AN: Happy Christmas Eve eve! Finally, an update! Sorry; life has been so busy lately. Thank you to anyone still reading. I've missed this story and hope to spend more time with it in the new year. :)

Chapter 22: Revelationes

Hermione had been staring at her notes, quill motionless above the parchment, for twenty minutes. In her head, she kept reviewing her visit with Professor Snape. Her hands had shaken with the desire to pull out her wand and treat his wounds. Her mind had recoiled at his clear desire for her to leave. And her heart had skipped multiple beats when his anguished admission had crossed the air between them: you are killing me.

Upon escaping the dungeons, she had ducked into the first floor bathroom and encountered her reflection. In the dim morning light, the tears coursing down her cheeks glimmered. It had taken several minutes to stop crying and properly apply a de-puffing spell to her face. Throughout the rest of the day, she had felt exhausted. Thankfully, Harry and Ron hadn't appeared to notice.

A shadow shifted over her parchment. Hermione blinked, then looked up to find Theodore Nott standing at the edge of the table, hair smooth and uniform perfect. A scoff fell from her lips and she dropped the quill from her hand. She sat back fully in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You can't have a monopoly on all of the study spots in the library, Nott," she said, injecting extra ire into her glare to compensate for the rather great amount of distance between them. He towered, tall as always, over her.

"I–" the boy began.

"You've been camped out in that nook for weeks, so I finally decided to get a table of my own."

"Yes, I see–"

"It's sturdy," she said, reaching out a hand to shake the table. "Not like that one over there. It's been lopsided since first year. But this one's nice. Squeezed between shelves students barely consult. Rather unfortunate, but even I can admit that mermish law is a bit of an obscure subject."

"Granger–"

"The window's smaller than I'd like," she said, gesturing to the miniature rose window set in the wall. "But I've had years of practice studying at night. Probably means I'll need glasses by forty, but it's fine."

The boy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "swot".

"Or contacts," she mused. "The rest of you may shun Muggle technology, but I don't. Plus, it means no fogging up. That was Harry's problem during that one Quidditch match."

The Slytherin brought a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Granger, really–"

"Look around you, Nott," she demanded, sweeping her arm in an arc around them. "There are over sixty tables just like this one that you could work at. Not to mention the nooks, window seats, your common room, spare classrooms, the–"

She stopped. The words "room of requirement" had been ready to tumble out of her mouth. She shook her head.

"The point is," she ground out, forcing herself to slow down to forestall any other slipups. "This castle is big. You have almost infinite choice. Why are you hovering over me?"

Her voice rose at the end of her sentence into something like a small yell. Thankfully, they were far enough from the library entrance that she didn't fear Pince swooping down on them. Much. Nott lowered his hand and stared at her. He didn't have quite the finesse of Professor Snape, but the trademark withering stare must be passed around the Slytherin common room like candy on the first day of term for all the similarity it had.

"Are you finished?" he asked.

Hermione tilted her head and squinted. "Are you stalking me?"

"Trust me, Granger," he said, shaking his head minutely. "If I were stalking you, you'd know."

"Pop up at the foot of people's beds?" she asked with mock curiosity, eyebrows high and lips pursed. "Is that your thing?"

"Yes," Nott said.

His face was such a clear and open expression of honesty that Hermione stared at him. She counted to forty-five in her head before finally giving up.

"What do you want?" she asked wearily.

The corner of Nott's full mouth twitched, and she knew he was counting the fact that she had broken first as a point in his favor.

"I just came over here to tell you you're reading the wrong books."

"You–what?"

Hermione looked down at her table. Her school texts were in a small pile on the right, which was where she placed them after completing her homework, and directly in front of Nott. But the book open at her left and from which she had been making notes–or attempting to make notes–was Occlumency: An Introduction to Mind Magic.

"That one really is just an introduction," he said, then nodded his head to a pile on her left. "Grousing wouldn't know the difference between someone using Legilimency on him and daydreaming. Spalding's memoir has gaping holes, or else he just didn't have much of a mind to work with in the first place. And Finch's book, contrary to the title, is all theory."

Hermione stared at him, lips parted. Not only was that the most she had ever heard Nott say in a single go–heck, in a single year–but she had just checked out the books this morning. Had he been watching her for longer than she'd realized, or did he catch the titles only at a glance that easily?

"Thank you?" he prompted pointedly.

"Er…thanks," she said mechanically.

A hint of a smirk pulled at his mouth. He adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

"You're welcome."

And just as fluidly as he had slipped to her side, he slunk away.

Severus had managed a half hour of sleep–if it could be called that–before he had had to prepare for the rest of the day. He was sorely tempted to cancel Occlumency lessons, and only the headache he knew he would incur at Albus's pestering should he find out kept him from executing such a plan.

Entering Potter's mind was like being at the cinema and watching everything in high speed. He had been to the cinema once in the Summer before fourth year at Lily's insistence. They had gone to see The Great Gatsby. Severus had been equal parts astounded by Jay's opulent house parties and repulsed by his obsession with Daisy.

"It's romantic," Lily had said when they were walking under the willows the next day. "For years, he holds onto the hope that she'll return his love."

"He followed her across the country, threw wild parties–where people got in reckless trouble–and spent half the book staring at a green light. And look where it got him," he had argued back. "Accused of a crime he didn't commit and dead by the hand of some maniac."

Lily had sighed dramatically. "You've got no sense of adventure, Sev…"

Well, Severus felt that he'd had quite enough with adventure, and he still held on to a triple agent ticket that, for all he suspected, had no cheerful termination date. If he ended up like Gatsby, he'd be only too lucky.

As it was, he would have to wait out the conclusion by wading through Potter's memories, in which an obnoxious boy featured a little too frequently. He had been ready to withdraw from Potter's mind himself if he was going to have to watch yet another memory of Dudley's gang pummeling Potter–even he had a limit–when Rookwood of all people swam in Harry's mind. Severus absorbed as many of the details as he could before he was once more in his office.

"That last memory. What was it?"*

"Just a dream I had."*

Two months of lessons and Potter was still hadn't stopped the dreams? He didn't know why he bothered. The headache he had sought to avoid by keeping this appointment began to throb at his temples. He had been intent on gathering more information on the dream, but found himself thrust out of Harry's mind and into his own as the boy's Protego took effect.

The change was so sudden that Severus watched as if frozen as his childhood memories played out: his father shouting at his mother, sitting alone in his room, having a disastrous flying lesson. With great effort, he pried their minds apart from each other. Potter was gasping and braced against the shelves. Severus stared at him as he flooded the gaps in his mind. He didn't know whether Potter had discovered his own strength, or whether his own resolve was shaky after a night of torture, nearly no sleep, and another mental encounter with Granger. Only once the surface of his mind was still and tranquil again did he recast Legilimens.

And almost immediately, warning bells went off in his head. He watched as Potter ran through the ministry halls toward the Department of Mysteries, watched as the door opened, watched as the rotating room with more doors presented itself.

He withdrew from Harry's mind, furious and thinking fast. There was no way Potter had visited the Department himself. Which meant that the Dark Lord–or someone he had possessed–had pressed further into the Department. Was this Rookwood's doing?

He was intent on sending the boy away in order to think in peace and quiet for himself for a few moments, when a scream interrupted them.

They ran up the dungeon stairs to the entrance hall where Trelawney's termination played out as if in slow motion to Severus's eyes. He watched as Dumbledore secured her safety in the castle, as McGonagall helped her back up the stairs, and as Firenze pushed his way into the crowd. The matter of Divination instruction sorted, the crowd began to disperse. Quickly and quietly, Snape slipped up the stairs, intent on the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore needed to be aware of the Potter situation immediately.

Much to Hermione's consternation, Nott had proved to be telling the truth. The notes she took down during her Occlumency research told her little more than she already knew. Two of the texts went into extensive rambles–the likes of which only Victor Hugo could envy–about the delicate and complicated nature of the mind. After losing the thread three times, Hermione had slammed the book shut and gone to bed.

The theory they were fine with. It was the practical side that she required help with. She had given off asking Harry about his lessons after another attempt to pry more information out of him had only resulted in a suspicious, if somewhat irritated, response, as if she was trying to spy on his lessons.

Well, you are, a voice in her head said.

No, she argued back. I don't want to see what's going on in his head when Professor Snape attacks him.

But she couldn't deny that she felt if she could only witness Harry's lesson for a few minutes, she would gain more insight on how to face her own mind. Professor Snape had told her not to meddle, not to dive back into her mind, but she couldn't think what else to do after repeatedly reminding herself to think of nothing before bed to no avail. Was he afraid that, should she enter her mind, the connection would react somehow? Would he feel it if she did experiment in that way?

She was sorely tempted, especially at the end of long days, to examine her mind from the inside to garner some clues about how to quiet it. But she always stopped herself at the last moment, remembering that she had given her word.

And so she had turned her mind to other puzzles. Seeing as Snape still wasn't speaking to her, who knew if he ever intended to help her follow through on her alter ego? Still, it could prove valuable to have an in with an apothecary, so it wasn't a bridge she was ready to burn quite yet.

That led to the issue of how to view Fleur's memories. Harry described the Pensieve Snape used during their lessons and said that it had been borrowed from Professor Dumbledore. Presumably, Snape would have allowed her to borrow it as well, but now that was out of the question. He had made it quite clear that he had no interest in seeing her until both of them could master their own minds.

Maybe not even then, a voice had whispered in her mind. She'd told it with resolve to shut up.

The thought only struck her weeks later when the DA was meeting. Her mouth had dropped open and she had been about to chastise herself aloud when Neville's jinx hit her square in the chest and she went flying backwards.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry!" the boy called as he ran toward her.

She pushed herself to a seated position, massaging her breastbone and taking a carefully measured breath. Her ribcage expanded without pain and she smiled weakly as Neville pulled her into a standing position. The rest of the room had frozen in their own practice, heads turned to stare at her.

"What are you all looking at?" Hermione asked. There was enough of a bite in her voice that they hastily returned to their own practice. She turned to Neville. "Don't apologize. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. Brilliant cast."

Neville grinned, and she felt exactly zero percent badly for keeping the fact that she had been distracted to herself.

Now she paced outside the room in the early dawn light, thinking hard. I need a pensieve, I need a pensieve…

The door materialized and she walked through, but she stopped short. The room was completely empty.

But I know there's one in the school, she thought. Is there really only exactly one?

She walked back out again. Perhaps she hadn't been determined enough. But when she entered again, it was to an empty room.

"Maybe…it's in use?" she asked the room. It made no answer, and she laughed softly at herself. It was a room. Provide her with objects it could somehow do, but communicate with speech it could not.

"Is there anything else? Any other way that I can view memories? A different kind of basin or a…"

An object appeared in the middle of the room.

"Mirror," she finished.

The mirror towered above her to about eight feet. Its frame was silvery and swirled with waves that seemed to pulse as she looked at them. Along the top was carved the inscription: Yrom emru oyt ubd nimru oyt on wohsi. As she approached, a low, squashy armchair appeared, followed by a spindly table, pot of tea, and a cup and saucer.

"I'll just get comfortable, shall I?" she asked the room, finding that once she had begun talking to it she couldn't stop.

She fixed herself a cup of tea, drank half of it, and then pulled the small bag of memory vials out of her robe pocket. From Harry's explanation, one could pour memories into the basin of the vial, or if retrieving them from one's mind in the moment, could flick the wand into it. Was that how the mirror worked, too? She didn't want to somehow contaminate the memory, but there was also no nook, bowl or ledge in the frame.

Hermione examined the vials one at a time and noticed dated inscriptions on each of them. She found the vial with a number one and read the title: 2e Sept 88: Premier Jour. She scanned the mirror again, finding nothing but her own calculating face, then she uncorked the vial. The silvery blue memory, half smoke half liquid, unfurled and rose from the vial. Ever so slowly, it floated toward the mirror. Hermione half rose from her seat, following the memory as then it made contact in the center of the mirror. Ripples spread out from where the memory had struck the glass. Then there was nothing. Hermione leaned closer, searching intently for any change in the mirror. And then she remembered.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she remembered half transforming into a cat, Harry and Ginny's experiences with Tom Riddle's diary, the stories she'd read about people meddling with magic they shouldn't. Few people knew of this room, and no one would know if she needed help.

It wouldn't be dangerous if Hogwarts gave it to me, would it?

With that thought in mind, she raised a hand, took a deep breath, and then pressed her fingers to the glass. The glass rippled once more, she tipped forward, and then she landed on her feet hard.

Directly above, the sky overhead was a beautiful blue, with only a few clouds drifting lazily along. In front of her, a group of at least fifty children all dressed in pale blue was ascending a walk lined with trees. Small white gravel crunched under their feet as they followed a tall, thin man in a camel-colored robe.

They're first years, she realized. So that means….

She had barely turned her head when a young girl with long, silvery blonde hair passed her. She was dressed in the same uniform as the others, but Hermione watched as the girl's classmates–mostly the boys–took special note of her as she moved sinuously up the hill. So her Veela magic was already working back then.

Hermione was so busy staring after the girl, that the majority of the crowd passed her before she climbed the path with the rest of them, easily overtaking the new students and catching up to Fleur.

Was I ever this small? She wondered, looking around at the fine but soft features and short statures.

The man at the front was saying something, but Hermione couldn't pay attention. For as they had risen over the slope, there came into view a massive chateau whose pale gray walls gleamed in the sunlight. She followed the group through a few turns, the chateau coming in and out of focus as they wound through the trees, and then suddenly they had reached a great stone wall with an iron gate.

"Alohomora," the man murmured with a soft accent, brandishing a long pale wand.

Good, Hermione thought. I can cast some of the same spells. But she realized that discovering French-specific spells was now a new side project she would have to begin.

Soundlessly, the gate swung open, and they pressed on. The walk leveled out into an open sunny field with the chateau directly in front of them. Towers not quite as magnificent as Hogwarts's rose in the air topped with blue-gray roofing. Beyond the school, the Pyrenees mountains ascended, their peaks topped with snow.

While Hogwarts had a slapped-together look–the effect of its centuries of existence and remodel–Beauxbatons was precise and symmetric in its design. Its rectangular windows were perfectly shaped and spaced, brick chimneys spouted up at regular intervals, and even the landscaping was meticulously crafted. Neat hedges bordered the chateau's ground floor, but even more hedges formed paths and mazes between the gate and the building.

Halfway across the lawn, they came upon a massive fountain filled with crystal clear water that glinted in the sun. Beside her, a couple first year girls giggled as the man described the healing and beautifying effects of the waters. They cast pointed looks in Hermione's direction, and she jumped in surprise, before remembering that this was a memory: they wouldn't be able to see her.

So who…?

She turned, where on her other side Fleur stood. The girl was looking resolutely ahead, showing the professor a look of patient interest, but Hermione saw a muscle in her jaw twitch.

Oh…

She blinked and found herself sitting in the Room of Requirement again. She had been unable to overcome the strong desire to put distance between herself and the memory, and apparently that had been enough to make it real. The mirror stood before her, displaying a still of the last thing she had observed in the memory: the profile of Fleur's face.

Hermione thought back to the previous year, memories of Fleur coming easily and uncomfortably to mind. She had thought Fleur full of herself. She had been filled with annoyance at hearing the girl's accented complaints about Hogwarts. And not even having Viktor at her side had eradicated her ability to spot the moment Ron had looked at Fleur and Davies with jealousy.

Jealousy… Oh, Hermione, you really are clueless sometimes…

She closed her eyes and leaned back into the chair, letting a full flood of regret fill her. She had been jealous of Fleur…because of Ron of all people…and had reacted in such a typical way, she didn't know how she hadn't seen it clearly before now. And after a year of speaking ill of Fleur when occasion arose, Hermione had owled her out of the blue because she had research to do. And Fleur had not only answered, but supplied her with everything she needed.

Her assessment of two months prior was inaccurate. She was not a good person. She'd just believed she was.

She opened her eyes to examine the young Fleur in the mirror. Her expression frozen in place, Hermione could see no flicker of self-doubt or flinch of hurt. But she herself had been on the receiving end plenty of times of teasing. She herself had repeated the mantra her parents had taught her about sticks and stones, and sought knowledge instead, sought to rise above such petty things. So it was all too clear to her what was occurring in the memory, and that Fleur had already built up a strategy to appear impervious to her taunters.

As she looked on, she tried to make this eleven-year-old version of Fleur mesh with her view of the woman now. Present-day Fleur was confident, completely self-possessed, willing to aid a girl who had never said a kind thing to her face, and was bravely living in a different country where–surely, she understood–war was breaking out. Yet the girl in the mirror looked a little too much like Hermione herself.

How had she changed? And how had Hermione not seen it until now?

Feeling a bit as if the wind had been knocked out of her, Hermione uncorked the vial and pressed its glass rim to the mirror. Immediately, the image spiraled, coalescing into pale blue vapor that spilled into the vial. She corked it and returned the memory vial to its little bag.

She needed to see what Fleur had shared with her, but she needed to do something else first.