A/N: Beta-read by the wonderful author KyloRen.93, whose "The Echoes of Fallen" series are a cathartic read. Check out his profile, I whole-heartedly recommend them!
Late at Wednesday evening
Hogwarts Kitchens
"One of the most accomplished Occlumens in the country is offering to tutor you for free and you want to have clearer understanding of the particulars?"
Oh, shut it, Snape. Am I expected to ignore how sudden all this feels?
Hermione sits on the edge of the rightmost table, as the slaves of the Wizarding World are busy little bees around her, putting pans and dishes to wash themselves, and preparing for tomorrow. Little hills of crumpled pieces of parchment can be seen around her, getting taller and taller, encasing her in a fortress of her failed attempts to phrase her request to the Headmaster. Every once in a while, she dives into her discarded versions, to drag up some line or argument she feels can be reused.
The whole process may not be particularly soothing, but it definitely provides Hermione with some of the answers that seemed so unfathomable when in his office, with Snape pressing his aquiline nose on hers. A number of issues still remain a mystery, peaking withwhy do I need Occlumency, Headmaster?
He's preparing me to be of better use to Harry.
It's that simple, it has to be. She doesn't linger too long on the bunch of -frankly- ludicrous notions that pass through her head, the extremest of which being that he's recruiting her for an Order mission.Occam's razor teaches us to always prefer the simplest explanation.
Even if it's that straightforward, though, there's a little detail that doesn't quite sit well with Hermione. Fifteen minutes later, she's made it the central axis of the last -and hopefully, final- edition of her letter.
Esteemed Headmaster Dumbledore,
I hope this letter finds you well. I write to ask for a private audience with you, concerning my "detention" with professor Snape. I wouldn't bother you if I could help it, but there is a delicate and somewhat complex matter that is troubling me.
Firstly, I would like to say how grateful I am to you, for giving me the chance to study such an intriguing branch of magic, especially under the tutelage of a master like professor Snape. I'm certain it will prove quite useful to me in the future. However, I am worried about what memories of mine the professor may come across. I believe you are already aware that Harry has been sharing the contents of the private lessons you've been giving him, with Ronald Weasley and myself?
I would really value your advice, which is why I'm taking this liberty. I'd appreciate it if we could meet before eight o'clock this Friday evening, when I'll need to return to professor Snape's office. I realise it's on a very short notice, sir, but I only ask for five minutes of your time. I would really be very uncomfortable if I began these lessons, without having consulted you first.
Thank you again for the opportunity you are giving me.
Respectfully,
Hermione Granger
She reads it one more time, inwardly promising it'll be the last; she has already dedicated an obscene amount of time to writing this. Above them, dinner time is long over in the Great Hall. Hermione arrived in the Kitchens just in time to watch the whole procedure of full platters being sent up and half-eaten ones returning. The house elves have been minding their own business, avoiding the leader of the S.P.E.W. as if she were the carrier of a plague. All apart from Dobby, who has been circling around her with happy little bounces, treating her to the feast she should have attended upstairs.
Dobby stands in front of her now, his saucer-like eyes watching her good-naturedly, while his small body shifts and twitches in the overly energetic way that characterises him. She shouldn't be using him as a messenger, but Dobby is the quickest way for her letter to reach its recipient. She tried to convince Dobby to accept payment for turning him into a post owl, but he was insulted instead. "Shame on you, Ms Granger, miss! Harry Potter's friends are Dobby's friends and he does anything for them and never asks for something in return!"
Hermione starts to pass over the letter, before regretting it again—
"Sorry—sorry, I forgot to check the spelling!"
"Ms Granger was already checking the spelling of her letter, Ms Granger, miss." Dobby reminds her, almost jumping up and down with impatience. "Ms Granger was checking it twice already! Can Dobby deliver the letter to Headmaster Dumbledore sir now?"
Dobby tugs one end of the parchment, Hermione the other –did I put the date right?-Huffing, she gives it up, and makes a mental note to double the amount of socks she had in mind to buy him for Christmas.
"You must leave it on his desk in a spot visible enough so he can see it in the morning."
"Yes, Ms Granger, miss."
"Not on his usual pile of mail, though, which I'm sure will be quite big; I don't want it to get lost in the crowd." Hermione pirouettes around the little elf, as Dobby is now literally shoving her toward the exit.
"No, miss, Dobby knows."
"He must find it the moment he wakes in the morning, so he can arrange to meet me before Friday night." She backtracks as Dobby shoos her away.
"Dobby knows, Ms Granger, miss, you was already explaining it to Dobby a dozen times!"
After that, Dobby literally shuts the kitchen portrait at her face, immediately re-openning it to apologize, and subsequently throwing it shut again, leaving Hermione immersed in the half darkness typically induced by a lit torch in a windowless corridor.
Huh. It seems all I ever manage to do with House Elves is piss them off.
It's long after curfew and there's not a soul to be found in the castle's corridors. She fidgets with her wand, considering the use of aLumos, but doesn't really want to attract more attention than necessary. As she begins her long ascent to the 7th floor, she straightens her prefect badge on the lapel of her school robes, making sure it's visible enough, as if the staff she might come across aren't already aware of her status.
The castle has its charm during these nightly hours of death-like silence, when you can hear your own footsteps echo, reflected back at you from the stone. Not that Hermione has a chance to appreciate it, of course. The facts Harry has shared about the Gaunts and Mrs Cole's orphanage fly circles in her thoughts.
Snape has quite the fair chance of stumbling on them when their lessons begin.
Talking of Harry, neither he nor Ron are anywhere to be found in the common room, when Hermione finally hops through the Fat Lady's portrait. Instead of getting on with homework, they spent the half-hour leading up to her detention coming up with new and even more demeaning names for Snape; that must have tired them out, because they've gone to bed, not caring enough to wait up to hear how the actual thing played out, or even worry about what kept Hermione away for so many hours.
Hermione doesn't normally think like that. Harry and Ron are the first and only close friends she's had in her short life; their bond is irreplaceable. For her ingratitude now, she blames the stress she's been through all this week.
At this hour, most students have followed her friends' wise example, except for a few 5th and 7th years that still labour over their homework. Unfortunately, Ginny isn't among them. Even if she was here, though, what would Hermione tell her? She's not supposed to utter any of the speculations that torment her mind. She can't express any of the irritation that boils under her skin. And the unanswered questions that remain after Snape's so-called explanations, she has no one she can share them with, to talk them out, merely for the sake of blowing off some steam. And yet, it's not that which burdens her more, as she takes the stairs up to her dormitory.
She has nobody to help her relax and unwind, to make her feel safe and cared for. She doesn't have a special person of her own, that will make her feel respected and cherished.
What Hermione has is her arithmancy book.
She takes it with her under the covers and depends on the dry pages to divert her, so she can catch a few winks in the few hours that remain until morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~… a few hours later…~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thursday's morning sun is only now peeking over the mountain range behind Albus' back. The coloured glass pane of his office window filters and scatters the new-born light in a hundred rays of different colours and hues. They paint his silver instruments, his books, the portraits on the walls with a chromatic range that a poet would need a lifetime to put into words.
It's a breath-takingly beautiful chaos.
As is this whole pointlessly cruel and reckless endeavour, Albus ruminates. It's as breath-taking as the rays of sun, whose path diverges when they come across one of his shiny objects. Right now they paint the bishop of his chess board in a light orange, but when Albus shifts the lacquered wood into a different position, the orange deepens and traces of green and violet appear. The light is manipulated by the stained glass of his office window, and Albus cannot know what new and unexpected colours will appear, as time progresses and the sun climbs higher into the sky.
That isn't quite accurate. He cannot know, but he certainly makes some educated guesses. Many a dawn has found him in his office, and he has been graced with witnessing this breath-taking sight uncountable times. Albus knows the trajectory the sun will take and his considerable -if he may so himself- intellect and experience allows him to speculate with a small margin of error on how the light in his office will look like, as it reflects upon his chess board pieces. He never forgets, however, that they are inanimate. They lack that beautiful quality called free will.
Beneath Albus' speculative gaze, the pieces transform into living, breathing people. Here is when the concept of chaos properly comes in. The scattering light combined with each person's free will, turn his chess board into a field of limitless possibilities.
He theorizes with care, as he always does, how many of these possibilities have become probabilities. But the fog hangs low and dense over their path; Albus can only bide his time and watch from afar. For now, two things are certain. One, Albus has a Bishop to protect; it will prove disastrous to lose him so early in the game. Two, Ms Granger needs to learn Occlumency at all costs and for her own protection.
Once more, Albus has lots of delicate balances to keep. It's only right, for it was fifty years ago, that he failed spectacularly in keeping balances. When an angry, hurt and lonely boy was delivered into his care, Albus was too busy with Gellert's war and the ghosts of his past. Albus tried to guide the boy into choosing light, instead of surrendering to the darkness that festered in his soul. Albus tried… but perhaps he could have tried more. He doesn't shy away from the admittance that he didn't invest as much of himself in the effort, as he could have done.
It matters not of course, because this boy soon chose the nameVoldemortfor himself. Tomchoseto be a monster, as Albus feared he would. Now Albus has no choice but to ensure this monster is slain, because there's nothing left of the hurt boy he used to be.
He picks up his quill, to write his reply to Ms Granger's request.
Morning mail swoops in the Great Hall, as Ron stuffs his mouth with the skyscraper (it can hardly be called a sandwich anymore) he built with toast, eggs and bacon.
What is it about this boy that I find so attractive again? Wonders Hermione, as she eyes him with no small measure of disgust. She must find him attractive, right? Why else would she be secretly pining for him since 2nd year? She remembers why, when Ron pauses between a swallow and a bite, to ask her how her detention went.
Ron is all Hermione has, when Harry is too consumed by his anger, his grief and the considerable number of assassination attempts he's had on his life so far. She and Ron could never understand how all that feels, but they can stand by Harry's side and watch his back. It has bonded them in a way Hermione doesn't really have with anyone else.
So, Ron asks what her detention was like and Hermione feels like she's on stage with all the spotlights exposing every piece of her to the spectators. She evades the question; what else is she supposed to do? Snape may be the worst bully she has ever met, but he's still a teacher.
"Fine?" Harry asks, when he's finally stopped his secret gawping at Ginny's direction and Ron's mouth is again too full for speaking, even for his standards. "Your detention with Snape went fine?"
"I didn't say that." Hermione corrects calmly, but not really meeting his eyes. "I said that you can imagine how it went. Fine, according to my– ours– all our expectations. It went as fine as anyone would expect, meaning not fine at all."
The boys only give her an identical, synchronized, owlish blink. The tension that's been amassing under her skin since Monday morning, the sneering faces of her academic competitors, the unfair detention, Snape's aggression, it all finally explodes.
"Alright, yes! It was horrible. He made me scrub his cauldrons and didn't stop talking down at me. He was as horrible as we all know him to be. Can we stop talking about it now?"
Hermione hides her face behind the cup of coffee; still, it's hard to miss Ron's half-whisper to Harry, expressing his everlasting bemusement about "girls" and their mystifying little her other hand, Hermione clutches the Headmaster's reply inside the pocket of her robes. He was quite swift in his response; she woke up to a note from him already waiting for her on her bedside table.
Her appointment is due tonight. Hermione is certain the Headmaster will provide her with a good enough reason to lie to her friends' faces.
She's ready to lie of course. She's an excellent liar. But she needs a good enough reason.
Binns draws on and on about Goblin Rebellions, and Hermione wishes she had drunk something caffeine-free for breakfast. Her mind keeps wandering and her fingers keep drumming on the desk.
She dearly hopes she hasn't insulted professor Dumbledore, by needlessly reminding him that Harry's been telling her about Voldemort's past. No matter what the Prophet says, Hermione doesn't doubt the state of the Headmaster's mental faculties.
He took what I know into account when he asked Snape to tutor me.
Snape aside, private Occlumency tutoring for free is a really rare educational opportunity.
Sweat is trickling down her brow, as she competes against Harry in the potions' classroom.
Even with Snape, though, how bad can it be?
She has already stood up to him once, she'll only get better with practice.
And he's a Master in three very challenging and obscure fields, potions, Defence and Mind Arts. How many can say that for themselves?
On her right, Harry has no interest in playing his part in their competition. He is cool and collected as he breezes through the rising demands of the coursework, as allcheatersdo. He is no match for Hermione when he doesn't follow the advice of that ridiculous Half-Blood Prince, who dares to challenge the approved textbook written by Libratious Borage himself.
Snape was a Death Eater in his youth.
In the safe-haven of the library, Hermione finishes her Astronomy essay, checking it off her study schedule.
Dumbledore trusts Snape. I'm the first one to remind that to Harry.
Though, after being on the receiving end of Snape's cruelty, Hermione has started to see his point of view. Admittedly, the thought that Snape was going behind the Headmaster's back did pass through her mind– but only for a single, ludicrous second. She doesn't forget that the man has proven himself an ally, again and again; a blackhearted one, yes, but never a traitor.
That's why the Headmaster trusts him with what he'll find in my memories.
The gargoyle parts to allow her into the circular staircase, which springs in motion the moment she steps on it, guiding her upward to the Head Office's grand oaken doors. Professor Dumbledore waits in there, along with all the answers to Hermione's questions.
She knocks on the door and his musical, tenor voice allows her in.
The Headmaster's workspace is the complete opposite from Snape's stark, dark and gloomy dungeon office. His big fireplace spreads warmth and light, as do the candles that are levitating over their heads. His bookcases are filled with books of every shape and colour, producing an image that's quite different from Snape's austere, dangerous-looking hard-backs. Instruments that wheeze and turn fill the little tables and the paintings of previous headmasters sleep over their heads. She's been here a couple of times before, but not quite enough to get used to it.
Despite the many interesting diversions, what draws Hermione's attention most is the small bird that stands on the professor's desk. It stretches its leg for the Headmaster to pry off the parchment role tied there.
"Ah, Ms Granger, come in, come in. Why don't you take a seat and pay no mind to my unexpected guest." The professor is cheerful as ever, while the bird jumps on his fingers at his call, allowing him to take it to the window sill.
It is blue-black, with white spots peppering its puffy chest. "Is that a… pigeon, sir?"
"Indeed, indeed." The professor beams, as he flicks his wand and a dish of grain and bits of fruit appear for the avian messenger. "Were you aware that pigeons are often used as messengers in countries of a hotter climate?"
"Well–" Hermione stops her reflexive response right on time. "No. No, sir, I didn't."
"Well, dear girl, let us not mind him. He will have his feast and then return to the skies, to start the long and weary flight back home. Unless you have been told to wait for a reply?"
The professor addresses his last words to the pigeon, which frolics his feathery back in a rather convincing imitation of a shrug.
"I would have guessed not." The Headmaster murmurs thoughtfully. "You see, Ms Granger, what right have we to grumble about losing the company of a friend that lives across the river, when we have burned down the bridge ourselves?"
Hermione eyes the small roll of parchment the old man pried off the bird's leg disappear into the pocket of his pink and purple robes. Upon looking up again, she realises he actually expects an answer.
"Ahh.. I'd say we've lost the right… Sir?"
"Hmm. And yet…" the Headmaster sits in his grand chair, leaning closer as if to share a secret. "… atruefriend is the one who'd stand beside us when it matters most, no matter the past actions that caused us to part ways."
He's smiling in that infectious way of his, blue eyes twinkling, while his silver hair and beard frame his lined face. Hermione can't help it; for the first time in days, she feels an honest urge to grin back.
"I definitely agree with the sound of that, sir." A small sigh of relief escapes her along with her smile, even though she cannot fathom what has brought this on.
"I'm glad, my dear. Now, to our business."
"Oh, yes, sir." Hermione moves her backside forward, so she literally sits on the edge of her padded chair. "And I want to thank you for receiving me on such short notice. I don't mean to take too much of your time."
The professor surveys her in his twinkling shrewdness. "This whole endeavour must have come quite suddenly to you."
"It did, sir." Hermione gives a nervous little chuckle. "I mean, not even Harry was expected to continue with Occlumency this year, and he has reasons to need it. You can imagine my surprise… Not that I'm not intrigued by the subject! I am, really, this is a rare chance and I can't even imagine all the ways that might help us in the future. And I'm also… uhm, honoured that professor Snape is willing to teach me."
"I can't tell you how relieved I am that you are so positive about these lessons." Says he in a kind of earnesty that has her frowning a bit. "I am sure that between homework and your prefect duties, you must have little time to spare, time you could be spending in rest and much-needed frivolity, instead of the demanding study of Occlumency."
"Oh, no, sir, I would never rather frivolity over this." Hermione rushes to reassure. "Please don't think that I asked to meet you because I am afraid of the workload. That really doesn't make me uncomfortable, at all."
"This is the girl who preferred using a time turner instead of limiting her choice of subjects." Replies he, in joyful pride that makes Hermione's heart fill with a warm fuzzy feeling.
See that, Snape? That's how you acknowledge your student's accomplishments.
Not so hard, is it?
"Now that we've ascertained you're both able and willing to begin these lessons, let us address the important matter you mentioned in your thoughtful letter: the contents of my lessons with Harry, that will now, inadvertently, be exposed to Severus, through you."
Wait… what?
"Do you mean that professor Snape can't know about them, sir?" She interrupts, frowning for two separate reasons. One, the matter at hand and two,has the Headmaster ever referred to a teacher by their first name while directly addressing a student?
"You look surprised, dear girl." The professor tilts head, an expression of polite wonder.
"Well, yes, it's just I thought you wouldn't have asked the professor to teach me Occlumency, if you didn't trust him–"
"I do trust Severus, Ms Granger." He interrupts. "In fact, in this war, he may be the only person Icompletelytrust; and you may imagine I don't often find myself using these words side by side."
The Headmaster is known for his mild and whimsical way; in the rare cases, such as now, that he trades his mildness for severity, the meaning of his words naturally triples in gravity.
"I know you do, sir." Hermione mutters. "You wouldn't allow him anywhere near children if you didn't."
"Indeed, I would not."
"But if you trust him, sir…" Hermione's voice comes quiet and tentative. "... then why would you not tell him…?"
"Compartmentalization of information, Ms Granger."
"Ah."
"I've found it a most useful tool in times of crisis. When each one of us knows just as much as they need to know, the risk of accidental but potentially harmful leaks is minimized. I'm sure you can see the advantages of this tactic yourself."
"Yes, yes, of course." Nods she, though engrossed by the complications of this surprising piece of information. "But if the professor can't know, then… how can he teach me Occlumency?"
"Well, Ms Granger–"
"You hadn't planned this, had you, professor?" Hermione hardly knows she's interrupting. The flare of realisation is sparking her synapses, setting off a chain of conclusions that roll off her tongue as they reach her. "If you planned to have me learn Occlumency from the start, then you wouldn't allow Harry to tell me about Voldemort. Until two months ago, I had no reason to learn how to shield my mind, but now I do. This isn't to prepare me to be of use to Harry, this is a result of something that has happened."
She turns her attention to him again. She can't fathom what hides behind his unreadable face. "Something must have happened, sir. Some unforeseen turn of events came recently and suddenly, forcing you to teach me Occlumency. Is it something bad, sir? Am I in danger? Am- am- am I being targeted by someone–?"
"Ms Granger." Utters he, and he doesn't need to raise his voice to make her stop.
Hermione needs a moment to name the way he surveys her. It's like he's taking the measure of her, like he's evaluating her. She can't remember ever having looked at her like that.
The old man slowly draws himself back, until nothing but his interlaced hands rest on his desk. "I cannot deny or confirm your suspicions..."
"But, sir–"
"...Except for reassuring you that your life isn't immediately at risk."
"Oh. Alright. Good."At least one answer here."Okay… Uhm. But if I'm not targeted, then–?"
"It's for the same reason I can't allow Severus to know what I teach Harry, that I cannot answer you this now, dear girl."
He has to raise a hand– his right, blackened hand, where the afflicted skin looks like that of a rotting corpse– to stop Hermione's bubbling protestation. "It's not out of lack of faith in you, Ms Granger. It's in the name of safety, your safety included. Lives are at risk."
"Then how am I to keep these lives safe, if I don't–?"
"You're not." The Headmaster is chiding her with an atypically austere look.
It's the second one tonight, but Hermione is so frustrated, she almost doesn't care she's crossing the line.
Almost.
"Right now, it's not your job to protect anyone other than yourself." Continues he, in the same gentle but uncompromising way. "You're still in school and the best thing you can do to ensure your future security, as well as that of your friends, is to give your best self to your lessons with Severus. Your life isn't in any immediate danger." He ensures again, catching Hermione with an open mouth again. "At least no more than your classmates' lives are, in these dark times of today. That said, you should bear in mind that the danger of death isn't the only kind we should be wary of. There are forces out there that cut deeper, much deeper than death and inflict scars that can last for a lifetime. Keep your eyes and ears open, Ms Granger. Keep your mind as sharp as you always do and pour your heart into your lessons."
Instead of facts, he gives her platitudes.
And yet, Hermione has been in this place before. When he sent them back to save Sirius, he didn't give them any explicit orders. Hermione can recall, however, how his cryptic advice guided them forward, when they didn't know what direction to take.
"I will keep all this in mind, sir." Hermione speaks in honesty. "But is there really nothing more you can tell me?"
"Ms Granger, you're not listening to me."
"I am, sir, it's just–!" She cuts herself off, this time. She doesn't need the Headmaster to raise his blackened hand or the tone of his voice. He raises his eyebrows instead, a gesture intended to showcase how Hermione's behaviour is indeed confirming his claim.
People who listen, don't talk, Dad always chides her. Only opinionated people talk, when they pretend to listen.
"Listen to me, dear girl. I cannot tell you more… at least for now."
He sends her another meaningful look, but this time Hermione gets the gist. "But you will tell me when I've learnt how to shield my mind. That is, when I've grasped the basics."
He nods, gaze lost somewhere far away, before he returns to the present. "By then, many things will be made clear. You'll have your answers, Ms Granger."
Hermione wrings her fingers in each other's grasp, swallowing thickly, as if she can physically push down her vexation. The Headamster will not tell her more. Hermione can't risk passing off as spoiled and opinionated. So, she takes a deep breath and changes the subject.
"And what will happen with me being a security leak, sir?" The mere thought is uncomfortable; it makes her feel as if she's contaminated by some fatal illness and she must care with whom she comes in touch, to protect the public.
The professor hums, as his fingers drum against each other's tip, in the pyramid he's made with his wizened hands. "I had not planned to discuss this with you yet, dear girl. Thankfully the few facts about the Gaunts and Mrs Cole you've learnt so far cannot truly be considered sensitive. Of course, it would be unwise to reach Tom's ears that I've been researching his ancestors, but should Severus stumble on one of your memories, he'll have no trouble keeping it to himself. He has kept greater and far heavier secrets, after all. Though, I would appreciate you informing me, if and when he comes across one such memory of yours."
He pauses again, expectant for her affirmation. Hermione hurries to give it to him, so the Headmaster can tell her more. More crumbs while he keeps the loaf to himself.
"For that reason, I didn't plan to broach this matter until my next lesson with Harry, which is due in about a month from now, when I'll impart the next batch of information." He heaves a sigh, and Hermione finds him wearier than she has ever seen him before. "In that time you and Severus would have achieved some progress and we could have planned on how to proceed. Since you are here now, however, we might as well settle it."
Hermione just knows what he's going to say. She knows it in her bones.
"You may already suspect what I mean, Ms Granger, and believe me, it gives me no joy having to say it. But in the name of security, for as long as you continue your lessons with Severus, Harry cannot–"
"-continue telling me about Voldemort." She completes seamlessly, again thoughtlessly interrupting.
"He cannot." The old man leaves no room for argument, but Hermione can't ignore the empathy that colours his expression.
At some point during their conversation, the pigeon left the window sill. Hermione can't know when exactly it flew away, but now there's nothing to be seen but darkness outside.
She feels now that she expressed too much enthusiasm, too quickly. Damn Snape, making me feel ungrateful about this! She should have checked the small print, before openly assuring professor Dumbledore how eager she is for these lessons.
"Harry can always fill you in later, Ms Granger." The professor intones in a quiet but empathetic voice. "At the rate that events unfold, who knows where we might be in a few months, or even weeks from the shielded lull we find ourselves at present. Isn't it wiser to invest our time in productive ways, so we are one step ahead by the time the situation takes a turn for the worse?"
"I cannot abandon Harry, sir." Hermione cuts in, in a tone as quiet as his own. She elects to fix her eyes on the bright red feather of his quill that sticks out of an inkpot, instead of looking the man in the eye. She doesn't want him to see how irritated she is with this tight spot she suddenly finds herself in; it's not his fault. A blind man could see that he's doing the best he can under the circumstances and Hermione certainly doesn't want to pass as ungrateful or short-sighted.
She can understand the need to be kept in the dark about information that isn't safe for her to have at this point. That, she can grudgingly respect, for she knows that the Headmaster doesn't do it out of lack of trust in her loyalty or abilities, but in the name of responsible caution.
"But how can I abandon Harry, sir?" She looks up again, continuing her inner monologue out loud. "I appreciate how useful Occlumency will be, really I do… For Harry too, eventually, I suppose… but Harry needs me and Ron by his side. We're the only people he can confide in."
Professor Dumbledore looks at her in genuine regret, with the air of a cornered man who strives to find a better solution and fails.
"This must be your choice, Ms Granger." He responds with a sigh, before a sudden wave of energy overtakes him. "I understand how this feels to you, but you speak as though your lessons with Severus will cut you off of your friends entirely. Allow me to say that they will not."
"But, sir–"
"It's up to you to be there for Harry in all the ways that matter." Intones the man, in that odd mixture of a way of his that's half positive fierceness, half benevolence. "You may not be able to discuss this particular topic with him, but that does not, can not be allowed to influence the friendship you've been building solidly for six whole years."
"Well…" Hermione's head is bobbing with little tentative nods. "No, of course that won't happen… But–"
"But what, Ms Granger?" Continues he. "There are no but's, except the ones we allow ourselves."
Hermione sits up a bit straighter.
"Even in the most dire circumstances, dear girl, there's a human liberty we can't ignore. Choice. Often we're faced with twists we didn't predict or didn't ask for, bringing us closer to people who are strange to us. Often the path ahead is dark and unpredictable; we may think there's no way but to trudge forward and leave the sun and our good friends behind. But there is always the power ofchoice.These lessons needn't cut you off from your friends."
"And you wouldn't be taking the risk of professor Snape finding out, if this weren't important." She mutters thoughtfully.
"Precisely." He nods. "These lessons can open new paths for you, dear girl, to better prepare you so you stand beside your friends stronger than you were before. One is right and one is easy, Ms Granger. Those are two choices we all face at times."
A few months later, Hermione will be recalling this moment, cringing with herself at how easily she is moved by the Headmaster's words into changing her mind. Showing blind faith to authority has always been one of her weaknesses, debasing her considerable intelligence. Truly, she will be thinking her past self insane for diving right into lessons with Snape, while having practically no information about the real premise of their necessity.
But we're not there yet, and Hermione has good reasons to blindly trust the benevolent Headmaster. He has her best interest at heart, after all, and he is going to explain more, after she's proven herself in Occlumency.
Harry will understand. I'm doing this for him, after all.
"I'll choose right, sir. " Nods present Hermione, as her pensiveness gives way to resolve. "I'll take the lessons and I won't let you down."
Among her thoughts, a speculation comes into fruition. The Headmaster called Snape by his first name. Could it be a sign that he's not treating Hermione as a student right now, but as an equal with whom he spoke here tonight and came to an agreement that served their cause, but honoured both of them as well?
Hermione has a choice, after all. Nobody forces her to take these lessons.
The net of trust encloses student and teacher in the candle-lit office. They sit with a cluttered desk between them, but they meet each other's eyes as people of duty that do what must be done.
"Though, what reason should I give Harry and Ron, sir? Professor Snape said I'm not to tell them anything."
"Hm, he did, didn't he." Remarks professor Dumbledore. Hermione can't be sure, but he seems to be hiding some kind of mirthless smile under his mustache. "I agree with Severus, Ms Granger. Speak nothing of your lessons for now. In a month when I'll be meeting with Harry again, we'll see how we proceed."
Hermione worries her lip between her teeth, burning to prolong the time of her departure, but professor Dumbledore has leaned back into his chair, distancing himself from the conversation.
It all comes down to whether I trust the Headmaster or not.
"Agreed, sir." Hermione nods and rises from her seat, bidding him good night.
The Headmaster bends his head at her, just a bit, but enough to be considered a token of recognition and respect.
She doesn't see how he presses two fingers in his eyes, when at last she exits his office.
Hermione leaves the warm and cozy office, descending the staircase into the cold corridors of the castle. It feels like stepping out of the surreal bubble of a dream and into the real world.
Professor Dumbledore's final piece of advice plays on repeat inside her mind. It's the most vague and cryptic she's heard tonight, and that's certainly saying something.
"All that is gold does not glitter, Ms Granger. I think you'll do well to keep that in mind."
Hermione doesn't intend to merely keep it in mind; she'll figure out what he means by it and she'll do it sooner rather than later.