7th Year: Harry Potter and the Snares of Fate

HERMIONE

With Percy ensconced in a room at the Hog's Head and Ron safely tucked into his four-poster bed, Hermione should have been able to relax, but the tight lump that had formed in her throat at the sight of Bagman, emerging from the rubble, still had not left her. She sat across from Harry in the boys' dormitory, gently dabbing Ron's forehead with a warm sponge as they spoke. Hermione noted that it was their first proper conversation since Halloween. At long last, their conversation turned to the mirror Harry had given her.

“It was Sirius',” Harry said heavily, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a second mirror, identical in every way to Hermione's, except for the fact that its surface bore several long, jagged cracks. He turned the mirror over in his hands, examining it lovingly, and Hermione saw his green eyes well up with tears.

“I wish…” he began haltingly; Hermione reached over Ron's slumbering form and grasped his free hand. “…Sirius shouldn't have died,” he said. “If I'd only stopped to think; these two mirrors could have saved everything…I could have talked to him - we needn't have broken into Umbridge's office or gone to the Department of Mysteries--” - his voice cracked - “That's how they work, you know - or, how they would work if I hadn't broken mine.”

Hermione gently eased the mirror from Harry's hand and tapped its splintered surface seven times with her wand, murmuring a string of incantations under her breath. The plates of broken glass mended themselves before her very eyes and the mirror grew hot to the touch as its magical properties restored themselves.

“This, at least, can be repaired,” she said softly, handing back the mirror. Then, putting on her best impression of Mrs. Weasley, she instructed Harry to “turn in for the night,” and -- after planting a swift kiss on his forehead --- exited the room.

* * * * *

Half-an-hour later, sequestered in her own bed with The Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions propped open on her lap, Hermione found that she was still badly shaken by the day's events. Try as she might, she could not make sense of Boreas Brouneberd's explanation of the Arresto Mementum charm. The flickering light cast by the bluebell flames on her bedside table tired her eyes and she couldn't seem to concentrate on anything but her own guilt and the still-tingling feeling where her lips had met Harry's lightning-bolt scar.

Finally, tired of tossing and turning and squinting uncomprehendingly at Brouneberd's cramped writing, she rose from her bed, donned a warm traveling cloak over her flimsy nightgown and set off for a midnight stroll through the castle.

Movement served to calm her nerves as stillness and sleeplessness had not. She paced the moonlit corridors until her quaking knees threatened to give way from exhaustion. She opted to return to Gryffindor Tower by a different path - a shortcut she knew Harry frequented, but along the way, she found herself hopelessly lost, plowing onwards past unfamiliar portraits who scowled down at her as her wandlight roused them from their slumbers. As she fled the bitter reprimands of one vile and very drowsy-looking hag, she came across an open door. Within the chamber beyond, a most curious sight greeted her eyes - a gray tabby sitting primly before an ancient claw-footed mirror, wrought from weathered stone and beveled glass.

“Professor McGonagall?”

The cat's head swiveled around to face her. In a blink of an eye, the familiar figure of Minerva McGonagall, clad in a tartan nightrobe and clashing Muggle bomber jacket, replaced the cat.

“Ah, Hermione Granger,” she said, her voice strangely reminiscent of a cat's sharp meow. “Out for a midnight gambol - or are you sleepless as well?”

“It seems to be a night made for insomniacs,” Hermione observed dryly, moving forward for a closer glimpse of the mirror.

“Does the Mirror of Erised mean anything to you, Miss Granger?”

“It's a play on words,” Hermione said swiftly, eyes scanning the jumbled letters cresting its frame; Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. “Erised: the mirror of desire.”

“Very good.” An approving smile flickered across her normally severe features. “Look in properly, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, stepping aside and ushering Hermione into a place of greater prominence before the Mirror. “Tell me, what is it that your youthful heart desires?”

Hermione was startled to see her heart's most desperate desire, reflected so plainly back at her. She was sitting behind Harry on Buckbeak's - Witherwing's - feathered back as they soared upwards and away, leaving Hogwarts, the war, and every duty that bound them behind. As they flew on, the scenery beneath them changed smoothly from heather-strewn moors to an ocean of wind-tossed sand - as ever-changing as the waves on the sea, as capricious as the twists of fate that sent that spun and carried her through life.

“I am ashamed to say, Professor,” she murmured, unable to tear her eyes away.

“It is not ignoble to desire a flight from one's fate;” McGonagall said knowingly, joining her in front of the mirror and staring stoically into its glassy depths. “You yearn for a less turbulent and more forgiving future; I, on the other hand, long to undo my past,” she said ruefully. “Many years ago, when I was but a young girl, I thought I could do no wrong. Pardon me for saying it, but I was not unlike you, Miss Granger—”

Hermione bowed her head; the memories of her latest folly were still painfully fresh in her mind.

“I knew far too much for my own good; I thought myself infallible, until I tarried across the path of Lord Voldemort.” She shuddered, drawing her tartan shawl tighter around her shoulders. Hermione noticed, for the first time, how withered - how diminished - her dearest teacher appeared, uplit by the faint bluish glow of the Mirror of Erised.

“Of course, I did not know what I had done at the time - I was only a few years out of Hogwarts,” she said, her taut face twisted into a tortured expression by the image the Mirror reflected so guilelessly back at her.

“It was November, 1956. I remember it as clearly is if it was yesterday - that is, I remember how it began as clearly as if it were yesterday…”

She turned her back on the mirror and resumed pacing the room. “In those days, I worked for the Ministry of Magic, in the Department of Relics - you will not have heard of it,” she added, seeing the inquiring look on Hermione's face, “—the Department of Relics closed many years ago. Ministry was overextended, and entrenched in debt, so it was decided that the relics would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Early on the morning the auctions were set to commence, a young man arrived in the Atrium; he was strangely familiar to me - though I could not place him at the time - and claimed to be under the employ of Caractacus Burke, an old family friend.”

“He produced a letter from Mr. Burke, requesting early access to the gallery where the auction was to take place. How could I have known?”

“What happened, Professor?” Hermione asked breathlessly.

“Alas, I cannot recall the interval…my memory of those fateful hours was wiped clean as a slate. When I awoke, Rowena Ravenclaw's wand - undoubtedly the most valuable relic on display that day - was gone and I was widely suspected of pilfering it. Ollivander was to be its rightful owner, for the Ministry had determined that he alone was trustworthy enough to be in possession of such a powerful magical artifact.”

“So, thief I was not. I quickly realized that it was none other than a youthful Lord Voldemort who paid me a visit that day. Tom Riddle, as I had known him at Hogwarts.”

Hermione's eyebrows arched in surprise, “You knew--

“Yes, I knew him,” McGonagall said, nodding curtly. “He was a Slytherin Prefect when I was Head Girl. There were few who did not admire him in those days when he was still young, handsome, intelligent, and blameless…but it was many years before I knew who, or what, he had become.”

“And so, alone and friendless, I turned to Albus Dumbledore, the only man alive who was powerful enough to help me,” she continued brokenly. “It was not until a year ago that Dumbledore confided his suspicions in me. I fear I did great damage that day, for Rowena Ravenclaw's wand - in the hands of Tom Riddle - was a powerful weapon in and of itself. I know of the Horcruxes, it does no good to feign ignorance of them anymore, now that Dumbledore is gone. Whatever it was that you fruitlessly sought today aside, finding that wand is the task you must set yourself to.”

Hermione looked up at McGonagall. “What happened to you? Was your named cleared?”

“No, Miss Granger. Dumbledore's good faith spared me from the Ministry's angry clutches, for he ushered me back into the Hogwarts fold. You will find that the staff Dumbledore assembled after Dippet's death was a hodge-podge of people he needed to protect…myself, Snape, Firenze, Trelawney…”

“But what of V-Voldemort?” Hermione asked. “He can't have been pleased if you went straight to Dumbledore…”

McGonagall's hands clenched convulsively, “I paid the ultimate price for my high treason. Going to Dumbledore cost me my family…my betrothed.” She extended her left hand and Hermione saw, for the first time, a tarnished silver ring nestled against the joint.

“Here,” McGonagall said, struggling to regain her composure. She drew back her hand and conjured a gobletful of some shimmering lilac-hued potion. “It's a Sleeping Draught,” she said, “for dreamless sleep. By the look of you, you need it more than I this night.”

Hermione accepted the goblet and, after bidding her mentor a final goodnight, set off for the Gryffindor Common room, dragging her leaden feet. As she curled up in her favorite armchair, she noticed the first stray snowflakes of the season wafting earthward. No two the same, she thought idly, thrown together in this one storm purely by chance… She drained the potion in a single swallow and drifted immediately off to sleep.

* * * * *

HARRY

The first feeble rays of November sunlight filtering through the mullioned windows stirred Harry from a restless slumber. Another day. As he climbed out of bed, cursing the chilled air that nipped at his bare ankles, he leaned over to check on Ron, sleeping soundly in the next bed. He had half-a-mind to send an owl to Lupin and the Weasleys informing of the past day's events, and trudged down to the Common room with these thoughts foremost in his mind, but any notions of solemn letter-writing were dispelled by the sight of Hermione, lying draped in one of the overstuffed armchairs beside the fire. An empty silver goblet dangled precariously from her relaxed grip, its tarnished handle barely supported by her curved fingers. Cautiously, he edged closer, not wanting to wake Hermione. In sleep, her expression was tranquil and - perhaps it was a trick of the light - but it seemed to Harry that the ghost of a smile lingered on her lips.

He could have watched her slumber for hours, but he was painfully aware that his time was short. Soon the Common room would be bustling with life as the other Gryffindor students awoke, and these were two letters he did not want to write while surrounded by giddy second years.

“Accio Quill, Accio Parchment,” he muttered thoughtlessly, not bothering to reach for his wand. Split seconds later, a roll of parchment and a handful of Ron's battered barn owl quills came barreling towards him. There was no time to revel in his perfect execution of a wandless incantation. There was no time to revel in anything anymore, he thought sadly, glancing again at Hermione.

Dear Professor Lupin, he wrote. He scratched out `Professor' and scribbled `Remus' in the margin instead, but that did not feel quite right either. And to think, writing the salutation is the easy part… For the next half-an-hour, he poured out his heart to Lupin, confiding every detail of the past twenty-four hours, from the horrible moment when Bellatrix Black and Ludo Bagman emerged from the burnt shell of a cottage to their jaunt to the Ministry of Magic. He sealed the letter and set it aside, pulling out another scrap of parchment and addressing it to Arthur and Molly Weasley, but this was one letter he could not bring himself to write. The prospect of telling Ron everything -- once he had recovered -- was unbearable enough as it was.

As he sat contemplating the most secluded route to the Owlery, Hedwig fluttered into sight; Harry wondered if he hadn't unwittingly Summoned her to his side. She extended her leg and he tied the letter to it. “This is for Lupin,” he told her, stroking her feathery head lovingly. “Safe travels, Hedwig,” he whispered as she clicked her beak fondly at him and soared out of sight. He watched until her solitary form disappeared over the Forbidden Forest. Twenty-four hours ago, he, Ron, and Hermione had traipsed through the forest: expectant, eager to be acting rather than sitting uselessly within the castle's four walls. As the sound of footsteps descending the stairs from the boys' dormitories reached his ears, Harry knew that they had reentered the painful cycle of waiting and worrying.

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