of course not. You will turn yourself in."

"Sir—"

He stood, and drew his wand. "You will understand eventually. For now, go to your precious Dumbledore, make yourself as happy as a traitor can be. Adieu."

And with that, he Disapparated.

The world spun, and she could only sit down.

Merlin—

The things he said—such terrible things—

He calls me his protégée, he calls me his weapon…

…he treats me like a child, like a sacrifice!

She set her head in her hands, too shaken to even support herself.

He's toying with me, I'm a game to him.

I'm nothing.

…nothing, not even a pawn I'm so petty…

She felt the tears well up in her eyes, hot and wet like fresh blood.

I'm nothing more than a whore for him, something to be used and cast aside.

She shook her head; a sob wracked her body as a curious emotion took her and left nothing behind.

Nothing more than a whore for them all.

Merlin—she pulled her head up and stared at her hands in sudden shame. These are the hands that will doom us all, he said it himself…

… these are the hands that will turn themselves in to the Dark Lord, these are the hands that will destroy the Order…

She fumbled for her wand; better to take her life now—

The wand was in her hands; cool, smooth, sane against the madness of it all. It would be so simple, a flash of light and she would be gone.

Hermione clutched at it with both hands, as if the chance would slip from her grasp.

Two words.

Six syllables.

Twelve letters.

She pointed it at herself; the wandtip dug at her throat, bruising it, like a lovebite of death.

…so simple…

She heard voices crying out; her conscience calling out for an end, every moral commanding her to say the words.

…do it, do it now Hermione, do it before he can use you again…

Stopping for a broken sob, stopping and trying again: "Ava—"

The wand slipped from her hand; falling to her knees, she reached for it, half blind with tears, slipping from her hands, slick from tears—scrabbling for it—

"Hermione?"

The soft, warm voice of Lupin cut into her more than Snape's ever could. Sobbing, she looked up and saw his gray silhouette at the doorway.

"Oh, 'Mione—" He kneeled down and took the sobbing girl in his arms. The curse was still on her lips. It was all she could do not to die as she burrowed her face into his worn cloak.

Her broken sobs subsided into shuddering words: "I—I failed—"

He hushed her, holding her tightly; his warmth surrounded her, and she could smell the sickly sweet of lycanthropy on him. "'Mione, it doesn't matter right now—'Mione, forget about that right now—"

She shook her head, rubbing his cloak. "No, Rem', I failed, you don't understand—"

"I do," he said firmly, but quietly, rocking her back and forth like a child, as a child. "I've failed missions before, but things are always righted in the end—"

She drew away, shaking her head. His concerned face filtered back to her through a veil of tears. "You don't understand, you don't understand! Snape—"

"—is an oversized bat," he said firmly, catching her by the elbows. He pulled her up so they stood; she felt like she would fall. "Whatever he said, forget it. He's as tired and worn as you are, and people say strange things when they're tired."

'and do' rang out unspoken.

She allowed herself to be propelled to the bathroom. "Clean yourself up," Lupin whispered, "and we'll go out for some fire whiskey in Hogsmeade together. Ron will be jealous, eh? We can deal with Dumbledore later."

She grinned weakly, despite herself. Ron would be jealous, and it wouldn't help matters between them, but it was something—

He smiled affectionately, pulling a twig from her hair. "There you go, now. I'll be right outside here."

He closed the door on her. The messiness to the bathroom greeted her; mechanically, she went to the sink and washed her hands, then face, rubbing a washcloth all over. The cold water was a dream.

After a fever, one seldom remembers the peculiar delusions that go hand in hand with the high temperature. It was so with Hermione: as she stared into her reflection, with the wild, bloodshot eyes, the flushed skin, the messy hair that hung about her face, she could scarce remember the circumstances of her madness.

Merlin, she thought, touching her fingers to the still-hot tears on her cheeks, Merlin, what did I almost do?—

—what have I done?

She ran more water through the washcloth, setting it to her face.

They will never trust me again after this, it occurred to her. The thought was dry, stoic; a mere statement of fact.

She wrung out the cloth and set it out to dry. She set to work on her hair, brushing it with something of Tonk's.

They will view me as unstable; Lupin saw what I was about to do, and even if he trusts me he will have to report it. He is as loyal as the rest of us.

Her thoughts were cool, calm, like a computer's.

Us? There is no 'us' anymore.

There is me, and there is them.

She tore out a knot with a certain amount of viciousness.

Snape is trying to use me; I am a tool to him, I am a pawn, I am to be thrust into the heart of darkness so I may turn into a queen and checkmate the entire world, doom Dumbledore, doom Voldemort, doom us all.

Voldemort—not a pawn, but a toy: a thing to be tossed around and away, a thing to be worn, garnish on a gaudy crown, an amusement.

Dumbledore—I am to be held back, I am to be protected, I am to be a resource. He wants to suppress the wolf within me so I am tame for him.

The thought came to her, inevitable:

…no, there is an 'us'… Artemis and I, us, we, we are two of a kind…

They will try to manipulate us.

Artemis is his pet now, his amusement: and he wants another, he wants me… he will manipulate us both if I am captured—

Artemis…

I must rescue him.

She transfigured the dirty washcloth into a new, clean set of robes; she shivered during the brief moment of nudity as she changed.

Artemis, Artemis—we are the same, you and I, used and abused…

She looked at herself in the mirror; a strange shudder ran through her, with no source nor end. She looked cold and sharp, like a zircon crystal.

We are wolves together, you and I—

—for I know that I am a wolf.

She opened the door; older, but still so very much a child. "Rem'?"

He was leaning against the opposite wall; attentive but tired. Kindness sapped strength from the bones. His eyes swept over her; their exact expression was something Hermione could not fathom. "Yes?"

"—my wand, please?"

He handed it back to her silently; she muttered a thanks. He didn't trust her with it, not after what she had almost done; and he still didn't trust her, but he didn't want her to know that. Lupin was Lupin; all warmth and weariness with that sickly sweet of lycanthropy.

She followed him to the kitchen; her thoughts drifted on Snape as she saw the chair where she had fallen so deeply into herself.

"Still up for some firewhiskey?" Lupin asked. He added in a grin like a garnish.

She smiled in return; it felt cold, even to herself. "Sure," she replied.

They Apparated; The Hog's Head was a brisk, wordless walk away from the hamlet entrance.

Once inside, Lupin took a seat at the bar; Hermione followed suit. The air was hot and heavy for October.

The bartender came up, waiting for their order.

"Firewhiskey," she said, before Lupin could make smalltalk with him, "for the both of us."

The bartender looked like he was going to ask her age for a moment, but then shook his head and went to get their drinks. Hermione had a small burst of pride at this: he had assumed her older than twenty, the minimum age for such heavy drinks.

He came back presently with the two mugs. After serving them wordlessly, he left again. The whole place seemed listless, full of a heavy silence. She knew it wasn't the normal air of the place, despite its reputation of that other Hogsmeade bar; it had to do with the awkward halfpeace of the war, the undecidedness of it all.

It had infected her in a different sort of way; sharpening her normal anxious, serious self, giving it something to latch on to. Mixed with her old, familiar altruism, it had resulted in volunteering for Order duties, those long months ago.

And now—she sipped the firewhiskey. She'd work in the Order still, she decided; not because it was the Right Thing To Do, but because it would keep her in the thick of things. It would keep her on the forefront of the doings of both sides, with her direct contact with so many of the Order members, and her constant monitoring of the Death Eaters. He would keep a closer eye on her, given her little performance, and probably wouldn't entrust her with any more proper field duties. However, he could not afford to lose her for decryption: she had grown too much in the role, she was too valuable, too good…

The firewhiskey burned in her throat. She would bide her time—yes, she would wait until the opportunity arose, the opportunity to rescue Artemis and to rid herself of all these responsibilities. They would be nonpartisan to it all, they would be wolves together, they would be mates.

And Lupin; Lupin at her side… even in the heavy scents of the bar she could smell that lycanthropy, since full moon was fast approaching. Lupin had always been kind to her; she appreciated his generosity as advantageous to her, but she could only scorn the motives. He had a genuine fondness for her, a protective urge that was so close to fatherhood, it almost made her regret her thoughts.

But she had to start acting, or he would get suspicious of these new thoughts in her head.

"Rem'?" she asked, trying to imitate the innocent fear she no longer felt. "Why was I sent into the Forest?"

Lupin sipped at his firewhiskey; he never had had the intent of drinking it all. "It wasn't my decision," he said eventually. "If I had it my way…" He trailed off, and took another sip of the firewhiskey.

"Dumbledore?"

"No," he said slowly, "no, not Dumbledore. Dumbledore had nothing to do with it."

She frowned; she could feel the old curiosity welling up within her like a freshwater spring. "Then who?"

He looked down at the bartop. "The older Aurors—Mad Eye, mostly, but also Kingsley and a few others."

She already knew the answer, but she asked anyway: "Why?"

When he looked up, his eyes were pained. "We need you, 'Mione—we need everyone we can get our hands on. It's not right, but we have to…" He stood abruptly, tossing some coins onto the counter in an uncharacteristic display of terseness. "We should be going, now. Dumbledore is expecting us."

She nodded, standing. She hadn't had much of the firewhiskey, but what little she had had did her good: numbing that sharpness in her mind, blurring the world to a certain ambivalence it didn't have in Grimmauld Place.

It was a brisk walk to the Hogwarts entrance; Hagrid was there to greet them. The magnificent gates, all curling iron and stoic stone, were no longer kept open for the general public to stroll into—the Ministry's rule, not Dumbledore's. Opening them required the use of several of Hagrid's keys, which were large and ornate, and clinked gently in the crisp October wind.

"Nice to see you back, Hermione," Hagrid said as he opened the gates. When the iron parted he took her in a great bear of a hug. Though he may not have known the exact nature of her mission, he must have been told of the possibility of rescuing her from the confines of the Forest. "Bein' one piece an' all."

Released, Hermione forced a grin. "Nice to see you too," she replied evenly. Her sharpness blunted with his obtuse sort of comfort. "How's everyone?"

Hagrid grinned widely, and they all started walking towards the castle. "'much the same, really, though I 'spect that Harry and Ron are worried about you."

Of course," she said. The irony was hard on her lips; not worried, but jealous, terribly so, since they would know this wasn't just decryption this time around, they would know this was something real and dangerous, the full blooded work of the Aurors they all revered.

Lupin and Hagrid fell into a conversation regarding the Forest werewolves. It didn't interest her much, so her mind wandered amidst the approaching spirals of Hogwarts. Harry and Ron. They were so naïve… not understanding her in the slightest, or even really attempting to. She was always an outsider to the two of them; in previous years she had loosely revolved around them, like a white dwarf star around a tight binary system, supporting them whenever things when awry.

Now—she smiled to herself. So much of what they did and thought was fixated around her. They went to her for news on the Order, for help on all their homework, for advice on new spells. All of their doings came through her now, it seemed… And their thoughts! She had heard them talking to each other so many times when she was not around, expressing fears for her and how she was changing, envy for all she was doing…

They reached the main gates. Hagrid and Lupin said their goodbyes, and then Hagrid turned to her. "I hope you'll do well," Hagrid said gruffly. "I un'erstand that whatever you were doing las' night didn't go as well as you ha' hoped."

"No," she said softly, "it didn't."

He smiled brightly at her. "Better luck next time, eh Hermione?"

She nodded, and went inside.

The halls were bustling, but it was the fake sort of hurry that students use habitually when in school. Many turned their eyes towards the former teacher and known lycanthrope; and even more towards their own, their best and brightest, who walked in his company.

Though few enough people had any idea she was involved in the Order—Harry, Ron, and a few of the more trustworthy DA members—there was quite a bit of speculation about her these days. Some of it was understandable, as far as gossip went: the ever-increasing amount of time she spent with Snape, her decreasing obsession with schoolwork and the lack of corresponding decrease in her grades, her increasing fights with Ron and Harry, the abrupt haircut that left her looking all the more awkward… the list went on. Many more subtle things were noted by the Ravenclaws in the Library: the increasingly darker books she was checking out, the relative benevolence of the librarian, the more time she spent in solitude there. None of it was anything dangerous, on their part; she was on speaking terms with many of the more observant students, and they did not appear to suspect the depth of her involvement with the Order, nor did they appear to be the least bit tempted to betray these little tidbits to the Death Eaters.

Some of it worried her—she, too, had noted changes in other students, most notably Malfoy. Before—and in many respects still—he was a cowardly git, a mere nuisance. However, she had seen him lurking about in the Library in the same places she found herself lingering in, seen him pouring through old tomes of curses and enchantments with an unprecedented studious fervor. There was something more in that pointless malice towards the Golden Trio now, some edge to it that sent a chord of mixed fear and curiosity rippling through her.

The most curious thing was that so many of these changes in Malfoy paralleled the changes in her.

The obvious conclusion was that he, too, had increasing involvement with his cause… what was his mission, what was his duty?—

Dumbledore's door. She blinked at the suddenness of it.

"Madeleine," Lupin said, quite clearly. The gargoyle slid away, and they began ascending the winding staircase. The silence between them suddenly seemed heavy, as if a rope weighed by the great burden of subterfuge. The steps echoed in a sort of staggered cadence.

This was the last chance to assure Lupin of her sanity, of her stability. Else, they might never give her a field mission again… "Dumbledore… will he be…"

He answered the hanging question: "He won't be mad at you. Truth be told, I doubt anyone really expected you to succeed. At the very least, you have gathered some very valuable intelligence for us on centaur politics, which we have so little of. And besides—I'm sure there was some complication, no?"

She nodded. "Yes—yes, there was."

They reached the door; Lupin put his hands on her shoulders and smiled reassuringly down on her. "I'll be right next to you. Don't worry about this at all… Alright?"

She fidgeted, then relented. "Alright."

As they entered the room, she silently congratulated herself on the excellent performance. Hermione the actress…

Dumbledore was at his chair, scratching something down with a long quill pen, but clearly expecting them. He set the pen down, and gazed at her through his glasses. "Ah, Hermione Granger… I was hoping you would come… Please, sit." He gestured broadly; two chairs flew across the room and set themselves before the desk.

She shook her head. "No, but thank you anyway. I'd prefer to stand."

Dumbledore smiled. "Of course. I suppose you're afraid you might fall asleep if you sit, hmm?"

She allowed a small smile in return. "It has been a long night, Professor."

He nodded. "I am sure you are quite tired. Unfortunately, sleep will have to wait until later—could you report on your mission?"

Her stomach curdled. Despite all these newfound ideas of independence and Artemis, she still found herself so desperately ashamed of her failure, not for herself but for the Order, and for Dumbledore. He was a great man; surely, he was no manipulating her so!

She took a breath and began. Things spilled out, some clumsily worded, others concise and impersonal, but always, always, more than what was wise. She told of the unicorn and the mark it left upon her, of the centaur guard and their unicorn-reverence. She told of the great herd of centaurs and of their holy, expectant silence, of Lord Chiron's ghost and of his evanescent ghost. She told of the Death Eater Artemis and of how he brought Lord Chiron to life, of the centaur chieftain's meeting and of the Source.

With it—she could feel the immense respect and gratitude towards Dumbledore swelling like a high tide. He had guided her through all these years, from all the unknowns of a Mudblood in a magical world to the high adventure of saving Sirius to defending them all in the Department of Mysteries… he had held the Wizarding world together when all threatened to fall apart, and he did it all with the twinkling and a smile. Surely, he was not the fool she had so recently thought him, surely he was worthy for her to serve—

Yet, there were some things she could not bring herself to tell him: the unicorn's hesitance; her trickery with the guard; her helplessness with Lord Chiron; her inability to resist Artemis' Legilimency.

But most of all, she hid her infatuation with Artemis.

No one could ever know of Artemis.

When she was done, she felt so tired, so very tired she could have collapsed then and there and slept the century away. Lupin, sensing something of this, put a strong arm on her shoulder in support.

Dumbledore eyed her with something fathomless; respect, irritation, disgust? She could not tell. Eventually, he sighed and picked up his quill again. "Very well then. I will speak to your instructors about giving you the day off. You may retire."

A thought struck her, something nearly forgotten in the rush of it all. "What of the Pensieve?"

He looked up from his papers. "We can discuss this at a later time, perhaps." His eyes twinkled—at her eagerness? A good sign, her mind dimly noted, a good sign… he may even trust me still… "For now, my dear, you need to rest."

Something in her rose, weary but dogged. "But Artemis—"

"—can wait until you are better rested," Lupin finished. He began steering her from the room; she didn't resist. She felt so tired, so very tired…

Heading down the stairs, something heady rose up within her; some total compromise between the dark sharpness of her mind and the innocent righteousness of her soul, something that made her slip and fall and feel each bruise tear her like the repentance of a scourge or the flash of a whip.

Time in the Hospital Wing, she thought as the veils closed around her, will give me time to think.

She heard Lupin's voice, and gave herself to sleep.

:i:

An abrupt ending; we apologize. It's just that it's darn hard to find a good endpoint.

The... things that happened were not too OOC, we hope. God knows we fussed over that section to get the right amount of manipulative!Snape, naive!Hermione, and not!confused!readers.

Next chappie should have Ron & Harry back in, and some time finally passing by. Seriously, this has been over the course of a single day so far. Kinda crazy to think about, no?

Hey, who listens to Indigo Girls? Sorry and I were tossing about for a beginning quote about two months ago, and we heard this song on the radio and we were bothlike: jackpot.

We have also posted edited versions of the prologue and chappies 1 & 2. Thanks for all the nitpicks, guys! They were lovely to sift through whilst editing. Keep 'em coming! CC is always appreciated.