Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: And here's another installment for your reading pleasure!
Shades of Gray
Chapter Seven: Thoughts Like Root-Canal
Supper turned out to be pot roast and bread pudding from a small restaurant only a couple of miles away. It was edible, but compared with similar offerings from Hogwarts' kitchen, it was definitely lacking. Snape served the styrofoam containers on the butcher-block table. The pair ate in silence, each occupied by his own thoughts.
Potter's relatives' home is not quite what I'd pictured, Severus speared a chunk of slightly too-dry roast to punctuate his mental ramblings. Soulless and mass-produced, certainly, but… To be shunted into a corner of a storage room, like a broken toy… Is Albus aware of the conditions in which he expects his Gryffindor Hero to live? The sheer lack of anything in the house – he refused point-blank to even consider the word 'home' – remotely relating to the green-eyed Gryffindor in question told a stark tale; one which Severus was not entirely comfortable perusing, not even within the confines of his own skull.
Snape could admit, even if only to himself, that his own childhood had been far from stellar. Yet, even with a drunken asshole for a father and a shattered mockery of a mother, he'd had a room of his own. Certainly, it didn't contain much. Tobias Snape could never afford much. But it had been his. His books on the shelf above his bed. His desk crammed with various oddments and old homework. His cauldron and potions kit sitting on his trunk at the foot of his bed. His posters and pictures on the walls. Had anyone other than his family ever seen it, they would have been able to identify the space as belonging to Severus and no one else. The same could not be said for Potter's bedroom in Surrey.
Indeed, if anyone were to tour that house, no one would even suspect that Potter actually lives there. Could that be why Albus placed him there? He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before discarding the notion. Surely not. The lack of evidence of Potter's residence at that house is not, I believe, something that the old man considered in selecting a placement for the boy. The memory of his confrontation with said 'boy' in the Hogwarts kitchens flashed through his mind, almost as though it were a protest of the term. No, despite what I may wish, Potter is not a boy any more than I am. I have the sinking suspicion that, regardless of Albus' intentions, Potter hasn't truly been a child since he was left at that house in Little Whinging. What Potter had said, about the incidents he'd witnessed during their occlumency sessions the previous year not being isolated in nature flashed through his mind. With the chaotic nature of Potter's mind, it is likely those scenes I witnessed were merely the tip of the iceberg. Tension crept into his mind, a precursor to a headache. It seems that I will need to look into this in greater detail. With luck, I may yet find evidence that will lay these suspicions to rest. He didn't hope for that, though. He'd never been a great believer in luck.
Across the table from Severus, Harry picked at his meal. I wonder if Defigo Veritas is used for anything else? I mean, sure Hermione's a bit on the obsessive-compulsive side, but… Schizophrenic? Surely not. And what of that other spell, the ultimate rule or whatever it was? She didn't know what it was when I asked. And the obliviate, if I'm reading the situation correctly, is probably blocking her memories of discussing me with Dumbledore. Harry shook his head slightly and poked a chunk of potato with his fork. Hermione's behavior on the train is worrying. I don't think I've ever seen her so… un-curious, especially not about spells and magic. He sighed and absently chewed the potato chunk, idly noting that it would be better if the cook had added a bit more pepper. And I'm beginning to wish I'd used exibeo magus on Neville, too, just to be on the safe side… But Mu – damn it. LILY. Lily seemed okay with me talking with Neville. Enough so that she recommended I give him one of those communication watches/earrings. Probably the only thing I'll find in Neville will be that trace Hermione said was on everyone underage. Something dawned on Harry. I don't have a trace. Does that mean I'd be able to do magic with my wand, even though I'm not yet seventeen?
Harry sipped at the glass of water which Snape had sat with the takeout box. I probably could. I mean, I know the Ministry picked up on the levitation Dobby used before second year, and the patronus last summer, but could it be that they're simply monitoring the area and not me personally? I mean, it's not like I ever go anywhere when I'm there. Sure, they dump me on Mrs. Figg, but she's only a few blocks away. The only time I can remember the Dursleys taking me anywhere was the zoo for Dudley's birthday. Would there be any way of checking on this? Without getting that trace thing set on me as a result, I mean. Hmm… Normally, I'd go to Hermione with this, but until I find out what that one ultimate spell is, I don't think I should. Who else would be of a mind to help me? Should I contact Neville with this? Or wait for Lily to get back in touch with me?
Incrementally slowly, both of the current occupants of the house at the end of Spinner's Row, Radcliffe worked through both their thoughts and their rather bland dinners.
Meanwhile, in Gillingham, Hermione Granger had already finished her own supper and was in her bedroom, staring into her vanity mirror. Her room hadn't changed much since she started at Hogwarts: the walls were still pale yellow, the trim still dark green, with lacy curtains on the window that matched the draperies surrounding her four-poster canopy bed; unlike the beds at school, her bed at home was larger, and the frame was white-painted metal, not heavy wood. She curled her bare toes into the nap of carpet which was the same dark green as the trim and closed her eyes.
Even without her vision, she could still clearly 'see' the room with her vanity in one corner, her desk under the window, a single freestanding bookshelf in the opposite corner, and an ornate heirloom dollhouse taking pride-of-place in the corner nearest the door. A wardrobe stood sentinel next to the door to her bathroom. All the furniture was white, with yellow or green (or both) accents. The contents of her bookshelf reflected a lifetime of having lived in the same house – Dr. Seuss and Whinnie-the-Pooh transitioned into Louisa May Alcott, Charles Dickens, and William Shakespeare, punctuated by framed photographs, stuffed animals, and other knickknacks. Her old textbooks and other magical tomes were kept in her trunk at the foot of her bed unless she was using them. Though she'd never had a sleepover, her grandparents were frequent visitors, and the Statute of Secrecy allowances made for her parents didn't apply to them.
It had to happen sometime. She opened her eyes and once again studied her reflection in the mirror, searching for some outward sign that she could point to and say, "Here it is! This is why!" Yet again, no such sign appeared. Though I wish Harry hadn't started poking around, I'm relieved it was him and not one of the professors. Imagine if this got out! As it stood, only two people in the magical world knew about Hermione's 'little issue' – Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey. I know that, at the time, I hated having to wait almost an entire year before being allowed to go to Hogwarts, but right now I simply don't care any longer. Professor McGonagall had shown up on her eleventh birthday, about an hour after she'd received her Hogwarts letter, to explain to the muggle family that no, it wasn't a prank, and to provide details about the magical world.
Hermione's eyes drifted down to the necklace she wore underneath her clothes. It was a simple gold chain and she certainly could have worn it out where everyone could see it, but since it housed the spell cementing her awareness of reality, Hermione was rather paranoid about it getting snagged and breaking. She'd never taken it off, save once, since it was presented to her shortly before boarding the train on that first day of school. The one time she'd removed it had been when she was getting ready for the Yule Ball in fourth year, and even then, it had only been removed long enough to wind it around her ankle; at no time did she allow it to leave skin-contact.
Maybe I've grown out of it. The idea was one she'd had before. I mean, they said it was because of that car crash we were in when I was little, when I knocked my head so hard. She reached through her hair and felt the thin, twisting scar which was her only physical memento of the evening a drunk driver had plowed into the Grangers on the M2 freeway. I was only four, after all. It could be that whatever damage the crash caused has finally had a chance to fully heal. Again, she'd had these thoughts before, but even so, she'd not previously acted on them; she hadn't dared. But Harry discovering she was under defigo veritas, even though he had no idea what it was for, lent her a dose of bravery. Her hand dropped from her hair to the clasp of the golden chain, quickly joined by her other hand.
She undid the clasp and removed the necklace, though she held it before her in hands that shook. It hung in a broad U shape, dangling innocently from her grasp. She looked at its reflection before staring into her own eyes once more. When she noticed its trembling, she could hear Ginny's voice echoing in her head, Are you a Gryffindor or not? Hermione smiled and collected the chain in her right hand. She deposited it in a tiny pile on the surface of her vanity, next to her hairbrush.
"Why'd you do that, Hermione? Why'd you send me away?" an accusatory voice sounded right behind her.
Hermione whirled around, nearly falling from her stool in the process. The owner of the voice, though two years her junior, was nearly identical to her in every feature, save three: The girl was blonde, like Gramma Granger had been when young; her eyes were the same dull hazel color of Hermione's mother; and the girl's front teeth had obviously never been subjected to treatment by Madam Pomfrey.
"I know you couldn't take me to school with you – I wasn't old enough yet, but how come you sent me away like that? Didn't you love me any more?"
Even though she knew the girl wasn't really there, was just a figment crafted by her own broken brain, Hermione couldn't help but feel guilty. "Oh, Emilia… I'm sorry," she whispered. She opened her arms and was engulfed by a hug from Emilia Granger – the girl she'd grown up assuming was her baby sister, and who her parents had assumed was an imaginary friend until Minerva McGonagall learned of it and brought it to Madam Pomfrey's attention.
The necklace glinted from its place on the vanity, but Hermione paid it no mind. She'd not seen Emilia for going on six years. She didn't care that the girl wasn't real to anyone else; Hermione had missed her sister.
Back at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore indulged his sweet-tooth while musing on his plans. I am in complete agreement with Severus – the last thing this world needs is another harpy. However, what sorts of issues might this cause my plans for the upcoming year? And it is a shame that the Dursleys won't be available until August. I'd hoped to get Harry's required time under the blood protections out of the way early this year. As much as I would prefer it to be otherwise, Horace will simply not listen to just me about coming back to Hogwarts to teach. Since all staff positions for the upcoming school year must be filed with the Board of Governors and the Ministry no later than the end of July, I fear this means I will need to postpone appointing Severus to the Defense position.
Fawkes trilled to himself and set to preening another feather. Unknown to the wizard in the room, the phoenix was contemplating his own thoughts. I fear BrightOne's beginning to dim. The thought was not reflective of power-levels but morality. The scarlet bird finally managed to get all his breast feathers cleaned and moved on to his right wing. He once burned so brightly it cast shadows even on fledglings and eyases. The phoenix peered at the wizard. Yes, it is dimming. Not yet dark, but it will be soon, lest he realizes his fire wanes.
Unfortunately, very few people had the capacity for self-awareness of that level. Headmaster Dumbledore was not one of them.
Dumbledore popped another peppermint into his mouth and worried at it with his teeth without actually biting through it. I wish I had spent more time around Gabrielle when she was here, it would have given me a better read on her personality. But it is of little consequence. She is here simply to approach her mate. I wonder who it is? A quick list of everyone who had been in attendance, insofar as he could recall, flashed through his mind. From what I understand of veela magic, the mate-bond will ignore any member of the same sex as well as all those who have not yet reached puberty. Roughly one third of the male faces on his list were mentally crossed out at the thought. Furthermore, it will not chose a male who is more than five years different in age. The list pared down even further. And though there have been exceptions, it tends to select highly intelligent and powerful individuals. Of all who were here that day, I can only come up with six names which fit all the criteria, and top of the list is Roger Davies of Ravenclaw. Speaking of, I need to remember to inform Minerva that he will be this year's Head Boy. Back to Miss Delacour, however... Will it be necessary to place her under the authority spell? He shook his head. No, I don't believe so, not unless her presence proves too much of a distraction for Harry. Just in case, though, I will need to see how it will interact with her unique magics. It wouldn't do at all for the spell to be overridden, should it become necessary, simply because of her unique magic.
Pushing aside thoughts of the veela girl, Albus returned to considering the Defense posting for the upcoming year. Since I will not have the chance to coax Horace back into teaching Potions, then I will not be able to give Severus the Defense posting. I refuse to allow the Ministry to fill the position – their choice makes Quirrell look like a shining example of teacherly perfection! No, no Ministry involvement is allowable. It's such a shame that rumors of the curse on the position have leaked out. Before that happened, I had potential teachers practically begging for the honor of being a Hogwarts professor, even if only for one year. He sighed. Ah, no sense crying over spilled milk. It's too bad that Kingsley has repeatedly turned down the position and Nymphadora is too young yet. Hmm… I wonder if I could convince Alastor to take the position? The curse wouldn't act on him, as Crouch was the one who actually taught all that year. I didn't ask him for this year simply because he was still recovering from having spent ten months in that trunk of his. Who else should I approach, just in case Alastor says no? The fact that it was a curse on the position made him pause for a moment. Yes, that might do. The oldest Weasley child has had a solid ten years' experience in curse-breaking. Perhaps he could be convinced to take the position. Indeed, he might be a better choice than Alastor. Much as Alastor's fighting ability would benefit Harry in the conflicts to come, the curse on the position is far more aggravating at this point in time. Weasley might be able to break the curse. Even if he doesn't manage to do so, he would also provide a unique insight into defensive magics which would benefit all Hogwarts students. Yes, I'll offer the position to him for this year, and see if Alastor would be willing to tutor Harry during off hours. Then next year, if the curse is still in place, I'll see if Alastor will take the position.
Smiling to himself, Albus reached for a piece of blank parchment and a quill.
Of the three wizarding homes in Ottery St. Catchpole, only one was still bustling as ever in the hours immediately following nightfall. The Burrow, though it was down by two permanent members, always seemed busy – particularly since Fred and George still took their meals at home, even though they had moved directly to a flat above their new joke shop in Diagon Alley. After supper, the twins had dragged Ron off to play two-on-one quidditch in the orchard, while Molly and Arthur discussed the ramifications of the recent events at the Ministry. Ginny had begged off quidditch, wanting to get her summer homework done early.
And so she sat on her bed, using her transfiguration text as a lap-desk, with her charms text open next to her and an essay containing only a title poised under her quill. I wish I'd gotten the chance to say bye to Harry at the station today. I know he hates having to return to his muggle relatives' for the summer. Ginny frowned and glanced at her essay. Ah, the essay can wait. I've got something more important to do.
She sat the empty essay aside and grabbed a blank parchment. She put down the date in the upper right corner, then wrote, Dear Harry. She chewed on her lip for a long minute before continuing. Her mother knocked on her door just after she signed her name at the end of her letter. "Bedtime, Ginny."
"Okay, Mum," Ginny called out. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, dear. Sleep well."
She waited until her mom's footsteps indicated she'd retreated to her own room before reading over her letter. Nodding, she folded it and slid it into an envelope, making a mental note to see if Ron would let her borrow Pig to send it. She then changed into her nightclothes and doused the lamp.
I hope he believes me, was her only thought before she fell asleep.
A/N2: I'm a little insecure with the bit from Dumbledore's POV - I'm not sure if I should continue to check in with the old man or not, so make sure to chime in with your two cents. Thanks for reading!