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Ch 16 Summer at Grimmauld



 

After excusing herself from Professor Snape, Hermione made her way out of the Black house and into the neglected garden behind Grimmauld Place. She wasn't surprised to find Ron out in the garden as well, perched on the edge of an overturned marble bench, watching as Harry paced angrily along a weed-choked, gravel path like a caged animal, his face twisted into a snarl of hatred.

Harry's wand was clenched in a white-knuckled grip and every couple of steps magenta-coloured sparks erupted from the end. They sizzled faintly as they hit the ground.

Taking a seat on the bench next to Ron, she gently nudged his shoulder with her own. Just as gently, he nudged her back. And with those two simple touches, everything was right between them. Leaning into the solid strength of his shoulder, she contemplated the still angry Harry.

Do I ask and potentially set Harry off again? Or do I sit quietly and wait it out?

Watching as Harry made a few more tight turns along the path she mentally threw up her hands. Well, that does it. I ask.

Keeping one eye on Harry, Hermione spoke softly to Ron, asking if Professor McGonagall had come out to talk to Harry.

Ron shrugged. "McGonagall came out and," Ron hesitated a moment, clearly thinking about how to best phrase the encounter between his best friend and his Head of House, "Well, she didn't exactly yell. Mum yells, so I know what that's like. She did more of an 'I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Potter' sort of thing."

Hermione eyed the still furiously pacing Harry. "I take it that it didn't go over well?"

Ron snorted. "Like a Bludger to the head."

They both grew silent, before Ron spoke again, his voice soft and somewhat unsure. "You said that Head Boy and Head Girl aren't ever from the same House anymore, right?"

"That's right."

Ron was even more hesitant and he ducked his head before he continued. "Did you not get Head Girl because I got Head Boy?"

Hermione spun on her perch to face the red-faced Ron. "Of course not! Don't you dare think that. I didn't get the spot because I wasn't right for the position. It was more — "

Harry, who had indeed been listening, broke into the conversation before she got past the next few words. "How can that bastard get away with this? How can McGonagall condone it?" Harry shouted, swinging his wand like a sword, magenta sparks swirling around in the air like angry fireflies.

"Harry –"

Hermione was interrupted again as Harry spun on his heel to face the bench where Ron and Hermione sat. "No, Hermione. You always take their side. How can you just let them do this? It's not fair!"

"Actually, Harry, it's more than fair."

Her words shocked Harry into silence. He stood staring at her in confusion before he found his voice once again. "How is this fair?" he demanded. "The Head Girl spot has been yours since your first exam, and that bastard took it from you."

"Would you listen to yourself? Professor Snape doesn't have that much power. All the House Heads vote and Professor Snape is one vote. One, Harry."

"He –"

"He what?" she questioned, her own frustration with the situation and Harry bleeding into her voice, colouring her words a bit sharper than she'd intended. "Let me guess, he cast Imperio on everyone and made the others vote against me." She didn't bother to hide the rolling of her eyes or her snort of derision. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry."

The fight seemed to seep out of her friend then. His shoulders slumped in defeat and the sparks finally stopped coming from his wand. "Don't you care?" he asked plaintively.

"Of course, I care," she snapped. Then she stopped and took a deep breath, letting it out with a noisy whoosh. Hermione gave Harry a somewhat lopsided and apologetic smile. "Of course, I care," she repeated, though this time without the strident and shrill overtones. "I've been hoping and thinking and planning about being Head Girl from the first time I read Hogwarts: A History. I'm disappointed, Harry."

As if to underscore her words, a few frustrated tears managed to slip free from her control. She was quick, however, to dash them away with the heel of her hand. "But as much as you don't want to hear it, and Lord knows you are probably tired of me saying it, but Professor Snape is not the enemy. And he is right, this fight isn't all about you, and it most certainly isn't all about me and whether or not Hermione Granger gets Head Girl."

Hermione turned to Ron, bumping his shoulder with her own again. "Ron will do a great job as Head Boy. He'll bring lots of things to the position. Things that maybe I wouldn't have brought to being Head Girl." She gave Ron a sly smile. "Or at least he'll bring great things to the position if he actually learns to take on the responsibility and take points like he should."

"Oy! I took points as a Prefect," Ron sputtered indignantly.

"Ron, you didn't take any points from anyone when you became a Prefect our fifth year. You didn't even think you could take points."

Ron scowled at her, though there was no real temper behind the look. "I forgot. I had a lot on my mind that year."

"Uh, huh," she agreed, while still making it sound as if agreement was the last thing on her mind.

She turned back to Harry who had calmed the rest of the way down as she and Ron had started their familiar bickering. "Have you even congratulated Ron on getting the position?"

At Harry's pop-eyed and stricken expression, Ron laughed. "No worries, mate. I knew you were happy for me."

Something of the old Harry seemed to surface then as he plopped down onto the path, heedless of the dirt, the bugs and the few sparks that were still smouldering in the overgrown grass. "I'm a great bloody prat, aren't I?"

"I'd say that about covers it," Ron agreed with a wide grin.

While Ron and Harry spiralled into ever more absurd descriptions of just what an idiot Harry was, Hermione sat silent, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she tried hard to believe that everything was back to normal now.

However, no matter how hard she tried to believe, there was no escaping the feeling of wrongness that still hung over the three of them. In fact, the whole wrongness of the scene sat like lead in her stomach. Harry had been more emotional and erratic over the last couple of years, and she granted him that right, especially with losing Sirius and knowing that he would have to face Voldemort, but what she was seeing now was something else. Harry swung too sharply between being the boy she remembered and being completely out-of-control. Seeing him like this, Hermione had to agree with Professor Snape's assessment, even if it hurt her to admit it. Harry was dangerously on edge, and as he was now, Voldemort would have no trouble destroying him.

A part of her urged her to act; to say something to Harry, to demand answers from him. Another part of her acknowledged that demanding answers now would be a very bad idea. In the midst of it all, she could almost hear Professor Snape's voice in her head. Think, girl. Keep your mouth shut, your hand down, and THINK. Sitting there on a broken bench in the Black family garden, Hermione resolved to do just that.Inthe days that followed that afternoon in the garden, Hermione watched and listened. She also resisted the urge to run to the books and look up causes and treatments for mood swings. What she learned in those quiet days startled her. She'd always assumed that she knew her friends. She was quite surprised to find out just how wrong she'd been in her arrogant assumption that 'Hermione knew best.'

Hermione, she discovered, didn't know shite.

Bright and bold Ginny had become quiet and withdrawn, bordering on depression. Harry was still keeping the younger girl at arm's length, a treatment that isolated her since Ginny had to avoid both Ron and Hermione in order to avoid Harry.

With Arthur working long hours at the Ministry in order to hear the least bit of news and Molly fussing over a wildly emotional Harry while at the same time acting as unofficial Mother Hen to the Order members who came through the Black house, Ginny was left much to herself. Even the twins' sporadic visits weren't enough to pull the youngest Weasley from her isolation. And in everyone's focus on the escalating war with Voldemort and Harry, no one was noticing that Ginny was sleeping more and participating less in the daily goings-on at the house.

Ron, she discovered, was more aware than she'd ever given him credit for being — a realisation that left her with a knot of shame sitting heavily in the pit of her stomach. Ron, it was now obvious, knew that something still wasn't right with Harry. In his own way, he was trying everything he could to deal with the situation by running interference between Harry and the rest of the rotating inhabitants of Grimmauld Place.

Hermione also realised that Ron liked her. That recognition was rather startling on her part. She'd felt something for him for the last couple of years. She knew she didn't always give the impression but she was girl enough to plan and dream and wonder about a relationship with Ron. She tried, in her own way, to let him know her interest without exposing herself too much. She had taken hope when he'd gotten jealous a few years back over her friendship with Victor, but Ron had never done anything about it.

Now when Ron was finally noticing her, she'd lost her enthusiasm sometime in this past year. She wasn't sure exactly when she'd given up on Ron, but her redheaded best friend no longer caught her attention. It was a realisation that left her feeling a little wistful but not really sad. She felt more resigned, really, that she was going to have to do something about his feelings now in the midst of dealing with Harry.

Harry, though was the most worrying of all. It wasn't that he was just on edge — he was teetering dangerously on it. Things both small and large set him off into disproportionate flights of anger. Breaking a tie on his trainers sent him into an all-day long sulk. A burned piece of toast went flying through the air before disintegrating into blackened crumbs against the kitchen wall. A losing game of chess with Ron had seen the board and chess pieces flung around the room.

But nothing set him off like Snape. The professor didn't even have to be in the Black house to send Harry off into a rage and then an hour later it was as if nothing had happened and Harry was once again the young man she knew.

She was very much afraid of what this Jekyll-Hyde behaviour meant.Severus knelt, bowing his head to his master. He held the position, using those long seconds to smooth out his emotions and wrap himself deeper into the armour of his Death Eater persona. Occlumency depended greatly on mental imagery and Severus settled into his chosen metaphor with practiced ease. The surface of his mind became a pool of cool, glass-smooth, black water. No fish swam there to break the still perfection. No grasses or trailing vines dipped below its surface. There was only the pond and the cloudless, twilight-coloured sky above.

I am untouched.

Kneeling there he did not think about the pale, exposed line of his neck. He did not worry about whether this was the night when he would be revealed and meet his death. He did not give a thought to the Death Eaters who ringed his form.

I am controlled. I think nothing. I feel nothing.

Held in that timeless moment between thought and action, he waited for his master's orders.

"Risse, Sseveruss."

Severus rose with an unconscious grace, his dark robes settling immaculately around him, causing Bellatrix to sneer her derision. She was careful, however, to make sure that Snape could not see the curl of her lip.

Meeting his master's gaze, Severus waited for his command. No ripples disturbed the image in his mind as he felt the Dark Lord's intrusion. His master called forth his memories, looking into the mirrored surface to see Snape's activities of the last few days, never realising that the smooth pool of Snape's mind was infinitely deeper, and hid more than he ever imagined. The creature that had once been Tom Riddle, saw only what Severus wanted to show reflected on that smooth, glass-like surface.

Still and serene.

Such was his composure that nothing disturbed the surface of his calm, even as the darker depths of Severus's mind noted, remembered, and analyzed everything around him from his fellow Death Eaters standing at his back to the fact that his master was continuing to wear the glamours he'd used to meet with the faithful. Or, was Voldemort so far along in his transformation back to human that he didn't need glamours anymore to appear mostly human?

"I require your talentss. Come."

With a brief inclination of his head, Severus followed.

With polite civility, Voldemort gestured for Severus to walk with him through the hallways of the Riddle house. Severus noted the sure steps and confident bearing of the man beside him and remembered a time long ago when he'd been young and idealistic and naïve. Voldemort was changing again. He was once more becoming that charismatic and powerful personality that had completely enthralled a good portion of the wizarding population before he'd been unmasked as the monster he truly was.

A tiny ripple disturbed the pond's surface. A human Lord Voldemort was infinitely more dangerous than a terrifying, snake-like Dark Lord. It was always easier to convince another of evil's presence when you could point to the creature in the dark.

Catching that dangerous train of thought before it could rise any further to the surface of his mind; Snape weighted it down and sank it deep into the cold waters of his mind. The implications of that would have to be studied at length in safer surroundings.

I am composed.

Another set of doors led them into what once had been a grand music room, though the only instrument left was a dusty harp leaning haphazardly in one corner, half its strings either snapped or missing.

Early evening light seeped into the room through tattered, velvet curtains while a fire burning steadily in the black iron grate of the fireplace cast flickering shadows across the bloodied and beaten body of a man tied securely to a sturdy wood chair in the middle of the abandoned room.

Voldemort stepped past Severus into the room, causing McNair and Lestrange, who had been lounging on a somewhat lumpy chaise against the far wall, to jump to their feet in a semblance of attention.

Voldemort ignored them, instead gesturing to the bound man. Severus idly noted that even Voldemort's hands seemed more human, the skin less grey-tinged, though the firelight caught and shimmered faintly on scale-like patterns across his wrist.

"Thiss one thinkss to keep ssecretss from me." Voldemort trailed a talon-like nail down the man's face, the sharp edge making a shallow cut from which a bright bead of blood rose. The man never moved, though Severus could see that his eyes were open. Shock, he decided, probably caused by internal injuries and blood-loss.

Abandoning his façade of humanity, Voldemort licked delicately at the blood edging his nail, while fixing his eyes on Snape. The threat in the look and gesture were clear and didn't need to be voiced.

"Find me the information I ssseek," his master demanded.

Severus bowed in acknowledgement before walking closer to the man. He looked to be around fifty, early middle age for a wizard. Eyes glassy in shock stared at nothing. Whether the man truly saw nothing or some private horror that he alone could see, Severus did not know.

I reflect only what others wish to see.

He studied the man dispassionately, noting the affects and remains of the curses by which he'd been hit. A slicing hex that had cut though his robes to the skin below had surely caused the long mark on the man's shoulder. Blood had already soaked the sleeve almost down to the wrist cuff. Burn marks could be seen decorating his legs through the shredded ruin of his robe while the mangled remains of one hand clearly showed the use of a sloppily-cast Bonebreaker Curse. Two smaller, messy cuts crossed his cheeks. It took Severus a moment to identify the runes carved into the flesh as those for Blood and Traitor.

He flicked his eyes over to the two other occupants of the room: McNair and Lestrange. Knife wounds, then. So they were not just guards for a prisoner but likely the ones who had brought him in.

Had the man been alone? Had any oth-

As the pond surface began to ripple, he ruthlessly cut off the thought.

I feel nothing.

Once again, the pond returned to its glass-like perfection, the ripples smoothing out as they reached the pond's barren edge.

Returning his gaze once more to the prisoner, he let his eyes wander over the man. Beneath the blood and vomit and urine, the man's shredded robes had once been immaculately tailored and of the finest cloth. He had a soft, well-manicured look to him. Not an Auror, or Unspeakable, or someone who dealt with potentially threatening situations — a Ministry employee then.

I remain inviolate.

Severus ran his hand over the man's face, tilting it up into the light. He ignored the blood that stained his finger tips to raise one bruised and swollen eyelid to study the pupil of the blue eye revealed.

"Your analysisss, Sseveruss?"

A small part of Severus' mind noted that while Voldemort might be looking more human, some part of his reptilian heritage remained. The thought was no sooner born, than it too was submerged beneath the waters.

Couching his words with the proper deference, Severus continued his examination but spoke over his shoulder to his master. "He is unconscious and dying quickly. I'll need to revive him in order to question him. To facilitate my questioning, it would also be helpful to have the details of his stay with us."

Behind him he could him McNair and Lestrange snicker like two schoolchildren. He just caught the whispered words, "makes him sound like a bloody guest."

Ignoring them, he stepped back from the bloodied body. When he was no longer enveloped in the stench of impending death, Severus pulled a snow white handkerchief from within his robes, fastidiously wiping his fingers free from the blood that sullied them. He made a concerted effort to not notice how Voldemort's eyes lingered on the cloth's spreading red stain.

Keeping his face as expressionless and as frozen as the pond, Severus tossed the tainted cloth into the fireplace, watching as the fabric turned first black and then was consumed by the flames.

I can do nothing for him. I am untouched.

Voldemort chuckled, a wet sound that brought images of rot and decay. "Alwayss the professional, alwayss the perfectionisst. The fool wastess your talentss, my sson."

He just restrained his shiver of revulsion at hearing himself called 'son' by the creature in front of him. Instead, he inclined his head at the compliment and held his tongue. Others within the Circle fawned and simpered at Voldemort's feet. Severus never had, and while he'd paid for his pride on more than one occasion, it had also earned him a position within the Circle that granted him great power and influence.

"McNair, report to me." The command was softly voiced but in contrast to Severus' smooth movements, McNair nearly leapt across the room to do Voldemort's bidding.

Severus sneered his disdain as the Ministry executioner knelt at Voldemort's feet.

"Bingley Glossop, Under-Secretary to the Secretary in the Department of Records. Caught him looking through scrolls he had no business looking through."

Severus raised a brow in question.

"Glossop was looking for records of this house."

Severus let an icy wind blow through his mind, chilling the air that surrounding the pond. Cold seeped into his limbs as his body responded to the powerful imagery of his mind.

The pond's surface began to freeze, its edges turning white with crystalline frost beneath the onslaught of the winter chill in preparation for what was to come.

"Glossop was trying to find proof of existence in order to break the Fidelius on the house."

A flick of Voldemort's hand sent McNair scrambling up onto his feet and back to the other side of the room. "Yesss. One of Dumbledore'ss Order memberss." Voldemort chuckled again. "I do not think that thisss little phoenix chick will risse from the asshess. He hass proved most sssteadfast in his sssilence. Break him, my potionsss masster."

"I live to serve, my Lord."

Within his mind, the pond froze completely over.Hermione's half-formed fears for Harry eventually led Hermione back to Snape. Catching the elusive spy was proving to be somewhat difficult, however. While those of the Order tended to come and go from the Black house fairly frequently, Professor Snape made few visits. When he did come, it was usually only for short meetings and often in the wee hours of the night.

But Dumbledore had called an emergency meeting earlier in the evening for a select group of Order members. Only Professors Dumbledore and Snape, Mad-Eye Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had entered the study. When the door had clicked shut and powerful wards and Silencing charms had gone up, Hermione had known that whatever they were discussing was serious.

Ron and Harry had wandered off to bed shortly thereafter, when even Fred and George's new and improved Extendable Ears had yielding nothing but a sound like angry bees.

Hermione had stayed. Not for the reasons her two friends thought — she certainly didn't house the same level of distrust for Professor Snape that they did — but because she had to speak with Professor Snape. Realising that this might be her only chance, she'd waited in the shadowed gloom of the stairwell at Grimmauld Place, a somewhat threadbare quilt wrapped around her body, not so much for warmth but for comfort. She'd sat her perch for over an hour now and she was beginning to worry.

Her pressing need to talk with Professor Snape, however, didn't override the fact that it was boring to watch a closed door. She couldn't even indulge in reading while she waited for fear that Molly Weasley would see the light from her wand and send her off to bed. Or, the even more likely scenario, that she would get so involved in her reading that the meeting would break up and Professor Snape would walk right by her without her noticing.

Ron had commented more than once, quite truthfully Hermione ruefully admitted, that when she was deep in a book, a herd of Hippogriffs could walk by and she'd never notice. Shifting once again on the hard wooden steps, Hermione propped her head up on hand and continued staring at the door. She certainly had a new appreciation for Crookshanks and his sometimes hours-long vigils outside the mouse holes that dotted Hogwarts. The only thing that kept her attention from completely wandering off was that from her vantage point she could see shadows moving in the inch or so gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. It was like watching an odd sort of shadow play.

The rhythmic back and forth movement of one shadow made Hermione think that behind the oak panelled door, Severus Snape was pacing in a fine temper. She had no doubt that it was Snape, the shadow moved at too fluid a pace to be Moody and she'd never seen Shacklebolt indulge in the habit of pacing. As for her guess that he was in a temper — she grinned in the darkness — well, that was easy enough. Severus Snape confined in a small room with Dumbledore, Shacklebolt and Moody. How could he not be in a temper?

Her guess seemed to be borne out when the pacing shadow was blocked by another and then a flash of pale lavender light flared brightly from under the door. Hermione stiffened in alarm as a second later, something, or someone, hit the wall on the other side with enough force to rattle the two pictures hanging in the hallway.

Half-standing, half-couching in tense anticipation, Hermione let the quilt slide to her feet as she waited for another flash of light. Her unease was heightened by the fact that the shadowed drama beneath the door played out eerie silence. She needed to get in there. She needed . . . she needed to do what? an acerbic part of her asked.

Sinking back down onto the stair tread, with a grimace of annoyance, she pulled the dropped quilt back up over her knees. What did I think I was going to do? Rush in to the rescue like some American Hollywood cowboy? Hermione snorted softly in self-mockery. She didn't even know if the hex had been aimed at her professor. Professor Snape could very easily have been doing the hexing.

Bending forward, she thumped her head down onto her knees. Ron was right. She was barmy. There was no other explanation for it. Which begged the question: after what she'd just seen, did she really want to brave Professor Snape's temper tonight? While giving that some serious thought, her choice was taken from her as the door at the end of the hallway opened.

Considering the individuals who'd been in the room, Hermione wasn't surprised at the anger on Kingsley Shacklebolt's face. She was somewhat unsettled though by the expression of smug satisfaction on Moody's face as he left the room, his wooden leg thumping solidly against the floor as he took the turn that would lead him down to the kitchen.

It was several more minutes before Snape and Dumbledore emerged from the room. Professor Snape's expression was positively thunderous as he exited at Dumbledore's side. From her shadowed vantage, she caught the tail end of their conversation.

"It's not working, Albus. They are too few and spread too thin as it is. Glossop should have been under protection. He was taken in broad daylight from his home."

Hermione could hear the frustration in her teacher's voice.

In contrast, the Headmaster's voice was both sorrowful and resigned. "It is all we have, Severus."

The two men continued further down the hallway until they stood directly beneath her perch. "Albus . . ."

"I am sorry, Severus. But until a better option is found, I can do nothing."

"Then you will not share the names?"

The Headmaster sighed. "I cannot, Severus." At Snape's scowl, Albus held up a wrinkled, age-spotted hand. "NOT," he emphasised, "because I believe Moody's claim that you want the names just so you can turn them over to Tom to increase your own standing. I have other promises, Severus, and I can not break my silence."

Pulling out a crumpled-looking piece of cloth from a robe pocket, Albus snapped his wrist and extended the tall, pointed wizard's hat. Setting it at angle that only could be held up by magic, he smiled gently at the still scowling Snape. "Go home, Severus. Sleep." He paused and then added softly, "If you can."

When Snape hesitated, Albus added firmly. "Good night, Severus." Then without missing a beat, he added, "And good night to you, Miss Granger."

Hermione shot to her feet at the Headmaster's words and looked down over the banister into two pairs of eyes. One set was somewhat mischievous, the other pair glittered at her angrily from the shadows of the hallway.

Wonderful. She'd been caught eavesdropping.

Dumbledore was still smiling pleasantly, as if catching eavesdroppers was all a bit of fun for him. Then again, he'd been Headmaster at Hogwarts so long that it probably was considered sport to him to catch wayward students listening in on things they shouldn't.

Of course, if he knew what other conversations she'd overheard in the past year, he might not be smiling quite so benignly.

Throwing a traveling cloak over his robes, Dumbledore sent an amused smile in Snape's direction. "I think I'll leave Miss Granger in your capable hands, Severus. Goodnight."

Hermione winced at Dumbledore's amused words as she caught the quick series of emotions that flashed across Snape's face. She was surprised to catch both mortification and resignation before he schooled his face back into the neutral scowl he customarily wore.

She realised then, in flash of insight, that Professor Snape, for all he seemed to genuinely care for Professor Dumbledore, really did not enjoy the Headmaster's habitual teasing.

Pondering that thought, Hermione bowed to the inevitable and went down the stairs, stopping as she reached the last step. She didn't step completely down though, but stayed standing on that last step so that she met her professor on an equal height. It was strange looking directly into his face rather than up at him and caused a funny, swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling that was quickly replaced by guilt as she got her first good look at Professor Snape.

The kindest comment she could make about him was that he looked horrible. Blood-shot eyes were sunk deep into their sockets and his skin had gone beyond sallow and had acquired a greenish tinge that made her feel queasy just in sympathy.

It had only been a few days since he'd delivered their grades with McGonagall. The man had seemed rather tired on that day, but he'd looked normal enough. What could have happened to make such a dramatic change?

She shivered suddenly, cold for some odd reason. If she didn't know better, she'd almost think the sudden chill in the air was emanating from the dark man standing silently in front of her.

Now is definitely not the time for my questions, she decided.

"My apologies, sir. You obviously –" she was about to say 'look exhausted,' but changed it at the last minute thinking that her prickly professor probably wouldn't appreciate any comments on his appearance — "are very busy this evening. My questions can wait."

Half turning to make a quick getaway, she gave him what she hoped was a respectful, but still friendly smile. "Good night, sir."

"Be still, girl."

Something in his voice recalled her to that morning outside of the library and Hermione became very still, forcing herself to meet the black ice of her professor's eyes.

Another shiver ran through her and goose-bumps pebbled her skin. She suddenly wished she'd kept hold of the quilt that now rested a few steps above her.

"Are you cold, Miss Granger?" The words were whispered.

Hermione nodded and slowly moved her arms up to wrap around her middle. With slow movements she rubbed along arms. "Sorry, sir," she said, just as softly. "I seem to be cold all of a sudden, as if I was standing next to a ghost."

Professor Snape jerked at her words and stepped back away from her, pulling his robes around him. "Perhaps you are correct, Miss Granger," he said in a more normal tone of voice. "This is a talk that is better left for the morning."

Spinning on his heel, he was gone out the front door in a swirl of black before Hermione could even form a cohesive answer.

Hermione, heart pounding, stared at the front door in confusion as warmth started seeping back into her body.Miranda Vector blinked sleep from her eyes as the sound of tinkling windchimes filled her bedroom. With a heavy heart, she climbed from her warm bed, pulling on an old dressing gown as she rose. With a wave of her wand, the sound of chimes vanished.

She'd always liked the sound of chimes, and they'd become her own personal alarm. The sound of these particular chimes, though, gave her no comfort.

Not bothering with lighting the candles, Miranda set off through her moon-lit cottage, her steps sure in the half-light. She'd lived in this little cottage for almost fifteen years and knew her way by heart.

Entering the small kitchen, she sighed softly as cool tiles chilled her feet after the warmth of the old wood floors in the rest of the house. With another complex wave of her wand and a low-voiced password, a warded and hidden door next to the pantry opened on silent hinges.

From the depths below, Miranda could see splashes of jewel-like colour reflect against the cottage's long forgotten cellar walls. Floating up the stairs, the delicate sound of chimes could be heard.

The chimes had seen set to alert her at any change in the Arithmatic equations that seemed to fill both her waking and sleeping hours. Descending the last couple of steps, she focused on the spinning conglomeration of coloured lines that represented the probabilities of fate and time and people. It took her only a moment to find the change she'd been expecting.

The line representing Hermione Granger had fully intersected the line of the Order's spy. The unknown rogue line had also made a forward jump, its path aimed directly at the point where Granger met the spy. Soon, very soon, she predicted, it would intersect that nexus point.

Miranda was already turning away, going over in her mind what she needed to tell Albus, when she saw it.

"Merciful Morgana," she breathed, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Taking a few steps forward, Miranda reached out and traced her own line. Hers had always been on the outside, its path circumnavigating the others that made up the pattern. She had only ever crossed the Headmaster's erratic and swirling line. That was no longer the case. Her own line had taken a sharp turn, bending around the line of Hermione Granger, as if the girl's equation was affecting her own, the probabilities and possibilities warping and morphing with each decision the Gryffindor made.

Miranda Vector was now on a collision course with Granger and the ever mysterious Order spy.


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