"Professor?"
Professor McGonagall looked up, startled, from the piles of papers on her desk for grading. Hermione Granger stood in front of her, arms anxiously clutching several textbooks in front of her body. McGonagall sat back in her chair and sighed.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" The girl looked nervous to the point of illness, so McGonagall did not quite have the heart to tell the little first-year that students were supposed to knock before entering her office after seven o'clock.
"I was wondering… I mean, you're a very clever witch and all… I mean, of course you are, you're a professor… oh, bother…" Hermione tripped over her words, speaking very fast and glancing nervously from the professor's face to the floor.
"Spit it out, Miss Granger," McGonagall said, sighing. She really needed to get these papers graded tonight.
"How much do you know about dreams, particularly their magical properties?" Hermione's questions was voiced very quickly, then the girl squeezed her eyes shut as if scared McGonagall was going to admonish her for being silly.
"Well, I teach transfiguration, Miss Granger. This sounds more like a question for the Divination professor," McGonagall looked down her nose at Hermione, who was rocking on the balls of her feet.
"Yes, but I can't go into her classroom without coughing," Hermione confessed. McGonagall smirked slightly; she, too, felt that Professor Trelawney's overpowering combination of incense and teakettle steam was not conducive to logical thinking.
"Very well, Miss Granger. Before I tell you the little I do know about dreams, I must warn you that it is a very ambiguous subject and we have a very limited understanding of it. In fact, we are almost no more advanced in our comprehension of dreams than the average Muggle. It is even hotly contested whether or not dreams provide any actual meanings. Are you still interested?"
"Yes," Hermione said breathlessly. She had taken out a quill and a piece of parchment, as if preparing to jot down notes. McGonagall raised her eyebrows and Hermione flushed, but the quill stayed poised.
"If it is to be believed that one can contrive meaning from one's dreams, it is generally accepted that the subject of the dream is something that has been on one's mind. For example, one might dream about taking an exam if it is finals week." The scribbling of Hermione's quill distracted Professor McGonagall momentarily before she continued. "Dreams are the gateway into the conscious or subconscious mind of a person, depending on the clarity of the dream in question. Miss Granger, if I may ask, what is your motivation for being so interested in such a vague and imprecise topic?"
"Well, it's nothing," Hermione stammered, though one raised eyebrow from McGonagall prompted her to continue. "I've just been having a lot of weird recurring dreams about a Slytherin in my Potions class, Malfoy. But in the dreams, we're children. And he called me 'Harmony' during class the other day, and that's been bothering me more than it should."
McGonagall was speechless. She, as well as the other members of the Order of the Phoenix, knew perfectly well that Hermione Granger was actually Harmony Malfoy. McGonagall herself had considered taking the girl in if the Grangers hadn't been able to. If Harmony was beginning to recover her memory, immediate precautions needed to be taken.
"That is indeed strange," McGonagall said in response to Hermione's confession. "However, I subscribe to the notion that dreams do not have much significance in every day life."
Hermione, realizing that she was being dismissed, quietly thanked Professor McGonagall and tucked the slip of parchment and quill into her bag. She gave the professor a scrutinizing look before turning and exiting the office.
Professor McGonagall drew a fresh sheet of parchment towards her and inked her quill.
A.D., she addressed her missive, recalling the codes that were to be used in this situation in the event of an intercepted post owl.
H.G. former H.M. recovering. Not immediate, still dire. I await your instruction.
-M.M.
She folded the message in half and tapped her wand on the inkwell in front of her. It transformed into a miniature owl. She secured the small paper to its leg.
"To Dumbledore," she whispered into his feathers before releasing him at the open window. McGonagall watched the little owl flutter off into the night, suddenly engulfed in worry.