Chapter 4: Shades of Grey
Platform 9 ¾. It was the same every year, still hidden behind a seemingly impenetrable brick wall, still crowded with parents and anxious students eager to board the scarlet locomotive which huffed and puffed and belched great gouts of steam, as impatient an iron horse as ever there was.
Hermione worked her way through the crowded platform toward the passenger cars. There was no one to see her off. Snape had unceremoniously deposited her within walking distance of King's Cross station and promptly vanished without so much as a by-your-leave. He'd said precious little to her all morning and had barely referenced the memories he'd so unscrupulously rifled through the previous evening. It was true that Snape could hardly be characterized as particularly warm or inviting, but he usually managed to muster a borderline civility which stopped just shy of open hostility. His stolid silence this morning had done nothing to calm her frayed nerves, if anything it left her with a deep-seeded sense of foreboding.
The familiarity of the Hogwarts Express was reassuring, however. There may be a Dark Lord lurking about with murderous intent, but some things thankfully never changed. Hermione boarded the train with a sense of relief. She could be herself again, at least for this particular trip. The trick was to remember how to be herself. The trick was to find herself again.
Hermione angled through the hallway, dodging students, nodding to acquaintances until she found the compartment she'd been looking for. She cracked the door and peered inside to see Harry and Ron sitting across from each other, their heads bent forward as they whispered conspiratorially. Both boys held a handful of cards. Ron waved a dog-eared Dexter Fortescue card smudged with chocolate. He was apparently pressing Harry for a trade, but Harry shook his head no. He wasn't some fledgling first year to be suckered into a bad trade. Fortescue was worth next to nothing in that condition and he told Ron so. Ron muttered under his breath. Hermione could barely hear the exchange but one of the words that leapt up within range of her hearing rang loud and clear in the compartment: wanker.
Hermione cleared her throat and both boys quickly shoved the cards into their pockets. They looked rather sheepish and she suspected it had something to do with the fact that they thought themselves entirely too old to be caught trading chocolate frog cards. Hermione stifled a grin as both Ron and Harry jumped to their feet.
"Hermione!" Ron said. He opened his arms to hug her, but suddenly doubted himself. As she stepped toward him he thrust a hand out at her instead, intending for them to shake. Hermione came up short, thoroughly confused by the proffered hand. She'd been away from her friends all summer and she was determined to hug someone. She pivoted on her heel and hugged Harry, still perplexed and now rather angry about the proposed handshake. Ron glowered at Harry over Hermione's shoulder. Harry raised his eyebrows and would've shrugged as well if he hadn't had Hermione in his arms. "Sorry, mate," he was thinking, but then he realized that he wasn't sorry at all. There were worse things a bloke could do than hug Hermione Granger.
Ron tucked his extended hand back into his pocket and flopped down on to the seat. Hermione let go of Harry and sat down next to Ron, though she refused to look directly at him still miffed about the handshake. Why did it always have to be so complicated with Ron?
"Welcome back, Hermione," Harry said. He settled on the seat across from her.
"Yeah," Ron mumbled grudgingly. He had clearly decided to sulk. Harry stepped into the breach.
"We got your letters. Sounds like you had a great summer."
"Yes," Hermione answered shortly, wondering just what they knew about her summer and more importantly who was responsible for the letters that they'd received. She'd been completely cut off from the outside world at the manor. Communication had been much too risky. Someone must have supplied the letters. If she had to wager a guess she'd put her galleons on Snape. For a brief moment she imagined her letters as written by the Potions Master.
Dear Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley,
I am certain that you have allowed what little intelligence you may have gleaned during the course of the school term to atrophy over the summer months. I, however, have been reading steadily and plan to thoroughly irritate my professors with an unfounded sense of authority built upon my irksome bookishness. The weather here is fine. I have not gone swimming.
Sincerely,
Hermione Jean Granger
Hermione shook off that thought and shifted the conversation to Ron, asking after his family. It took a few moments, but Ron finally came out of his sulk and began talking easily about the goings-on at the Burrow. Hermione listened, relieved that the Weasleys were well. It was comforting to hear about the summer exploits of Fred and George, Arthur's latest Muggle contraption, and Molly's futile attempt to teach Ginny how to knit using her wand so that she could ensnare her daughter in the fine tradition of knitting the family Christmas sweaters.
As Ron spoke, Hermione let her eyes stray over to Harry. She'd been especially concerned about him given the confrontation with Voldemort at the Ministry and the death of Sirius. She studied Harry carefully, not altogether pleased with what she saw. He looked absolutely exhausted. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes and when he managed to smile it was a slow, creaking process which never quite reached his eyes. There was something hollow about Harry, as if his center were missing. He was all surface, all smoke and mirrors. She was afraid to look past the veneer that he'd provided for them for fear she'd find him empty.
Ron seemed to sense the change in Harry and she noticed that he tried to keep his best mate busy whether it was talking Quidditch or trading chocolate frog cards. She had to give Ron credit, he might be emotionally clumsy at times, but one couldn't ask for a better or more loyal friend.
Her loyal friend was elbowing her in the side gently. She turned to look at him.
"And you," he said, "I suppose you've already memorized the entire Standard Book of Spells Grade 6."
"No," she said, before realizing how odd that must sound coming from her. She hadn't been able to read this summer as she normally would have. Reading was a tell-tale indication of Hermione Granger which consequently put the carefully crafted identity of Imogene LeCoeur at risk. "No," she said again, "I was busy."
"Busy?" Ron asked. "Busy with what? Like with people?"
Hermione shrugged.
"No, I just… didn't read it."
"Where is Hermione Granger and what have you done with her?"
Hermione felt her breath catch. He couldn't know how much that question hurt her. He couldn't know that she'd been asking herself that very same question ever since the polyjuice had worn off.
"It's just a textbook, Ron," she snapped.
"Just a textbook? Just a textbook? I dunno about you Hermione, but I happen to love textbooks. I mean, I'm a growing boy and all I think about are textbooks. Don't you think about textbooks, Harry?"
"All the time," Harry said drily.
"I mean, I go to bed at night and I dream about textbooks. And sometimes girls. And sometimes girls reading textbooks. No wait; it's mostly textbooks I dream about."
"Shut up, Ron," Hermione said. She found she couldn't stay angry with him, however. Telling him to shut up helped to restore what she felt had become a tenuous connection to her old self.
Ron obeyed, slipping into silence beside her. A small smile played across his lips. He wouldn't admit it, but there was nothing he wanted more than to sit beside her as the train rocked gently causing her knee to brush his every so often.
The three of them settled into a comfortable silence, listening to the clacking of the train along its track and catching snatches of conversation from neighboring compartments. Hermione was finally beginning to relax the tension that had kept her strung taut the entire summer. She felt the pitch of her anxiety drop. It bled from her, leaving in its place a low, thrumming contentment which softened her features.
So it was especially jarring when the door to the compartment clicked open and Draco Malfoy leaned against the doorframe. Ron sat straight up, hackles rising immediately. Harry on the other hand closed his eyes, dipped his head forward and pushed his fingers beneath the frames of his glasses rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry said without opening his eyes. He supposed the train ride wouldn't be complete without a visit from Malfoy. They were all expected to go through the motions: the baiting, the testosterone-fueled insults, the trading of ill-will that would end just shy of coming to blows.
"Come to say hello is all, Potter."
"I highly doubt that," Harry replied stiffly.
Draco shifted, unfolding out of his lazy slouch against the doorframe. Hermione watched just long enough to see him straighten to his full height before she looked away. She did not want to meet his eyes. It was terribly silly, but she was suffering from the irrational fear that her eyes were her weak point; that he would look into them and somehow find her out. It was impossible, of course. He couldn't know, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it would be best if he didn't notice her at all.
The trouble was that she was anxious to get a look at him. The last time she'd seen him had been the night of the raid, after which Lucius had sealed him off from everyone. She could only assume that either Lucius or Narcissa had healed him in the interim, but Snape had come to collect her before she'd had the chance to see him again.
Her eyes slid to the window of the compartment beyond which she could see the lush end-of-summer landscape as it rushed by. She could also see the faint reflection of the compartment. She studied Draco in the reflection, her eyes darting over him with concern. He appeared to have recovered from his injury. He'd lost that tell-tale hunch and the hitch in his shoulders which were the results of trying to mask his injured flesh. He looked healthy and if she hadn't known better, she'd have thought that the summer had been kind to him.
Her observations complete, Hermione withdrew her gaze and concentrated on making herself invisible. If she didn't look directly at him, if she didn't move, then maybe he'd be so caught up in baiting Harry that he'd look right past her.
"Aunt Bellatrix sends her regards," Draco drawled. "Says she hopes you'll meet again soon."
The mention of Bellatrix Lestrange was not something that Harry could ignore. He turned his eyes on Draco. They were narrowed and dark.
"Sent you with that message, did she Malfoy? To do her dirty work? You're a poor substitute." Harry's words fell between them, a challenge.
Draco bristled.
"I once told you, Potter, to be careful of the company you keep. It marks you. You've chosen the weak and the powerless. So be it."
"Sod off, Malfoy."
Draco's mouth quirked in what was one part sneer, two parts smirk. Hermione was holding her breath. It looked as if he was about to leave. If he simply left now the whole incident could be categorized as nothing more than a mildly unpleasant encounter in a long list of largely unpleasant encounters with Draco Malfoy. She could release the breath that she held assured that she had drawn no undue attention to herself.
Draco turned, angling away from the compartment. She had almost convinced herself that he was indeed leaving, but she should have known better.
He turned back, unable to resist. He presented them with a mocking bow, a parody of courtesy.
"Weasel," he said. And then, "Mudblood."
She shouldn't have let it rattle her. She'd practically seen it coming. This was Malfoy after all. But she couldn't swallow the epithet; couldn't allow herself to be the victim of the violence perpetrated by his words.
Somehow she kept her seat. She wouldn't physically rise to the bait. She couldn't say the same for her temper, however. It had risen precipitously, and once leavened, threatened to slip her grasp. She willed herself not to acknowledge him, not to look at him, but she failed. Hermione cut her eyes to his reflection in the glass.
Draco had discovered the reflection himself. She may have opted not to turn and face him, but he cornered her gaze in the glass and then immediately wished he hadn't. He bore the full brunt of the anger which simmered in her eyes. It was sharp, biting, and surprisingly it stung him almost as much as if she'd slapped him.
Hermione sawed the reins of her temper in an attempt to place it in check. She'd cut him with her eyes and it had been a mistake. Draco stared hard at her now, noticing her, which was exactly what she didn't want.
Harry felt the strange edge in the proceedings. Hermione hadn't spoken, hadn't even looked in Malfoy's direction but somehow she'd become his focus. Harry noticed that there was something different about her, some quality that was difficult to put into words. Whatever it was drew Ron like a lodestone. He'd spent the entire train ride shifting closer to her on the seat and then, overwhelmed by her nearness, easing away, only to move closer again.
It was odd. She wasn't thinner, but somehow sharper as if she'd suddenly been drawn in bold, pointed strokes. She was somehow more defined. Perhaps it was just that Harry was so used to seeing her that when he saw her it was in a kind of shorthand bred by familiarity. Hermione usually boiled down to a hazy mix of teeth, hair, elbows and knees and he didn't need to look past that. So familiar was he that he knew what to expect. But following Malfoy's gaze, Harry realized that there were new elements to consider (legs, cheekbones, lashes) and that his picture of her had reassembled into something altogether foreign and striking.
Ron was on his feet. He didn't like the way that Malfoy was looking at Hermione and Harry really couldn't blame him. Draco shifted tearing his eyes away from Hermione, disgusted with himself. His stance was tight and tense, ready to take on all comers. He was hankering for a fight and if he couldn't tempt Potter, then Weasley would do. What he got, however, was Granger. Before he knew what was happening she pushed him into the hall and slammed the door of the compartment in his face.
Hermione flicked her wand sealing the door with a spell. She turned back to Ron who was ready to spring through the door after Malfoy.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron growled.
"Ease down," Hermione said softly. "It's only Malfoy. He's not worth it." Ron's rage sped his breathing. He paced, restless in the close confines of the compartment. Hermione planted herself in front of him and placed a hand on his arm. "Besides, I can handle Malfoy, you know that. There's no need for all this silly chest-thumping." She knocked a hand against his chest in order to illustrate.
That only seemed to make Ron feel worse. He hung his head, partly sheepish but mostly embarrassed. Ron mumbled something. It sounded vaguely like an apology.
Hermione looked up at him and touched the side of his face. Ron flushed three shades of red and it was not until he was well on his way to vermillion that she playfully tweaked his ear.
OOO
Her second trip aboard the Hogwarts Express had the distinct air of karma about it. Hermione was convinced that she had somehow failed on her first go-round and that she'd be doomed to repeat the trip until she got it right. Logically she knew that it wasn't at all true, but that was certainly how she felt.
The second trip was for Imogene. Hermione had to establish her presence on the train, make certain that she was seen and remembered. Three and a half turns had placed her precisely where she wanted to be. She was standing in the hall just outside of the compartment where she, Harry and Ron had been sitting, or rather, were currently sitting. The polyjuice coursed through her veins and she could feel the metal and glass of the Time-Turner cold against her belly inside her shirt.
Hermione leaned against the wall nervously rubbing strands of Imogene's dark hair between her thumb and forefinger. Inside the compartment she could hear Ron sarcastically proclaiming his love of textbooks. It would be any minute now.
Her palms were sweating. She rubbed them against Imogene's skirt. It made her especially nervous altering past events. There was of course no way of knowing how even the smallest shift would impact the future, or rather, the present to which she planned to return.
She saw him at the opposite end of the corridor, pale blond head bent in conference with Theodore Nott. Draco was half listening as Nott spoke, his eyes scanning the compartments on either side of the hall. He waved Nott off and the latter retreated back down the hall, leaving Draco to his own devices. Draco peered into another compartment on his left and when he looked up again, he saw Imogene leaning casually against the wall.
"Draco," she said. He inclined his head to her in acknowledgement. "You look well," she spoke softly. And he did. He looked healed, whole. There was a lazy arrogance about him which flapped around his shoulders like a cloak.
"Shouldn't I?" he asked. The edge in his voice dared her to remember the punishment he'd endured on her behalf, a time when he hadn't looked well at all.
Hermione blinked Imogene's large, dark eyes. This was vintage Draco, the boy who chose to paint himself as callous and cruel. Clearly, as the paint had dried it hardened around him, stiffening into a harsh, brittle exterior. This was a boy who could let the word Mudblood slip from his tongue without regard for the consequences. This was the boy called Malfoy; he didn't deserve the respect and intimacy of a first name. He hadn't earned it. This was a boy she could hate. But that would have been all too easy.
"You're staring," he said. "I can only assume that you like what you see." He took a step closer to her in the corridor. If she had been nearsighted it would have been a solicitous gesture, bringing his features into focus for her perusal. As it was with her perfect vision it was simply gratuitous. She was well aware of his sharp, slate grey eyes and pale blond brows. She was certainly acquainted with the angular sturdiness of his chin. She didn't need such a reminder.
"I suppose, if one goes in for that sort of thing."
"And what sort of thing would that be?"
"Tall, blond, arrogant," she said. "Who will you play today I wonder? Quidditch Star or Slytherin Prince? What do you find is the most effective with the fairer sex?"
"You tell me."
"I couldn't possibly."
"No, you couldn't, could you? Not fair at all, are you? Scrawny, more like; eyes dark as pitch, hair the color of soot." She would have been insulted if it hadn't been for the way he looked at her: angry, curious and perhaps the slightest bit amused.
"A poet, how charming."
"For you, cousin, a thousand sonnets." His last words were difficult to hear. It wasn't due to the volume of his voice, however. It had more to do with Hermione's ability to concentrate in light of the fact that he'd pressed her back against the wall of the corridor. He had perfectly good reason to. There was a group of students trying to pass them in the narrow hall. He had absolutely no reason, however, to remain pressed against her after the students had passed. He did so nonetheless.
Hermione hadn't anticipated her reaction. She hadn't counted on how his sudden nearness would affect her. It tripped up her thoughts for one. She'd been totally prepared to answer him a moment ago, but somehow with his chest beneath her fingers and his chin resting on top of her hair, her ability to speak had been compromised. She opened her lips anyway, making way for sound or speech to sally forth should the ability to form words return to her, but she only succeeded in finding the warm skin of his throat with her open mouth.
He shifted suddenly, but not in the way she thought he would. She expected him to draw back, to recoil even, but he leaned closer resting the weight of his body against her. His hands moved to her waist and settled there, anchoring her against him. He didn't know, she thought at last. He believed that she was Imogene and Imogene was the kind of witch that he could touch without sullying the precious Malfoy bloodline.
It was precisely because Imogene was that kind of witch that Draco had spent the entire summer avoiding her. She was the appropriate choice, one that had been made for him by Lucius. He'd grown tired of doing as his father bid. Lucius served himself first and the Dark Lord second. It was blasphemy to even think it, but it was the only way Draco could account for the fact that he clearly trailed a number of others in his father's affections. So the idea that Lucius presumed to find a mate for him rankled to the bone. He would beat his father at this. Lucius could put Imogene in his path, but he could not make Draco desire her. The only one who could do that was Imogene herself.
It shouldn't have worked this way. She wasn't even his type. He'd spent the summer convincing himself that she was everything he didn't want. She was dark, ugly, scrawny, a troll. Cousin Troll, he often thought on seeing her. Desiring Imogene would be like having a hard-on for Granger. So how it was that he fell victim to her proximity he couldn't explain.
It may have had something to do with the fact that with her body flush against his, he could no longer continue to think of her as scrawny or troll-like for that matter. His hands slipped from her waist to her hips. No, trolls didn't have hips like these. Trolls didn't have soft lips that they plied against the base of one's neck. And trolls most certainly did not fit like this along the length of his body, the soft flesh of their breasts barely palpable beneath the thin shirts of their school uniforms.
Hermione had felt his hands shift and settle at her hips. The small movement stirred something in her. Her thoughts began to churn and yield something other than frothy, girlish delight at the strength in his arms and the solid muscle of his chest. It occurred to her that she could touch him. She could put her filthy Mudblood hands on him and he wouldn't know. She could sully him with her hands. Let him fall victim to them. Let him be at their mercy. Let him want the touch of her hands more than anything else and at the very last let him know that she, Hermione, had touched him. That was how the game was to be played.
Hermione turned her face out of his neck and pushed him back with her hands opening space between them. Draco dropped his chin and looked down at her. His eyes wandered her face, lingering briefly at her mouth before returning to meet her gaze. She reached up and drew a hand along his cheek, her palm rasping against his jaw. He tensed and caught her fingers tightly in his hand, peeling them away from his face. Hermione felt the shift in him. His eyes narrowed. He was suddenly angry.
"I'll thank you not to take such liberties with my person," he said coldly, sounding a lot like his father. Abruptly, he pushed away from her and stalked off down the hall. Hermione watched him retreat wondering what had suddenly tipped the scales of his temper. Had it been her touch? She knew that she ought to have been concerned by his brusque, angry departure so it was startling to feel her lips draw up in what was undeniably a sly and canny grin.
OOO
"Lemon drop?"
Severus Snape shook his head in the negative. He didn't like candy and the old wizard knew it, but that didn't stop him from offering it every time he entered the Headmaster's office. Some may have taken the old man's insistence on repeating what was clearly a pointless gesture as a sure sign of senility, but Snape knew better. It was simply another of Albus Dumbledore's many guises and when he saw that it had served its purpose he would slough it off like so much dead skin revealing yet another guise tailored to his needs.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk absently stroking the tail feathers of the inimitable Fawkes the phoenix.
"How is our Miss Granger, Severus?"
"Well enough."
"And her alter?"
"She remains uncompromised."
"No trouble with the golem magic, then?"
"None," Snape answered after the briefest of hesitations. The pause wasn't lost on Dumbledore whose eyes slid from the phoenix to Snape's face. He knew that the Headmaster would notice the catch in his speech, but he also knew that Albus chose his battles carefully. Snape sat perfectly still, his face impassive and waited. He had no intention of revealing what he'd gleaned from Miss Granger's memories: that she'd lost control of the golem at great risk to her fabricated identity. Such information would only prompt Albus to put a stop to her assignment and said assignment was much too important to come to such an abrupt and inglorious end.
"I trust," Dumbledore began slowly, "that if Miss Granger were to have any significant difficulty with the complex magic we've asked her to perform you would alert me to the fact immediately."
"Your trust is well placed as it ever was with me, Albus." Snape inclined his head. Dumbledore nodded and turned his attention back to Fawkes. He ran his fingers lightly over the crested plumage at the crown of the bird's head.
Snape relaxed albeit imperceptibly. Albus would not challenge him on this. He lived to fight another day as well he should. He had been truthful with Dumbledore. After all, Miss Granger had not had significant difficulty with the golem. As far as Snape was concerned it was difficulty of a negligible nature.
There were two possible reasons for the golem's defection from the province of Miss Granger's authority. Most likely it was that she had formed an attachment to Draco, specifically a subconscious attachment that she'd yet to explore in any significant manner during her waking hours. The golem's actions were therefore the result of these unacknowledged emotions. It was true that the golem was tied to her consciousness, fueled by her logic and focused concentration. However, in rare cases strong, compelling emotions had a way of capturing the golem and overruling all logic.
It was indeed possible that this was the case with Miss Granger. It would stand to reason as the creature itself was a construct and had no inherent sense of logic, self-awareness or intelligence. The magic allowed that it had a rudimentary understanding of its corporeal form; only that which allowed it to walk about and grasp objects. Left to its own devices it would function much as an infant would, gathering information through its hands and, if wholly unchecked, putting objects in its mouth as a means of examination. It hadn't a sense of will with which to defy Miss Granger, so it was most likely that it had escaped her logic though means of some unacknowledged instinct of her own.
There was, of course, a second possibility, but Snape chose not to dwell on it as it was highly improbable.
Dumbledore stirred. "Has Miss Granger gathered any pertinent intelligence during her stay at the manor?"
"She believes that Draco has been given an important task by the Dark Lord. She does not know what the task is. She is therefore determined to discover it."
"We already know what young Mr. Malfoy has been tasked with."
"Yes, we're ahead of her in that regard, but she believes this to be her purpose and I am not inclined to disabuse her of this notion."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You don't think it's time we told her the truth?"
"Honestly, I do not think her capable of knowing the truth and doing what needs to be done. Miss Granger is many things, among them moral to a fault. She does not have the nuanced understanding of good and evil that this requires. She knows nothing of equivocation. She cannot see that the spectrum extends beyond mere black and white, nor does she understand that it's comprised of shades of grey."
"Severus, I've made mistakes with Harry, in deceiving him, in not revealing pertinent information. I see that now. I do not wish to make the same mistake with Miss Granger."
Snape leaned forward and looked the old wizard in the eye.
"Miss Granger has a role. It is not Potter's role, but it is equally important. Revealing her purpose at this stage will jeopardize that role."
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again he met Snape's gaze with steely intensity. Albus Dumbledore was arguably the greatest wizard of his age. People credited him with wisdom, courage, virtue and any number of other noble traits. Yet, none of those traits with which he was credited were the reason for his acclaim. Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of his age due to his sheer and simple grit. It flashed in his eyes as he regarded the newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. It was sad then, that Dumbledore's age had passed.
"I leave this to you, Severus, as I leave you other tasks which I may not have time to complete."
"I will not fail you in this."
"No," Dumbledore chuckled, losing some of his earlier intensity, "I know that you will not." He sighed. "Yet, I fear that I have heaped too much upon your shoulders." Snape shrugged. "Perhaps it isn't wise to lay my tasks at your door, for while I breathe you are in conflict with your Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy."
"It matters not. My vow to Narcissa puts me in conflict with my vows to the Order. My vows to the Order put me in conflict with my vows to the Dark Lord. Indeed, my mere existence is composed of conflicting vows which I can never hope to reconcile."
It may have seemed daunting to any other witch or wizard, but for Severus Snape it was all rather mundane. Only through the fine nuance of meaning and the craft of equivocation could he play out the days of his life. It was the same principal that allowed him to hate Harry Potter and yet lay down his life for him. Harry Potter, who was both the son of his tormentor while being the son of the only woman he had ever loved. It fell to Snape to embody conflict and yet still function. He did not believe that Hermione Granger could do the same.
"I had hoped, Severus, that the only vows you'd ever need make would be to a lovely young witch, your friend and equal," Dumbledore said softly.
It took a while before the former Potions Master could make a reply.
"Those vows are lost to me now. Besides, I've had enough of vows. They are many and each one threatens to be the death of me."
OOO
Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. I've had a bit of a cold, but am happy to report that I'm on the mend.
Tura 35—I've added italics to the previous chapter—hopefully that clears things up in terms of the flashbacks.
Mirukarumi—I've also explained the golem's actions as best I could. There is, of course, more to the situation than meets the eye, but all will be revealed in time. I promise!
Special thanks to Quimberly. What an observant reader you are! You must be in college…
Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed!
Next up: Is that Hermione Granger falling asleep in class? Inconceivable!