Slytherin Conversations

Phoenix Song, Chapter Eleven : Slytherin Conversations

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

I'd like to thank both my betas: LAxo, for caring enough to be cutting, and WriterMerrin, who knows her grammar like I know my grandma and managed to correct this chapter even without electricity.

Hermione was spending a considerable amount of time in Professor Vector's office. Mostly, she went in the gap between classes and dinner, when Vector was likely to be there, too...pottering around in her tracksuit bottoms...although the professor had generously modified the wards so that Hermione could drop in at any time.

On this particular Saturday morning, Hermione had woken early. Reluctant to waste any part of her day, she crept out of the castle before any of her fellow Gryffindors were up and went for a run. By eight a.m. she had showered, breakfasted...on a handful of toast with Marmite and an apple...and made her way up to the seventh floor. Surprised to find Vector in her office when she entered, Hermione paused apologetically.

"Hermione," exclaimed Vector with a smile. "Come on in."

"Good morning, Professor, I wasn't expecting to see you at this time."

"A logical assumption, my dear. The truth is that I haven't yet gone to bed." Vector had a cup of coffee in her hand and gestured towards the briki. "I can make you one if you want," she offered.

"Maybe later," replied Hermione, smiling back at Vector's friendly face. This morning, her professor had a long sprig of basil flower tucked into the buttonhole of her cardigan, and the subtle perfume of the herb was mingled with the persistent smell of coffee. It occurred to Hermione that only Luna Lovegood might copy the style, yet the two women couldn't have been more different. "Actually," she ventured, "if you've got a moment, I've got a few questions."

In working through Vector's calculations, Hermione had come across several irregular runic coefficients that she had been unable to decipher. Hermione pulled some loose sheets of parchment from her bag and shuffled through them to find the list she was looking for.

"Here," Hermione pointed at the first symbol, "hollow at the core? What does that represent? At times it features quite prominently."

Vector chuckled. "Ah, yes. That's the Ministry of Magic. Perhaps not the most likely rune, but I tested it against Mickelham's axioms and it proved both efficient and stable."

Hermione could see the relevance and the humour of Vector's choice. "A depressingly apt runic reduction," she replied with a small laugh.

"I'm afraid, Hermione, that I'm not very fond of governments," said Vector, wrinkling her nose to emphasise the point.

"Did you have a run in with the Ministry?" asked Hermione curiously before her manners got the better of her.

"Not the Ministry exactly . . . It's a long story."

"I'm sorry..." exclaimed Hermione apologetically. "I didn't mean to pry."

"Nonsense!" Vector replied, "don't ever be sorry for asking questions." She took another sip of her drink, looking at Hermione appraisingly over the brim of her cup. "If you sit with me while I make another cup of coffee," she added, "I'll tell you the short version."

Hermione was astonished by the offer and readily settled herself into a chair.

As Vector spooned coffee grounds and sugar into the briki, she began to talk. "You know, back in Greece before the Wars...the World Wars, that is...the magical and Muggle populations were not separated to the extent they are today. When I was a girl, I studied mathematics...not magic per se. Those that had the talent studied Arithmancy; those that didn't studied some other branch of mathematics, but no hard and fast distinction was made between the two. After graduating, I worked as a mathematics professor at a university in Thessaloniki. I worked there for many years. Eventually, I fell in love." Vector smiled self-deprecatingly at Hermione. "He was my student. Don't look so surprised, young lady!"

Hermione couldn't restrain herself, "But..."

"These things happen. We were both adults. For your information, I was 46 and he was 23."

Hermione's eyes were wide with surprise. "What was he like?" she asked with evident curiosity.

"He was wonderful. Full of energy, aflame with politics. He could seduce anyone, convince anyone to join his cause. He was very sweet, and he was very angry. He wanted to change the whole world to make it a better, fairer place." She quirked a knowing eyebrow at Hermione. "The sex was fantastic."

Hermione blushed. She bit down on her bottom lip and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"Under his influence, I became a communist...I still am one, as a matter of fact. To cut a long story short, we joined the resistance during the Second World War and fought together in the Civil War that followed immediately afterwards. Yanis was killed...by government forces...in 1949." Hermione gasped, but Vector continued over the interruption, an uncharacteristically grim look on her face. "I was forced to leave the country. Because of my record, and because the northern borders were closed, I had few options. I chose to change my name and leave the Muggle world behind entirely. As a witch, I fled to England; I've been here ever since."

Hermione had so many questions, she didn't know where to begin. "Professor, I . . . I don't know what to say. Thank you for telling me."

Vector had a far-away look in her eye. "You're welcome, Hermione. It's been a long time since I thought about such things."

"Do you miss him?"

"Yanis? I used to miss him everyday, but it was a long time ago." Vector shrugged, the beginnings of her customary smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I am sorry that he died, of course, and I'm sorry we didn't win, but I'm not sorry for anything else. If I had to do it over, even knowing the end result, I'd still fight." Vector poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Hermione.

"Was it the killing curse?" she asked as her fingers closed around the warm mug.

"Goodness, no. He was shot."

Hermione furrowed her brows briefly. "Was he a Muggle?" she asked with some surprise.

"He was an extraordinary mathematician," replied Vector with a chuckle. "But, it's true, no great shakes as an Arithmancer. His talents lay elsewhere."

Hermione's head whirred as she processed everything Vector had said. For a moment she struggled to remember how they'd arrived at such an unexpected topic. "It certainly puts your dislike for governments into perspective," she remarked.

"I'm sure it does, though that wasn't my motivation in telling you the story." Vector pulled a wry face. "At the risk of sounding like a crummy, new-age psychologist, I wanted you to know that there are many reasons for entering a war, and love is among the most important...love and politics are a fierce combination. Know, too, that though the healing process can be difficult, becoming a whole and healthy person afterwards is a possible and admirable goal."

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her teacher had hit on one of the deep concerns that girded her days. "Thank you," she said. "I think they're important things that I needed to hear."

Any further commentary was interrupted by a knock on the door. Vector leaned towards Hermione and whispered conspiratorially, "Ah ha, the reason why I remain awake has just arrived." Lazily, she waved the hand that was not holding her coffee, and the blackboards covered in the Order's calculations disappeared. Even the writing on Hermione's pages of notes faded away. "Come in," she called.

The door opened, and Tracey Davis (one of the Slytherins from the NEWT Arithmancy class) stepped into the room. At the sight of Hermione Granger, she visibly stiffened.

"Good morning, Professor," she remarked awkwardly, "I didn't realise you were already occupied."

"Nonsense, Tracey," replied Vector. "Pull up a chair. In fact, I imagine that Hermione would be very interested in hearing about your independent project."

Tracey walked towards the desk with obvious reluctance. "I wouldn't want to bore you, Granger," she lied, the antagonism in her voice only thinly veiled.

Thirty seconds earlier Hermione hadn't cared about Davis' project in the slightest, yet now a tendril of curiosity unfurled within her breast. "I'd love to hear about it," she enthused, trying (in vain) for a note of sincerity, "I'm sure it wouldn't bore me at all."

Davis graced her with a smile that stopped an inch below her eyes. "Well, maybe once it's a little further developed we can get together and talk about it."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea!" interpolated Vector, smiling as if oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, "You see, Hermione, Tracey is working on an attempt to counteract the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position."

Hermione blinked, overwhelmed by a rush of excitement. "That's a wonderful project!" she exclaimed. Her enthusiasm at this point was completely genuine, although the look Davis gave her was as confrontational as ever. "I'd love to have a look at it."

"Well, as soon as I'm ready," replied Davis, "I'll drop by your common room and set up a time."

The sheer magnitude of untruthfulness encompassed by Davis' statement left Hermione momentarily speechless.

"Excellent!" said Vector serenely, filling the silence. "Thank you for dropping by," she said, turning to Hermione. "Come again any time."

As Hermione shut the door behind her, she stole a last glance at Tracey Davis. Unsuccessfully, she attempted to suppress a sudden twinge of envy: Hermione realised that she wanted someone to save Professor Snape, she just wanted to do it herself.

Since it wasn't yet ten o'clock, Hermione headed towards the Great Hall: the chances were high that the boys would be eating their breakfast. When Harry and Ron proved more difficult to locate than anticipated, however, she snaffled another piece of fruit and ditched the library in favour of the lake.

How did my life get so complicated? she wondered. First Snape, then Vector, then the Order. Add to that the prophecy, with Harry marked as The Chosen One. Each element was connected, each so complicated that it was hard to fit them all together and have the whole make sense. Hermione crunched her apple absentmindedly between her teeth. Gone was the day when a colour-coded homework schedule sufficed to keep everything in its proper place.

When she reached the old beech tree, she sat down, propping her back against the trunk and stretching out her legs. I should use this time to sort some things out, she decided. Take Professor Snape: does he like me, or not? She knew it was a stupid question. As an Order member, the important thing shouldn't be whether he liked her, but whether they could beat Voldemort. Still, the question preoccupied her. He'd spent five years being so unrelentingly nasty that his new-found willingness to answer questions was intoxicating. Not that he's exactly nice to me now. Though she'd definitely noted a sense of humour. And there was that one glorious moment when he'd called her "Granger." It made her feel . . . noticed.

Hermione finished up the last bites of her apple and tossed the core into the lake for the giant squid. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms tightly around her shins. Though there was no-one to see her, she pulled a wry face. The thought of being noticed by Snape had brought to mind the scene in Dumbledore's office. Hermione Granger was no stranger to ethical grey areas...think Cormac McLaggen, Polyjuice potion, Dolores Umbridge, illegal underage magic over the holidays just so that she could go running, etc....but Dumbledore's calculated blind eye had left her oddly perturbed. Snape, on the other hand, he'd wanted her to stew. Why, though? Perhaps he thought I deserved it? Maybe he wanted to make me think about what I'd done? The man was an enigma, that much was certain. And an enigma I spend far too much time thinking about! Hermione gave herself a mental shake and resolved to think about something else. Vector, for example.

Lost in thought, Hermione was oblivious to the two boys who had crept up on her reverie and now hid behind the tree on which she rested. When they leapt out at her from opposite directions, she shrieked. Desperately scrabbling to find her feet and pull out her wand, her heart was racing with genuine fear. Seconds later, she recognised her would-be attackers and sighed with relief, half sliding, half collapsing back onto the ground, one hand pressed against her chest.

"Oh, my God! Don't ever do that again!" she remonstrated weakly, wagging an indignant finger at the laughing faces of Harry and Ron. "I'm serious!" she added, gathering steam, "don't you have any idea..."

Her increasingly loud protestations were abruptly silenced when Ron muffled her mouth with one hand.

"Merlin's pants, Harry! I thought we'd surprised Hermione, but I think it might be Professor McGonagall in disguise!"

Harry replaced his grin with a mock-serious expression and shook his head gravely. "I think there's only one thing to do, Ron."

"Ngmnh!" said Hermione through Ron's hand, beginning to struggle again in earnest.

"Tickle her!" cried Ron, with evident glee, as her two friends threw themselves on her.

Ten minutes later, Harry, Ron and Hermione lay on the ground together, having tickled, giggled, shrieked and laughed themselves into momentary exhaustion. Turning her head, Hermione looked from one boy to the other and felt her heart swell with an almost painful sensation of well-being. Her friends were idiots, but she loved them all the same. Love...she thought, suddenly struck by the memory of her conversation with Vector...love and politics is a fierce combination.

"Come on, you jokers," she remarked, pushing herself up into a seated position. "Help me up, and let's go pay Hagrid a visit."

Hermione survived the Slug Club despite the absence of Harry and Ginny. Her guilty conscience obliged her to speak briefly with McLaggen...at the previous supper she'd dissuaded him by the simple expedient of crossing her arms and glaring at him every time he looked her way...but she only managed to tolerate his obnoxious version of conversation for a few minutes before excusing herself and beating a tactical retreat to the girls' toilets. Blaise Zabini turned up for the supper, too, and Hermione took the opportunity to indulge her new-found curiosity in the work of her Slytherin classmates, asking him about his independent Arithmancy project. She was disappointed, however, with his response. After staring down his nose at her for a few seconds, he droned on about property markets, financial systems, international exchange rates and capitalising on compound interest. Jerk, she thought later, I bet the only interest he has in the Muggle world is how to make money out of it. Hermione made desultory small talk with several other people whom she vaguely knew, finally managing to excuse herself by claiming pressing homework commitments for her Ancient Runes class. Slughorn didn't need to know that she'd finished her translations the previous week...served him right for lavishing such undeserved praise on Harry's Potions work.

Come Thursday, Hermione set off for her Occlumency lessons with the customary mix of anticipation and apprehension that her snarky professor inspired. All week she had been watching him at every given opportunity, carefully parsing each of his interactions. He was rude to everyone, with the occasional exception of Slytherin students. For the most part his behaviour met with mild exasperation or strained politeness, though many of the other teachers didn't seem to mind at all, and several people...Harry included...were reduced to a barely coherent rage. How much of this persona is generated to provide the kind of memories Voldemort is expecting to see? she wondered, though the idea that Snape might suddenly prove courteous and cheerful were the Dark Lord to fall tomorrow set her giggling uncontrollably.

"Don't bother to sit," he instructed the moment she arrived. "We'll start immediately."

Hermione was able to repel his first few Legilimency attacks without trouble. "Professor," she asked, "will you teach me to hide specific memories?"

She was surprised when he agreed.

"The key," he informed her, "is that Occlumentic projections are themselves products of your mind, much as memories are. For that reason, the shields themselves take on an appearance...the trunk you envisioned in the Hospital Wing, for example. To hide a specific memory, you need to put it inside an object within another memory."

"Within another memory? You mean, following the trunk analogy, that I would take a memory that includes my Hogwarts' trunk, such as one of me sitting in my dormitory, and shut the other memories in there?"

"Precisely. Be aware that the holding image will accrue some extra weight, therefore it's best to chose a memory that could already be assumed to hold some significance."

Hermione chewed on her lip as she processed that information. Hmm . . . a memory that already holds significance, within which I can hide other thoughts . . .

"I suggest we try it before you mangle your lower lip beyond repair," remarked Snape dryly.

Hermione flushed. "Certainly, sir. What should I do?"

"Go out into the corridor, shut the door behind you. While you're there, say something out loud. Imagine yourself placing the memory of that comment inside the receptacle of your choice. Then come back and we'll see how long it takes to find it."

Hermione stood obediently and moved out into the corridor. She stood there for a long moment, her mind a blank. As inspiration struck, she smirked and crossed her arms.

"Severus Tobias Snape," she said, "you shouldn't be watching this."

In her mind's eye, she entered the library. Taking down a book from the shelf, she folded her memory flat and tucked it inside. She closed the book and returned it to the shelf. In reality, she walked back into Snape's office.

"I'm ready," she said.

Snape stood fluidly and moved around his desk, his wand in hand. "Legilimens."

Hermione resisted an impulse to slam up her Occlumency shields and staggered slightly under the stream of memories. Struggling to make sense of the rush of images, she realised suddenly that each one took place in a Hogwarts corridor...she saw the basilisk again, watched her teeth grow huge as she was hexed by Malfoy and ran away from Snape in shame, and recognised herself sandwiched between Harrys and Rons of various ages. Eventually, the library began to appear as well, flickering into sight intermittently between various moments in the corridors. Over the next few minutes, her visions involved the library more and more frequently, until, for a long period she watched nothing but her own head bent over her books with the shelves as an immobile backdrop. She felt the mental pressure increase, and she willed herself to stay calm. I'm not going to think about what I said in the corridor, she chanted to herself, I'm not going to think about . . . The pressure burst outward, and the image of the library crumbled. "Severus Tobias Snape," she saw herself say, "you shouldn't be watching this."

Snape's office came back into focus as Hermione blinked. Her legs trembled, and she lowered herself carefully into her chair.

Snape leant back on the edge of his desk and ran one finger along his bottom lip. "After some practice," he drawled, "you might manage a serviceable attempt."

Hermione glanced up at him and noticed the tiny upward slant at one corner of his mouth. From Snape, those were exuberant words of encouragement, and she smiled with sudden pleasure.

"Sir," she asked, "how come you saw so many images of the corridor?"

"Memories are stitched together by common emotional threads: fear, longing, hunger, etc., or stored contiguously by common content: an individual, a colour, or a specific object. A skilled Legilimens or Occlumens can identify and exploit such threads. I knew I was looking for an image that took place in such a space."

Hermione opened her mouth to ask another question, but Snape cut her off.

"That's enough for tonight," he concluded, pushing himself off his desk and stepping away to sit down on his chair.

"About next week," began Hermione, "Harry wants to schedule Quidditch practice so he can avoid the Slug Club meetings, so I'm not sure yet..."

"Granger," he interrupted, "what are you doing tomorrow after classes?" He was watching her oddly.

"Nothing specific. I frequently go and work on the equations with Professor Vector."

"Hmm." Snape ran his index finger gently along his lower lip. "If you can ditch the gruesome twosome, tell them that you're going there, but come here instead."

Hermione's heart brightened. He wants to see me more than once a week? "Certainly, sir."

"Read Cvetkovich's chapter on 'Self-Defensive Occlumency' before you come. For now, you're dismissed."

Hermione had no real need to re-read the Cvetkovich chapter...the book was one of those he'd loaned her over the holidays...but she did so anyway. The instinctive mental response really is fascinating, she thought. Maybe Professor Snape wants to talk more about my injury at the Department of Mysteries. She did some extra reading on the Silencio curse and its peculiar secondary effects just to be on the safe side.

Slipping away from Ron and Harry was ridiculously simple. They were used to her visits to Vector's office by now and so uninterested in Arithmancy that it never occurred to them to question her. Fifteen minutes after classes ended, therefore, she was knocking on Professor Snape's door.

"Come in," he called.

When she opened the door, she was taken aback to find he wasn't alone.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said quickly. "I can come back later."

"That won't be necessary, Granger," he replied. "Just sit down."

She sat, looking sideways at the other occupant of the room. Recognising the young Slytherin who had delivered the message about her birthday "detention" with Snape, Hermione pushed away a small pang of jealousy. How ironic, she thought, the scene between her, Tracey Davis and Vector superimposing itself over this one in her mind's eye.

"Granger, this is Jocelyn Smith." Snape performed a perfunctory introduction. "Jocelyn, this is Hermione Granger."

The previous pang of jealousy returned with redoubled energy. He calls her by her first name? She smiled at the young girl as sweetly as she could. "Hello, Jocelyn, we spoke once before."

Jocelyn looked at her briefly, but said nothing, quickly returning her gaze to Snape. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. What am I doing here? she wondered, Or better, what is she doing here?

Snape sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. "Granger," he said abruptly, then paused. "I had hoped . . ." Snape trailed off, then paused again.

Curiosity won out over annoyance as Hermione stared at her professor. She'd never seen him so inarticulate. One hand was fisted on the desk so tightly that his knuckles gleamed white. Severus Snape doesn't like to ask for help, she noted, adopting a smug tone in the safety of her own head.

On the third attempt, he managed a full sentence: "I had hoped you would be willing to describe the mental sensations of your recent experience of blocking using Muggle metaphors."

Hermione looked at the girl beside her in surprise. "Muggle metaphors?" she queried. "But..."

"But what, Granger?" Snape's tone sounded a warning that Hermione chose to ignore.

"But I thought Slytherins..."

"You thought wrong." He'd migrated from warning to savage and slapped one palm down on the desk for emphasis.

Hermione crossed her arms and her legs simultaneously and stared at a spot about three feet left of his ear, a mulish expression on her face. "Someone ought to inform Draco Malfoy," she muttered.

Snape leaned forward menacingly, one hand still pressed flat against the surface of his desk. He hissed at her, threateningly, "But it won't be you, will it, Granger?"

Rather than looking at him, Hermione turned to the young girl seated beside her. Throughout the aggressive exchange, Jocelyn had said nothing, following each turn of the conversation with wide, frightened eyes. Faced with her apprehensive expression, Hermione's anger leached away. As if I'd willingly fuel Malfoy's hatred of anyone. Typically, her anger was quickly replaced by a keen appreciation for the ridiculous, and Hermione was sorely tempted to let fly with a sarcastic retort...Then perhaps once the Dark Lord falls, you could inform Malfoy on my behalf? Instead, she counted silently to ten before replying with as much calm as she could muster. "No, Professor, I wouldn't dream of it."

She was about to question Snape as to the purpose of his request, when her brain caught up with her mouth. If Jocelyn is Muggle-born and needs to know Muggle metaphors for how to unblock, then it stands to reason..."Are you blocking?" she inquired, addressing the question to Jocelyn.

The young girl threw a panicked glance at Snape before turning back towards Hermione. Even then, she didn't meet her eye, staring instead at her knee. Rather than speaking, she nodded.

Cripes. Hermione ran a hand through her hair. Was Jocelyn cursed? she wondered briefly before the reading she did the previous evening answered the question for her. No: abused.

For the first time in several minutes, she risked a glance at Snape. He had retreated slightly from the antagonistic pose he'd assumed the last time he spoke, but had barely moved otherwise. His body was rigid and his eyes wide. "I'll do my very best," she promised reassuringly.

The response to her words was immediate. Snape relaxed back into his chair and ran one hand down his face. "I'll leave you to it, then," he commented. Rising to his feet, he stepped out into the Potions lab, leaving Hermione and Jocelyn to their conversation in private.

A/N : Ann Cvetkovich is a brilliant academic who has published a brilliant book: An Archive of Feelings: Trauma, Sexuality, and Lesbian Public Cultures (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003). I admit that I had some thought of her take on the potential power of traumatic experiences in mind when I borrowed her name as that of the author with a chapter on "Self-Defensive Occlumency."

I also should note that I took inspiration for the concept of "blocking" from the sad life of Arianna Dumbledore in DH; I figured that in the 100+ years since her death the medi-wizarding world would have come up with a name for the phenomenon, and perhaps also the beginnings of a cure.