Chapter 8 — Being Noticed

As Hermione went down the stairs, the air grew cooler against her skin the further she descended in the gloom of the dungeons. This was probably not the best of ideas but she'd exhausted all her other resources. She knew herself to be a bright, intelligent, young witch. She'd never claimed to be a genius regardless of past appellations that had been assigned to her, most notably by Professor Snape. But as Professor Snape had ably proved with his mini-lesson on magic Affinity, Hermione didn't know everything. She was, however, smart enough to recognize that simple fact.

Wiping sweaty palms down against her robe, she rather wished she truly did know everything. There really was no way around this problem. She needed information she suspected only Professor Snape could give her. The question was — would he help her? She could only hope he would be as accommodating today with his knowledge as he had been during her detention.

All too quickly she found herself approaching Professor Snape's door. The fact that his office door was partway open gave her hope that he would be amenable to helping her.

Gently she rapped on the door; loud enough to be heard, but not strong enough to push the door open further.

"Come."

Stepping into his office, Hermione tried hard to take it all in at once. The last time she'd been here, during her second year, she'd been under severe time restraints, needing to move as quickly as possible to locate and take the bicorn horn and boomslang skin and get out before being noticed. There had been no time for looking around. Her memories from that theft consisted mostly of impressions — jars of unnamed things, fear, an ornate wood desk piled with papers and books, anxiety, the sound of her heart beating loud in her ears, the knowledge that she had only a few minutes worth of distraction to steal the necessary ingredients and get back out. Now, she had the opportunity to really look around her. The jars of unnamed things still lined the shelves, individual objects now rather than just an adrenaline blurred mass. Rather than being disturbed or disgusted by the various pickled specimens, she found herself rather fascinated. Her fingertips itched with the need to touch and explore, to poke among the jars and get a closer look at some of the things floating in them. Ooh, was that an actual Glumbumble in the blue jar?

"Miss Granger."

Her name, drawled in that particular sardonic tone, brought her wandering attention immediately back to the man she'd come to see. Unsure of his general mood and wary of inciting his legendary temper, Hermione unconsciously straightened up meeting his inquiring gaze with a steady gaze and small smile.

Hermione resisted the urge to fidget as Professor Snape stared dispassionately at her. If he was surprised to see her standing in his doorway, he let nothing of that surprise show on his face. Not that she really expected it too. She felt she'd become rather competent at observing him and interpreting his moods, however this professor was still very much a mystery to her. Even after all her study of him, she felt getting an accurate read on him was virtually impossible.

"Twenty years of teaching and I believe you are the first Gryffindor to actually make use of my office hours. For what purpose have you ruined a perfect Gryffindor-less streak, Miss Granger?"

She relaxed her stance a little at his words. He hadn't immediately thrown her out, and his tone was only mildly cutting. Overall, she'd say he was in a reasonably good mood.

Earlier, she had pondered on how to phrase her request but could never come up with something suitably subtle. Understated didn't suit her anyway, so she decided on the direct approach as the most efficient, even if it did offend his more refined Slytherin sensibilities. "I would like to ask your assistance in solving a problem I'm having, sir."

One eyebrow swept up in surprise. "From the nature of your request, am I to understand that this is not an appeal for help with a Potions assignment?"

She shook her head, feeling the disappointment kick in. "Not exactly, sir. This is more of a personal project I'm working on." She felt sure she'd failed. He wouldn't want to help her knowing that she was using his time for personal endeavors. However, the calculating look he shot her made her pulse jump in sudden hope. Well, hope tempered by anxiety. She wasn't sure she liked the gleam in his eyes.

"How many House points, Miss Granger, do you estimate will be lost by the end of this conversation?"

The nature of the question took her by surprise. Then she understood — he wanted to know how important this was to her. She bit down on her bottom lip in thought. Offering five or ten points obviously wouldn't get her anywhere, except tossed out of his office. Professor Snape was watching her with a small smirk on his face, one corner of his mouth tilted up in mocking amusement, ready to order her from his office for wasting his time. She made her decision. "Fifty," she offered. Ron was going to kill her.

The professor was obviously not expecting her to take him up on the challenge. She had no doubt that he believed she would make a hasty exist when he mentioned House points.

He put down his quill and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. "There are those, Miss Granger, who would advise you that making deals with Slytherins is tantamount to making deals with the devil." He paused a moment before saying, "One hundred."

The outrageousness of his counter offer temporarily made her forget her circumstances and with whom she was dealing. "That's . . . that's robbery!" Crossing her arms across her chest, she graced him with narrowed eyes. "Sixty," she said.

His smirk deepened, that up-tilted corner of his mouth twitching, as if he was fighting back a grin. Nonchalantly he studied his nails, casually picking at a thick callus on middle finger. Silence descended on the room causing Hermione to grind her teeth in annoyance. If he thought he could outlast her, he was in for a surprise. After several long minutes, he finally looked back up at her. "You aggravate, annoy and try my patience, girl."

He stopped then as if waiting to see how she would react to those words. How was she to counter that? Dropping her petulant pose so that her arms hung back down straight, she lifted her chin. "Yes sir, I do."

He huffed out a breath, hopefully in amusement and not with the aforementioned aggravation, annoyance and trying of patience. Her hope was rewarded as he said, "Ninety."

Her palms were sweating again. It was times like these that a good cuss word would come in handy. What to do? And even more important, how much would he let her get away with? Not to mention, why was he even bargaining with her? Appeal to his vanity? His ego? Then it hit her. "As the Potions teacher, I think you might find the problem intellectually challenging, sir." She inclined her head politely in his direction. "I'd like to respectfully suggest seventy."

He went back to considering her over his fingers, fathomless black eyes never wavering from her face. Yet, beneath the mask, she thought she saw a flicker of genuine enjoyment. "Impertinence should be added to the list of aggravating, annoying and trying. Seventy-five."

She didn't hesitate. "Deal." And then added a hasty, "sir." Ron was definitely going to kill her. Not to mention the rest of Gryffindor when they saw the point total drop, especially since this would be impossible to explain to her fellow Housemates.

"You realize, Miss Granger that I am under no obligation to barter with a student. I could simply take the original one hundred points for you being a nuisance and send you on your way."

"Yes, sir, I do realize that. However, I do hope you will be willing to help me with this project or least hear me out first. I believe the cost in points will be worth it."

"Do you now?" he said softy before flicking his fingers to the chair sitting opposite his desk, indicating she should sit. "We shall see, won't we? And rest assured, Miss Granger, IF you are wasting my time, one hundred House points will be the least of your worries. Now, tell me, what is this problem of yours that is so important?"

Her relief was so strong at that point she was very glad for the chair. She felt positively lightheaded with this little victory. He had elected to listen to her. Trying to compose herself, she reached into her robe to pull out the six test vials containing Colin's potions, each tube was carefully labeled in her neat script, detailing the date, time and potion that had been attempted. Carefully, she lined them up on the wooden desk between Professor Snape and herself.

He picked up two of the vials, one each of the correctly and incorrectly brewed Rash Relief. Tilting each in its container, he watched the thick fluid flow within the glass. "The problem, Miss Granger?"

Indicating the two tubes he held in his hand, she began to explain, detailing the conditions of the brewing, the use of the same ingredients, the steps she'd watched. She carefully described everything leaving out who her student was as well as why and where they were brewed. When she was finished, she sat back in her chair, noticing suddently its surprising comfort. This was not at all what she had expected to find in his office.

Then his questions began and she forgot all about being comfortable.

Severus hated staff meetings. As far as he was concerned, staff meetings were one of the biggest reasons to hate teaching — second only to the students themselves. Unfortunately, none of his usual excuses worked today to allow him to skip. The headmaster knew he was currently free of all other obligations, which is why he now found himself in this stuffy, little room with no hope of escape. Albus had seen to that by personally escorting him from his dungeons; as if he'd actually believed the headmaster's claim of 'just being in the vicinity' when Albus had shown up at his door. Staff meetings have Severus had a firm understanding of why animals would chew off their own limbs to escape a trap.

Albus settled into the worn leather chair nearest the fire with all the dignity of a king assuming his throne. As was his own want when this meeting was unavoidable, Severus took the leather wing chair in the far corner, leaving the other teachers to take their seats around Albus in a rough semi-circle as they made their way in.

Settling in, he traced his fingers over the cracked leather of the arms. He liked this old chair — battered, beaten, and yet still doing the job that it was intended for — its worn strength enveloping him in comfort. It had the added advantage of being in a rather awkward position in the room, affording him a reasonably good view of the others, while forcing them to crane their necks to get a decent view of him.

Being the first of the staff to arrive allowed Severus both to choose his favorite chair and to observe the others as they entered and took their seats. His own shadowed presence acknowledged, forgotten, or ignored according to the various personalities and inclination of his co-workers.

Minerva and Pomona Sprout came in together, but split apart as they crossed the threshold — Minerva to take the seat beside Albus, Pomona to take the seat nearest the window, where a patch of late afternoon sun warmed the faded tapestry of the chair back. Minerva graced him with a small nod and smile before turning to ask Albus something in a quiet voice. Pomona gave him a stiff nod that lacked true warmth. Even as a young man, he had made Pomona nervous. The intervening years, the whispers about his loyalties, and his own black disposition had done nothing to change that. True to her House's inclinations, Pomona was steadfast and loyal. But her loyalty was to Albus and Hogwarts and had never been extended to him.

Hagrid, smelling of wet dog, was next in. His booming welcome and oversized frame immediately made the room seem smaller. For all of his sour disposition and disdainful looks, Severus was quite fond of the half-giant. Rubeus Hagrid had never, in all of Snape's years, looked at him as if he were somehow less than anyone else. Even as an awkward and often sullen child, Hagrid had welcomed him. This longstanding and unshakeable regard allowed Severus to nod a greeting in return to Hagrid's enthused "'ello!" when he caught sight of Severus in the far corner.

Sinistra was in next, followed quickly by Hooch and Vector. The first two ignoring his presence while the third, as usual nowadays, stared just a shade too long in his direction before taking her seat. Those stares of late had become even more noticeable. An occurrence that made him wonder what arithmantic computations had led to the other teacher's sudden interest.

Madams Pince and Pomfrey came in together, their discussion centered on a new medicinal spell book that had recently arrived in the library. The librarian flicked her eyes in his direction but gave no sign one way or the other of her overall feelings for him. Poppy, however, showed no such restraint. Her half-wave and smile were both warm and genuine. Like Hagrid, Poppy also earned a small nod of greeting.

The last professors came in a group, Flitwick, Ambrose Franklin, the Muggle Studies professor, Mortimer Galend, the latest DADA teacher and Trelawney. Only Trelawney looked in his direction, and then only to shudder dramatically while pulling her shawl closer about her rounded shoulders. He responded with a scowl that sent the daft woman skittering for her seat.

With Sybil settling in to her usual chair, Severus' little slice of teaching hell began.

After what seemed an eternity later, Albus finally got around to asking Severus' favorite question at these meetings. "So, is there anything else that needs to be brought up before we adjourn?"

Severus was already halfway out of his seat before he saw Filius shift atop his cushion. Damn it all to hell. He'd been so close. Long experience with the diminutive Charms teacher let Severus know that his fidgeting was more 'I have a concern' rather than 'hurry up old man and let us out of here.' He often suspected that he was the only one who shared the latter sentiment. Resigning himself to another half candlemark, at least, of faculty discussion, Severus settled back into his seat and turned his mind once more to the more interesting problem Miss Granger had laid at his feet, effectively tuning out the voices of his colleagues.

Loath as he was to admit it, his encounter with the girl, earlier in his office, had surprisingly been the most satisfying moment of his day. Of course, that day also contained a required staff meeting, so that wasn't saying too much. Still, her request for assistance in an outside potion experience coupled with the existing mystery of Miss Granger's changing essays sparked his interest. Together with her persistent need to greet him of late, and her odd behavior in his classroom, the girl's conduct was decidedly peculiar and not looking like it was going to be changing any time soon. Only the fact that her two dunderheaded companions, Potter and Weasley, had evinced no outward changes in their behavior had successfully convinced him that some massive plot was not being hatched.

Not to mention, the potions dilemma she presented to him was unusual — six potions all brewed to the same exact specifications, using the same stock of ingredients, yet four came out, and two did not. It was most intriguing, even more so when weighed against the things the girl had not said. That she had left out pertinent facts such as who brewed the potion, how and why . . . yes, it was a most intriguing puzzle.

The unexpected mention of Granger's name brought him immediately back to full attention.

"It's not that the girl is doing anything wrong, mind you," Filius said. "It's just that, I fear, she's not putting as much effort into her work as previously."

Minerva, Severus noted, was frowning heavily. Nor did he miss the quick glance in his direction as she leaned forward in her chair to address the Charms professor. "Is her work slipping?" she asked.

Flitwick twisted his moustache ends in a nervous habit as he considered Minerva's question. "That's just the thing, my dear," he finally answered, "she's still carrying a 110 average in the class. She just doesn't have her usual 120." He acknowledged Sinistra's snort of amusement with a small grin sent in the direction of the other teacher. "I know, it hardly sounds suspicious. She's still the top student in her year. I wasn't that concerned at first when she stopped doing extra credit work. I figured she was young and wanted the extra time for herself. After all, with her regular grades, the extra credit work was hardly necessary."

"Understandable," injected Rolanda Hooch, shrugging one shoulder unconcerned.

Snape noticed, though, that Vector was now wearing the same frown that had marred Minerva's face a few moments earlier.

Flitwick nodded to Rolanda. "Normally, I'd agree. It's perfectly understandable if it had stopped there, but the girl has turned in a forty-eight inch scroll. Exactly the length requested with no extra!"

Flitwick's obviously amazement was lost on Rolanda. As the flying instructor, she had never had the privilege of experiencing Hermione Granger's idea of a written assignment. The information, however, was an intriguing revelation to Severus. The mystery surrounding Miss Granger was deepening. Apparently, his was not the only class where her habits of six years were changing.

"Albus?"

Severus knew what Minerva was asking. As Headmaster, Albus and his magic were tied directly into many of the wards that protected and monitored Hogwarts. He was also privy to whatever other secret methods of surveillance each successive headmaster had installed in the castle, which aided the impression of being all knowing. A reputation, Severus well knew helped curb some of the more outlandish excesses of the student body. Minerva wanted to know if Albus had any information from his other sources.

Surprisingly the headmaster's famed omniscience failed him in this instance. "Unfortunately, Minerva, I seem to have nothing to contribute. I have neither heard nor seen anything untoward in regards to Miss Granger. I am sure that Miss Granger is simply pursuing other interests." Albus smiled then, blue eyes twinkling. "I may not look it, but I was young once. Might a young man have caught Miss Granger's attention? Perhaps young Ronald Weasley?"

That image pulled a faint snort of amusement mixed with contempt from Severus, loud enough for several heads to turn in his direction. "Whatever is going on with Miss Granger, I seriously doubt that Weasley is involved." His tone left little doubt as to his thoughts on the merit of the young man.

All eyes were now trained on him; several teachers actually turned in their chairs to better see him. Minerva's lips were pinched tight. "You know something." It was not so much question as a statement.

When he merely gazed steadily back, her lips tightened even further in a straight, disapproving line. He did so enjoy riling Minerva's temper and often wondered if she realized he did it deliberately.

When she finally spoke, he could hear her brogue just starting to seep into her words. "Severus Snape, we are not going to play a game of Slytherin Twenty Questions. What do you know you about Miss Granger?"

He reached up to trace a finger across his upper lip, more to hide his slight smile than anything else. "I know nothing, Minerva. Only that the girl, as Professor Flitwick has stated, is acting oddly. As with his class assignments, she has taken to writing only the requested amount for Potions essays." He paused then, unsure of whether to add anything else. At a look from Albus, he added. "She is, also, no longer raising her hand in class unless it becomes obvious that no one else knows the answer."

"And?" Hooch asked. "What's odd about that?"

"That in itself should be a sign that something is not right. Rains of fire and swarming locusts aren't as obvious as signs of impending trouble as Miss Granger NOT raising her hand. There is one more thing. She is no longer helping Longbottom in class, although I suspect that she is somehow helping him out of class, as his work — essays, class answers and brewing — have all been steadily improving."

At this last statement, Minerva raised an eyebrow.

Severus narrowed his eyes at her. He wouldn't tell Minerva that the Granger girl was greeting him at every opportunity. It sounded idiotic in his own head, saying the words out loud would just incite laughter from the others. They wouldn't understand anyway since students regularly greeted them in the hallways with easy familiarity.

Albus' chuckle broke Minerva's stare. "It sounds as if young Miss Granger is simply settling into her maturity. I doubt there is any real cause for concern." Clapping his hands together he stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Come. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starved. Dinner awaits."

As the others filed out of the room, Severus felt eyes on him. Turning swiftly he found Vector still seated, staring thoughtfully at him.

Directing a sneer in her direction as he left, he felt better when she flushed at being caught.Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20. Looking back, she could see how this had been a very bad idea. Too bad she hadn't considered that earlier. She had the Marauders' Map; she could have just stayed in the safety of her rooms. But no, she had to see for herself; had to be up close and personal.

Hermione pressed herself back another inch into the alcove, making sure that the trailing edge of Harry's cloak covered her feet. Up close and personal, indeed. She ought to have her head examined. When had she become a rule-breaker? Had she always been this way or had it been a long, slow, inevitable slide into lawlessness? She used to quiet her conscious by rationalizing that it was all Harry and Ron's doing. She had just been dragged into their adventures — more to keep them out of even more trouble than because she'd wanted to be involved.

But were Harry and Ron here now? No. They were safe and snug in their beds where all the good little, rule-abiding Gryffindors were. The bad, rule-breaking Gryffindors, however, were squashed into a tiny alcove on the third floor praying to anyone or anything that would listen that the man currently sharing the alcove with her didn't discover her presence.

This was most definitely not one of her better ideas.

The temptation had gotten to her; or rather her curiosity had. Staring at the Map while remaining in the safety and seclusion of her bed, she'd watched Professor Snape walk in endless circles through the castle. She had felt the urge to actually see her professor. It wasn't enough to see his footsteps tracking across the Map. She needed to see him. She wanted to connect with him, to understand the urge that drove him to walk the castle all night long.

Throwing caution to the wind, despite the part of her that sounded suspiciously like Professor Snape pointing out how Gryffindor she was acting, Hermione had snuck out of the Tower; cloak and Map firmly in hand.

Finding him had been easy with the help of the Map. Keeping him unaware of her presence had proven more difficult. Even with silencing spells and the cloak, it hadn't taken long before he'd begun to look behind him. Realizing that he was sensing her presence, much like he did when she watched him in the Great Hall, Hermione fell back to follow him from a greater distance. Never once did she consider turning back to the safety of her room.

Then she'd heard the sound of voices behind her. Young voices to be exact. Realizing that some curfew breaking students were about to be caught, she ducked into a side alcove so that they could pass her by. She had never thought that Professor Snape would backtrack towards her to duck into the same alcove to watch a couple of Ravenclaws sneak past. Why was he even watching the Ravenclaws anyway? Wasn't it his job to catch students in the act of wrongdoing and swoop in on them? Hermione's heart was beating so loud now she was amazed that the professor couldn't hear it. Oh God, oh God, oh God. If he took even one more step backwards he'd run into her, and invisibility cloak or not, she'd be well and truly caught.

He was so close now that one booted heel actually stood on the cloak's hem. Hermione forgot how to breathe.

Then he was gone with the barest brush of his teaching robes against her. Fear slowly abated as her heart slowed from its adrenaline-induced high. That was close. So very, very close. Too close.Following along in the shadows behind the pair of Ravenclaws, Severus realized that his watcher had departed. He had become aware of the presence shadowing him by slow degrees, the itch between his shoulder blades intensifying with each passing moment. Another wizard would have dismissed the feeling of being watched when a surreptitious glance around revealed no lurking presences or nosy portraits. Severus wasn't any ordinary wizard, though, and his paranoia and acutely aware senses had saved his life on more than one occasion. He learned a long time ago, listen to them.

Deciding on a small test earlier, he'd set off through the castle, his pace leisurely and unhurried. The presence had followed along the darkened corridors, pacing along with him.

It wasn't the first time that some inquisitive ghost had followed him on his nocturnal ramblings. Those that wished to chat he quickly sent on their way, threats of exorcism worked as well on ghosts as expulsion did on students. It had been a silent companion. Since he had sensed no malicious intent, only curiosity, he had not demanded that it reveal itself or be gone. In all likelihood, it was a new spirit. They tended to be shyer about revealing themselves to the living residents of the castle, a supposition apparently confirmed by the disappearance of the presence after the appearance of the Ravenclaws. He had not felt the other since he'd begun following them.

Seeing those he followed quicken their pace, he quickened his own. Closing in on his chosen prey, he dismissed thoughts of shy ghosts as inconsequential. Instead he focused his thoughts on the two young men before him. Over the years, he'd found it more entertaining over the years to let them get close to their goal thinking they'd succeeded before he revealed himself.

A few more steps; let them get within sight of the Ravenclaw portrait door. Wait. Wait. Now.

"Mr. Hedge. Mr. Wunderlich. How very disappointing for you." Seeing their shoulders stiffen and then droop as he stepped from the darkness, Severus let one side of his mouth slowly curl upwards.Hermione paced along the back wall of the room, her footfalls muffled by a thick rug in soothing shades of blues and greens. Ron had conjured the Room of Requirement with the idea that they needed a safe, comfortable place to have a serious conversion. Hermione had added her own requirement that the room be warded against any spying devices, internal or external, as she did every time she created her own Potions classroom. She was not going to make their activities any easier for the headmaster to track. She was thankful that the Room worked for mental requirements rather verbal. She did not want to have to explain her request for spy-proofing. She still had misgivings about whether or not she was right in not tell the boys about the listening devices.

The Room, in answer to their combined requirements, had provided this small, walnut-paneled study. A roaring fireplace, overstuffed chairs, and soft colors gave the room a cozy, easy feel.

This comfortable feel, however, was doing nothing to calm her restlessness. She refused to name the flutters in her stomach as nerves. After her heart pounding, close call with Professor Snape the previous evening, she thought she should have developed nerves of pure steel. She still couldn't believe she hadn't been caught.

Shaking her head, she thoroughly dismissed the thoughts of her professor. Now it was time to focus on her friends. Harry, whether he acknowledged it or not, needed them. She just hoped they could break through the wall of anger that Harry had built around himself.

Hearing the door open behind her, Hermione turned.

As the door closed behind him with a heavy thud, Harry realized he'd been led into a trap. A quick scan of the room revealed no other exits, and for one insane second, he thought of pulling his wand and making a run for it. However, a quick glance behind him confirmed that a solid body, with a decidedly mulish expression on its face, was blocking the door.

Catching Ron's gaze where he stood guarding the door, Harry said, "Et tu, Ron?" While Ron's look of confusion took away some of the irony of the situation, the sound of his other captor's soft sigh gave him some satisfaction that she, at least, had caught and understood his reference.

Hermione sighed. She'd known this wasn't going to be easy, but had hoped that they could at least start the evening pleasantly.

"Please don't be that way, Harry." She made a gesture towards Ron, "We are your friends, you know. We're worried about you. You won't talk to us, so we decided to talk to you."

Pleasant went out the proverbial window as, even from across the room, she could feel Harry's magic pushing against her senses as his anger ignited. Even without those invisible waves of power, she could have read his mood from the dull red flush staining his cheeks and the clenched fists held rigidly at his sides.

Braving that anger, she took a step forward. "Harry, something is going on with you. Let us in. Let us help."

"There's nothing going on," Harry spat.

"Bollocks!" Ron said, "We don't believe you, Harry."

At Ron's words, Harry spun around to face the other boy. Hoping to avoid a duel, Hermione darted forward, sliding in between Harry and Ron. "

What Ron means," Hermione said, with a swift glare over her shoulder in Ron's direction, "is that something else is going on with you, Harry. And we can see that. We know you were devastated when Sirius died. And maybe everyone else thinks your moods are because of Sirius, but we know they aren't. The wrong things set you off. A few days ago, you were playing tag with Ron across the lawn. Look at you know, you barely have rein on your temper. You are ready to hex your best friend."

Harry however was in full denial. "I'm not being set off." He twisted his words to mimic Hermione's tone and inflection.

"Aren't you? Ron asked, his eyes sweeping over the other boy's tense body, lingering pointedly on the clenched fists at Harry's side. "Could have fooled me."

Harry's green eyes narrowed. "I don't have to bother with fooling you. It's not your concern anyway. You don't need to know."

"We don't need to know?" Ron repeated back, his voice rising in disbelief. "Well, where I have heard that one before?"He raised a hand to Hermione's shoulder and gently moved her to one side so he could step closer to Harry."Oh wait, I know, I believe Dumbledore said that you. And I believe, correct me if I'm wrong here, mate, but you raised a bloody stink about being treated like a child and not being told about things that concern you." By the end, Ron was standing chest to chest with Harry as he yelled, his face splotched in ugly patches of red and white.

Harry, though slighter of build and shorter, was not backing away and was yelling right back. "It's not your concern. This has nothing to do with you two." Harry shouldered past Ron, heading towards the door. "This is about the fight with Voldemort, and you aren't involved."

Nothing to do with her? How could he think that it didn't concern her or Ron? With that, Hermione lost her own temper. "Hold on a minute, this conversion is not over." Hermione advanced on Harry until she was nose to nose with him. "Doesn't concern me? Not involved?" Hermione took a step forward, forcing Harry back a step. "Of all the self-centered, positively STUPID things to say." One finger jabbed into Harry's chest forcing him back another step. "

It's my fight because I'm Muggle-born. It's my fight because Voldemort has made me a target."

Crackles of energy raced down her spiraled curls, electrifying the ends and making them stand away from her head in a bushy nimbus. One spark leapt from the end of a curl to fall sizzling against Harry's hand, causing him to jerk and take another step backwards. Unfortunately, this last step put his back up against the wall. Hermione, oblivious to anything but her anger continued forward, following his progress step by step. "It's my fight not because I'm a friend of Harry Potter, but because, academically, I'm the top-ranked student academically for our year over every one of those asinine, petty, puffed-up Purebloods. It has everything to do with me because I choose to stand up against a madman who uses terror and intimidation to try to take what isn't his."

Hermione finally stopped, breathing hard, seeming to stare right through the boy in front of her.

"Uh, Hermione . . ."

Hermione blinked, coming to her senses. The anger she had felt was draining quickly away only to be replaced even faster by mortification as she realized what she'd just done.

Harry, with eyes wide, looked shocked, although Hermione couldn't decide if it was due to her words, the little, sizzling, electric-blue arcs of magic that she felt leaping amongst her curls, or the fact that she'd backed him into the far corner of the room with one finger still resting pointedly against his chest.

"Sorry." Hastily she lowered her hand, cheeks coloring scarlet in her embarrassment. Stepping away from Harry, she glanced over at Ron only to drop her head into her hands and groan at the gobsmacked look on his face.

Harry stayed in his corner, blinking rapidly behind the lenses of his glasses. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Snapping it shut, he cleared his throat and tried again. This time he got the words out. "I'm SO glad you're on our side, Hermione."

Ron exchanged looks with Harry over Hermione's bowed head. "I've said it before, I'll say it again: brilliant but scary. Very, very scary."

Hermione raised her head to shoot Ron a glare, though it lacked any true heat. The look she turned to Harry though was contrite and earnest. "Sorry about that little show of temper, that wasn't exactly what we had in mind for this." At least her little temper tantrum had startled Harry enough to keep him from storming out. His more relaxed demeanor gave her the courage to continue. "We're your friends, you dope. We are always on your side. Let us help you."

Harry leaned his head wearily back against the wall. "No one can help me."

"You don't know that until you tell us, mate."

Harry looked back down at his two best friends in the entire world. "There was a prophecy. It's about the defeat of Voldemort."

Hermione, ever quick to make connections made the leap in logic. "That's was what in the Department of Mysteries behind that door you kept seeing in your dreams."

Harry nodded. "They keep all the true prophecies in this room." His eyes grew distance as he looked back on the memory. "There are thousands of them, all these little, dust-covered spheres just waiting for the right person to claim them." Harry refocused back on his friends. "Dumbledore said that only the people that are a part of the prophecy could unlock them. Voldemort couldn't get into the room, so he led me through my dreams into that room so that I could unlock the prophecy for him."

"Stop," Ron said, causing both Hermione and Harry to turn to him. "If we are getting into prophecies and Voldemort, then we are sitting down." He pointed over to where the Room of Requirement had created the cozy chairs. "Sit."

After they were settled, Ron gestured for Harry to continue. "So what does this prophecy say?"

Harry, looking resigned and weary, closed his eyes and began to repeat the words that haunted him. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . . . The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."

"No wonder he always seems to be after you. Blimey Harry, you have to fight and kill Voldemort."

Harry opened his eyes and grinned at Ron, though there was little humor in his expression. "Or he kills me."

The three of them grew silent, this new knowledge weighing heavily on them just as it had on Harry all these months. It was Hermione who broke the silence. "You aren't alone, you know."

"Aren't I?" Harry questioned.

Ron answered his voice emphatic and final. "No, you're not."

Harry pulled one knee up into the chair and rested his elbow on it. "I don't see any of them facing Voldemort."

The anger was back in Harry's voice, simmering strongly just beneath the surface. At least now, Ron and Hermione knew what had been causing the moods and unexplainable tempers that seemed to have plagued their friend for the past months.

Hermione looked at Ron, her expression distressed. She was good at logic and cutting straight down to the heart of matters. But Harry didn't need cold logic right now. He needed something else, and she was at a loss for what to say to make this better. She wasn't even sure there was anything you could say to make this better. Harry needed faith right now, but it was obvious that he'd lost whatever faith he'd had.

It was Ron that found the words. "Just because you don't see them, doesn't mean they don't face him. He may be a great git, but Snape faces him every time he goes out to spy. Dumbledore faced him in the Ministry last year. My entire family, except for that stupid ponce Percy, faces him as Order members. Even Ginny faced him through that bloody book of Malfoy's. Okay, I'll admit that you have to be the one to vanquish him, according to that prophecy, but there are a damn lot of other people, Harry Potter, that are putting themselves in danger to ensure you live long enough to put Voldemort in the ground."

"How many people have sacrificed to keep you safe? How many people have worked to ensure that you had some kind of life? Do you really think that all those people — the Order, the Aurors, Hermione, Dumbledore, me — are just going to shove you out the door with a pat on your head and a hearty good luck on taking down the evil wizard? Everyone has been trying to do what is best."

Harry shook his head, dismissing Ron's words, still too caught up in his anger to really listen to what his friend was saying. "Dumbledore kept things from me," he said, as if that somehow explained it all.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, and you've done so well with the knowledge this past year when he gave it to you. Honestly, Harry, do you really think that the headmaster should have told you when you first got to Hogwarts that you were fated to kill the evilest wizard of our time? That would have made a great eleventh year birthday present. If you are going to hold grudges, at least hold honest ones. And then when you are done with that, get it through your thick skull that you aren't alone." Ron gestured between Hermione and himself, "We are not going anywhere."

Ch 9 Convergence

 

Chapter 9 — Convergence

Once again Hermione found herself ensconced in her four-poster bed, thoughts of Professor Snape and Harry weighing heavily on her mind. At least this time, she thought ruefully, she wasn't flat on her back staring up at the canopy. But even that bit of humor wasn't enough to lift her mood.

After Harry's revelation of the prophecy, the three of them had sat and talked well into the night, reaffirming and strengthening the bonds between them. She could only hope that the support she and Ron provided for Harry would be enough; there was still a lot of anger within Harry, and while the bleakness in his eyes had lessoned during their talk, it hadn't gone away. There was also something about his barely controlled anger that made her uneasy. It wasn't the temper itself, because there was no getting around the fact that Hermione had a temper to match. No, it was something about the quality of the anger, almost an alienness that disturbed her and made her uneasy.

But now they knew what Harry faced, and they were preparing to meet it together as they had all their other trials over the years. Knowing it was prophecy that damned Harry, she almost wished she'd stayed in Divination class. Almost. Hermione planned to do a little reading on divination and felt sure that she could learn as much, if not more, from her books than Sybill Trelawney could ever teach her, even if the woman had managed to speak a true prophecy. She still had a hard time believing that bit of news when Harry had told them. Sybill Trelawney, the wispy-voiced fraud in the tower, had managed to speak a true prophecy — she was the seer that had doomed Harry to this path. If the situation were not so dire, the whole thing would be laughable. Unfortunately, no one was laughing.

Pushing thoughts of Harry to the side for a moment, she turned her attention to her other worry, Professor Snape. She wasn't making as much progress with him as she had hoped. She still had not come up with any thoughts on how to combat his poor eating and sleeping habits. Even more worrying was the feeling that time was running out for her. She had never really thought that her S.N.O.R.T. campaign would last this long. It was now almost the end of the school year. Studying and exams would soon be taking up all her time. If she was going to be gone for the entire summer, she wanted to leave Professor Snape at least a little better off before she left.

While she had originally had no plans to carry S.N.O.R.T. into her seventh year, she realized that she would continue. But first, she needed a starting point. She'd set Rink to the task of charting exactly what Professor Snape actually ate. As of yet, the little house-elf had not returned to her. She just hoped that the elf's desire to help the Master of Potions was stronger than its desire to harm itself for doing something it thought would anger Professor Snape. Although, considering the professor's legendary temper, she was rather surprised that Rink wasn't permanently covered in bandages. Not that she thought Professor Snape would, in fact, abuse a house-elf, but she wouldn't put it past Rink to hurt himself if he thought Snape was angry at him.

Glancing at her watch, she noted the time. At a few minutes past eleven, it was well after curfew. It was time. Picking up her wand, she first cast a silencing spell and then one of the less powerful wards around her curtain-enclosed bed. Feeling secure, she spread the Marauders' Map across her bedspread, smoothing out the creases in the old paper.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," she said, while tapping the parchment once with her wand. Like spilled ink, dark lines began spreading across the paper, outlining rooms and hallways and not-so-hidden passageways until the whole of Hogwarts lay before her.

Looking to the headmaster's tower, she noted that, once again, the footprints identified as Albus Dumbledore paced back and forth. Seeing those steps every night, she felt a confused mixture of comfort and anxiety. She had no doubt that the ongoing shadow war with Voldemort weighed heavily on his mind. Seeing those steps let Hermione know that, regardless of the confident front the headmaster put forth to the world, he was deeply worried.

Letting her eyes track across the map, she automatically noted the positions of Filch and Mrs. Norris, Professor McGonagall and several of the other teachers until she finally she found the name she'd been searching for — Severus Snape. As with the proceeding nights that she had done this, Hermione settled down to watch, keeping a firm grip on that impetuous part of her that wanted to sneak out of the Tower and follow the professor around in person.

She spent the next two hours dividing her time between working on her homework and watching the map. When Hermione finally called it quits and turned in for the night, the professor's footsteps still walked in endless circles through the castle.Snape should have been grading second year essays. He, also, still needed to get the ingredients out for the first year class tomorrow. He found himself unable, or perhaps the better word would be unwilling, to attend to these requirements of his teaching job. Instead, he rolled two of the sealed vials left with him by Miss Granger between his fingers, watching the contents of each swirl around the insides of the glass.

One vial held a finished potion, acceptable, even if its consistency was slightly too thin, and the pale, greenish color was just a shade too yellow. Still, it would work for its intended purpose, just not be quite as strong as a perfectly brewed example of Rash Relief.

The other vial held what looked like water after bathing a particular dirty child. Although, truth be told, he'd seen many examples of this kind of inept potion brewing since he'd first begun teaching. If the little terrors didn't explode or melt their cauldrons, they made worthless slop such as this. He wouldn't even dignify this swill by calling it a potion.

Something about that thought caught his attention. Setting down the decent potion, he raised the other up to eye level, studying its contents more closely. Once again he tilted the vial, but this time he took a moment to identify the chopped ingredients that swirled within. Then he saw what he was looking for — plantain leaves. The bits of chopped leaves looked uniform, with straight-edged cuts, just as they should. But for the leaves to have never dissolved meant that . . . oh, surely not. That couldn't be the case. It was preposterous. He would have noticed something before now. The Potions masters before him would have noticed something. And yet . . . damn, he was going to have to check now.

Setting down the vial aside, he opened the thick, leather-bound book that held his grading. Early in his career, he'd had a few overly ambitious Slytherins attempt to change their grades. The book was now warded to allow only him to open it and to record grades and notes within it. As a magical book, it had the ability to hold several years worth of information within its slim cover. The current volume held five years worth of Potions classes. If he wished to look back further, he would have to pull his previous grade books. Flipping to the front, Snape began to scan through his grading, reading the notes he'd made on those students who received a daily zero grade for inadequate potions.A gentle rapping against his office door alerted Snape that someone wished entrance. Seeing as how that someone had not just barged in, that ruled out both the headmaster and Minerva. Another teacher would have knocked and then opened the door. Glancing at the clock hanging on the wall, and noting the time, he knew exactly who requested entrance.

"Enter, Miss Granger," he said, just loud enough to carry across the room and through the door.

She entered quickly and stood before his desk. He made sure his expression didn't show it, but he was impressed that she appeared calm and composed, her gaze meeting and holding his own as she made her now habitual greeting. Even students that had done nothing wrong were usually nervous and trembling when summoned into his presence. Yet, Miss Granger stood relaxed and calm, the only overt sign of any nervousness, the note requesting her presence, delivered to her earlier, clutched tightly in one balled up fist. The idea that she was seemingly comfortable in his presence was an odd one — yet another thing to add to the growing list of Hermione Granger mysteries.

Seeing that keeping her waiting was not going to discomfit her as it would a normal student, he pointed the chair behind her. "Sit down, Miss Granger."

She settled gracefully in the chair, carefully crossing her legs and smoothing down her robes before folding her hands across her lap. It struck him then, that perhaps Albus had not been as far off the mark as he supposed. Miss Granger, did indeed, seem to be settling into her maturity. Even as he lengthened the silence between them, she did not give in to the temptation of fidgeting or speaking out of turn.

Abruptly he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desktop and bringing his steepled fingers to rest against his lips. He noted the small jump of reaction his movement caused. That was a better reaction and one he was more familiar with. Her calm wasn't quite as deep as portrayed. That might be . . . useful.

Having enjoyed their last encounter, he decided to open with an attack. "Who brewed the samples you gave me, Miss Granger?"

Brown eyes widened in instant alarm before the girl caught herself. Chin tipped slightly up in defiance now that she knew what this meeting was about, she respectfully denied his request for a name. Unaccountably more amused than angered, he continued the game. It was time to see just how serious Miss Granger really was.

"Miss Granger, as one of your teachers, I have the right, and authority I might add, to demand that you tell me the name of the person who brewed the sample potions. If you do not, I can dock points for willful disobedience and consign you to detentions until the end of the year . . . if I so choose."

Snape was rather surprised to feel a sense of dissatisfaction as her stubborn chin dipped down to her chest at his words. He'd really rather hoped she was made of sterner stuff. It seemed that the puzzle presented by Miss Granger would be solved sooner than he had anticipated. "Now, Miss Gr-"

"No, sir." She grimaced slightly. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I can not tell you."

Rising anticipation warred with outrage at her disobedience as that chin rose up in the air again, a fraction higher than before. "Can not or will not, Miss Granger?" he hissed, voice low with menace. Being an intriguing puzzle would only get her so far.

Again, that grimace crossed her face. He knew that look, had felt the sentiment himself more times than he could count. It was the look of someone stepping into a trap knowing all along that the trap was there and primed to snap closed around them, yet having no other recourse but to step forward anyway.

Straightening her spine to sit up straight, she once again met his gaze. "Will not, sir. I gave my word." She seemed to deflate then, the steel seeping out of her, if not her resolve. "You're not stupid, sir. I realize you have to know that I've been helping students outside of class. The potion vials give evidence of that. I freely admit that I'm leading a specialized Potions study session."

"You are the one helping Longbottom." It was a statement and left her no room for denial. Even if she had tried, he would have known. Gryffindors made particularly bad liars.

She let out a small sigh. "I suppose it would be silly to deny it. Yes, I'm helping Neville."

Now to spring that trap she'd sensed waiting for her earlier. "Yet Mr. Longbottom is not the brewer of the potions you left for me. In fact, I would hazard a guess as to say that this particular problem has never happened to Mr. Longbottom when brewing a potion. Although, I can't say that for every other problem that can arise during potion brewing."

He could see the exact moment when she understood what he was saying. She really needed to learn how to control her emotions better. She was easier to read than an open book.

"You know what caused the problem."

He could see her excitement, the eagerness to learn new information. He nodded. "I do." Then he stopped. It didn't take her long to figure out why. Realization hit like a slap in the face.

"You aren't going to tell me," she accused, her voice rising in outrage.

He finally let loose the smirk that he'd been holding inside. This was turning out even better than he'd anticipated. Knowing that it annoyed her, he raised one eyebrow. "No, I'm not."

"W-Why?" she sputtered.

Oh, yes, definitely better than he'd anticipated. She was actually stuttering she was so irate and quickly losing her façade of calm and collected. "Why? Because Miss Granger, you have tried for six years to impress upon me that you are in fact intelligent." He picked up two of the vials from his desk, one in each hand. Tipping them slowing, he watched her eyes focus on the contents, one good and one bad. "You have the opportunity to finally prove that my assessment of you is wrong. So, I'm going to offer you a . . . challenge."

The girl looked back up at him at the word challenge. "Yes, you heard me correctly. I'm offering you a challenge. I will give you one week to identify the problem. If you succeed, I'll return the original seventy-five points that I took from Gryffindor. If you do not succeed, I take another seventy-five points."

For a full thirty seconds she simply sat and stared at him before she finally said, "I've already exhausted the library sources. That is why I came to you in the first place."

He shook his head. "There is your first failing. Not all knowledge can be found between the pages of a book."

"But I'm NOT a Potions master. I don't-"

Got you, little girl. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for your tone," he snapped. "There are no buts, there are no howevers, there are no excepts. You do not need mastery to figure this out."

"But I-"

Snape slammed his hand down on his desk, the force of the blow sending several scrolls clattering to the floor. He ignored them, instead rising out of his chair and using his flattened hand as a brace to lean across the desk. "Are you not listening to me, girl?" he snarled. "You have all the pieces within your grasp. The answer is in front of you. What you need is the ability to observe and extrapolate a hypothesis from what you see. You need to learn how to think. A skill, I assure you, very few of your peers possess. Thinking, Miss Granger, is the mark of true intelligence. It is more than the ability to read and remember. Intelligence is about the ability to take what you have read, combine it with your observations, mix in the ability to imagine new possibilities and come up with a new and unique outcome. So far, Miss Granger, I have only ever seen you perform the first, most basic requirement of true intelligence. I do not deny that you have the singular ability to take in what you read and regurgitate it back at will. You may take that as a compliment, for with it you are already one step beyond the rest of the lackwits populating this school. But that is as far as you go. You are a one trick show, Miss Granger, and that is all you will ever be until you learn the difference between simply being an idiot savant and being truly intelligent."

As he sat back down, he noted her stricken expression and barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. However, at the last moment he decided that she did deserve something for her trouble. She was, after all, providing him with more entertainment that he'd had in months. But, it wouldn't do to make it too easy on her. "A riddle then, Miss Granger," he said once he settled himself. "When is a potion not a potion? There, I have given you the clue to what you seek. Now get out of my office. Do not come back until you have the correct answer."While Professor Snape taunted Miss Granger with knowledge just out of her reach, Miranda Vector frowned at the series of complex calculations lined up before her. The long, convoluted equations stretched across the almost floor-to-ceiling blackboards that ran around three sides of her workroom. Several smaller, moveable blackboards with their own individual sets of equations stood at odd angles elsewhere in the room. Muttering softly under her breath, she used the sleeve of her robe to erase a set of numbers on the blackboard. As she erased, the pinwheel of intersecting lines that floated in the middle of the room rearranged itself; lines slowly shifting position, some changing their angles while others winked out of existence only to reappear in other locations. Satisfied that she'd erased the numbers needed, Miranda took a quick look over her shoulder at the glowing lines. Studying it carefully, she nodded. "Yes, that's it. This one will work."

Turning back to the board, she consulted a scrap of parchment in her hand before filling in the new numbers. Behind her, the glowing lines once again rearranged themselves with arithmantic precision.

Blowing a bit of hair from her eyes, Miranda smiled at her equation in pride. It was a thing of arithmantic beauty, if she did say so herself — pure, clean, precise — as only numbers could be.

Turning around, she eagerly sought the lines.

"Son of a troll!" she exclaimed loudly, slinging her piece of chalk across the room to shatter against the far wall, leaving behind an exploded puff of dust. It was the only wall in the room that did not sport an equation-covered blackboard. The wall instead was marked by small, white, cloud-bursts of chalk dust, many of them overlapping each other to make oddly pleasing flower shapes, as if the wall were blooming dusty white blossoms.

"Miranda?"

Vector looked up from where she was scowling to focus on the headmaster's bemused face. Dumbledore was standing just inside of her doorway and she knew that he had to have both heard and seen her little display of temper. His next words confirmed her suspicion. "I see several more pieces of innocent chalk have sacrificed their lives to the cause."

Vector ran her hands up through her short-cropped curls. "Innocent my arse," she muttered.

Albus raised his shaggy brows in surprise.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm old enough to swear, and you are certainly old enough to hear it. Trust me. This," as she spoke she pointed to the map of colored lines, indicating a spot where all the lines converged, "situation calls for it." Of the dozen or so lines that entered, only a little more than half continued out past the small nexus point.

"Look at this, Albus. I've tried everything I know to do to get a better picture. I've changed the calculations, I've changed the people, the timing, location, everything." As Albus joined her, she raised her wand to touch a shining, gold-hued line of light. "This is the Order." In rapid succession, she tapped other brightly colored lines. "I've broken the equations by both groups and individuals depending on the data I have — Aurors, Death Eaters, the Order, you and Harry Potter. There is some overlap in the individuals and groups, as should be expected. But there is not enough to significantly affect the outcome calculations. At least, not with the data I have so far."

Hesitating slightly, Vector reached forward to touch another line, this time of oily black. "This is He Who Must Not-"

"Say his name, Miranda," Albus interrupted her.

Looking a little shocked, Miranda shook her head. "I don't-"

Albus smiled gently at his Arithmancy teacher. "If you cannot manage Voldement, then call him Tom Riddle."

Miranda shivered at the headmaster's casual use of that name. "Snape is right. You're an evil, old man." Albus seemed unperturbed by her assessment, simply continuing to smile softly at her, blue eyes twinkling with what could only be described as mischief.

Sighing in defeat, she pointed again to the black line hanging in mid-air. "This is . . . Riddle." From the corner of her eye she caught Albus' nod of satisfaction.

Tracing the line forward, she halted her wand before the nexus point where all the multi-colored lines met black. "This will be our final battle."

"How long?" Albus asked, his gentle good humor replaced by a look of weariness.

She gave a small shrug. "The timing fluctuates too much for me to nail down with any kind of precision. While Arithmancy touches Divination, without all the numbers, I can only give you projections, theoretical possibilities and statistical models. I can't give you the future. I suspect that I'm missing a critical piece of data. Once I find that missing key, the fluctuations should stop." Once more she ran a hand up through her hair in a gesture of frustration. "If I had more data, especially on the individuals currently playing a part and that will continue to play a part, I could do more. Trying to work these equations based on groups rather than individuals creates some rather large divergence factors when I get into the higher numbers."

She moved her wand to a line the color of smoke. "Your spy for instance; if you would tell me more of him or her, I might be able to change the equations. Even a name, Albus, would help me refine the arithmantic equations."

Albus shook his head. "You know I can't do that Miranda, as much for my spy's safety as your own."

Miranda sighed in frustration. It was a long-standing argument between the two. Miranda wanted as much information to feed into her calculations as possible. But some information the headmaster refused to divulge; the name and movements of his spy being the most important.

She was pulled from her musings when Albus raised his own wand and pointed to a small line hanging outside of the main convergence. "What is this line here?"

He was pointing to her other point of frustration. She really should have known that Albus would spot and inquire about her wayward anomaly. Miranda blew out a breath. "I don't bloody well know. I can't decide if it's coming from a single equation or if it is being created from a merging of equations. It's small now, but it's been growing." She shrugged slightly. "Nothing I do seems to change its course."

"And what is its course?"

Miranda flicked her wand, and the silvery line pulsed once before elongating. It grew slowly until it paralleled the smoky line representing the unnamed spy for a short distance. Then silver entwined and eventually completely merged with gray until both met at the nexus point. Only the silver line emerged out the other side.

"You have no idea of whom or what the silver line represents?"

She could hear the worry in his voice, but there was nothing she could say to alleviate it. "I don't have a clue."

Albus stroked his hand down the length of his beard as he thought, his eyes never leaving the nexus of lines. "The silver line is always present, no matter the calculation?"

"Always," she answered. "You know how arithmancy is; magic will follow its own path. Muggle mathematicians have it so much easier. I can't imagine adding two and two and always getting four." Miranda shook her head, realizing she was going off on a tangent. Pointing back up to the nexus, she touched the point where silver and grey entered. "The silver line always parallels and eventually merges with the grey. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later, but it always does." She then moved her wand to the far side of the nexus, the point in her diagram that was post battle with Riddle and his followers. "This is the part that changes, sir. Sometimes the line of your spy emerges out of the other side." Miranda lowered her wand. "Most times, only the silver line emerges."

"Miranda?"

"Sir?"

"I need to know what is causing the rogue line." Albus raised up his hand, this time without his wand, to trace a gnarled finger gently along the line, pausing momentarily at the nexus point where the grey line winked out of existence to be replaced only with the silver line "Whoever or whatever it is, it is threatening my spy. I cannot allow that."

A few moments later, the headmaster exited, leaving Miranda alone again with her numbers. She gazed at the visual representation of her arithmantic calculations, her eyes jumping from line to line until she came back to the grey one representing the elusive spy. "Who are you really?" she asked the line. "Are you who I suspect or are you someone else entirely? Let's try a calculation that slants you in a different light and see what happens." Digging one hand into her robe pocket, she pulled forth another piece of chalk as she turned back to her blackboard.When is a potion not a potion . . . what kind of stupid clue was that? He was deliberately, with malice aforethought, taunting her. In her more honest moments, Hermione admitted that it was quite masterful taunting, at that. Few things could get her as stirred up as the idea that knowledge was intentionally being withheld from her. To know that he had the answer but was refusing to share it was just infuriating. Then to dangle the lure of regaining her lost seventy-five points. The man was just maddening. "Arrgghh!"

The worst part of it all though was that he had complimented her in a backhanded, Snape sort of way. A compliment . . . how long had she wanted that man to give her a compliment? How long had she longed to hear him praise her mind like her other professors? And now that the words had actually come from him, she found they left behind a rather bitter taste. What good was the compliment, when even with his words of praise, he damned her in the same breath?

"Hermione?"

"What?" she snapped.

"Is there something wrong?"

Hermione turned a baleful eye across the dinner table to Harry. "Why would you think something is wrong?" she asked.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances before Harry said, "Well, maybe because you just . . . growled."

Nodding his head towards her plate, Ron added, "Then there is the fact that you've completely killed your dinner. I don't know what that piece of chicken ever did you, but I'm sure it's real sorry."

"I have no idea-" Hermione trailed off as she looked down and really looked at the roasted chicken on her plate; dozens of fork stabs pierced the meat. It was mangled to the point where it was hard to even tell that it began as a perfect, elf-prepared chicken breast. "Oh," she said faintly.Two days later she hit the door to the Potions classroom hard, sure that she finally had the answer, her momentum and weight making it swing back with a faint thump. It was, even with her full weight behind it, only a fraction of the crack that usually preceded Professor Snape's entrance into that classroom. She didn't care that she was being rude and that he would probably dock points for both the noise and for not knocking.

Opening her mouth, she got out "I have" before an obscure reference she'd read months before returned. She halted before her professor, feeling the hot blush of embarrassment suffuse her face.

Professor Snape, bent slightly over a cauldron, without saying a word merely raised an eyebrow.

Spinning on her heel, she stalked back out of the classroom. She could hear laughter behind her, deep and rich. She was too furious with herself to even be shocked at hearing the stoic professor break down in mirth — he was, after all, laughing at her.Hermione found Professor Snape in one of the southwest corridors. She fell into step beside him, a daring act for any student. "Puberty," she said. She was sure she had the answer this time.

Professor Snape didn't even slow his steps as he answered. "No."

At his curt answer, her steps faltered but she quickly caught back up with him again. "But, the -"

Turning his head to look down his long nose at her, his voice held just enough mocking sting to make her flush. "Really, Miss Granger, you might actually look at your classmates. Unless you are extremely late bloomers, you should all be beyond puberty. And if it were puberty, wouldn't all of you have had trouble? Do you even use your brains for anything beyond blinking and breathing or do you have to keep a running count in your head in order to keep those straight?"

The outrageousness of that final comment halted her in her tracks, unable to do anything more than stand and stare at his retreating back in disbelief. He was beyond the next turn of the hallway before she roused herself enough to close her mouth. Scowling fiercely at a curious student who eyed her as they passed by, Hermione whirled around and headed off down the corridor in the opposite direction, her student robes swirling out and trailing behind her.While Neville and Colin worked on their potions, Hermione contemplated the blackboard that hung on the wall behind the replica of Professor Snape's desk. Arse planted against the desk edge, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place, Hermione drummed the fingers of one hand continuously against her arm.

She'd stared at the board so long that its information felt permanently imbedded in her brain. The board had begun with neat, ordered rows of information — student names, the number of years that potions had gone wrong, and when possible, the name of the potion that had gone wrong. The board was no longer neat. Instead, crisscrossing the columns were multiple lines of colored chalk highlighting possible connections. Those lines had been added, erased and added again, leaving the original column information hard to pick out.

The answer was here. Hermione knew it, felt it in the pit of her stomach, but damned if she could see the connection. And tomorrow was the last day of Professor Snape's challenge.

Fudge. And she didn't mean the Minister of Magic.

Turning slightly, she spoke over her shoulder. "Colin, are you sure you've given me everything?"

Colin looked up at the question but didn't stop his constant stirring. "That's everything, Professor Granger-Snape. I talked to as many people as I could in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, just like you asked. I even tried to talk to some of the younger Slytherins, but, well, you know, they just stuck their noses in the air and refused to talk to a Mudblood like me," he said, his voice twisting on the hated slur.

Even before Hermione could say something, Neville spoke up from where he was adding diced slugs to his potion. "Don't let them get to you, Colin. We don't all believe in the pureblood dogma they spout."

Colin flashed a grin in Neville's direction, his own natural good humor quickly reasserted itself. "Thanks, Neville."

Neither boy noticed Hermione as she slowly straightened up from her slouched position. Both however took note when she screamed, "You have got to be kidding me!"

"Hermione, everything okay?" Colin asked.

"I'm fine." She ran her fingers up through her hair, tousling the spell-blackened curls into a wild halo. "No," she amended, "I take that back. I'm not fine. This doesn't make any sense. It didn't affect me, and Harry's not, but he was . . . oh. When is a potion not a potion? When it's not a potion! My God! It makes perfect sense now."

Spinning around, she grabbed her notes from the top of the desk and took off toward the door muttering under her breath. The two young men were left to stare at one another. Finally Colin asked, "How far do you think she'll get before she realizes that she's still dressed as Professor Snape?"

Ch 10 Explanations

 

This fic has been kindly beta read by queenp and Keladry. You have them to thank for the proper use of commas.

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