Harry Potter and the Years of Rebellion

Hermione tapped the end of the biro against the desk for a very long time before she realised that she was doing it. She resorted to clutching it, and continued to stare at the blank sheet of creamy paper before her. Dr. Covelli had very nice biros and even nicer paper, and Hermione had long since discovered she had missed the feel of a good biro; besides, you can't chew on the end of a quill - well, not effectively at any rate, she admitted to herself.

She didn't care for being easily distracted and disorganized in her thoughts, not at all, but after nearly a month she was resigned to reckoning with the problems for some time to come. “I don't like this,” she grumbled aloud. “Think, Granger, just think… it's only a post, for goodness' sake.”

Dear Harry,

She lifted the biro, and the dry end promptly slid between her teeth. Wrong, she thought, entirely wrong. Down went the biro again, and a line ran through the abortive greeting.

Dearest Harry,

Hermione shook her head. She couldn't write that; he might take it entirely wrong, for a start. A small smile played across her lips. “The look on his face would be priceless,” she murmured as another line of ink sliced through words.

Harry,

It's rather hard to argue with that, she thought.

How are you? I am

“…pathetic, that's how I am,” she fumed, “so pathetic that I can't even write a bloody post!” The biro tore through the offending words, back and forth and back and forth, until it tore through the paper entirely.

A steaming cup of tea slid into view. “I'm sure it's not as bad as all that.” The colour immediately gave away both the tea and its server - Earl Grey, with cream and sugar.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” Hermione sighed.

Mrs. Granger managed a wan smile. “Each afternoon seems to be better than the previous one, doesn't it?”

“That isn't saying much,” Hermione muttered.

“I wish you'd sit out on the loggia or the veranda, instead of confining yourself.” Mrs. Granger grazed her fingertips along the ornate trim of one of the two reading tables in the villa's library, and opened the cover of an antique volume that lay there.. “Don't misunderstand, Hermione, I am as acquainted with bibliophilia as you, but how often can one take advantage of such a climate as this?”

“I'd rather stay indoors,” Hermione said. “I find it more comfortable here.” She slipped open two books from the pile adjacent to the small stack of creamy paper, and made a show of taking a few notes.

“I can't think of a summer where you've completely avoided the opportunity to sun yourself,” Mrs. Granger noted.

Hermione slapped down the biro in her hand hard against the desk. “Well, this hasn't been like previous summers, has it?”

Mrs. Granger took a slight step back - showed a slight crack in her control, as Hermione was quick to notice - but nonetheless said firmly, “Hermione, please mind your tone with me.”

“Afraid I'm going to explode, Mother?” Hermione asked in a way that was clearly not mindful of tone, and then added dismissively, “Some of the books in this room are nearly a thousand years old; I'd never risk them.”

“A thousand years old,” Mrs. Granger whispered. She reverently turned the first page of the volume before her. “Remarkable… I don't know that I could ever become accustomed to the world as they see it… the way you see it now. I imagine I'd be overcome every time I set foot in the library at that school of yours.”

“I'm still in awe of the entire place, actually,” Hermione admitted, “but there's seldom time to allow it.”

“May I sit?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“Of course,” Hermione answered quickly. After a moment's pause, she added, “I didn't expect you to be going on about the books and the library, you know.”

Mrs. Granger nearly smirked. “I still have the ability to surprise you?” She settled into an intricately carved wooden chair opposite Hermione, and took a sip at her own cup of tea. “What was I supposed to be going on about, then?”

Hermione kept her eyes focused on the open books, and kept jotting faux notes. She knew that she couldn't meet her mother's eyes and maintain control, and she was determined to control herself, to comport herself as she should. “I expected that you'd speak to me about being catty, just now. I expected to be reminded of my place, perhaps. I… expected you to say something about my hair.”

“It was startling at first sight,” Mrs. Granger allowed. “Honestly, I was surprised that you changed it to a style so similar to mine.”

“Not everything is about you, Mother,” Hermione snapped, and immediately regretted it.

Mrs. Granger stiffened. “I was making an observation; I meant nothing by it,” she said crisply. “As for the rest… I'm prepared to allow quite a lot, considering what you've been through.”

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said. She ran her free hand through the thick short hair that draped around the back of her neck. “I know Dad liked it as it was, but you know I've never cared for my hair. It was a nightmare to manage, wearing it long like that. Besides, it was a liability -the Department of Mysteries and the attack at the house taught me that. I can't be brushing hair from my face the next time that -” She was cut off by the sound of her mother's teacup shattering against the floor.

“Oh… goodness… dropped my… how clumsy of me…” Mrs. Granger babbled.

Hermione quickly made for the broken bits of china. “Here, let me,” she insisted. “It's my fault.”

“Next time, you said… next time… in my head, I know that it can happen again… but in my heart… Hermione… no…” Mrs. Granger said in a voice that started hollow and simply died.

Hermione's throat tightened. She brushed china shards onto a sheet of the creamy paper. Her fingertips left tracings of spilled tea as a watermark; the leavings were brownish like drying blood. “This is why I always kept it separate from home, from you and Dad. I wasn't trying to hurt you; I never wanted you to be hurt.”

“That's my responsibility, not yours!” Mrs. Granger cried. She clasped her hands together tightly, yet they still shook. “I'm to keep you from being hurt, and I can't! There's not… there's not one bloody damned thing your father and I can do! We just sat there… we just… at least Thomas talked back to them… I just sat there and watched them k-killing you!”

The remnants of the teacup fell back to the floor as Hermione found herself wrested into a hug by trembling hands. Her mother shuddered and began to sob openly. “Mother… Mum… I know it was awful… but I'm all right now,” she said awkwardly; her mind reeled from hearing `bloody damned thing' come out of her mother's mouth.

Mrs. Granger's laugh was uncomfortably edgy. “You're not all right, Hermione! How could you be? Your father's not all right, I'm not all right… you don't understand… how can I make you understand?”

Hermione's shirt collar was damp from where her mother's face was crushed against it. Her heart was pounding, and she was determined for some reason or another that she wouldn't cry. “I'm so sorry for all of this! The house, it's never going to be the same now… the practice! Oh, Mum! I know you made some plans, but it must be ruined after all this time -”

Mrs. Granger squeezed even more tightly. “None of that matters! Do you honestly think either of us cares a whit? The house can be sold; the practice is in good hands. We'd walk away from all of it - from everything - just to make you safe. Don't you understand that?”

“Mum, I couldn't ask that of you,” Hermione protested.

“You don't have to ask! You're our only daughter!” Mrs. Granger pulled back far enough to look Hermione in the eyes. “I've never said this before… Thomas and I agreed that we wouldn't… we wouldn't have boarded you, Hermione. We only did it because it was clear that you needed the sort of training that your school is suited to provide. We wouldn't have sent you away.”

Hermione's eyes went wide. “But… but… you and Dad, you both boarded. You were Head Girl in your year; Dad was the cricket captain at his school, right? It always seemed like the both of you wanted the same for me… didn't you?”

Mrs. Granger let go of Hermione - reluctantly, it seemed - and rummaged through her purse for a handkerchief. “Once it was done, it was only proper to be encouraging. If we'd acted as though the whole thing was under duress, how would you have responded?”

Hermione sighed knowingly. “I'd have hated every second of it.” She waited until her mother dabbed at her eyes and her nose, and then extended her arms. For the first time in a very long time, it felt absolutely right to hug her mother - her Mum. “If I'd had any idea at all, I'd have never shortcut our holidays - I swear it.”

Mrs. Granger sniffed again, and let out a teary chuckle. “Yes, you would have. You've made friends - good friends, close friends. That's the one thoroughly positive outcome of the past five years. To know that you had friends, that there were people who held you in high regard… it was such a relief.”

“I've wanted to share everything, honestly, but it always seemed right to hold back.” Hermione rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes. “I stopped holding back. Look what's come of it.”

“We know who you are now, who you've become. Whatever else has happened, whatever else we may think, both your father and I are grateful for that.” Mrs. Granger looked fiercely at Hermione. “We will go anywhere - do anything - to keep you in our lives. We can't lose you… do you understand? Please don't let that happen, Hermione… please don't walk away from us…”

Hermione pulled back with a start. “Walk away? Mum, I'd never do that! Even if… even if you need to go away for a while, you know, to be safe… walk away?” Her brows furrowed. “Why would you think that? Was something said?”

“Molly Weasley… took it upon herself…” Mrs. Granger started, and then stopped as her mouth set into a brittle line.

“Mrs. Weasley?” Hermione's face slowly fell into her hands. “What did she say?”

“She seemed to feel that someone should inform us of the way of things for magical sorts born of boring, ordinary people like your father and I,” Mrs. Granger said icily. “She thought it especially important given that you will be coming of age in September. When did you intend to share that bit of news, by the way?”

Hermione's cheeks heated. “The materials from Hogwarts mentioned that witches and wizards come of age at seventeen.”

“It wasn't precisely top-of-mind five years ago,” Mrs. Granger snapped.

“Honestly, it's not all that important,” Hermione insisted. “I've two more years at school; I suppose the greatest benefit will be an apparation license.” Her expression darkened. “Now, I'd like to know what Mrs. Weasley said. Yes, I'd very much like to know `the way of things'.”

“It wasn't so much what she said… well, it was that as well… but it was the way she said it,” Mrs. Granger fumed. “I couldn't possibly be expected to understand what was happening in your life, as I'm only a Muggle. Of course, she hastened to point out that your father and I are the very best sort of insignificant people!”

Hermione winced. “I can hear it, actually. `Oh, you poor dear', more or less?” Her mother's eyes narrowed and she had her answer. “Mrs. Weasley does that to everyone. Now… I'd really like to know what was said.”

“She thought it was only right that we know… she said you would inevitably start to withdraw from us,” Mrs. Granger said hesitantly. “She said that as you take on adult responsibilities, it will be harder for you to stand between two worlds. She said… Hermione, do these people actually marry at seventeen or eighteen years of age?”

Hermione's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “Marry? What on Earth was she talking about? I'm not… I mean someday, I suppose, but I can't imagine what… bloody hell, has she gone mad?”

Mrs. Granger's eyebrows shot up. “Hermione!”

“Really, Mum, what am I supposed to say?” Hermione huffed. “Some of the old families still engage in arranged marriages, Mum. I should think it's obvious that the wizarding culture is… anachronistic, in some ways.”

“She made it sound as though you're likely to receive proposals as soon as you come of age,” Mrs. Granger said in a strangled voice. “She said -”

Hermione cut her off. “Receive what? I… I can tell you this much - if this is the `way of things', no one's bothered to inform me!”

Mrs. Granger closed her eyes tightly. “I want to get this straight… it was so upsetting that I had difficulty taking it in… she said that you would be a very appealing prospect for a number of established families who didn't have backward ideas about blood and so forth. I told her that you'd surely care much more about your career than anything of that sort, and she said…” Her voice tightened again. “…she said that because you're our child, because you have the wrong sort of blood, your career options would be closely tied to… you know! For God's sake, Hermione, tell me it isn't like that! We didn't raise you to be beholden, to be treated like you're steerage-class… like a servant!”

Hermione choked back anger, and tried as best she could to think carefully. “I suppose it is true that purebloods dominate the leadership positions at the Ministry, and they certainly seem to hold sway over the economy… but I don't understand Mrs. Weasley's point. If there's no way to advance by merit, then she must be suggesting that… like hell!”

Mrs. Granger flushed brightly. “Hermione!”

“It won't be my lot in life to marry well in hopes that my children might receive better scraps from the table and my children's children might advance! I'll lead my life on my own terms, thank you very much! I'd… I'd snap my wand in two before it ever came to that!” Hermione roared. “The Weasleys haven't been like this, not at all! Mrs. Weasley knows me… how could she possibly think I would…?” Her jaw slowly dropped. “Oh, no… but Ron isn't of age until next March. She can't possibly think that George, or… or Fred, for pity's sake? Percy?” She started to laugh hysterically. “That would be cracking! Hermione Granger brings the Weasleys back together by m-marrying the wayward brother! The woman's barmy, Mum - absolutely barmy!”

Mrs. Granger sat back as far as she could in her chair. “Hermione! Look… I'm happy to know that you don't believe what she told me - deliriously happy, in fact - but I don't think she was referring to any of her sons, and I don't want to put a wedge between you and your friends over this. I know precisely where to direct my anger.”

Hermione quickly stopped laughing. “Don't believe a word of it, Mum, not a word! If Ron or Ginny tried to feed me a line like this, I'd tell them to get stuffed. Honestly, the woman's delusional if she believes I'd ever marry anyone who would pull me away from Dad or from you.”

“She… mentioned children as the breaking point, actually,” Mrs. Granger said seriously.

Hermione pursed her lips. “Accidental magic, I expect. I can't imagine it would be any worse than it was for me as a child, and we managed. We'd work through it, I promise. After all, you and Dad aren't afraid of what I am…” All the breath rushed out of her, and she managed to add, “You aren't… are you?”

Mrs. Granger took a long time to answer, far too long for Hermione's comfort. “Some of what we've seen is wonderful - amazing, really - but some of it has been terribly frightening. Your father and I are afraid for you, Hermione. Please know that we're not afraid of you. We could never be afraid of you.”

Hermione brushed at her damp cheeks. “Thank you, Mum,” she whispered. She knelt there for a while, her head in her mother's lap, and let her hair be stroked. She let herself be ten years old again, before she knew that magic was real and when it still seemed as if her mum and dad could wave their hands and make everything bad go away.

“Letting you go is so difficult,” Mrs. Granger said quietly. “It'll come a bit easier, knowing that you want to come back from time to time.”

Hermione nodded fiercely without raising her head. “I do, Mum, I do… but…” She felt her mother's legs stiffen at the word, but pressed on. “…I need you and Dad to be safe until this is over. I can't protect you, and you can't be with me, not now. We have to talk this through, Mum - tonight, with Professor Dumbledore.”

“We'll talk about it,” Mrs. Granger said with obvious reluctance.

Hermione dragged herself to her feet. “I have two posts to write… I hope you don't mind.”

Mrs. Granger slowly stood. She tugged and brushed at her clothing to tease out the wrinkles. “One is the post you were failing to write as I came in - that would be to Harry, I assume?”

Hermione groaned. “It's my own fault. If I hadn't insisted on keeping everything from him…”

“And the other?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“Oh, just catching up with the Weasleys,” Hermione said nonchalantly.

Mrs. Granger raised an eyebrow. “I see. I'd like to see that one before it's sent, if you don't mind?” she said archly. “We mustn't make this more than it is, however tempting that might be.”

“Yes, Mother,” Hermione sighed.

#######

Harry,

I hope this post finds you well. While I know a little of your goings-on this month, I imagine we'll have quite a lot to talk about. Your new home must be fascinating. I hope it doesn't raise too many uncomfortable thoughts or memories.

As you've surely been told by now, I had a serious lapse of control not long after you left the Lovegoods' flat. My decision to keep this from you is one of the worst decisions I've ever made, Harry. I berated you for hiding from us in July, and I've gone and done the same to you. I expect you to give me what-for when we see each other next, because I'm wholly deserving of it.

My time away has been very busy and very productive, though not so much in a bookish way. I've had a chance to get to know someone important to me in an unexpected way, and I've met someone who has helped me see some things about myself and about life that would have remained hidden or avoided all together. I've even mended fences with my Mum today.

Many things will be different now, I know, some visibly so and some below the surface. Someone told me that you may be taking an apprenticeship. If that's true, then I hope to be able to help you in some way. Helping you is very important to me; I doubt I could stop myself, in fact. This year, however, I look to you to set the boundaries for that help. If I've learned anything this summer, it's that this know-it-all doesn't know it all. Old habits die hard, of course. It's hard to admit to limits, even on paper.

The experience at my home left me with some uncomfortable realisations, Harry. Suppressing those realisations, even though I didn't know I was doing it, probably led to my loss of control. Some of this concerns you; I don't think it appropriate to say more in a post. Answers are required, for my own peace of mind at minimum. Professor Dumbledore and someone else who I dearly hope you meet someday have agreed to help me sort it all out. Because you're a part of this, I promise that you'll get the same answers that I do. It may not be very comfortable in the end, but I'm finished keeping things from you. I know that your situation is different from mine, and I recognise that secrets will have to be kept. We must trust each other - I must trust that you won't keep secrets for petty reasons, and you must trust that I won't box you into choices any longer.

As I said, many things will be different. One thing that shall always remain the same is my abiding love and friendship for you, Harry.

With much love, from

Hermione

Hermione gave the post a final once-over, closed her eyes, and thrust the sheet into a parchment envelope. She had thought long and hard about whether to mention Professor Dumbledore and Dr. Covelli by name, in case the post was somehow intercepted, and ultimately decided to reference the doctor indirectly. The first several drafts had been more direct about what she had experienced; on reflection, that information had seemed too dangerous when put to paper.

She took a quill, dipped it in proper magical ink, and wrote Harry's name on the envelope. An address in Scotland appeared, but it flickered strangely. When she'd sent posts to Privet Drive, the address had simply failed to appear. The flickering stopped, and she put it out of her mind.

Covelli knocked on the open door of the library. “Good afternoon. I hope I'm not intruding?”

“This is your home - how could you intrude?” Hermione said lightly as she sealed the envelope with a wax seal.

Covelli remained in the doorway. “You have finished your post to Mr. Potter, I see?”

“At last,” Hermione sighed with relief.

“I took tea with your mother and Minnie on the veranda,” Covelli said casually.

Hermione carefully wiped down the quill. “Was it interesting?”

“Most interesting,” Covelli returned. “Your mother was very interested in discussing your most recent conversation. How do you feel about the outcome?”

“I feel lightened by ten stone,” Hermione said. “I called her Mum… it's been a long time since I've done that.”

Covelli smiled broadly. “This may seem slightly out of sorts given our respective roles, but I am proud of you. Faced with two very difficult conversations today, you held your own.”

“Are you here to talk about Professor Dumbledore's offer?” Hermione asked.

“I said that I would help you,” Covelli said. “Albus knew that I would have to come to England as a result. He was taking advantage to a degree, something in which he is well-schooled.”

“You don't have to do that,” Hermione immediately insisted. “I'm very grateful for everything you've done, but it's not -”

“I have my reasons for allowing myself to be manoeuvred,” Covelli assured her, “but I do appreciate your consideration.”

“So you'll be returning with us?” Hermione confirmed.

“I must tend to some affairs, and then I'll be along,” Covelli said. She entered the room, and peered at the writing desk. “Two envelopes? I didn't realise you planned to send two posts, though I suppose it will require little extra effort from Mr. Moody.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Yes… well… I needed to unburden myself.”

“I thought that was the purpose of your post to Mr. Potter,” Covelli said.

Hermione asked hesitantly, “I don't know whether you can tell me, but… did my mum happen to mention someone called Molly Weasley?”

Covelli's eyes flashed. “Yes, she did - at great length.”

“Then you surely understand,” Hermione said.

“What is it that I should…?” Covelli stopped, and a smirk slowly spread across her face. “Oh, Hermione… `unburden yourself', indeed!”

Hermione blushed and then threw caution to the wind. “I wonder… if a person were to inscribe the runes for, shall we say, amplification of a post…? If said person used magical ink on a parchment envelope, and if she were underage… would, er, certain authorities…?”

Covelli's smirk deepened. “Why, Miss Granger, I am surprised this has not been covered in your Charms lessons. Basic parchment charming is not restricted by age, to include the addressing charm and a variety of, ehh, enhancements?”

Hermione nearly toppled the ink in her haste. The proper runes were crystal clear in her mind. As she inscribed the third rune, the parchment began to redden.

“Were you aware that the addition of a fourth rune can cause the colour to revert to something more customary?” Covelli asked.

Hermione did nothing to suppress a wicked grin. “No, I wasn't aware of that,” she said as though she didn't actually want to know. Covelli teased her for several minutes before she named the fourth rune.

#######

August 24

Sneezing echoed down the corridor that led from the guest quarters to the veranda. Hermione stifled a giggle; each sneeze was like the firing of a cannon. With each blast, Mr. Granger looked up from the Times, Mrs. Granger said `Oh, my' or `Good heavens', and the corners of Dr. Covelli's mouth flickered.

Dumbledore at last followed his sneezes out of the corridor and to a seat at the sun-splashed table, his nose and mouth buried in a handkerchief. “Good heavens, I can't seem to rid myself of this sneezing,” he said, his voice muffled by fabric.

“Are you well, Albus?” McGonagall asked.

Mr. Granger looked up yet again. “Watery eyes, eh? Prone to allergies, are you?”

Dumbledore blew his nose; the sound that resulted was like a poorly tuned trumpet. “Very few, thankfully,” he said. “I break into hives at the sight of a crup, and certain potions cause me to sneeze. There are two sorts of flowers that come to mind, but I have seen no snapdragons… surely oleander can be found in Italy, but the flowers in my chamber were pink and not white.”

McGonagall frowned. “Oleander comes in a pink variety. I'm certain I've seen it growing on this property.”

Covelli appeared shocked. “Oh, poor Albus… Gina! Perche ha spostato il vaso nella camera degli ospiti piú piccola?”

The ancient domestica grunted loudly without looking up from the serving table. “Perche mi hai detto di spostarlo in la!” she snapped. Mrs. Granger let forth a snort that took Hermione by surprise.

“A fair warning, Doctor - despite my age and station, I am not above returning a prank,” Dumbledore laughed.

“I mustn't present the impression that I've become dour,” Covelli smirked. “Dourness is best left to your regular faculty.” McGonagall let out an irritable huff at the last.

Mad-Eye Moody hobbled in from the courtyard. “Your posts are on their way, Granger,” he said gruffly to Hermione. “Sent `em by hired owl from… elsewhere.”

“Hermione, I distinctly heard Mr. Moody say `posts',” Mrs. Granger said. “I expected to review your post to Mrs. Weasley.”

McGonagall arched an eyebrow at Hermione. “You sent a post to Mrs. Weasley, not to her children?”

Before Hermione could speak, Mrs. Granger replied, “It was regarding the matter discussed yesterday over tea.”

McGonagall's voice tightened, which heightened her flinty burr. “What did the post say, Miss Granger?”

Hermione stiffened. “I informed Mrs. Weasley that I was unhappy with her statements to my mother, and that she should avoid making upsetting assertions in the future,” she said coldly.

“This scone is magnificent. Gratzie, Gina,” Dumbledore said. He took another bite, visibly savoured it, and added, “Am I to understand that Molly was being…?”

“Molly?” McGonagall finished for him. “Indeed.”

Dumbledore nodded knowingly. “I see. Did you address any misconceptions that may have resulted, Minerva?”

“Hermione managed that on her own,” Covelli cut in. “This Weasley woman, she is frequently loose with her words, yes?”

“Mrs. Weasley feels that everyone is entitled to her opinion,” Hermione said acidly, and drew a Cheshire smile from Dumbledore.

“I trust that the envelope was a neutral colour?” McGonagall said.

Moody's chuckle came out as a rattling rumble. “Looked almost exactly like the other post; nice bit of charming, that,” he returned.

“Miss Granger! Where did you learn to mask a Howler?” McGonagall demanded.

“As for myself, I found the post thoroughly proportionate,” Covelli said flatly.

McGonagall's eyes narrowed. “Luci… a word, please?” She gestured toward the entryway to the villa. Covelli shrugged, stood, and followed her inside.

Mrs. Granger scowled. “A `Howler'? I expect an explanation - now, please.”

“The Howling charm adds a magical exclamation point to a post, if you like,” Dumbledore explained lightly. “In some circles, a Howler is frowned upon. For some families, the exchange of Howlers is almost sporting. I expect that the Weasleys tilt more to the latter, Mrs. Granger. A Howler will be unanticipated, but hardly unprecedented.”

Mrs. Granger glared at Hermione. “I trust that you kept a copy of this post?”

“Let it go, Cordelia,” Mr. Granger said without looking away from the Times. “If Hermione chose to stand up for us, then that's her business. She can and will fight her own battles, whether we like it or not.”

Mrs. Granger paled. “You're… entitled to your opinion,” she said quickly, and then burst from the table to dash inside the villa.

Before Hermione could rise to follow, Mr. Granger folded the paper and set it down. “We've seen the sort of battles that you fight, from far too close,” he said. “She needs time to sort through this on her own; that's how she is. Of all people, Hermione, I should think you'd understand.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “What do you require, Mr. Granger, if I may be so bold… time? Explanations or assurances, perhaps?”

Mr. Granger fixed Dumbledore with a powerful stare that Hermione had never before seen from her father; his voice was like ice. “We did not intend for our daughter to attend military school, Mr. Dumbledore. I require assurances that you can't provide. I'm led to understand that Hermione may make her own decision to return to Hogwarts in a month's time, so there's no point to standing in the way. Never mistake that for agreement, or comfort, or anything of the sort.”

“Dad…” Hermione started.

“I've nothing more to say on the matter,” Mr. Granger growled. It was clear he would brook no opposition.

“Have you and Mrs. Granger had an opportunity to consider the issues that Miss Granger raised at table last evening?” Dumbledore asked.

Mr. Granger's jaw was firmly set. “The decision regarding our residence will be made amongst our family, and only our family,” he answered. “You will be consulted if there's something required of you.”

Dumbledore nodded, and began to rise from his chair. “Very well, sir. Miss Granger, I had thought that we might organise your research and revision plans today. However, I understand completely if you wish to defer…”

“Don't do that on my part,” Mr. Granger said. “Hermione told us that you'd offered her special tuition. We know enough about your world to recognise that opportunity for what it is.” He stood, and motioned for Dumbledore to keep his seat. “Studying under you may enhance her chances for concluding this business alive and well, and there's nothing more important to us. I trust I've made myself clear?”

Dumbledore's face remained impassive, but Hermione thought something about him seemed to have sagged. “Abundantly clear, Mr. Granger,” he said.

Mr. Granger leant down and kissed Hermione on the cheek. “If you need anything, anything at all, I'm just inside,” he said.

“I love you too, Dad,” she said under her breath as he walked away.

“Your father responded to my offer when I was in fact addressing you, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore pointed out. “If you'd care to defer until another day, I would understand.”

“No, thank you,” Hermione said. “Honestly, it doesn't feel like there are any days to spare.”

“True enough,” Dumbledore agreed, as he fished inside his shirt pocket. He withdrew an empty hand, and appeared to place a spot of nothing carefully atop the table. He waved his wand over the empty tabletop twice. “I took the liberty of returning to Hogwarts late in the evening and examining my personal library in brief.” From a pocket in his trousers, he withdrew a small slip of parchment. “Would you be so kind as to read this, please?” She nodded.

There is a modest-sized trunk directly in front of you. Blink three times, and it will be revealed.

The parchment immediately crumbled to dust. Hermione looked curiously to Dumbledore, and then did as she read. When she opened her eyes the third time, a trunk sat between them atop the table. It was perhaps two-and-a-half feet across and heavily decorated in what she knew to be Ogham script.

“All of the materials from my library that relate to the events of October 31, 1981 are placed inside, so that you may conduct a thorough review. Others have trod this ground before, but I am hopeful that your perspective may lead to new insights. There are only three living people who can see this trunk, and all three are present on this property,” Dumbledore explained. “I shall show you how you can enlarge and reduce the trunk by controlling its charms, as well as a few special features. I trust it is unnecessary for me to stress the importance of keeping this trunk and the materials contained therein under your control at all times?”

Hermione tried not to gulp like an awe-struck schoolgirl, and nearly succeeded. “No, sir, I understand,” she breathed.

“Once you have mastered the charms cast upon the trunk, I suggest we repair to the library where I shall identify each item for you. After that, we can establish a study plan and an appropriate timetable,” Dumbledore said. He raised an eyebrow and Hermione thought his eyes twinkled slightly, though it might have been a trick of the light. “Do I sense excitement on your part?”

Hermione suppressed a smile. “I do enjoy the pursuit of knowledge, I suppose.”

“Ah, but you find appeal in both the pursuit and the application of knowledge, Miss Granger; you long to solve problems,” Dumbledore observed. “In fact, you are attracted to the most difficult of problems even when others falter. I daresay that this predilection is one of several reasons that you were sorted into Gryffindor House, and not into Ravenclaw House.”

Hermione turned her eyes to the azure horizon, and gently rocked back and forth in her chair. “I… don't feel much like a Gryffindor this summer, Headmaster. I've wondered… this sounds ridiculous, I realise… but I've wondered whether perhaps I'm in Gryffindor because, well… because Harry needed a Ravenclaw at hand?”

Dumbledore seemed to ponder what she had said in a serious way. “The Sorting Hat has, on rare occasions, engaged in machinations for inscrutable purposes,” Dumbledore allowed, “and it knew precisely who Harry Potter was when it sorted your year. Harry did need you, as it turned out - and still needs you - but you are a Gryffindor because you belong in Gryffindor House. If you think on it objectively, you will recognise and agree with the Hat's logic.”

“If you say so, sir,” Hermione said doubtfully.

“Realistic appraisal of one's gifts and one's deficits is a useful activity, Miss Granger; it unburdens the mind. Self-doubt is another matter entirely,” Dumbledore gently chided. “We shall work on this; I expect Dr. Covelli will be most helpful to you in that way.” He reached across the table, placed his hand atop hers, and smiled. “Now, let us have a look at the charms placed upon this trunk.”

########

August 30

Hermione closed yet another book; she let out an irritated huff. Reading wasn't making her feel better, reading wasn't making her drowsy, she was learning nothing from it - reading was doing nothing for her at all. It was nearly midnight, she no longer wanted to read, and sleep was as elusive as one of Luna's imagined beasts. At least they booked me my own room, Hermione thought; at least Mum and Dad can rest.

She was reluctant to let her parents go, unlike previous partings at the close of the holidays. This time, she knew it was unlikely she'd see them for Christmas. There would be no returning to Belgravia - the only home she'd ever known was listed for sale. She didn't even know where her Mum and Dad would be, and she knew that was for the best. They had come to some sort of agreement with Professor Dumbledore, and that was all they would tell her. It had instantly occurred to her that she might never see them again - that they would survive and she might not - and she had tried her best to ward the thought away.

Everyone seemed to be falling away from her, save the Headmaster and Dr. Covelli. She was grateful that Dr. Covelli was returning to England, perhaps even a little excited, though she couldn't place exactly why she felt that way. It wasn't a matter of having a psychologist close at hand; she was certain of that much. Her feelings about Professor Dumbledore were much more confusing. On the one hand, he seemed genuinely apologetic about his hand in Harry's dismal childhood and about everything that had transpired over the holidays. On the other hand, Hermione was certain that he was attempting to manipulate her; she suspected that he saw her as a means of control over Harry, and she was determined to prevent that from happening. On the mean, she was pleased that she would be studying with him; there was much to be gained, both for the greater good and for herself.

A small stack of her own books sat inside the trunk that only she could see, next to the three stacks of books, scrolls, clippings and other items that Professor Dumbledore had provided. The contents were well organized now, another consequence of sleeplessness. There was a tight roll of soft fabric placed between the stacks; a strand of gold trailing from one end of the roll caught the light for a moment.

The Dreamweaver attracted her and repelled her all at once. Using it felt to her like the ultimate surrender of control; at the same time, the surrender - if there was any - was to her own consciousness. Many of the fears spread about Dreamweavers had been exposed to her as clearly false, as Dr. Covelli had helped her craft one for herself. Covelli's charms work had been inventive and amazing, and Hermione had been more than a little awed by it. The old tales of addiction were impossible, or should have been at any rate. Covelli's self-regulating charms effectively prevented the Dreamweaver from functioning unless it was needed to guide a difficult dream or restore lost balance of some sort.

She strolled to the curtained doors that led to the balcony. They wouldn't open, of course, as Mr. Moody had surely spelled them shut and cast protections of all descriptions… and a few that defy description, I'll wager, Hermione mused. The curtains did give slightly, and she chanced a peek at the piazza below. There were a few people about, but not nearly as many as she would have expected on a warm Roman night.

Harry's latest post sat open atop her knapsack. Mr. Moody had brought it to her just after sunset. She had read it several times, hoping to draw something from the words. It was friendly but somehow forced. He had admitted that there were things she needed to be told, but she suspected that there was more for the telling than he was prepared to give her. Her first impulse was to be irritated by that, but she was resolved to treat Harry differently this year; he was a fully-qualified wizard, and the last months had proven that her decisions were no better than his - better informed, but no better in the end.

She had been very angry when she first found out that her post to him had been banished, but hadn't stayed angry. If anything, the image of Harry awash in owls had been a bit amusing. Dumbledore's decision to abandon Harry had been incomprehensible to her, and she had made her feelings abundantly clear. She had taken that opportunity to inform the Headmaster that she intended to resign her appointment as Prefect, and that had created more of a stir than she had anticipated. Her decision had been firm, however, and Professor McGonagall had accepted her letter of resignation; the Professor hadn't spoken to her since.

Some of Dr. Covelli's creamy paper stuck out of her knapsack, and she carefully tucked it away along with Harry's post. She had considered repeating her post to Harry - revising and resending it, in truth - but had demurred. As Harry had written, some things were best left out of a post; she would see him soon enough.

The roll of fabric in the trunk kept catching her attention; she gave it one surreptitious glance after another. It was less than five hours until they had to leave for the aerodrome, and at its weakest the Dreamweaver did little more than ward off nightmares. There had been far too many of those over the summer, and Hermione feared that there were many more to come. She craved one more night of restful sleep, and her desire won out. The Dreamweaver came easily out of the roll and fit perfectly against her. She was asleep as soon as her hands cleared the gold netting.

Professor McGonagall looked down the length of her rather sharp nose, her lips bloodless and thin. “Turn to page 5,637 in the Pangloss text, please. We will be transfiguring living plants today - devil's snare into oleander - and the required incantation is particularly challenging… Miss Granger, is there a problem?”

Hermione felt the flush creep upward from the base of her neck. “N-nothing, ma'am, I'm just… er…”

Professor McGonagall tapped her foot. “You're dissembling.”

“It's just… uh…” Hermione's heart was pounding. She rifled through her bag with shaking hands. “It seems that m-my book is by Pym, not Pangloss… and it couldn't possibly have more than a thousand pages or so…”

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes tightly and her jaw followed; then she sighed loudly. “May I presume that you completed the required scroll for today?”

A scroll appeared on her desk. “Yes, ma'am, I have it,” Hermione said excitedly.

“Very well,” McGonagall said. She smiled wickedly. “You may present first.”

Hermione looked down, and very quickly returned her gaze to the board behind Professor McGonagall. “Oh, no… ma'am, I… please…”

“It seems that the proper text is not the only thing you neglected to bring to class,” Professor McGonagall sneered. “If you do not begin your presentation in fifteen seconds, Miss Granger, I shall have to take fifty points from Gryffindor House.”

A voice cut through the fear - a familiar voice. Professor McGonagall never sneers. Pangloss is a character from Muggle literature. You've never seen a single book 5,000 pages in length. Everything that the voice said was true, but she couldn't seem to take it in.

“Harry s-stopped this… this can't be…” she mumbled.

“Mister Potter is no longer a student here. He can't help you, Miss Granger. Your presentation - NOW, please,” Professor McGonagall snapped.

Hermione took a deep breath and unfurled the scroll. Professor McGonagall hadn't even had the decency to impose a lengthy assignment. She quickly decided to hold the abbreviated parchment at her hips, and dashed to the front of the room.

“Oh, my eyes!” Draco Malfoy howled. “My eyes, they burn!”

Pansy Parkinson sniffed, “As if it weren't enough to be a bossy, ill-mannered grind… well, you know what they say - a banshee in a ball gown is still a banshee. It's obvious that a Mudblood undressed is still a Mudblood, as well.”

“That will be quite enough,” Professor McGonagall said half-heartedly.

“Granger, I wouldn't even foist you on Goyle,” Malfoy sneered. “Sweet Merlin, Longbottom could do better.” Neville wouldn't make eye contact and Hermione didn't know if it was because he was embarrassed or because Malfoy was telling the truth.

“Two points from Slytherin House,” Professor McGonagall yawned.

The disembodied voice was insistent, and Hermione struggled to grasp its advice. You're neither exceptionally ugly nor exceptionally attractive. You're not a prize to be won, nor a penalty to be paid. This dream is false, and you know it.

She looked at herself again, unflinchingly. The voice was correct - there was nothing exceptional about her, nothing that merited abuse or shame, or catcalls for that matter. There was nothing about her that merited shame, she recognised, nothing at all.

Hermione cleared her throat, and raised the short roll of parchment. The words swam, and then resolved again. The hisses and the jeers all faded away. She read aloud, “What Voldemort did to me, he chose to do. I did nothing to bring it upon myself. Harry did nothing to bring it upon me, other than simply being born. None of you can cause me to be ashamed unless I allow it. None of you can make me dislike myself unless I allow it.” Her hands opened, and the parchment fell to the floor. She let her hands drop to her sides, defenceless. “I refuse.”

McGonagall smiled faintly. “One hundred points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” she said, and then the Transfiguration classroom was gone. Hermione found herself on the spiral stairs that led to the top of the Astronomy Tower. She climbed, because she knew that she had to climb in order to end this. Professor Dumbledore rounded the curve, on his way down.

His eyes met hers. “Good evening, Miss Granger. Are you taking a constitutional?”

Hermione tried very hard not to look at Dumbledore as though he'd sprouted a second head. “Erm… no, sir. I need to go to the top of the tower, so if you'll excuse me…”

“It is liberating to be stripped of one's fears, but sometimes we are merely left exposed to greater fears,” Dumbledore said. “You may find what lies at the top of the tower very frightening, indeed.”

“I need to go to the top, sir,” Hermione insisted.

“Why, may I ask? Do you believe that this is somehow noble? Are you trying to prove your worth?” Dumbledore challenged. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“I want to save him,” Hermione blurted out.

“Save him from what, I wonder?” Dumbledore mused. “Ah, it is no matter. More important, what are you willing to sacrifice?”

“Everything,” she whispered.

“You may wish to find out what that might entail, before making such a pledge,” Dumbledore cautioned. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Answer me this, Miss Granger… could you allow it?”

“I… have to go up there,” Hermione insisted.

“It is on your head, then - do not fail us,” Dumbledore said. He stroked his beard, and added abruptly, “Tell me… am I accurately described as niminy-piminy?”

“Niminy… wh… what?” Hermione stammered.

“Niminy-piminy, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore repeated. “It struck me as odd… once again, no matter. I must now take my leave. My own evening constitutional is always followed with proper foot care and a well-prepared pot of tea… perhaps you should try it at your leisure? I admit that it is certainly less bracing than the routine you have adopted.” He proceeded down the steps and out of view, whistling a bizarre and unfamiliar tune. Hermione looked up the spiralling stairs into the nothingness, took a deep breath, and drove herself toward the top.

He was there, resting on his forearms against the low wall, looking out at the Forbidden Forest and the lake and the rest of the world that lay in wait. The greatest fears always seemed to lie at the end of a dream, at the end of an adventure, so he had to be there. He heard the door creak, which ended any possibility for her to turn back. He saw her, gaped like a fish out of water, and slammed his eyes shut. “Hermione! Where are… what do you think you're… I… it's very cold out here; you'll catch your death!” Harry spluttered.

Hermione's voice trembled; she wasn't sure if it was from the sudden blast of cold air or a rush of fear. “Harry, w-would you just look at me, please? It'll all be over if you just look at me… I'm n-not ashamed anymore. I've nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I couldn't possibly!” Harry shouted in a panic. “You're going to freeze to death out here!” He dashed forward with one eye opened in the slightest squint, and pulled her inside his cloak.

Her teeth chattered and he managed to somehow draw her closer, which nearly destroyed any resolve that remained in her. “Harry, p-please just end this - just look at me, so I can move past it.”

“Move past it?” Harry laughed nervously. “Explain how I'm supposed to move past taking a look at you right now!”

She drew some strength from frustration. “Honestly, Harry,” she sighed. “This is just symbolism, after all. Being undressed in a dream symbolises being exposed in a threatening way. I fear having others see the real me, because… because I just fear it, right?”

“So you're running around the castle starkers, because you're afraid people will see the real you?” Harry asked. “Erm… Hermione, are you… you know… feeling better lately?”

Hermione said brightly, “I stood up to the Slytherins in Transfiguration class -”

“I thought we'd already put a stop to that one,” Harry cut in.

“I needed to manage it on my own,” Hermione explained, “and now I need to manage this as well.”

Harry's brow beetled in confusion. “But I've already seen the real you… haven't I?”

Hermione groaned. “I'm not in the mood for stalling. I want to be done with this; I'm tired of this dream. I don't understand why you're being so obstinate.”

Harry was sweating profusely at the temples, which Hermione found rather odd considering the chill in the air. “Hermione… er… perhaps it hasn't occurred to you, but… you do understand that I'm an ordinary bloke… don't you?”

“No, I don't understand…” Hermione trailed off, and then squeaked, “Oh!”

Sweaty redness spread up the sides of Harry's neck. “The thing is, I couldn't help seeing a little… erm… I saw enough, and… the thing is… youvenothingtobeashamedof.” His voice cracked badly, and he winced.

The same voice as before whispered to her, the voice she now knew to be her own. This isn't about his comfort, it's about yours. Finish the dream, and let him go.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Hermione said quickly, and she pulled herself free from his cloak. He took in a sharp breath. His eyes locked onto hers; she waited for several moments, but they never wavered. He never lowered his gaze, not for an instant; he was still as good as before the Department of Mysteries: as good as before Voldemort paid her a visit.

Harry let his cloak fall. He was dressed in his worst set of Dursley hand-me-downs. “You've seen the real me, you know. I'm not all that complicated, really. I'm not all that special.”

She shook her head at him, and forced herself to walk briskly to the edge.

“What are you doing?” Harry shouted. “We're a hundred feet from the ground!”

“I have to let you go,” Hermione choked out. “If it ever comes to that… Lord help me… I have to let go.”

“Why?” Harry demanded.

She looked back at him, and her feet locked into place. She was made of words, and couldn't summon one to describe her feelings for him; they were bigger than she was, bigger than either of them, and composed of so many layers that she was unsure of what lay at the centre. “You have a prophecy to fulfil. I can't wish it away, and I could send you to your death by standing in the way. If it ever comes to that… you can't think of anything but killing Voldemort. I'll have to let you go, and hope that you return.”

Harry moved toward her cautiously. “There's another choice. There's always another choice.”

“I have to let you go,” she repeated, and let herself slowly fall forward.

“Fair enough,” Harry agreed. He reached out lightning-fast; he was seeking her hand, and he seized it. “You never said anything about me having to let you go.”

She couldn't stop herself; her bare feet slid on the slick stone. His only reaction was to tighten his grip on her hand. They fell together - moonlit shadows plunging into the darkness - and she wasn't afraid anymore. It felt like the place she was intended to be. It felt like coming home.