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Chapter 17: Questions and Answers



Just as dawn started to lighten up the skies, Miranda Vector found herself outside a cosyy little cottage situated on the rugged Orkney coast.

Blooming heather and pinks dotted an awe-inspiring landscape that surrounded the quaint stone building which hugged the top of the bluff. They were given only a passing glance in her haste to reach the building. She did notice, with more attention, the sheer drop off on the windward side of the cottage, but only because she'd Apparated a little to close the edge for comfort.

Struggling with her windswept robes, she started up the path to the main door, cursing Albus, cliffs and Scotland while contemplating throwing Albus off certain cliffs in Scotland. Just as she reached the front door it opened, revealing Albus attired in a purple dressing robe, with a pair of fuzzy chartreuse socks peaking out from beneath the hem.

He looked cheerfully wide awake, which she considered almost a personal affront, considering the hour. No one should be that happy all the time, especially at Albus' age.

Looking a little puzzled at finding her on the doorstep of his summer retreat, Albus nevertheless gave her a wide smile. "Come in, Miranda," he offered, holding the door wide.

The inside of the house was as Miranda had imagined it. She would have known this place belonged to Albus, even without the wizard in question standing in the middle of the little sitting room. The room looked like an expanded, and even more cluttered, version of his office at Hogwarts. As for the colour scheme . . . somewhere in Knockturn Alley, a whorehouse was missing it drapes and furnishings.

She never doubted that Albus Dumbledore was one of the most powerful and brilliant wizards alive, but when confronted with some of his more noticeable eccentricities, her first thought was always, Merlin, help us. This is the man who is going to save us from You-Know-Who.This time was no exception.

Albus brought her out of her wandering thoughts. "What's the matter, Miranda? I'm guessing that your appearance here means a breakthrough of some kind in your research?"

Wishing she had a piece of chalk to fiddle with, she settled down onto an overstuffed, deep gold settee. "It's happening, Albus. Granger's line of probability has crossed with your spy's."

Albus settled himself back into his chair, his face concerned but unsurprised. "We knew that was inevitable, my dear. Every permutation you ran suggested Miss Granger and my spy would meet. Something else must be troubling you to have brought you here."

"Troubled isn't the word, Albus. Scared comes closest to my feelings at the moment. The equations started mutating again late last night — woke me from a sound sleep. I spent most of what was left of the night tracking back the source of the changes along the temporal axis. Miss Granger's sphere of influence on the probability lines of others is . . . well, unique is the only word that comes to mind."

"Miss Granger has, since her first year, had considerable influence on the behaviour of both Harry and Mr. Weasley. That her influence remains even now does not surprise me. But something must have changed to bring you here?"

"Several things, actually. Granger and your spy aren't just meeting. They are somehow connected; their lines are almost intertwined. Whatever it is they are doing is directly relevant to the final confrontation with You-Know-Who. The rogue silver line is still involved; its influence on the matrix still an unknown. However, even when my projections concentrate on it alone, I still can't tell what its end result will be. Right now, I'll give you a fifty-fifty chance that whomever, or whatever, the silver line represented will either kill or not kill your spy.

At Albus' frown, she added. "It's the best I can give you."

Hunching forward, Miranda cast her eyes down to the colourful rug at her feet. "There is something else." With her eyes downcast, Miranda couldn't see Albus but could hear the rustle of his dressing gown as he shifted in his chair. "I'm not a fighter, Albus." She chuckled, the sound more ironic than mirthful. "I flunked Defense, remember? The only reason I passed Charms was because poor Filius worked constantly with me." She shook her head at the memory and added, "He has the gift of patience."

She finally brought her eyes back up to meet those of the Headmaster. "As for Potions" — a small smile curved her lips — "it's probably a good thing that I was a couple of years ahead of Severus and he never had to teach me."

"Miranda, I have never asked you to be a combatant in this fight. Your talents have always lain elsewhere. Arithmancers of your skill level are exceedingly rare in the wizarding world. While those of us with magic grasp the fantastic with ease, logic has always been much harder for us to comprehend. It works much the opposite way for many Muggles when it comes to magic. You have an enviable talent, dear girl, to see arithmantic patterns as they form. Your knowledge, and its value to us, is why I have kept you out of the heart of the Order, but I have never doubted your courage or your convictions."

"That's just it, Albus." She gave him a somewhat lopsided smile. "I don't think I can be kept out anymore. My pattern shifted. I'm no longer on the sidelines but right in the middle of things."

"Harry?" he asked, alarmed.

"No," she sighed. "Not Harry's nexus point but the one being made by your spy, Granger, and eventually the rogue."Hermione ground the heel of her palm into her right eye socket, trying to rub the sleep from her weary eyes. What little sleep she'd gotten the night before had not come easily. A little after dawn, she'd finally given up on her tossing and turning. Sliding out of bed as quietly as she could so as to not disturb Ginny, she'd headed downstairs, being just as quiet on the stairs so as not to disturb the snoring portrait of Mrs. Black. Standing half-awake in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place in her dressing gown and slippers, she was beginning to wonder if all her associations with Professor Snape would leave her sleep-deprived.

She hadn't even had the comfort of lying in her own four-poster bed at Hogwarts. Instead, she'd been confined to the narrow, lumpy, somewhat musty-smelling bed that was officially hers at Grimmauld Place. It just hadn't felt right to contemplate the mystery that was Severus Snape, outside of official S.N.O.R.T. headquarters. And the fact that that thought makes perfect sense to me is proof that I need a morning cup of tea or two. She finally opened both eyes to the cramped and somewhat dismal-looking kitchen with its water stained ceiling and peeling paint. Better make that three cups. It was definitely going to be a caffeine kind of day.

Ignoring the wand her in dressing gown pocket, she puttered around the small kitchen, pulling out the making for tea and searching out eggs and several pieces of non-mouldy bread that could be made into a decent breakfast of eggs and toast.

Plopping down into the one kitchen chair that didn't wobble, Hermione's thoughts circled back around to Snape while waiting for the water to boil. Like most of her encounters with Snape, last night's meeting had left her with more questions than answers. She had no idea what to make of his behaviour. But considering the hour in which the meeting had been called, along with the emotions that had swirled around the people involved, Hermione suspected that Snape had come to the meeting directly from meeting with Voldemort. He'd had that tightly-controlled, touch-me-and-I'll-snap feeling to him that Hermione was coming to suspect had something to do with his meetings with Voldemort.

And what had Snape said just as they were leaving the study? Something about someone named Glosser or Gossip or something, being taken in broad daylight. She shook her head. It would come back to her as soon as she'd had her first cup.

Seeing that her water was coming to a boil, Hermione got up to fix her eggs and toast. A few minutes later she let out a startled yelp, barely managing to hold onto her cup and plate, as she turned to find Professor Snape standing in the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed forbiddingly across his chest.

"If I were an enemy, you would be dead."

Setting her plate down on the table before she dropped it, she gave her dour professor a somewhat exasperated frown. "Then it is a good thing that you are not my enemy."

His response was a raised brow that made her want to throw something at him. She had the distinct impression that he was trying, once again, to wind her up. However, it wasn't going to work. It was way too early, and she was way too tired. She'd work on getting riled later, after eggs and tea.

When she failed to rise to the bait he offered, he instead settled himself onto one of the kitchen chairs. Hermione had the sudden revelation that she could implement one of S.N.O.R.T.'s other objectives. With that thought in mind, she set about making another quick breakfast, lightly toasting two more pieces of bread and making an egg white scramble. The toast was dry and the scramble plain. It was one of the few things she'd noticed him eating over the last couple of months.

Setting the second plate in front of Snape, she braced herself for the protest that she knew he would make.

"I did not request breakfast, Miss Granger."

Taking her own seat, she picked up her knife to begin buttering her toast and tried very hard to pretend that seeing him eat wasn't vitally important to her. "No, sir. But I was fixing breakfast anyway and seeing how that it is so early, I thought you might like something as well." She gave what she hoped was a indifferent shrug. "You don't have to eat it, sir."

She cast her own gaze back down to her plate, hoping that he'd eat if she wasn't watching him. Please. Please. Please. Come on, eat something. You know you want to. Come on.

She was rewarded a few seconds later with the soft clink of silverware. It took everything she had to celebrate that small victory in a suitably Slytherin fashion, with only a quick quirk of her lips, rather than in the more Gryffindor manner. She didn't think dancing around the room would gain her any points with her prickly professor.

She couldn't help herself, though, from sneaking looks across the table at him. He was eating slowly, as if testing each bite before he swallowed. She did note that he looked better than he had the night before, but he was still tired and pale. She had a sneaky suspicion that his alertness was more potion-induced than brought on by a good night's sleep. If only he'd taken Rink with him to wherever it was he went during the summers.

Wrapped up in 'if onlys,' she forgot the number one rule of Snape-watching: Never stare too long.

"Is there a reason you are staring at me, Miss Granger?"

Shite! I mean damn. No. Darn. Bloody hell!. When did I lose control of my inner swearing? Bad habit. And Snape is still waiting on an answer.

"I — I wasn't . . ." She stumbled over her words before giving them up as a lost cause. Floundering around, she went with the first thing that popped into her head, something she'd pondered over but never actually thought she'd ever voice. "I didn't mean to stare. I was trying to understand you — to understand why you are really doing this."

Snape was wearing a peculiar expression; not exactly smiling, but not exactly frowning either. He looked rather amused. Oddly enough, she couldn't decide whether to be mortified because he was laughing at her, or pleased that she could entertain this taciturn man, even at the expense of her own embarrassment. She finally settled on pleased.

"True knowledge exists in knowing that you know nothing."

She frowned slightly and then ventured, "Aristotle?"

"Tsk, tsk, Miss Granger," he mocked. "Socrates."

"You see," and even she could hear the whine in her voice, "you . . ." She trailed off, then tried again. "You are the most confusing man." She waved a hand between the two of them. "I don't understand this and I'd like to know why."

He studied her a moment, one forefinger tracing along his bottom lip. Finally dropping his hand, he sat back in his chair. In that moment, it didn't matter that they were sitting in the somewhat gloomy basement kitchen at Grimmauld Place. With a simple motion, Snape commanded the room and Hermione felt as if she were once again sitting in Snape's office.

"Tell me, Miss Granger, what are my feelings in regard to you?"

That answer was easy enough, she thought. "You hate me."

To her surprise he immediately disagreed. "Wrong. Try again."

Three little words and the entire framework on which she'd based her relationship and interactions with Professor Snape collapsed beneath her. Her belief in his hatred was what made his agreement to teach her so confusing. She'd known how to handle his hate and scorn. She'd created mechanisms to deal with him. If he didn't hate her, then . . .

"But –"

"No buts. Again, I ask you, what are my feelings in regard to you?"

Now thoroughly confused, she tried again, attempting to match up what she knew with the way he'd treated her and her friends the last six years. "You dislike me."

A self-satisfied smirk grew on his face. "Wrong again. Really, Miss Granger, is this the vaunted intellect that your other professors exclaim over?" He shook his head in exasperation.

"I annoy you," she blurted you.

The smirk changed to that quirk of his upper lip that looked like a sneer but was actually his smile and she knew she'd gotten the answer right this time.

"Correct. And I must say that you annoyed me since your first day of my classes when you practically levitated out of your chair in your bid to garner my attention."

She flushed in embarrassment. "I was . . ."

"Twelve." He waved one hand in dismissal. "Yes, I know. It does not change the fact that you did annoy me then and it took you years to stop annoying me. The difference between then and now is that you seem to have learned. Something, I might add, that I did not think you capable of doing. Within the last year I have seen you stop talking and begin to listen. You no longer seek to dominate class time but instead have become content to give answers when appropriate. You have stopped desperately trying to get attention by displaying your vast intellectin your essays. Most of all, Miss Granger, you have stopped helping your fellow students in my class, and have instead shifted your attentions to outside of class, where they belong."

Hermione didn't know quite how to react. That was quite possibly the nicest thing Professor Snape had ever said. His next words, however, reaffirmed the fact that Snape didn't give out free compliments.

"Now, before you let that bit of praise swell your head to unmanageable proportions, let me also say that you still have much to learn. And so we come to the crux of the matter — I am doing this because I see potential in you, Miss Granger. Because you have demonstrated that you are capable of maturity. And ultimately, Miss Granger, I am doing this because you asked." He gave a long-suffering sigh. "Llisten closely. I will say these things to you once. If you do not agree with my assessment, do not argue with me. Prove to me that I am wrong. Do you understand?"

Not sure she trusted her voice, she nodded.

"I do not hate you. Then again, I cannot say that like you either, for I do not know you. I can tell you that the student, Hermione Granger, who graced my classroom for the previous six years, had been both an annoyance and a trial. That child was a willful, insufferable, arrogant attention-seeker."

Hermione blinked rapidly in reaction to those words. Professor Snape continued, as if he did not see her distressed reaction. "That child was also loyal, studious, hardworking and meticulous."

And with those words Hermione found herself blinking rapidly for an entirely different reason.

"Within the last year, I have seen that annoying child grow into a reserved young woman. One who thinks before she speaks, one who is learning to think for herself instead of parroting back the words of others, be they words from a person or a book. That said, Miss Granger, I find you much more tolerable now."

"Tolerable?" she repeated, finally finding her voice.

He nodded.

"You find me tolerable?"

And just like that she was back to being angry with him. Oh, how fortunate for her that she'd finally risen to status of tolerable! Heaven forbid that she still be wallowing in the ranks of 'trial' and 'annoyance'. She'd only been twelve years old. She was allowed to change and mature and . . . and . . . .

Then she caught it, that small half quirk. He knew exactly what she was thinking. Probably knew it without having to use Legilmency on her. Damn the man! He'd done it to her again.

Pinching her lips together in a remarkable imitation of Professor McGonagall, Hermione picked up her tea and took a calming sip. With extremely precise motions, she put it back down into the saucer. Only then did she, in turn, quirk a small smile at her professor. "I can live with tolerable. At least I now know that your opinions can be changed and that I have the rare opportunity to improve myself in your eyes."

Professor Snape mirrored her move and took a sip of his own tea. "A valiant effort, on which I commend you, but Gryffindors rarely have the wit for sarcasm."

She let her smile grow a bit wider. This, indeed, was what Dumbledore found so amusing when dealing with Professor Snape. "Perhaps, then, sir" — very careful to add in the 'sir' — "Potions will not be the only thing you teach me Seventh year."

He did not comment but turned back to his own breakfast, and they continued on in a fairly comfortable silence. Hermione was actually rather glad, for it allowed her a few minutes to gather her thoughts. Now that food and caffeine had time to kick in, more questions were starting to come to her mind. When her professor had said that they would continue their talk in the morning, she hadn't really expected him this early in the morning. Brow furrowed in sudden thought, she wondered how he'd known she was awake. Had that just been a coincidence? Had he planned on waking her if she hadn't been awake?

"You are vibrating in your chair, girl. Ask your question before your head explodes." The words were rather blunt and almost harsh, but there was no malice in his tone, just his usual impatience.

"How did you know I was up at his hour?"

As both of his brows rose, Hermione realised that Snape had not been anticipating that particular question. She was rather surprised when he answered rather than berating her for asking stupid questions.

"I did not know."

She suppressed a growl of frustration when he stopped his explanation there rather than explaining further. "You are going to turn everything into a lesson, aren't you?"

"Critical thinking, Miss Granger, is not a party trick. It is a way of thinking and analysing that should involve everything you do. It is not always easy and you will frequently come to the wrong conclusions, but the better questions you ask, the better conclusions you draw. So, I have stated I did not know you were awake, yet here I am. Why would I come to this house at this hour?"

Feeling like she was taking an exam and had forgotten to study, Hermione paused to think about what she knew of Snape and the other occasions when he'd been at Grimmauld Place. "The only times you ever come here are for Order meetings or if you have to meet someone," she finally said.

He gave a small inclination of head and she had to fight back a sigh of frustration. This would go so much faster if he'd just tell her the answer.

"So what facts do you know?" he asked.

"That you only come here on Order business," she stated again.

Snape scowled, giving Hermione the distinct impression that he was disappointed with her.

"Must I spoon feed you, girl? Is my belief that you actually have a brain misguided?"

Before she could even begin to defend herself, he snapped out, "Did I realise you were awake?"

When she hesitated, his scowl deepened into the familiar thundercloud of scorn he usually wore when dealing with Neville. Seeing that expression she hastily stuttered out, "N-no."

Snape continued firing questions at her. "At what times do I normally attend this place?"

Hermione thought quickly to the times she'd seen Snape in the house. "Early mornings and late at night."

"Hogwarts is not in session; shouldn't I be able to come and go freely?"

She opened her mouth to respond and then stopped as her mind finally wove the separate answers together into a whole picture. "Oh!" In that moment she realised exactly why this man was Dumbledore's spy and what made him so dangerous — he had the ability to see the small pieces that others missed and put them together into the larger picture.

Snape had stopped his barrage of questions and was now watching her closely. She began slowly, feeling out her theory as she spoke. "While Hogwarts is in session," she began, "Vold— . . . the Dark Lord wouldn't call on you often. You are his spy in Hogwarts and it would not do to arouse the Headmaster's suspicions. He would only request your presence for big things . . . and," she swallowed hard, "and failures."

She paused then to gauge her audience's reaction, but Snape's expression was closed, his eyes showing nothing of his thoughts. But he didn't stop her, so she continued on, her words coming faster now as the ideas coalesced. "Term provides you with security and . . . anonymity. But it's summer now. You are free to," she hesitated before ploughing on with her thought, "to be at his side, to attend him more. He would demand it."

Continuing to spin out the most probable scenario, she dropped her eyes from her professor's, no longer able to meet his gaze. "The Dark Lord . . . you . . . you've been away from him. Out of his sphere of influence and control. His trust in you would be low. He'd want assurances. He'd want you to . . . to do things to prove yourself and he's probably watching you."

Then she finally got back to the answer to her original question. "You didn't know I was awake at this hour and would have had someone wake me. You are being watched or monitored, and early mornings and late at night are the times you can get away."

Once again she remembered Snape's chilling presence from the night before. She'd been right. He had been with Voldemort before meeting with Professor Dumbledore and the others.

"Very good, Miss Granger. And that brings us to the here and now. You wished to speak with me last night. Ask your real questions."

"It's Harry."

Snape, she noticed, went rigid in his seat, his expression suddenly closed off. Seeing that suddenly blank gaze, she realised just how open he'd been with her earlier.

"Of course it is," he sneered. "It's always Potter."

"I'm serious, sir," she said quietly. "There is something wrong with Harry. You don't spend a lot of time here at Grimmauld Place so you wouldn't notice, but Harry is behaving oddly, with often violent mood swings that can't be explained."

"If you were to ask the Headmaster, he would tell you that Potter has a right to his outbursts. That he is a young man coping with a difficult situation the best he knows how. That he should be given every leeway, consideration and exception in order for him to come to terms with what we are asking him to do."

Hermione winced at the bitter undercurrent in Snape's voice. Harry would always be a sore subject with this man, and she wasn't exactly sure how to bring up her suspicions without doing more damage. She leaned forward across the table, locking her gaze on Snape's face. "Please, sir. I know you don't care for Harry. But I do think you know that he's important in this fight. There is something going on. I think it's been going on for a while actually, but Harry has kept it better hidden at school, where there are more distractions."

Her professor slumped forward, his eyes closed. Then abruptly he straightened though his head tilted down so that that curtains of black hair that framed his face swung down, hiding his eyes from her. She rather thought that this was what Sisyphus would look like confronting his boulder. Something inside of her hurt to know that she was about to add to his burden, but if what she suspected was true, he really was the only one she could talk to.

"You have a hypothesis; one that you felt needed to be brought to me, rather than the Headmaster. Out with it, Miss Granger."

"I — " she began, then stumbled to a halt as she looked for the words she needed. Drawing a complete blank, she rocked backwards in her chair while throwing her hands in frustration. "I don't know for sure. Truthfully, I don't even know if I should be telling you. This feels like I'm betraying Harry. And I know that he'd feel like I've betrayed him. I don't . . . I just . . ." She ground to a halt again.

"What are you telling me, Miss Granger?"

Taking a deep breath, she spit out the words in a rush. "I think Harry is dabbling in the Dark Arts." There, she'd said it, said it out loud and in front of someone else.

Her professor went absolutely still. She wasn't even sure he was still breathing. Very slowly his bowed head tilted up and she was swept up in the unrelenting tempest of his gaze. "You believe Potter," he began, his voice slow and measured, "is experimenting with Dark Magic." It was said more as a statement, not a question.

Hermione nodded miserably. "Because of his mood swings and temper." She shrugged one shoulder. "There are other signs, some more physical than others." She didn't mention that she thought Harry's new moods and temper were eerily reminiscent of Professor Snape's, a correlation that had helped set her down this path.

Without a word or a wand, Snape sent the teacup in front of him flying to smash into the far wall. Hermione jumped as shards of porcelain and drops of tepid tea rained down around them.

That wasn't exactly the reaction she was expecting.

Snape was on his feet a second later, his eyes wild with rage. "The little fool! Everyone who has sacrificed and died for his worthless, arrogant . . ."

Okay, that was the reaction she'd expected. She lost what he was saying after the word arrogant as he'd switched from English into some kind of harsh, guttural sounding language.

He'd begun pacing around the kitchen, dragon-hide boots crunching over the remains of the shattered tea cup until no Reparo would ever put it back together again.

She didn't know if it was because of the Affinity she shared with him or because in his rage his control over his own magic was slipping, but either way, she could feel his magic building and spiking along with the foreign-sounding words.

Worried about what he would do in his anger, she got up from her chair. "Please, stop." Professor Snape didn't seem to either see or hear her, as he stepped neatly around her. The beat of magic swelled against her senses. Would the others in the house be able to feel it? Now really wasn't the time when Harry or Ron needed to be showing up in the kitchen. Her growing fear spiked when Professor Snape snapped his wrist, his wand sliding down from a hidden sheath into his hand. Tossing caution to the wind, she stepped forward and grabbed his wand arm, throwing her weight into him.

She was actually rather surprised when he stopped. Cautiously she stepped away from him but kept her hand upon his arm where it rested against the black of his robes, the contrast startling in its distinction. When he was fully focused on her hand, she uncurled her fingers with deliberately slowness and then brought her fist up to rest against her chest.

It had been a guess on her part that the unexpectedness of her touch would bring him out of his temper, something she'd noted Ron doing with Harry lately. She could see that it had been a good guess. The unreasoning rage she'd seen in Snape's face was gone, although his anger was still readily apparent.

"The Headmaster must be told immediately," he growled, his voice low and still containing a harshness from something of that other language though he was speaking English.

Resisting the urge to take his arm again, she pleaded, "Please don't."

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. "Don't, Miss Granger? If your suspicions are correct, Potter has endangered himself, the Order . . . everything."

Feeling as if she had one shot at this thing, she put everything she had into convincing him. "Try to understand, Professor, Harry is only doing what he thinks he needs to do in order to save the wizarding world. Harry knows that it will come down to him and Volde— um, to him and the Dark Lord."

"Spare me the wide-eyed entreaty." He took a step back from her, opening the space between them. "So the Headmaster finally told Potter the prophecy — about bloody time."

At her startled expression, Snape gave her an amused snort. "Yes, I know about the prophecy. And as for what Potter thinks? That's the problem, Miss Granger. Potter doesn't think at all. For if he did, the boy would realise the consequences of this idiocy. Dabbling in Dark magic is exactly the sort of thing that…."

Hermione dared to interrupt. "But perhaps Harry can handle it, Professor. He has the makings of a great wizard and maybe he won't lose control the way that others have."

Snape laughed then, the sound rusty and decidedly unamused. "And perhaps one day you, and everyone else, will quit looking at the boy as if he could do no wrong!"

"Professor, I fully realise that Harry has limitations."

"Limitations?" he scoffed. "Dark magic isn't just about learning that you have limitations, it's about knowing where your limitations are. It's about knowing yourself, Miss Granger. It's about knowing every weakness you have and every place you fall short. It's about understanding the darkness within yourself. Great wizards," he snarled, his face contorted into a mask of disgust, "are great because they understand that they can't control the darkness no matter what, and they never fall to the temptation. Potter is no great wizard and never will be."

"Then he should have been told!" she cried.

"Told! He wasn't told the prophecy precisely because we wanted to protect him. Has Potter told you why he is sent back to the Dursleys every year?"

Her confusion must have been shown on her face, for he answered his own question.

"Old magics, Granger. Potter is sent back because of the sacrifice made by Lily Potter to protect her ungrateful spawn from the Dark Lord. Lily, to this day, still protects Potter. At every opportunity the Headmaster has given Potter knowledge and chances and praise, whether or not he has in truth earned it. He is given gifts which are squandered and spit upon, because in his arrogance he sees nothing beyond the end of his nose."

Snape's voice was growing louder and Hermione was getting the feeling that she had stumbled into old wounds and that Professor Snape was no longer talking about just Harry. Feeling a bit subdued by Professor Snape's vehemence, she asked softly, "Is there any way that Harry can use Dark magic safely?"

Professor Snape sighed, his voice dropping. "There is no simple answer to that question." He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "There are those, Miss Granger, who will tell you that magic is neither black nor white, but that it is the intent of the caster that makes the difference. To a certain extent, it is even true. That is the precept that allows schools such as Durmstrang to continue to teach the theory of the Dark Arts. Dark magic, however, is Dark for its very susceptibility. It seduces, Miss Granger. Most of those who have walked that path did not set out to become monsters. They dabbled. They took small steps and had ample justification for each one. They meant no harm. Their intentions were good in that they sought justice or craved knowledge . . . they had plans." He stopped then and let out another soft sigh. "The problem with Dark magic is that it changes you. To be arrogant enough to believe that you are immune or that you can successfully play with fire without getting burned is what ultimately brings you down. Those who successfully work with theories of Dark magic do so with care, foreknowledge, and with the utmost respect."

"Harry –"

"Has no respect for anything beyond his own selfish desires."

Hermione bristled at that comment. "That's unfair, sir, and untrue. He's doing this to protect everyone. He sees it as his only choice."

"The Headmaster will tell you that life is full of choices, Miss Granger. There is never only one." Snape shook his head. "Return to your seat Miss Granger and tell me everything from the beginning and leave nothing out." He fixed her with a stern eye, as he added, "And I mean everything."


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