Limits

A/N: My thanks, as always, to my writing partner, Anastasia, who provided the Gordian sword, and to Machshefa, who inspired the Solomonic solution. Thanks especially to my alpha readers, who bore with this one most patiently: Indy, Annie, Dicky, and Karelia, who also beta-read for me.

The chapter art is based on a photograph of Harper Library at The University of Chicago.

And loads of sparklies for you lovely readers, whose reviews tickle my fancy and touch my heart! I love hearing what your favorite moments are - it makes a writer smile, it does... *waves*

Summary: The tides of history and the price of wisdom.

13: Limits

"Think of that coin you're holding so tightly as... what's the current term? Bus fare. Or perhaps a broomstick."

Which did not make Hermione feel any better.

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The last of the day's Reading Room requests had been filled forty-five minutes ago – "Some light reading," it had read; the archive had provided the diaries of Thomas Edison – and Hermione had long since completed the daily correspondence.

Only her devotion to Demetrios and her habitual insistence on the proper order of things had kept her at her desk since her earlier... she wasn't sure what to call it... Excursion? Mem.: ask Demetrios. She tried pointedly not to think about the possibilities of the coin until she was done for the day.

Her quill scratched as she made final notations on the last few routing slips, redirecting some of the less valuable items with which the Bermuda Triangle section refilled itself every week. As she watched the last of these – an empty bottle of sunscreen – disappear from her out-Floo, she leaned back in her chair and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, opening her hand to look at the coin.

Bus fare... honestly... what a thing to call... Her thoughts drifted back to her professor's expression from the long-ago feast, and her throat tightened. Examine, identify, assess, analyze; alter, re-examine, conclude... Her research mantra did nothing to ease the feeling in her chest, but it did clear her mind somewhat. She picked up a quill and fiddled with it as she thought.

Unfettered at long last, her mind ranged through aspects of that morning's experience. Why would the coin have brought her then?

Tapping the quill on her lower lip, she looked at the coin. A research inquiry is only as good as its initial question.

So what had it been, exactly?

She frowned. She didn't remember formulating any actual words before she'd tossed the coin and gone reeling back into her eleven-year-old body. Just a fierce resolve to find the professor's body... No... that wasn't quite it...

She rubbed the quill on her cheek, thinking.

Not merely his body. Her inarticulate resolve had been less specific. It had been more like... more like...

All of him.

Complete with his soul burning through his desolate eyes.

It was probably the only time he'd been that unguarded in her presence.

She sighed and leaned her head on her hand, half-listening to faint strains of music and snatches of singing from the main archive.

Twirling her quill against her cheek, she thought some more.

The only other fact she could discern was that she'd had control of her earlier body – as a child, she'd not looked at Professor Snape; she'd had no reason to. But her eyes, her head – yes, she retained the memory of having physical volition.

She realized she had two sets of memories of that same moment – one residing in "this morning," the other – uncorrupted, unchanged – lodged firmly in the past.

The possibilities were... She shook her head. The possibilities were as yet limitless.

Demetrios's voice rose, and, tucking the coin into her robes, she went to her office door to listen.

"'All my dreams'... mmmm... 'pass before my eyes, a curiosity'... oh, dear, so very dusty up here... 'Same old song, just a drop of water... mmmm... Ahhhh..." The shelves were swaying as one, drifting slowly back and forth, and, if Hermione squinted, she could just make out a universe of small flames flickering along their tops.

"'It slips...'... mmm, quite... 'all your money won't another minute buy'... well, of course it won't; not without the right bus fare..."

He laughed, and Hermione shook her head, laughing quietly so as not to disturb him. "Dear me, what a mournful song this is! Dust, wind... Oops."

She heard a crash followed by the unmistakable sound of papers skidding across marble.

"All right, Demetrios?" she called up.

He drifted over to the top of the nearest shelf and smiled at her. "Why, Hermione, dear, done for the day?"

"Yes... but do you want me to Floo Magical Maintenance before I leave and ask them to turn up the dusting spells a notch?"

"Oh, no worries dear; I'll take care of it... but – oh, dear, what a mess I've made..."

"What's happened?"

"Oh, well... I seem to have dislodged the Visigoths just now, and I'm not quite sure where they landed."

Hermione flicked her wand, and her miniature 3-D archive map appeared before her. "Barbary Coast, 16th-Century Collection."

He clasped his hands together, his eyes wide. "Pirates! How delightful!"

"You know, Demetrios, that juxtaposition could prove illuminating," Hermione offered.

"Why, so it could, my dear – so it could!" He swooped down to join her, his face alight with possibility. "Brilliant! Adjacent shelves or facing, do you think?"

"Hmmm... adjacent, I think."

"A bold move... feeling a bit daring today, my dear? Why not start with facing?"

"Well," she said, slipping into the role they had so often enjoyed when she'd been working on her degree, "we'll know sooner whether the avenue will yield any interesting results. If it proves too volatile, we can always step it down a notch. If it yields nothing more interesting than that, we've not wasted time."

"Lovely, as always, my dear." Demetrios's voice sparkled happily.

"Shall we get to it, then?" Hermione said, heading for the Brig (Lower Level), but Demetrios stopped her with a ghostly hand.

"I appreciate your devotion to duty, Hermione – your determination to attend to your regular tasks today was a lovely, thoughtful gift, and I cherish it greatly – but my dear... you have your own flights of curiosity to make."

Her eyes crinkled, and she nodded.

"May I see my owl for a moment?"

"Of course, Demetrios. It – she is yours."

He smiled fondly at the coin in her hand. "Such a pretty thing... do take good care of our Hermione." His eyes raised to Hermione's. "Such an experience, my dear. Do remember to enjoy it."

Although her experience with the coin thus far hadn't been what she would describe as "enjoyable," she couldn't bear to wipe the proud expression from her mentor's face, and she just nodded. "I do have a few questions, if you've a moment?"

"Only a few?" He chuckled. "Of course, dear."

"Is there a proper term for what happened earlier? When I..." she gestured toward the general area of the archive she'd been standing when she'd tossed the coin.

"'Experience' will do, will it not?"

She nodded. "Quite. And your owl, it transports my... awareness..."

"Your spirit, dear."

She smiled, and a dimple appeared in her cheek. "Spirit, then; I shan't argue against such an august perspective as yours."

"Oh, well played, dear. My perspective does run somewhat deeper than July."

Hermione groaned.

He laughed. "I apologize, dear."

"I can tell from your expression that you don't mean it at all sincerely."

"Of course I don't. But you had other questions, I believe?"

"Yes... the owl transports my spirit, just my spirit, leaving the rest of me here?"

"Yes, dear."

"What if something happens to my body whilst I'm gone?"

"Why... nothing can, dear. Your spirit returns after no time at all. Hardly a blink passes between your departure and your return."

"So I shan't return to find myself missing?"

He laughed. "No, dear. It simply can't happen."

"And you're sure – quite sure – that I can't muck up history whilst I'm there... then? So much was at stake then, with the war... I don't want to inadvertently do anything - anything - that would tip the balance to Voldemort."

Demetrios nodded firmly. "You can't, my dear. My little owl simply won't allow it."

"You're absolutely –"

"Certain. Yes. I tried to warn a young man about some awful weather once, and he couldn't hear me. Didn't as much as glance at the sky."

"Hrm... where was this, exactly?"

"A small village at the base of Mount Ararat, dear."

Hermione gaped at him. "Do you mean... Noah's flood actually happened?"

"Well – to an extent, dear. I'm afraid that village was wiped out completely." He nodded sadly.

"So he couldn't hear you at all?"

"Oh, on some topics he could. He answered most politely when I complimented his herd."

"So it depends what you say, then?"

"People will only hear what they're prepared to hear – what to have for dinner, the quality of the wine, compliments, of course; people are almost always willing to hear those. But anything that would affect the sweeping tides of history?" He shook his head. "No, my dear. They simply won't hear you at all."

Hermione blinked rapidly as she tried to amass this information.

Demetrios continued, "Research has never changed history, my dear; it only changes how we perceive it. And history almost always overlooks little things like compliments." He drifted into memory for a moment, then returned, his ghostly eyes sparkling. "Go as your spirit moves you, and rest assured that the world as it is now will be as it is when you return."

She nodded again, slowly. "Thank you."

"Of course, my dear."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. "Hermione?"

He'd never sounded more serious, and she turned back, searching his face. "Yes?"

He smiled wistfully. "Do try not to let your sensibilities get in the way of your curiosity, my dear. The price of wisdom is often lower if you don't hang on to things too tightly."