To Learn...

Summary: Hermione visits Ginny, tests her theory, and expands her understanding, if not her comprehension. Meanwhile, Crookshanks's vigil continues, Severus's eyebrow makes a brief appearance, and Demetrios seems to be up to something.

A/N: My thanks to everyone who helped me through the long, slow recovery period, especially Anastasia, AnnieTalbot, RichardGloucester, Lady Karelia, Machshefa, Melenka, Ari!Mom, and Mr. Ari. Thanks to their TLC and the generous gifts of several pairs of gloriously comfy jimjams, not to mention several miracles of modern medical intervention, I'm back.

Miss me? :)

Thanks to my alpha- and beta-readers, Ana, Annie and Karelia.

---

"There's an ant somewhere in there. Go. Hunt."

Mimi stared at him in blank astonishment for a moment then started washing her paw.

"Ridiculous cat."

---

Hermione hadn't finished brushing the soot off from the Floo before Crookshanks lumbered over and sat, somewhat successfully, on her booted foot.

"RROW," he informed her. "RrrrrrOW. RRR."

"Oh, Crooks, I've missed you." Hermione scooped him up in her arms and buried her nose in his ruff, inhaling deeply. For a moment she stood with her cat, oblivious to everything but the scent of his fur.

Crookshanks tolerated this for but a moment, then he grumbled, twisting firmly in her arms, his tail lashing against the back of her hand.

"Cheeky old man," Hermione muttered. "I shall put you down when I'm ready, grumpy thing." Hermione said, nuzzling him. "I said I've missed you."

"RRRRRRR."

"I'm in the kitchen, Hermione," Ginny called. "Come on back."

Firmly hugging her impatient Kneazle, Hermione made her way toward the back of the house, narrowly missing twisting an ankle on a brightly-colored set of self-building blocks which seemed determined to block the narrow passageway.

"Watch out for the blocks, Mudblood," Mrs. Black sneered from her frame in the hall. "They sent Potter sprawling this morning, and if you think you're his equal in –"

"Oh, do shut up," Hermione shot back casually. "I can always brew more turpentine."

"No need to get huffy," Mrs. Black muttered, her hand moving reflexively to draw her lace shawl closed at her throat.

Hermione's laugh changed abruptly to a yelp as one of the blocks zoomed between her feet. Finite, she thought, but the blocks continued stacking themselves between the walls, and she had to step over them.

Shoving the kitchen door open with her hip, she spied Ginny up to her elbows in soapy water. A large Weasley clock bearing an impossible number of arms covered most of one wall. "Seems the Charm in the blocks is misfiring a bit," she said as Crookshanks finally escaped her arms to bolt back down the passage. "Do you want me to check them for you?"

"Hm? Oh, those..." Ginny said vaguely, finishing up at the sink and glancing at the clock.

"Has George been giving the boys the prototype toys again?"

"No – well, actually, yes, but we toss those in the bin straightaway." She dried her hands on a tea towel and gestured with her chin toward the hallway. "Listen."

Hermione obeyed. She heard Crookshanks's low growl and, as if in answer, bagpipes, followed by a crash.

"Bagpipes?" she laughed.

"They're from Minerva. Hadrian's Blocks, she calls them. They automatically block whichever passage they're in – that's part of the design – but they're absolutely useless at containing anything."

Hermione looked back down the passage, where the determined blocks were sturdily re-stacking themselves into a low wall, oblivious to Crookshanks's baleful glower.

"They bored James in ten minutes, but Crooks seems to enjoy them, so we've left them out for him. Growl, bagpipes, crash, repeat." Ginny smiled. "Bit like having another toddler, really."

Hermione raised her hands uselessly. "If he's a bother –"

"No, no. Albus has been much calmer since he stopped yowling for him through the Floo. No, Crooks is no bother, except..." Ginny hesitated.

"What?"

"Well, he was a bit fussed last night – tore around the nursery like a wild thing for a full minute, knocking piles of nappies in every direction, then just stopped and went straight back to watching the baby like nothing had happened."

Hermione shrugged. "Cats."

"Quite. Startled me a bit; I was putting the washing away and found myself juggling self-changing nappies." She shook her head. "Anyway. Tea? Or something stronger?"

"Tea's fine, thanks..."

Uncharacteristically, both witches were silent whilst Ginny prepared the tea.

"There," she said, setting a cup of steaming tea in front of Hermione before sitting down next to her. "So."

"So," Hermione repeated.

"You don't have to explain, you know. We've been expecting it."

"I... Ron told me. I just..." Hermione looked into her friend's eyes and smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, Gin."

"Yeah, I know. But don't be on my account – on ours, either. It'll smooth over fast enough."

Hermione sought words, but Ginny waved her hand. "If you want to talk, we can talk. You can tell me what a prat my brother is, and I can match you story for story. You can sob – I hope you won't, but if you need to... of course I'll have to examine you for traces of Dark magic if you do, because you're not the crying sort, are you?"

"Ginny, I –"

"No, seriously. You're fifty times smarter than the rest of us. As long as you were happy with my brother, or at least seemed to be, fine. But we didn't expect it to last. None of us did. George even had a pool going."

"A pool?" Hermione's eyes flashed, and Ginny laughed.

"Well... yes. You expected 'civilized' from George?" Ginny snorted. "Really?"

"Well, no, but –"

"Listen. The two of you have been stuck in this..." Ginny frowned, searching for the right word.

Hermione's mind supplied "Apraxia," and she closed her eyes.

"... I don't know; just stuck. If you two had been anything really serious, that great ball of ginger fluff in there would be guarding your babies by now rather than tripping me in my own house."

"Erm –"

Whatever Hermione might have said was cut off by a sudden hug.

"I'm so glad you finally snapped out of it, Hermione," Ginny whispered fiercely, squeezing her tightly. "Ron. Honestly. What were you thinking?!"

The hug ended, and Hermione caught her breath, looking up to see Ginny's eyes sparkling at her.

"Now maybe the two of you can start, you know, living."

Another crash in the hallway.

Crookshanks ambled in smugly. He leapt into Hermione's lap and started mashing her legs with huge paws. "Rrrow," he told her.

"Yes, yes, you're very brave," Hermione told him, scratching behind his ear.

He turned his head and stared at her as if to say, "You don't know the half of it."

Ginny laughed.

"So who won the pool?"

Ginny made a face. "Percy."

"Percy?!"

"That alone should tell you what a bad idea the whole thing was."

In spite of herself, Hermione laughed. "Ginny! That's enough!"

"You're sure? I can go on." Ginny's expression was light, but her eyes were serious.

"I'm going to miss him," Hermione said softly.

Ginny nodded. "I know."

"It sounds stupid."

"It doesn't." Another hug.

And another fierce whisper: "You'll get over it."

Hermione closed her eyes and swallowed.

Then she nodded, and their conversation turned to the mundane.

After an hour or so, during which Ginny had rather too casually mentioned several of their unmarried Hogwarts friends, the kitchen clock made a burping sound as the hand bearing Albus's name moved to "traveling."

"Erm, Hermione, Mum's on her way."

Hermione understood immediately. "She wasn't part of the pool."

Ginny bit her lip. "Well, um, no... not exactly."

Hermione pushed her chair back and reluctantly set Crookshanks on the floor, sighing. "Do I want to know?"

Ginny set her lips firmly and said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but..."

"Yes?"

"Ron'll recover quickly – he's not deep, you know – and the next witch won't get away. Mark my words: However glum he'll be for the next few weeks, he'll find someone new, and Mum'll have a new grandchild within a year and a half. She'll be fine after that."

Hermione's throat tightened and a small ache echoed in her chest, but she recognized the probable truth of Ginny's prediction. "You going all Trelawney on me?"

"It's the Weasley curse. We breed like rabbits." Ginny's eyes sparkled. "It does have its benefits, you know."

"Okay, now you sound like Draco."

"'Draco,' 'Trelawney' and 'benefits' in the same thought? Too nasty!"

Hermione grimaced. "Thanks a lot, Gin; now I have the same image."

"Get out of here." Ginny hugged her.

Hermione headed for the fireplace, and, after a last wistful look at Crookshanks, stepped in, saying, "The Archive."

"Always working..." Ginny's voice was swept away in the rushing of the Floo.

But Hermione's thoughts, when she swept herself off, had nothing to do with work. "Demetrios?" she called, heading into the main chamber of the Archive.

"Over here, dear," he called from a remote corner she'd never had the opportunity to explore.

She found him hovering half a story up between two lines of shelves containing a riot of flowering plants. Only his lower half was visible, and she heard him muttering to himself. Craning her neck, she said, "Hullo up there... botany or herbology today?"

Demetrios pulled his torso out of an impossible tangle of fuschia hedge roses. "Ouch. Stop that, you." He frowned at the roses. "You're not even pretty. Not you, dear," he smiled down at Hermione. "These beastly things. You'd think their thorns wouldn't scratch me, but... well." He glared at the roses.

"May I ask?"

"I'm trying to track down the origins of a particular rose, one I find is not catalogued anywhere."

"How frustrating."

"Oh, no, on the contrary... but never fret, dear, never fret... I shall uncover the right of it eventually. I always do, even if I have to..." His voice disappeared as once again he inserted his upper half into the tangled hedge.

He sounded more than usually determined, and Hermione peered at him closely. "What's the urgency? Do you require assistance? I can –"

He yanked himself sharply out of the rosebushes. "In Athena's name, no!"

Hermione took a step back, bumping into a planter of culinary herbs. She tried to recall if she'd ever heard him utter the word "No." "No?"

"Follow your own float, Hermione, dear; I shall follow mine. Oh, yes, I shall." He blew his wispy hair out of his eyes as his gaze swept the shelves.

A nearby plant tangled in Hermione's hair.

"Stop that," she said, swatting it away. "Demetrios... whatever has happened?"

With an air of grimness the like of which she'd never seen from him, he said, "The Armada, my dear. The Armada."

"The Spanish Armada?"

"Which else? I relocated them to the coast of Scotland, you see."

"Scotland? I presume they still lost..."

"Of course they did, of course, but things ensued nonetheless."

"I presume the Navy Royal survived?"

"As history decrees, my dear, the Archive follows; the rocks got the Spanish this time. But one stalwart fellow was determined to make it to shore..."

Hermione waited for Demetrios to continue, but he kept searching the shelves with determined eyes. "Okay," she said finally. "One sailor..."

"Yes, yes, the sailor. No matter what I did – rain, sleet, Kraken... no difference at all; there he was, swimming, with his little flower..." Demetrios's muttering became inaudible as he suddenly swept to the top reaches of the Archive nursery.

Hermione leaned her head all the way back. "Demetrios?" she called.

His voice drifted down. "But a moment, dear..."

Hermione waited, occasionally slapping away the wandering tendrils of Italian fennel that seemed intent on caressing certain parts of her anatomy which she considered private. "I don't even like you," she informed the fennel, stepping pointedly away.

Undeterred, the fennel continued to wave at her suggestively.

"Did you say something?" Demetrios continued rummaging in the upper-reaches of the shelves.

"I don't like fennel," she called up.

"No more should you... so cloying..." came the reply. Then, "Ah, excellent; excellent!"

Demetrios floated back down to her, beaming.

"You found what you were looking for?"

"Yes – or, more to the point, no." He clasped his hands tightly around an exceedingly dirty volume and chuckled. "Quite a merry chase you led me," he chided the book fondly, opening it and scanning its thickly-set columns.

Hermione glimpsed the book's title: "Systema Naturae? You're looking for the rose, I presume?"

"Yes! And it doesn't exist! How perfectly charming..."

"You're certain?"

"Oh, quite, my dear, quite." He extended the volume toward her. "Linnaeus was the last source I needed, and he has no mention of it, none at all. No, that particular rose died with the sailor, didn't it?" He chuckled. "How marvelous."

"So the rose is a spontaneous creation of the archive?" Hermione breathed, leaning closer.

"More a resurrection, I should say." Demetrios's eyes gleamed. "And you know what this means."

"No... no, I confess I've no idea." The look Demetrios gave her reminded her a bit of Crookshanks having smashed Hadrian's Wall.

"So... erm... how does Scotland fit in?"

"That's the one location in which he could have survived." Demetrios looked at her intently. "You don't happen to have my little owl with you, my dear?"

Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out the coin. "Actually, I wanted to ask you..."

Demetrios's eyes sparkled "Could I perhaps borrow her for one moment? Less than a moment, really..."

"Well, she is yours..."

As Hermione watched, Demetrios tossed the coin and caught it, his face radiant. "Delightful!" he exclaimed. "Absolutely delightful." He swirled around happily. "Here you are, my dear." He handed the coin back to Hermione and folded his hands across his middle, bobbing with the complacent air of a job well done.

"Erm... may I inquire where you went?"

"Oh, no, I think not. Not just yet, anyway. Was there something you wanted to ask me, dear?"

Hermione shook her head helplessly – sometimes her boss's flights of float were completely beyond her. "Right. Well. I was going to ask you if you thought it wise to test my theory as to the wisdom of the 'control trip.'"

"To be wise, Hermione, dear, one sometimes has to fall." He laughed. "Oh, my word."

She blinked. "Is that a yes?"

"Well, I think it is, dear, but what I think is of no matter. No more am I." He giggled.

Hermione blinked again. "Demetrios, are you by any chance... erm... drunk?"

His delighted laughter rang through the Archive. "Just high on my float, my dear, just high on my float." He looked at her and seemed to be waiting for her to do something.

"Erm..."

"Well, go on. I'll wait..."

She tossed the coin, and found herself stumbling frantically up the rough wooden stairs that led to the Staff Box at the Quidditch pitch.

The crowd was gasping with shock and fear, and she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as she glanced down at her legs.

Knee socks.

Oh, no. She glanced down at the jar she was carrying in which there twinkled a small fire in an unmistakable shade of blue. Oh, no. I do not want to do this.

But she had no volition; try as she might she could not stop her younger self's steps as the forces of history hurtled her inexorably toward the underside of a bench, behind which draped an unmistakable set of black robes.

She glanced up and found herself facing Severus's backside.

Taut... came her unbidden thought, but her younger hand was already loosening the lid of the jar.

No, no, no...

She tried to stop her hand, but couldn't. She tried at least to close her eyes. She didn't want to watch – but there was nothing she could do.

As Hermione's older spirit was held transfixed by the forces of history, her younger hand tilted the jar, pouring the flame out onto Severus's – Professor Snape's - cloak.

Bugger.

Her younger body drew backward into the shadow of a sturdy oaken beam.

Within moments, Severus's robes were aflame and he leapt up, knocking Professor Quirrell sideways, thus (she now knew) breaking the eye-contact necessary for the curse on Harry's broomstick.

And suddenly she was again in control of her younger body. She whipped behind the support a moment before Severus – Professor Snape - exited the seating area, massaging his still-smoking rear with a gloved hand.

Vaguely aware of her younger self's fearful trembling, Hermione's older spirit burst into a fit of slightly hysterical silent giggling.

Oh, sweet Merlin – I set his arse on fire! And a nice, firm one it is, too. Then, Stop that. You're twelve. Then, I am not.

The crowd roared as Harry regained control of his broomstick, bringing her back to the moment. She paused to see if she felt compelled to do anything or to go in any particular direction, but she felt no impulse to rejoin the Gryffindor crowd as she once had done.

Smiling slightly, she slipped through the underside of the stands, deciding to see where he had gone.

I'm acting like Mimi, she thought randomly, chasing after his cloak.

She saw his cloak disappear into the Forbidden Forest, and she followed carefully, her desire to follow him warring with her too-small stride and the very real need for stealth, arguing with herself as she went.

This is stupid. What if he catches me? she asked herself.

Well, one detention, more or less, won't change history. It won't happen if it did... oh, bugger these verb tenses, she thought as she reached the edge of the Forest. It's not as though I'm scared of him any more, after all.

Her younger self seemed oddly quiescent – present, but unaware. This must be one of those unimportant moments Demetrios mentioned – dinner, a compliment, the quality of the wine... She stifled a snort as she imagined her twelve-year-old self discussing a vintage Beaujolais with her slightly singed Potions professor.

Something snapped behind her, and she whipped around, startled.

"And what is your purpose in the Forest, Miss Granger?" He stepped out from behind a tree, in his gloved hand a broken twig which he pointedly let fall.

"Um..." she squeaked. I do not squeak. "I saw you leave and wanted to..." What? What do I want? Think, damn it... think!

"To...?"

"To see if you were injured, sir."

---

In Hermione's London kitchen, Severus's concentration faltered, and he steadied his stirring hand. What in blazes was going...

His memories were multiplying, and he swore softly.

---

In the Potters' nursery, Crookshanks suddenly arched his back and hissed.

The baby gurgled.

---

His eyes narrowed. "Were I in fact injured, Miss Granger, whatever assistance do you imagine you could offer?"

Oh, right – I'm a First Year. Think faster. "None, sir." There. Certain that punishment was imminent, Hermione raised her chin and looked him in the eye.

He'd been about to speak, but at her movement, he went very still, and his eyes narrowed. "Quite."

What just happened? Does he know? Does he suspect? I must've given away somethi– oh, bloody Hell. I looked him straight in the eye. Brilliant, Hermione. Just brilliant.

Twenty-six-year-old Hermione made herself look down and shuffle her feet. Her cheeks, however, grew hot of their own volition.

"Hmmm," he drawled.

Here it comes.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for entering the Forest."

She was so startled by the lack of the detention she'd been certain was coming that she didn't bother to wonder at the very low number of points she'd just lost. She might have thought to wonder about it sooner had she not been even more startled realize she was disappointed – disappointed that there would be no detention with Professor Snape, a Professor Snape she could not only hear but also see, and also –

Perv! But – no – wait. Twenty-six. Not a perv. Oh, just think, dammit – think! "Yes, sir." There. That was safe enough...

His voice seemed somehow hollow as he murmured, "Go rejoin your classmates, Miss Granger."

And he seemed to herd her out of the Forest with the force of his gaze alone.

But as she reached the edge of the trees, she remembered herself and turned, her school robes swirling shortly around her legs, her eyes seeking his once more. "Your dignity is safe with me, sir."

He stood, his face impassive.

She ran.

She had no idea if he'd heard her.

---

In her kitchen, Severus lifted an eyebrow.

He had.

---

In a blink, she was back in the Archive, whereupon she immediately burst out laughing.

Demetrios chuckled. "Welcome back, my dear."

She turned to him, her eyes shining with knowledge. "You were right."

"I do have that habit..."

"You can't change history," she babbled happily, feeling absurdly like she wanted to sing. "But you can... you actually can pay a compliment!"

"You're not drunk, are you, my dear?" Demetrios twitted her.

"Yes. No. It doesn't matter! This can work. This will work."

Raising the coin in her fist in cheerful salute, she turned and headed for the Floo.

Demetrios exhaled softly, his translucent face dimpling as he beamed after her. "Well, yes, my dear, of course it will," he mused, absently turning Systema Naturae over in his hands, "but which 'this,' I wonder? Ah, well, Athena, in all her bright wisdom..."

His sentence unfinished, he started humming as he headed decisively toward Theatre: Elizabethan.

The Archive shelves perked up, ready to pick up the tune.

"Each and every heart... hmmm, how do the lyrics go? And the... hmmm... something... coming through... hmm... already falling... the one that it's calling... oh, my... is you..." He laughed quietly. "Rather."

The shelves swooped and spun dramatically, forcing Stringed Instruments: Stradivarius into close harmony with Batteries Not Included: Plastic Keyboards.

"Oh, there you are," he said to Shakespeare's favorite bed. He lay down and crossed his ankles, drawing a single pink rose from the folds of his chiton. Twirling it, he continued the song... "Understand the voice within... mmmm... a change... already..."

---

Notes on Matters of No Importance Whatsoever:

1. Hadrian's Wall: A charming arrangement of stones whereby the men in skirts stayed separate from the other men in skirts, despite the snow.

2. Linnaeus: Author of Systema Naturae, published 1735, in which "binomial nomenclature" was established. A particularly hierarchical way of looking at this annoyingly recurrent blackbird (Turdus merula).

3. Italian Fennel: Tastes of licorice. Enough said.

4. Shakespeare's favorite bed: Given that he bequeathed his second-best bed to his wife in his will, the Archive seemed an appropriate location for the best one, yes? See also: Mysteries: Literary.

5. Antonio Stradivari: Italian luthier who may or may not have heard the music of the spheres and created one or two violins (and other things) in its image.

6. "Batteries Not Included": A phrase that should never, ever have anything whatsoever to do with keyboard instruments.

7. The deal with Demetrios's rose: Well, so far, it's pink. *eyes twinkle* *waves to Droxy*

8. Demetrios's soundtrack for this chapter is "The Voice," by the Moody Blues. Apt? Nah...

*twirls quill*

~ A.