A/N: Hello and welcome back to chapter eight of my little story. I know, this one if far shorter than you're used to, but I typed this out quickly before I went on vacation, so I sincerely hope you'll forgive me this once. I only came back from my holiday yesterday, and have not even started on the next chapter yet, so I apologize for foregoing the little preview to the next chapter at the end of this one.
Also, I found that none of you has chosen to participate in the little competition I set you last chapter. Allow me to repeat: Guess in which country I was on vacation and I'll work a line of your choosing into one of the next chapters. :) Participate by review or PM, or not at all, whatever you like. But before you do, I present to you chapter eight. Enjoy!
Saturday, September 14th, 1995
The weekend found Hermione in a much better mood than the last couple of days had. For starters, she didn't have to hide the looming threat of her detention from the boys, and it took a huge weight off her shoulders. After Harry had come back from his own detention with the toad that Friday, he had appeared more relaxed than usual as well. They had stayed in the common room together for a couple of rounds of Exploding Snap before they retreated to their respective dormitories.
Saturday, they spent lounging the morning away – Hermione with a heavy tome for a bit of light reading, seated comfortably in front of the crackling fire, the boys in bed until they got up shortly before noon, both still visibly sleep-tousled, and went to the Great Hall for lunch together. There, Hermione was still shot several looks, ranging from spiteful (the Slytherins, glad that the Gryffindor Princess had gotten what they probably thought had been long coming) to incredulous (the Ravenclaws, still confused that somebody even more studious than most of their seventh years had landed herself in detention), to awed (the Hufflepuffs, who would be unable to stop crying at random intervals for days if they had to sit detention with the Potions Master), to outright proud (the Gryffindors, though mostly the Weasley twins, who congratulated Hermione on finding her spine and showing it to the most feared teacher at Hogwarts).
The trio shrugged all the attention off, focussing on their lunch and newly minted friendship once more – not that it had ever broken, really, but the crack that both Hermione's secret and her distance from Harry had left had been quite substantial. Even Harry was his usual cheerful self, the one his two best friends had been missing for the last couple of months since the Third Task at the Triwizard Tournament.
After a lengthy lunch, they took a walk across the grounds, leisurely walking along the Black Lake, and catching up in all the bashing (Umbridge, Percy, and Professor Snape, though Ron argued that really, if Hermione was calling Umbridge a toad so freely, then she should at least let him and Harry forego the greasy git's title) they had missed in the stress of the last two weeks. Hermione was cautious, not going into detail of what had landed her in detention in the first place, and not quite joining in the Snape-bashing either (see, Ron said, it's easy to skip the 'professor' once in a while). She remembered her promise to Headmaster Dumbledore to stand against the boys in matters concerning the person of their Potions Master if necessary, but decided that calling them off for some much needed gossip when they had just reunited their trio was not the way to go.
Instead, after a generous hour of happy frolicking on the castle grounds, she ushered the boys inside to sit down and do their homework in the library. Ron waved them off, telling them to grab a couple of books for him as well and meet him in the common room. It appeared he had met Neville on his way somewhere, as he carried several of the snacks Ron had grabbed from the kitchen. Together, the four of them sat down at one of the corner tables. While Hermione tried to talk the boys into working now and then in between their snacks, as their History of Magic essay was due first thing Monday morning, she got started on her translation for Ancient Runes as the others were still trying to scrap together a few more inches.
Their evening found a rather amiable chess match between Harry and Ron, mostly due to the fact that Harry lost so quickly that he had no time to become frustrated with his untrusting chess pieces who were constantly arguing with him, followed by a few rounds of Gobstones. As the time got later and later, and the common room slowly emptied out, Hermione thought whether she should talk to Harry about teaching a Defence group once more. She decided against it eventually, choosing to give Harry a few more days of peace in their friendship before she went and stirred things up once more. Perhaps, she thought however, she should test the waters with potential students. After all, Ron and her were not the only ones who would be living in a war soon, no matter that the three of them were far more likely to be caught right in the middle of it than the rest of their yearmates. Yet why limit their group to their yearmates only? Especially the younger students would need protection, and the older ones were more probable to make the conscious decision to fight, or be recruited, as Dumbledore only inducted those of age into the Order.
Her brain was whirring with the possibilities, weighing options against one another, dismissing this one and recomposing the other, while trying to follow and contribute to the conversation with Harry and Ron. When they parted ways at the stairs that night, Hermione raced up to her dorm room, rushing through her nightly ablutions, and warded herself into her four poster bed, curtains firmly drawn, before her mind kicked into overdrive. She had a long night ahead.
Sunday, September 15th, 1995
When the boys grabbed their grooms for a few rounds across the Quidditch pitch the next morning and asked her to come with them and watch, she waved them off, excusing herself with the rest of her Ancient Runes homework she had long finished the night before. Grabbing her books and parchment for appearances, she made her way to the library, the short list of book titles Professor Snape had given her firmly in mind.
Discovering that all the four books in question were undeniably stored in the Restricted Section, she faced the librarian's table with a heavy heart, certain that she would be denied access without a permission slip. It appeared, however, that she need not have feared, as Madam Pince already had said permission slip on hand. As the librarian bristled off for the Restricted Section to get the books – not allowing Hermione to spend any time there, lest she get ideas – Hermione caught a quick glimpse at the note the elder woman had clutched in her hand. She was unable to decipher the narrow script at a distance, but the writing had clearly sprung from the Potions Master's hand – no, quill, Hermione mentally corrected herself. Merlin knew she had quite a detailed idea of how the professor could magically mimic the use of his hands. Hands-on experience, one might say, the annoying voice in her head chimed unexpectedly, its tone heavy with glee, though it shouldn't have come as a surprise anymore that it would speak up when least welcome.
It was highly unusual for a teacher to supply a permission slip to tomes from the Restricted Section without even informing the benefitted student beforehand. In fact, at least as far as Hermione knew which was quite far, such a thing was unheard of, but it appeared that even the stern and no-nonsense librarian did not dare question the Potions Master. Or if she had, Hermione allowed herself to inwardly snicker, she had probably (certainly) not received any answer.
And so it was that Hermione found herself presented with four books and ushered off as Madam Pince went over to one of the tables to admonish a couple of particularly studious second year Ravenclaws about whatever it was they had done wrong in her eyes. Hermione weighed the books in her hands and was quite surprised. They were far smaller and lighter than she would have expected, knowing from Harry's tales and from her own very short experience in the Restricted Section in her second year that most books there were large and heavy, rather than like those mere slips that she now held in her hands.
Eager to get on with her work, having already lounged the Saturday away and remembering that Professor Snape had instructed her not to do any school work on Mondays, she made her way through several rows of books, down narrow aisles between crammed shelves that reached to the ceiling, until she reached her favourite sitting place. It was a small alcove facing a narrow window, well hidden in the depths of the library, just behind the section for Magical Theory which was rarely visited by anybody, and as such was little known. In fact, Hermione was quite confident that she was the only student during her time at Hogwarts to have discovered this alcove, and if she wasn't, then she was the only one to use it.
The alcove wasn't really fit for any serious work, involving cross-referencing several heavy tomes while scribbling away her notes. No, it contained neither chair nor table; it was merely a slip in the wall. It was well fit for a bit of reading, however, as this corner of the library was little frequented and rarely disturbed, and certainly never, in Hermione's experience, on a Sunday morning.
As it was, Hermione conjured a small side table to lay down her books on, and seated herself on the ledge of the narrow window, a Cushioning charm providing much in the way of comfort. Inspecting the books, she found two of them to be some sort of journals, containing scribbled notes that appeared to span several months each, though they seemed to have sprung from different hands. Upon skimming through a couple of pages of each of the two journals, Hermione discerned them to be personal notes from mentor and prodigy, apparently two of the first to delve into Mind Magic in any civilized way in the fourteenth century. Before that, Hermione gleaned from one of the other books – a history of Mind Magic, covering the last three and a half thousand years in brief, and the last eight hundred years in more detail, reaching from South East Asian practices to Norwegian cults – Occlumency and Legilimency had been mostly used instinctively, even brutishly one might say.
The fourth book, Hermione discovered to her surprise, was a text on relaxation and meditative techniques. It took her a while to discern why exactly such an apparently innocent book needed to be stored in the Restricted Section. She soon realized, however, that the described techniques had sprung from experiments with Muggles, both cooperatively in the beginning and under force soon thereafter. Hermione was appalled, but forced herself to view it as beyond her powers to change the way the contents of this book had come to be, and tried to treat it as any other scientific manual.
Deciding to read into the history book first, Hermione snuggled into the window and started to read. She withstood her usual need for taking notes, instead trying to keep the most important dates and a general time frame in mind, before she laid the book down and started on the mentor's journal. Devouring a couple of entries, Hermione realized that maybe she should read the prodigy's notes in tandem, parallel to the mentor's experiences. When she reached for the journal, however, she found it gone from her conjured table.
Instead, it was clutched in the old, withered hands of a white-bearded wizard in purple robes.
"A bit of light reading on such a beautiful Sunday, Miss Granger?" the Headmaster inquired.
Relieved that it was only the Headmaster to have discovered her – if 'only' was a word to sensibly use in the context with Professor Dumbledore, which it wasn't – Hermione nodded.
"Yes, Headmaster," she confirmed.
Maybe if she could avoid her specific topic of study, he would go away.
"Interesting choice of topic you have here, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore dispersed her rather small hope. "I wonder how you came upon these, if they are merely for a little pleasurable reading?"
The twinkling in his eyes might have taken the blow out of the inquiry, but an inquiry it was nonetheless, and there was no way for Hermione not to answer it.
"Professor Snape recommended these to me," she slowly chose to reply. "He said I might benefit from reading through these books, and was kind enough to provide a permission slip for me."
If the twinkling had seemed excessive before, it now multiplied in force, until Hermione felt the urge to look away. Not too bad an idea, she thought, as the Headmaster was probably an expert Legilimens.
"So these are for your detention?" he queried. At her shocked look, he chuckled. "Ah, yes, Miss Granger, you were hard to be overheard at breakfast this Friday."
Hermione felt an embarrassed blush creep into her cheeks before she forced her head into a nodding motion.
"Yes, sir," she confirmed, though was unwilling to provide any more information than that.
"I take it your endeavour is well under way then, Miss Granger?" Professor Dumbledore pressed on, ever the benevolent grandfather in appearance, though Hermione knew of the power that resided within.
"It is under way, sir," she corrected, intentionally leaving the 'well' out. When there was no reply from the formidable wizard, she further provided, "We are having weekly meetings, sir, and he will be teaching me this and that."
A short look up into his face confirmed to Hermione that Professor Dumbledore was mulling this information over in his head. After a few moments of almost terse silence, if it wasn't for the damn twinkling of his eyes, the purple-clad wizard nodded merrily.
"It is always good to be a well-versed in a little of this and that," he stated. "Though I suggest you keep your studies of this a little better under wrap, Miss Granger," he said, and a wave of his wand had the history book and the manual on relaxation techniques in Nordic Runes, and the handwriting in the two journals became even less indecipherable.
"And remember, Miss Granger," the Headmaster continued, "that once you progress to studying that, this little charm will come in handy."
And with a flurry of his bright purple robes, he was gone.
Picking up the books, Hermione found that the script that appeared indecipherable from afar was perfectly legible to her, and the Nordic Runes translated themselves into the English that they had originally been before her eyes. She was certain, however, that to everybody else, none of the books would be readable – unless, of course, they carried the Nygord's Runic Alphabet of the North, second edition, of which there were only around a dozen known copies in existence.
Hermione chuckled to herself. Trust the Headmaster to extract information from her and provide help in the same breath, without outwardly appearing to do either.
Switching back into her studious mode, Hermione took up the two journals, wriggled deeper into the window seat, and continued to read.
It was hours later, when the light had faded to the degree where Hermione needed to cast a Lumos (no fire in the library, not even her little portable blue flames) to be able to read the words before her eyes, that she realized that maybe she should make her way back to the boys. She had obviously missed lunch and even though they knew her to be studious and to easily get lost in her studies, she didn't need them to get worried and come looking for her.
And so it was that with a heavy heart – for she had not yet read through all the books, having become stuck in the manual for relaxation techniques – she picked up her books and walked back to the common room. Fortunately she had checked the books out from the library the moment she got them, she thought. Morgana help her if Madam Pince had discovered what Professor Dumbledore had done to the books, encrypting them for everybody's eyes but hers and probably his own. The old harridan would have screamed herself into a fit, Hermione could very well imagine.
When she climbed through the portrait hole, careful to avoid conversation with the Fat Lady who still appeared to want to talk to her about her late entrance on Thursday night, she found the two boys sitting in comfy chairs (not their favourites though, as those were hard to get on a lazy Sunday as this) by the fire, deep in thought over a game of Wizard's Chess. When Hermione went over to them, however, it was just in time for her to see Harry's king throw down his crown at the feet of Ron's castle, which had moved in to set the white pieces check mate. Defeated, Harry sighed and amiably shook Ron's hand, obviously knowing that he wouldn't be winning against his ginger best friend anytime soon.
Ron, who had seen Hermione approach, jumped up with an exclaimed "Finally!", scrambled to tidy up the pieces (though his definition of tidying anything up was far from what Hermione would find acceptable), rushed up to his dorm room, and was back mere seconds later, chess board and pieces stowed away and himself ready for dinner. He was far quicker than she had expected, and when she motioned to her books, half indecipherable and the other half in Nordic Runes – which were just as indecipherable for the boys as the untidy handwriting on the journals –, Harry just laughed and Ron asked her, incredulous, whether she had really spent all her Sunday pouring over Runes of all things, and did she actually think anybody would steal books from her, especially ones in Runes, really? She merely shrugged him off and went to safely store the precious works in her school trunk, locking and heavily warding it, before she joined them and they went down for dinner.
As they sat down at their usual place in the Great Hall, Hermione still took care to have her back to the High Table. Harry threw her a questioning look, but it lasted only for a second before he followed Ron's lead and dug into dinner. Herself, Hermione went for a simple meal of fried potatoes and some grilled vegetables, listening to the boys' tales of the days with only half an ear. All the while, she mentally went through the chapter on facial muscle relaxation, attempting to strain and relax in turn the muscles of her forehead, ears, and lower face. If those exercises made her look any more or less expressive than usual, the boys did not notice or at least did not call her out on it. From time to time, she would feel a slight burning in the back of her head, a coldness that crept into her mind, and she knew that a certain Potions Master was keeping his watchful eyes on her. Confident (or so she told herself, but knew that it was rather hopeful than confident) that he wouldn't try and enter her mind from half the Hall away, she dismissed the niggling feeling of being watched and concentrated on her exercises with all the determination she could muster.
Never give him the chance to dismiss her from the lessons she had worked so hard to convince him to give her, simply on the reason of not having come prepared. Not her. Not in this.