V

Promises You Can't Keep

Hermione had to admit it; she'd had little idea what was going. She had stormed out of the hall because Ron said… something to her. Something hurtful no doubt, though she couldn't remember what. She had been vaguely aware of Sally following her but disregarded the girl as she made her way out into the grounds. She'd picked a direction without many obstacles - toward the Black lake - and started walking. Distance is a hard thing to judge when it can't be seen, and time had come to mean something less than it used to, so she was rather surprised when she felt the sickening chill which meant she had strayed out from the wards, and into the dementors' patrols.

At once it had assaulted her senses, so powerful she could tell the direction of the foul thing as it circled overhead. Things got a bit blurry after that - she recalled Sally being on the floor, the crunching noise of some kind of impact, and then professor Snape of all people yelling out a spell which surrounded her in a blanket of calm - the same one Lupin had employed on the train, no doubt, even if the exact feeling was subtly different.

Lupin's spell had an indignant edge to it - a sense of righteous disgust at the sheer audacity of the dementor trying to take away happiness - but overwhelmingly it was jovial, almost to the point of mischief. It made you want to reach out and tweak the dementor's nose; get the damn thing to lighten up a little. Snape's casting held a happiness of its own, a sort of contentment derived from a sense of absolute purpose; but then where Lupin's held righteousness, Snape's was laced with pure, unadulterated rage. His magic was a promise of violence, providing solace only because it was focused outward, brought to bear exclusively upon those who would cause harm. A mother bear defending its cub.

As lovely as Lupin's had been, Hermione found she resonated far more with the latter.

She was ruminating on such things in depth because there was not much else to do at that moment. Snape had intervened in the defence of her, Sally, and whoever else had shown up (which, in a turn of events even the tabloids couldn't claim astonishing, turned out to be Harry ramming headfirst into a dementor… because what else?) and they were promptly hustled up to the infirmary, where Hermione now sat.

Harry was laid out on a bed beside her, yet to regain consciousness, though Snape, Pomfrey, and Minerva had all assured her more than once he had not been 'kissed'. Whatever that meant; there was reading to be done on the matter of dementors, it seemed. Hermione's legs had finally stopped shaking enough she could have walked without support (staggering through Hogwarts on Snape's arm, of all people's arms, had been an experience too mortifying to think on), but until Harry came round she was going nowhere.

Pomfrey, to her continuing credit, hadn't even tried broaching the subject of visiting hours. There was an unspoken understanding that any attempt to move Hermione from her vigil would end unpleasantly, accentuated by the presence of ten- and three-quarter inches of vine-wood resting agitatedly in her hand. Purpose and power; those were the words Ollivander had used to describe her wand. Right at that moment she was feeling the harsher quality of the dragon-heartstring core the most: Temperamentality, with a tendency to go 'dark' more readily than most.

Idly, she wondered if she perhaps shared wand properties with professor Snape, or any other Slytherins. And although this was a dangerous train of thought, she thought it anyway because she was feeling rather dangerous herself: might such Slytherins have the right of it?

Her Gryffindor fellows would not have approved such considerations, nor would most Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws, but why should she care what they thought? So many among them were small-minded, bigoted, or just plain dense, and a lion should not concern itself with the opinions of sheep. The only opinion she gave a damn about was that of the boy lying beside her; the boy who had once, in not so many words, quietly confided in her that the hat nearly sent him to Slytherin.

At the time, she hadn't seen fit to tell him he wasn't alone in that regard. Everyone had her pegged for a closet Ravenclaw, which was understandable, but the hat had disagreed. It saw what they did not; she read so much not for knowledge alone, but for what it could achieve. Her intelligence was a tool, not an end. She turned to books because people were too judgmental of the questions she might wish to ask - a lesson she learned when her third year teacher at primary school took her eager demands for a lesson on dissecting insects entirely the wrong way.

Only the nobility of her lofty goals, and, in hindsight, her blood status, had kept her from the snake pit. She was glad of that on the whole, because as trying as the Gryffindors could be, sharing a common room with Malfoy would be so much worse, and in Gryffindor she had met Harry, then through him Luna and Neville. How different her life would be if the hat's coin flip had landed the other way for either of them.

A bleary noise from Harry jerked her from her introspection. She reached out and found his hand, not quite where she last left it, then sat listening intently to his shallow breaths. With his hand in hers she could feel his slow pulse, every beat racing up her arm, her own just behind it as though waiting for permission. As though, should his heart cease, hers would too. His palms were cold and clammy, his fingers loose one minute yet stiff the next. He slept, but fitfully. She hoped he was not stuck in whatever nightmare the dementor had subjected him to.

When one of his breaths was delayed, she leant over, feeling for the exhalation more than listening. The air on her cheek was weak, so soft even her senses barely caught it, but it was there, and his pulse stayed steady. Pulling back, she reached up to check his brow; it was sweaty again, but not disturbingly so. Her fingertips drifted slowly over his skin, picking out a hundred tiny scratches left by sand and stones; the patch of smooth scar tissue where basilisk venom had burned him; and one legendary lightning bolt scar. To her, the smooth scar meant so much more. The bolt was only the mark of a stroke of luck on a terrible night; he was not a saviour to the wizarding world, merely an orphaned baby the Reaper had overlooked. The burn was a badge of honour: Earned in battle; earned in defence of his friends; and to be worn with pride.

Objectively, she supposed it must be ugly, but to her it was beautiful.

Harry stirred again under her ministrations and she bent closer again, moving her hand to stroke his wild hair. She couldn't wait to give him hell for being a reckless idiot, and hear the cheeky little hitch in his voice reassuring her that no matter how much she lectured him, no matter how profusely he apologised, he would carry on being himself. That he wouldn't truly change, because he didn't need to. That he'd keep rushing into danger, to the defence of his friends, because for all the times it was stupid and unneeded, the one time it wasn't made all the others worthwhile.

Those annoying moments made up a promise, unspoken yet already proven. They served as reminders that, come what may, Harry had her back the way she hoped to have his. Feeling overwhelmed by her emotions, and with no way to thank him, she found herself breaking a promise of her own: Gently, reverently, the way her mother used to when tucking her in, she placed a small kiss upon his venom-etched scar, wishing him a peaceful sleep and a fast recovery.

It was a single moment of recklessness, and selfishness, and born entirely of love. And some promises simply weren't made for keeping.

Unfortunately for Hermione, her moment of weakness coincided perfectly with a certain redheaded young girl quietly entering the infirmary, intent on apologising for her own transgression; stopping on seeing the scene unfolding before her; and slipping out unnoticed to find a friendly ear for her newfound sorrow.

When Harry awoke, he came to all at once, like a man brought round by electric shock from the brink of drowning. He shot upright before he knew where he was; the effort reduced him at once to a coughing, sputtering mess, gasping for precious air between fits of diaphragmic torture. A figure loomed over him, their face obscured by the dim lighting of the room and his lack of glasses, their voice not carrying over the echoing in his skull of his own raucous coughs. When they laid a hand on his arm, he tugged it back forcefully.

He was dazed for a moment or three, but as the spasms subsided memories flooded in; recent, wild memories. Hermione lying wounded on the pebble beach, a dementor sucking at her face, her blindfold flapping wildly in the swirling air, almost torn away to reveal the monstrous visage beneath.

No, that's not right…

The dementor turned to him, and Snape's cruel cold eyes met his, burning out from the shadows under the hood. He lifted her limp form into the air with a flick of his wrist and laid her across the back of a silvery deer, intending to make off with her.

Something about that is not right at all…

He needed to find her. His mind was all muddled, even he could tell, but the feeling that she was in danger was real enough. He needed to see she was alright with his own eyes, shitty as they were, and if she was not then his need was greater still. He made to get up, only to find a strong hand grasping his left arm, and another placed gently across his right. He shied from the harsh touch, and into the softer hand.

Then, because his sense of balance had yet to rouse itself, he shied all the way off the bed on that side. Gentle hands tried too late to catch him, and he fell to the ground in a tumble of limbs of which only half were his own. Even cushioned by the legs of another, hitting the ground hurt; he gasped in pain, and in doing so inhaled a familiar, anchoring scent of vanilla.

"Harry! Harry, are you okay?" she shouted in his ear, and though he winced, he was never so glad to be deafened.

With the urgency suddenly gone, and his body's protests that moving it had been utterly stupid, he lay sprawled across her legs and tried to get his breath; an effort not helped by the odd feeling that only his right lung was working. Hermione's hands were all over him, groping at him until they found his wrist and neck. An uncomfortable - physically as well as emotionally - prodding told him she was checking his pulse, which he thought rather extreme considering all he'd done was fall on her. Really, couldn't she see he was-

OK, he thought, maybe this isn't my finest moment. But why is she so worried? It isn't the first time I've ended up like this, and last time I only died for a few minutes… Ah, right.

He tried to reassure her, but it came out as a groan, which he supposed did the bare minimum to complete the assignment.

"Is he-?" Hermione asked.

"He will be fine," Madam Pomfrey asserted, "but he would recover much sooner if he were to remain in bed."

Harry felt he had to agree; the bed had been much more pleasant. He didn't have anything against Hermione's legs, or any particular opinion on them now he thought about it, but they were not comfortable to rest his spine across. Maybe he should have an opinion on them? Or was that just the pain potions talking?

Hermione sighed in what might have been relief, or annoyance, or only the default noise she made at Harry when he was being… himself. "You know, Harry, we need to stop finding ourselves in this position. It does nothing for my knees. Come on, get off me, you ridiculous lump."

He got the strangest impression that while she was not entirely happy with him, neither was she actually annoyed. He searched his mind for the appropriate word, and eventually came up with 'exasperated'. Then realised in the time he had spent pretending to be a thesaurus he had made no effort to move as ordered, and - gingerly - did something about that.

Or tried to. It was immediately apparent he wasn't going to be hauling his own bruised arse off her, and Pomfrey was kind enough to assist with a levitating charm, which made Harry feel like a child's doll, or a particularly crumpled leaf upon a strong wind. Being levitated was singularly discomforting because it moved every part of the body equally - Harry had never noticed how his organs rested upon one another until suddenly they did not. It also did no favours to his sense of balance, which chose to finally report for duty right when it had no good frame of reference with which to orient itself.

He was swiftly moved to a different bed when he threw up over the first one.

Thanks to the expertise of Madam Pomfrey when it came to broomstick-related injuries, and the supernatural resilience of wizards, Harry was fit to be released in time for dinner. Having skipped the second half of breakfast, missed lunch due to being unconscious, and thrown up what little his stomach had left, he couldn't get down to the great hall quickly enough. He took every flight of stairs two at a time, then had to wait at the bottom for Hermione to catch up. Whilst waiting at the third flight, he did wonder whose bright idea it was to put the infirmary multiple storeys high, and on a different level to every major communal area an injured party might be coming from or returning to. Probably the same wizard who thought up platform 9 3/4.

Because he was Harry Potter, and his luck was simply like that, they arrived to the evening meal all of two minutes late; just enough time for the hall to be mostly full, but with many looking to the doors as they waited on their straggling friends. Perfect timing for any entrance not to go unnoticed.

A general nudging of elbows from the few watching the door soon had all eyes on Harry and Hermione as they crossed the hall to the Gryffindor table. That much he had been expecting.

Fred and George Weasley wolf-whistling them, he was not.

He shot them a querying look, one eyebrow raised, and got a suggestive wiggling of theirs back at him as they glanced between him and Hermione. He looked to the other Gryffindors for explanation: the rest of the team was giving him a collectively sympathetic look which made him at once fear for the state of his broom; Ginny was crying over something into a confused Neville's shoulder; and Geofric was giving him a rather leery thumbs up.

Then he looked over his shoulder and found Hermione had stopped, stock still in the middle of the hall, her jaw slowly dropping.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She shook herself. "Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Let's get some food, yes? I'm famished."

Agreeing with the sentiment, he led her to the table and took a place between Geofric and Lee Jordan, opposite Ginny, who had stopped crying and was now fixing Hermione with a hard stare. More disconcerting than that (because honestly, few days went by without Ginny staring down someone for something) was the way Lee, Geofric, the twins and even the usually shy Colin leaned in as the pair took the seats clearly reserved for them. The feast before them was apparently forgotten.

"So, Harry…" a twin who was probably Fred began.

"Enjoy your stay in Pomfrey's domain?" George completed.

"Find the beds to your liking?" Lee contributed.

"Not too squeaky, eh?" Geofric said with a wink.

If the wink was meant to convey some sort of meaning to Harry, it was completely lost on him. As were all their comments; he expected to get some sort of sympathy from them, even if it was delivered in the form of a ribbing. Not whatever this was.

"Forget the beds, how'd you like the company?" George asked, with a glance at Hermione who was once again frozen, her earbuds held to her ears but not yet in place.

"We hear your bed-nurse gave you her full attention," Geofric leered.

Hermione jerked abruptly, throwing her buds into a platter of mash. "I do not know what you have heard, Geofric Warren," she snapped, rounding on the boy, "nor from whom, but I suggest you keep any ridiculous ideas very much to yourself!"

"Ridiculous?" Ginny scoffed.

"You heard me," Hermione said.

"Yeah, I saw you too. Caught you right in the middle of it and all."

Harry decided he'd had enough of being left in the dark at his own expense. "Saw what?" he cut in. "Middle of what? Hermione, what's she talking about?"

"Yeah, Hermione, what am I talking about, hmm?" Ginny said, so nastily Neville hurriedly shuffled away from her.

The subject of questioning sat silent for a while, no-one else wanting or else daring to intercede. In the quiet it became apparent most of the school had abandoned their own conversations in favour of listening in; whatever drama Harry had found himself in the middle of now, it was once again going to be the talk of Hogwarts.

"You are completely misunderstanding the situation," she said, careful of every word.

"Uh-huh. Care to explain, then?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why not?"

"Why could you not just keep your interfering little mouth shut?"

Ginny sniffed. "'s only fair. If I can't-"

"SHUT UP!"

Hermione slammed a fist on the table, the sound echoing off the ceiling as solid oak cracked under the force of her magic flowing unrestrained. Ginny's eyes widened, as did everyone's, at the sudden display of power which Hermione seemed not to even notice. Then Hermione's wand was out from her sleeve and flicking about her head. People ducked, and even Harry flinched, but they needn't have bothered as she cast an area silencio. The noise of the hall fell away, muted but not entirely gone, punctuated with pops and bursts of sound as the charm fluctuated, but held better than it had any right to; Harry was fairly sure that was a fifth year spell.

The only sounds not affected were Hermione's heavy breaths as she composed herself. She turned her face away from him before speaking.

"I'm sorry, Harry."

"For what?"

"I didn't think… well, that's the problem, isn't it? I just didn't think at all. How stupid of me. How moronic. How ruddy thick."

"You're not thi-"

"I didn't think it would matter," she murmured. "No one was supposed to know, and it wouldn't have mattered, but then Ginny Bloody Weasley had to go and… it was only one little…"

Harry thought it might save them both a little frustration if she got to the point. "Just tell me."

"Tell you? Might as well. Seems half the school knows; might as well hear it from me. Fine, then… here goes." She braced her shoulders and span to face him, revealing a face flush with blood and bearing a pained smile Harry could see was close to breaking. "In the infirmary, when you were asleep, I did something rather - extraordinarily - daft. Ginny has no doubt blown it out of all proportion, but the fact remains… I kissed you."

Suddenly the weirdness of all their friends made sense, but nothing else did. Hermione had kissed him? Why would she do such a thing? Since when did she think of him like that? If it had come from anyone but her, he simply wouldn't have believed it.

But it was coming from her, so he had no choice but to. He raised a hand and ran his fingers across his lips; they didn't feel any different. The idea of Hermione's lips on them, though, that was… well, it was totally… it was… never mind that; what happened to being able to trust each other?

All he could bring himself to say was, "why?"

"I don't know."

And now she was lying to him. He knew she was lying, because she always knew. Knowing was her thing. She must have known how he would feel about it - her voice was giving away that much.

'No one was supposed to know.'

She had kissed him with no intention of telling anyone; of telling him. Did she think it was alright if she got away with it? Because it wasn't. Would Lockhart have been in the right if he'd pulled off his obliviate stunt? Were the Dursleys paragons of sainthood because social services never checked in on them?

"Harry?"

Worse than the skewed morality his friend had shown, she was such a hypocrite. What ever happened to quid pro quo? Something for something; she had taken something from him, and what had she given in return? What even could she have given? As much as Harry hated the idea of kissing anyone - no, it was being kissed he hated. He held onto the childish romantic fantasy of sharing a first kiss with someone important, someone who mattered to him, with whom he intended to spend the rest of his days. His first kiss was a precious thing, all the more special because he knew if he found someone he could enjoy kissing, they must be the one.

"Please don't be mad at me. Harry?"

Now that had been stolen from him, and by Hermione of all people. Hermione who was sitting there, pleading with him not to be mad… if she had the sense to know he would be, why couldn't she have refrained from it in the first place? Wasn't he supposed to be the one who acted before thinking, and she the one who chastised for it? That was how their friendship worked.

Except, apparently, our friendship doesn't work like I thought it did.

He stood up abruptly, feeling the need to be anywhere but there, with her, surrounded by people who knew what she had done. If he stayed he would either flip at her and do something stupid, or crumble to the fear of losing a friend and forgive her, which might be just as stupid.

"I need space," he declared, stepping out from her silencing charm before she could respond.

He stood and bathed in the noise of a hall already moved on from the latest round of drama, centring his wildly spinning thoughts. Despite his words, space was the last thing he needed; to be alone with those thoughts would do him no good. He needed someone he could turn to, but they were hard to come by, it seemed. The world was full of traitors: Minerva, who left a child on a doorstep; Sirius Black, out for his blood; Ginny and her fangirl insanity; and now Hermione too. His Gryffindor friends would only want to talk about the ki- the thing which had happened; probably they would congratulate him on it, the insensitive pricks. What he needed was a friend who was happy to talk about nothing in particular, for as long as needed.

He had barely completed the thought when he realised his feet had taken him to the Ravenclaw table, where Luna's vibrant blue eyes were shining up at him inquisitively.

"Wrackspurts, Harry?" she asked knowingly, and he knew his feet had made the right decision. "Don't worry; you're just in time for pudding."

Minerva sat at the head table watching with undisguised concern as some sort of drama unfolded amongst her cubs. Drama in her house was common - putting all the headstrong students together in one place was a recipe for conflict - but this scene piqued her interest because of who sat at the centre of it all. When the pair retreated under a silencing charm Minerva thought all would soon be right within her house, as there seemed no limit to the stress her two favourites could endure so long as they were together. By the time Harry exited the charm, alone, it was clear something was terribly wrong.

Still, she waited to see it play out; these things were often best not interfered with, and Hermione would no doubt find a resolution. She had observed much the same scene a hundred times over when James and Lily had been under her charge, and that had all worked out once Lily managed to beat enough sense into James' thick skull to make him bearable. She allowed herself a wry grin at the thought that the same was happening all over again - it had been an nightmare in one sense, yet so gratifying in its conclusion she longed to once more see its like.

For now, they would simply have to endure a little suffering. It was character building, and they would be all the closer and stronger for it once it came to pass. They would move on from their troubles and find happiness in the end; she fervently believed that.

She had to; if they couldn't then she would shoulder some part of the blame, and the weight upon her was already so much more than she could take.

Maybe she should help speed things along, just a little bit? Giving them every opportunity couldn't hurt.

Putting the two of them back together, reminding them of their common ground, and the things they had already done for each other… it had to happen at some time, so why not the present?

Yes, best to do it now… the days of standing in the side-lines while that poor boy suffers are most definitely over.

As soon as the meal began to wrap up, she stood and moved to round up the pair of them. Harry first, because if he chose to go wandering with his Ravenclaw friend they would be near impossible to find - the Lovegood child had been found more than once in corridors long since blocked off, or thought otherwise inaccessible to students.

He was clearly annoyed to be parted from his friend, though not so much as to complain aloud, which Minerva took as a good sign; whatever was happening within her house, the boy would not find himself lacking friendly company elsewhere. His annoyance only grew, clear in the way he dragged his feet and averted his eyes, as she led him back to the Gryffindors to collect Hermione.

The girl was compliant. Worryingly so; it was like meeting the girl she had been in her first few weeks of school, a shy, lonely child terrified to step a foot wrong. Halloween had been an horrific experience, but with a silver lining of proving little Ms Granger to be a Gryffindor through and through. The new and improved Hermione would have protested she hadn't finished her pudding, or asked a dozen rapid fire questions about why she was needed, before deciding for herself whether or not it was worth her precious time.

Instead, she said nothing, collecting her things and falling in line with her head hung. It was immediately apparent who was the guilty party in whatever had transpired, although by the encouraging pats and quiet words the Weasley twins gave her on the way past, her transgressions could not have been all that bad. That pair were a menace, but their moral compasses were perfectly intact, and Minerva trusted their judgment far more than she would ever allow them to know.

Leaving the two to their glum silence as they walked on either side of her was not Minerva's intention, but it had been so long since she was a teenager she struggled to find the words to break the tension. Her personal approach to such matters was to address the issue directly, and encourage others to do the same. In this case, she simply did not know what the issue was, and got the distinct impression neither child wished to talk about it yet. So, she put off saying anything until they came to a stop at the Gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office, where she remembered she was working off too many assumptions to proceed.

"Ms Granger," - she wanted to use first names, but the corridor was not empty of student life - "I presume you purchased and read the book I recommended?"

It seemed a fair bet, but better to check.

"Yes, professor."

"And you appreciate why I pointed you in that direction?"

"The basilisk, ma'am. You think we should claim it."

"I do not think you should, necessarily, but it is your right and it was remiss of the headmaster to leave you ignorant of said right. You would be a fool not to pursue such any easy and well-deserved source of galleons, and I do not take either of you for fools."

"So we are not in trouble?"

"Whyever would you think you were?"

Harry snorted at that and turned away to study the wall.

"I caused a scene in the hall… and I think I broke the table."

"You certainly did, child, but the first is not actually against school rules, and the second was obviously unintentional. Those tables have weathered far more abuse than that over the years."

"Can we get on with this?" Harry snipped, earning him a stern look.

"Very well," Minerva acquiesced, not wanting to rile the boy any further before a meeting with Dumbledore. "Ice mice."

The gargoyle stepped aside on hearing the password, and Harry stormed off up the stairs. Minerva waited for Hermione to more carefully make her way up, and brought up the rear. By the time they reached the top the door was open and Harry was pacing one wall of the office, watched by a bemused Albus.

"Ah, professor McGonagall," he greeted, relaxing into his high-backed chair and vanishing the last of his dinner. Why he had taken in recent years to eating in his office, Minerva neither knew nor cared to ask. "Your presence certainly explains how young Harry here was let in - I was starting to worry I needed to select more difficult passwords. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We have come to discuss the ramifications of Ms Granger and Mr Potter's heroic actions at the end of the last school year. Specifically, they are here to claim the Right of the Slayer, as put into law in thirteen-eighty-two."

"Are they? How interesting. Not many their age know of such laws," he said, giving Minerva a look over his spectacles which make it quite clear he was accusing her of meddling, and perhaps not knowing what she was doing.

Her returning glare make it equally clear she knew exactly what she was doing, and was not going to be deterred by couched language or deep, twinkling eyes. "Miss Granger is famously well-read."

"So she is. They intend to claim the trophy prize, then?"

"The entire carcass," Hermione corrected before Minerva could do the same.

"The entire… No, I do not think this would be wise, or even possible. The basilisk contains several extremely rare and dangerous parts that must be dealt with most cautiously, if it all. It would be safer to leave the thing be; let its foul existence crumble to dust and be forgotten."

"With all due respect, that is not your decision to make," Hermione challenged.

Minerva was cheered to see the enthusiasm sparking in the morose girl, although the way it was exhibiting itself was admittedly a little chilling. No doubt she was reliving the traumatic experience in her mind, and her instincts were leaning heavily towards 'fight'. Lockhart truly had no clue what he was up against, did he?

Neither, it seemed, did Albus Dumbledore, as he continued to protest.

"As the basilisk was the property of Salazar Slytherin, left in Hogwarts' keeping all these years, it falls to the current headmaster to see to its fate. And so I must disagree. Now, I believe we can come to an agreement easily enough… for example, if you wish to claim the hide as your trophy, I can have it rendered by professionals in due course. It would make quite the display piece, would it not?"

"The hide?" Minerva interceded, letting her annoyance show. "Albus, you know well the trophy is traditionally the head."

"Ah, but in this case the head is where the danger resides," Albus sighed. His mournful countenance might have fooled Minerva in another life, another time. Instead, it only served to rile her, for it was surely fake. "It is not even known if the basilisk's stare retains its devastating power after death. Better not to risk such a thing."

"What does it matter which part's the trophy?" Harry asked, looking up from a newly-broken doo-dad he had been tinkering with. "We're claiming the whole thing."

"Now, Harry-"

"Besides, it's not like you can get to the thing without me, can you? Last I heard I was the only parselmouth around here, and I know the chamber is closed - I checked. Maybe I should go collect the thing myself."

Harry made for the door, as though intent on doing exactly as he was suggesting.

"I cannot allow such a thing," Albus declared, his voice suddenly hard. "The chamber of secrets is a dangerous place for a child."

Minerva gathered Harry into her arms, without quite touching him, before he made the door. They stood together against the headmaster, Minerva behind her cubs in every sense.

"It will be far less dangerous than the last time these two were down there, I am quite sure of that. And, this time, they will be escorted by their head of house; not a less suitable choice of professor."

"Minerva, I have spoken on the matter."

"Aye, that you have, but as your words were not to my liking, I have chosen not to hear them. We shall talk on this matter again, when you have had time to assume a more reasonable viewpoint. In the meantime, I am taking Mr Potter and Ms Granger to lay stasis charms over the corpse, lest it 'crumble to dust' and all value be lost. Or do you intend to take issue with avoiding the inevitable and indefensible lawsuit against Hogwarts should such a thing happen?"

Dumbledore sighed and stroked his beard ruefully. After he had barely navigated the legal troubles of the past year, she had him cornered. "Very well. You may lay the charms, and we will return to this discussion at a later date."

Minerva knew he was only allowing her to set the charm as it would mean he could then postpone any later discussions indefinitely. Still, that was only a delaying tactic for a man who knew he was on the back foot with no leg to stand on, so she counted the visit as a victory over the old coot. And for just a moment, wondered when she had started thinking of him in such a way - was it when she discovered a sniffling, abused boy lost in the streets of Guildford, or had she always known, deep down, the great Albus Dumbledore was so much less than his legend?

Either way, she found herself not wanting to spend a second longer than necessary in his presence.

"Come along then, Harry, Hermione. Let us appraise your hard-won prize. Good day, Albus."

"Good day, Minerva."

The closer they got to the girls' second floor bathroom, the more sullen Minerva's charges became. Her gentle attempts to draw them into conversation went from failing to being ignored completely. Harry was in a mood quite unlike any she had seen from him; he had been angry, and sad, and every colour of emotion one might expect from a child bearing so much on his shoulders, but never before had she witnessed him brooding. She was so focused on trying to figure out why, it wasn't until Hermione stopped at the bathroom door that she realised the girl was shaking.

It was obvious what the problem was. Minerva had hoped the Gryffindor traits would win through, but she did not blame the girl one bit for faltering at the boundary of the place where she had fought for her life.

"Miss Granger, you do not have to proceed if you are not happy to do so. I only require that Harry open the entrance; I can go on from there alone if needs must."

"No! No, I'll… I will do this. It's just that… can I have a moment?"

"Of course. We shall wait for you inside. Harry?"

"On it," he said, striding into the room which was once again flooded.

It was the work of moments for him to have a set of sinks slide apart to open the tunnel leading to the Chamber. Minerva saw the problem, and was reminded of how spontaneously they had found themselves facing the drop before her. With just a little forethought she would have brought three broomsticks.

Not that she would have had chance to hand one to Harry before he jumped into the tunnel with the casual confidence of a teenager at a waterpark. Minerva had been to a muggle waterpark - once. The cat in her did not enjoy the water. The human disapproved of the slides far more. Her inner Gryffindor had taken it as a challenge and spurred her down every last one.

"Hermione? It seems Harry had rushed ahead; I do not wish to hurry you, but I cannot leave him unaccompanied."

The girl gave a long sigh, almost wistfully. "I'm coming."

When she came over it was clear she was reluctant to approach the edge. Minerva guided her more than she normally would, prioritising student safety over empowerment, and soon enough Hermione was sent hurtling down into the darkness. Minerva tried not to dwell too much on what she was doing, nor how wildly off the rails Hogwarts had gone in the past two years, and, favouring her feline form for a safer journey, followed.

The stench had her transforming back the moment her paws made contact with level ground, her feline senses overwhelmed. They were not stood directly within a functioning sewer, but undoubtedly connected to several. Harry already had a lumos up, allowing Minerva to cast her gaze around. The area they were in was an unremarkable stone and mortar chamber, although the ground was littered with the bones of countless rats.

Hermione attempted to pick one such bone out of her hair, grew frustrated, and tore several strands from her scalp to be rid of it. She threw the bone at the floor, hard enough to crack it, then stood stock still save for her rapidly pulsating chest. Minerva hoped it was only the result of a shared hatred of slides, but she would readily admit that to be wishful thinking.

Harry stood awkwardly distant from the girl, kicking at the bone pile.

"Someone show me the spot," Hermione said into the sullen silence.

"The spot, dear?"

"Where I- where he died. Put me in front of it."

Minerva chose not to question her motives, and looked around for what she wanted. Whoever it was that had retrieved Lockhart's body had left little visible trace, but that was little obstacle to an accomplished witch. The death of a wizard would always leave traces in the magic of the surroundings, and in a chamber so absent of other magics Minerva's general detection charm pinpointed the spot precisely. Now she knew where to look, she could see how the scattered bones had been mostly swept away, and she didn't want to get close enough to figure out if those marks she saw in the stone were gouged by human nails. Solemnly, she took Hermione's hand and led her to stand before the first resting place of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Go on to the chamber," Hermione muttered. "I do not think I will be joining you."

Impressed the girl had come as far as she had, given how deeply it was affecting her, Minerva motioned for Harry to lead on, and wordlessly left the girl to her thoughts.

An enraged scream had her head snapping round, just in time to see Hermione aim her wand at the ground and blast away at the stone in a torrent of scourging power. Rock and bone fragments chipped and flew away, peppering the face of the girl who showed no indication she noticed, or cared. Whatever essence had once remained of Lockhart, it would surely be lost in that maelstrom of anger and grief; the girl's overpowering intent radiated in palpable waves.

Minerva could only shake her head at the desecration. She disapproved of disrespecting the dead in principle, but knew it was not her place to speak against it. Only Hermione could know the reason why she felt the need to do what she did, and as Harry was not protesting, she would have to trust their judgment that it was warranted.

As the girl's spellwork tore Lockhart's memory from the stone, Minerva's opinion of the man was further defiled along with it. How had he evoked such a primal hatred from a girl she knew to hold so much goodness in her heart? Do I even wish to know?

They were not gone long; not long enough. Hermione was tempted to reach for the turner at her neck, to wind its glass and buy another hour with which to channel out the anger threatening to overcome her entirely.

Lockhart had died here; suffered here; and it was somehow not enough. In death, he had escaped answering for his crimes. In death, his memories - the only memories remaining of so many crimes - became inaccessible. A countless - uncountable - number of people would have to live in the torturous purgatory of never knowing; never being able to face the one who had defiled them so. Hermione had taken that chance from them. She had had her satisfaction, but if she had known… if only she had known. Why did it always come back to that? Why did she always fall short?

All I know is that I know nothing.

All I know is that I do not know enough.

Resolving to do something about that, and knowing that procrastination is the thief of time, Hermione assaulted Minerva with questions from the moment they returned to the top of the tunnel she levitated them back up. Most of them were academic; all the little niggling thoughts she had not found time or nerve to ask in her classes. Some were moral conundrums, picked out of the chaos in her head and put to a woman with far more worldly experience, although the answers to those were few and hesitant.

It was the last question which was one she could ask only of that particular professor, and which she had been weighing the consequences of asking directly, even with her redoubled desire to know.

"Why are you so willing to appease the headmaster, when you know he is wrong?"

The answer she received, she knew to be aimed at both her and Harry, and she felt a tiny thrill at being able to help him, even indirectly.

"Ultimately, he is my employer; any significant pushback from myself must be couched in terms of protecting Hogwarts' legal interest. As I am no lawyer, I fear this greatly limits my usefulness to you going forward. You, however, cannot be fired nor expelled for championing your own rights; I advise you pursue every legal avenue to claim the basilisk's full corpse, or at the very least the head. Both, you shall be pleased to hear, remain in excellent condition."

After that, Hermione ran out of questions, which was a new experience she immediately found she didn't like. Her brain felt empty, and almost the instant she had that thought, it filled itself with once again with Lockhart and his victims. She barely noticed Harry leaving; she'd have to corner him to apologise later. She did notice that Minerva stayed, but only when the professor spoke to her.

"Is everything alright, Hermione?" Minerva asked, considering inviting the young witch back to her quarters for a calming chamomile tea.

"No, professor," she answered, frank as ever. "No it is not."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

The child's hand went to her chest, clutching what very few knew to lay beneath her robes. "Do you perchance have a time machine which can actually change the past? Wipe away what I have done?"

Minerva felt the question neither warranted nor expected an answer, and did not insult the girl by speaking empty words. Which meant she said nothing at all.

"I thought not. So, if you will excuse me…"

Hermione barged past, and Minerva wasn't sure whether the impact had been intentional or not. Watching the girl leave, she could only shake her head.

The things that poor young woman has had to endure, I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

A/N

Welcome, welcome one and all, to the part of every fanfic where the two main characters have an angsty falling out over something that could probably be resolved in a single conversation. Generally I don't like this trope, but it works annoyingly well for the story I'm writing. Still, I promise it won't drag on half as long as most fics, nor be the focus of the story. It's just something the characters need to be put through in order to get to where they're going.

If anyone wants to help a poor little author out, I'd love feedback on what people feel Hermione's character faults and flaws are up to this point. The constant battle against Mary Sue syndrome needs you. *Points in American*