Thirteen: The Half-Blood Prince

Autumn 1996

In the beginning, we held sessions out of doors. Mutual agreement deemed the grassy bank on the far side of the lake an appropriate space, and so when the weather was favourable we met there early Saturday mornings. Lest the sight of us arouse any suspicions in stray passersby, each morning before she arrived I took the precautionary measure of casting a Muffliato and Repelliarmus round the environs¹.

Our first duel was a minor disaster: She was so nervous that she blasted a hole in the hawthorn hedge behind me and set a large brush fire of exceedingly stubborn nature, which took us several minutes to extinguish. Though her control improved over subsequent sessions, her confidence continued to lag, hindering her responses in combat and rendering her temper especially volatile.

"Harry can protect himself without even thinking about it," she sulked on one such occasion, catching her breath and tenderly rubbing a bare calf muscle where I had struck her (very gently) through a gap in her shield. Her muscles were trembling with effort; her chest rose and fell. "And I'll never be able to match you."

"Then be thankful I am on your side. You will never have to," I replied, lowering my wand and adding, "Potter will never match me, either, I'll have you know."

"You and Harry!" she huffed. "What is it with you two? Everything is a fight between you. It's like you're determined to prove who's got the bigger wand."

"I beg your pardon," I said acidly, hastily pocketing said wand, which had drawn her eye. "You are the one suffering from the unhealthy – and futile – obsession to prove yourself better than everyone. I can only surmise from your crass reference that it stems from your feelings of . . . inadequacy . . . as a witch."

"Oh honestly, now you're just –"

"Will you be starting a club for the cause? We'll call it . . . "

"You're just making – Hey!"

I had silently Summoned her own wand. "We'll call it Wandless Hermione's Angry Army. For short, WHAA."

She Summoned it back. "You're making fun of me, but it's your own house that maintains I shouldn't even be at Hogwarts, let alone talking with you."

"Everyone knows that is rhetoric."

"Tell that to Draco," she said brittly.

"Forget Draco. Your only concern is to learn to defend yourself."

I studied her profile, trying to read her expression. After several moments she looked up at me, her brow knitted in suspicion. "You've never used those horrid words then?"

This gave me pause. "Which words?" I said uneasily.

"You know . . . filthy . . . impure . . . Mudblood."

"I do not use those words," I said stiffly.

She regarded me dubiously. I wondered if Potter had finally told her of the memory he had seen in my Pensieve.

"In fact," I said, fairly certain I ought not to be revealing this, "I am not a pure-blood."

"You-you're not?"

"No, I'm not," I said, amused by her expression of surprise. "My father was a Muggle."

"But – you're a-a Slytherin!" I was sure she had been about to say something else.

"Well spotted. Perhaps it is time for you to re-examine your own prejudices."

She coloured and folded her arms under her breasts, stammering, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean – Do people know?"

"It is not a secret," I said testily. "I am not ashamed of it. But under the circumstances – neither is it widely advertised."

"I won't tell anyone," she said quickly. I regarded her steadily. She continued, "Thanks for telling me . . . I'm sorry for yelling at you. I've just got a lot on my mind lately."

I followed her gaze out across the lake. A raucous flock of rooks high up in a birch had suddenly risen in flight. They circled the shore in a loose shape, black edges turning to silver in the sunlight, and departed westward, disappearing across the thin white cloud-rags stretched across the sky.

I wondered at her lack of confidence in Defence, how it seemed to be gnawing at her. Perhaps I ought to tread more carefully with her, I thought; students her age are impressionable; they think their talents or flaws define their existence. One word from a teacher could make or break them. If I were to carelessly say to Miss Granger, "You haven't any talent for Defence", she might give it up entirely. And it would not really be true either. Indeed, in times like this, one word from a teacher could win or lose a war, I thought.

"Miss Granger," I said in my least reprehensible voice. "You are doing well. Don't give up." It was an inane thing to say, but I had never imagined that choosing the appropriate words could be so difficult.

* * *

It was true; she was learning. Under my sedulous tutelage, she steadily progressed in (if not quite mastered) the subtle craft of combat. She learnt to discipline her movements, to shift the centre of power towards her, to act unpredictably and in response to the moment. She practiced, over and over, how to quickly size up her surroundings, to put the sun behind her and blind her enemy, how to strip away her costly hesitations and turn the slightest movement to her advantage. By midterm, she was well versed in nonverbal spells and was starting to respond to multiple simultaneous attacks. She could ably resist the Confundus and cast it². Of course, such material was child's play to her teacher, mere dalliance, but he was not at all bored, for such was Miss Granger's burgeoning magic that even a simple duel with her became a delicate negotiation, a silent urgent pavane of contrary motion, of advance and evasion. You see, in these moments, I could nearly forget, make believe that it was some other man, one courtlier, more chivalrous than I, in control of each lesson. Was it happiness he felt? No, merely the simulacrum thereof, a temporary flight to a fragile, illusory island of oubli. He had not the weight of history upon him, nor the unstoppable vector of Fate rushing toward him. He measured time only in steps: Assume positions. Engage. Advance. Strike. Parry. Retreat. Repeat. With each iteration, the troubled wizarding world seemed farther away, and the green wood seemed to draw in round teacher and student like a protective cloak, secluding them in knowing conspiracy.

To the teacher's surprise, he found he learnt too: the patience to wait, to hold back the fatal manoeuvre and enjoy the diversion of watching her work. How new it all was to her! He learnt to distinguish her idiosyncrasies from the typical student behaviours in the classroom, such as her overreliance on biconcave shields and her proclivity for the Deprimo. He schooled himself to cleverly stall for time, proffering little morsels of knowledge near the end of the lesson, knowing her questions would come and postpone the moment of parting. Incidentally, he also became much better at dousing those stubborn fires of hers.

After each session, there occurred another duel: between this strange fellow and myself. He attempted to argue that the training of Miss Granger could be viewed as a noble act, as a necessary correction to an obvious oversight of Dumbledore's. To the Headmaster, Miss Granger was just another student; only Potter was worth his concern. But Potter's were not the only actions that mattered in this war, after all; his life probably depended on her. Her role could well be essential to the Dark Lord's defeat. And why should Potter be the sole recipient of such favours, as if his life were the only one worth saving? Defence was clearly her weakest subject – and, I feared, the one of which she would most likely need immediate use. Since I could not cage her in my quarters (hmm . . . pity), I could at least prepare her for the inevitable.

He lost. I was no bleeding-heart altruist. My hidden purpose, as you must certainly have guessed, was entirely selfish: Our sessions afforded me the unique opportunity to stealthily watch her lithe movements without the distractions of the other students. I shall not tire you with too many details of the various positions that her fair proportions assumed, quite naturally, in the course of study, but suffice to say that by clever curricula, I devised an exponential variety of combinations and permutations to savour at my leisure, with Pensieve-aid, in the privacy of my quarters. In these moments, she was no longer Miss Granger, but the blithe spirit Hermione, appearing in all manner of anaphoric variations: Hermione stretched to full profile; Hermione flexed like a green sprig in wind; Hermione in taut athletic garb (oh happy linen!); Hermione's supple limbs, now in a fierce blur of motion, now in readied stillness; Hermione Incarceroused by web of spider silk, Snape's prey (he did not bite); Hermione poised, feet triumphantly parted in victory, above my 'immobilized' prone form, her wand tenderly aimed at my neck's happy nape. (Interpret that how you like.) And so on.

I was all too aware of the dishonourable nature of my thoughts. But, I reasoned, on the relative scale of sins committed by Severus Snape, it was minor: a mere second-circle offense, a small venial sin to distract my mind from the coming mortal one. And it is not as if my vice were particularly original. I am hardly the first vieillard encore vert to rhapsodise, in bad tumid prose, on his lust for the unattainable. And I will remind the reader that there is no ban on selective preservation of certain delectable memories, if honestly obtained. Let us neither pretend that I am the only wizard to have done so.

Reader, I never gave action to my thoughts. I never touched her. I taught her the theory and practice of combat, as ought any good Defence teacher. I did not canoodle, ogle or fondle. I remained as impassive, as magisterial as an ancient hemlock in the Forbidden Forest; she, innocent sylvan creature, never suspected that she might be the object of scrutiny. (Or should I say subject?) At all times, proper decorum was duly observed; the distance between us remained carefully measured and controlled, the unspoken boundary – physical contact or even proximity – implicitly understood by both parties. On her part, I am sure this was due to a natural repugnance. On my part, it was no noble chivalry (no matter what my other half said), but simply a self-preserving desire to avoid the horror that would surely mar her fine features were I to show any hint of unprofessorial thoughts.

Only once during our lessons was this tacit rule nearly broken, on our final outdoor session, and the transgression was hers, not mine. The morning was young, an ordinary autumn day, and we had not yet begun practice on the day's theme: anticipation of enemy movements. I was engaged in some prefatory remarks, discreetly keeping watch as she stretched in preparation:

"You see, you must learn to estimate your adversary. Find where he is weak. If he tries to trap you, misdirect him. Lead him along till you expose his blind spots. It is not enough to know the spells; you must know your enemy's mind. You must take it. Once you learn this, you will control the magical victory –"

Something hit me just below the ear.

"What the –?" I gritted my teeth as a burning warmth spread through my neck. "What was that? Was that a Stinging Hex?" I glared at her.

"What? No, look, a bee stung you!"

The offending creature was buzzing away, and with an instinctive flick of my wand, it fell to the grass.

"Are you okay?" She ran toward me. "Ooh, you're really red," she squealed and reached out –

"Don't." I pulled away, and she hastily drew back her fingers. I cast the thing over and proceeded to examine it. It was not a bee at all but an exceedingly ugly red insect of iridescent wings and bulging dead eyes. Its outer shell was cracked; the antennae still twitched.

She picked it up by its wings and frowned in thought, scanning the bank. "Oh," she said. "Oh! I know what it is! Look, there's a whole swarm of them over there." She was pointing to a pulsing black cloud under the hawthorn, and I became aware of the low toneless drone of thousands of wing-beats.

"What are they?"

"You don't know?"

"If I did, would I be asking you?" I said crabbedly, my tongue feeling numb. "Well? What is your theory, Encyclopaedia Granger?"

"They've got to be Myrmidons! We learned about them in Hagrid's class last year. According to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, they emerge in big colonies, but only once every sixteen years. You don't remember when they hatched last time?"

". . . I was too busy at the time to notice."

We moved closer. Under the hawthorn, a great pile of earth had been thrown up; antlike creatures writhed over the mound like a carpet and thickened the air above in a dark, rotating swarm. "They're social insects," she continued, warming now to her subject. "So they're all siblings. No one really knows how they communicate, probably magic through the antennae. The winged ones will be soldiers; their only job is to defend the colony against other nests, so most of them die. The other ones spend their time building underground networks and taking care of the queen's eggs and young until the next emergence comes round."

"Sounds dull. Nearly as bad as teaching at Hogwarts, I'd say."

"Oh come on, you can't really mean that?"

She was bent over beside me, studying the crumpled creature in her hand, its shell crushed, its bright-veined, membranous wings folded gently round it. Her burnt-copper hair fell over her face, and I was at once struck by the feeling that time had come loose from the its moorings and regressed to my own student days; I saw Lily with a half-open flower in her palm; Lily explaining the steps to a new potion, scribbling them in my younger self's book –

"I suppose it has its moments," I said.

One never knows what will catch a student's fancy. She looked up to the spinning cloud, glints of green and gold flashing through it like a thousand tiny Snitches in sunlight, and her dark eyes sparkled bright with the wonder of discovery. "Wow," she said softly, barely audible over the warlike hum around us. "I didn't know they were so beautiful."

I snorted and said, "Well, we had better find another spot for today. They're spreading all over the bank."

"They'll be all over outside, I'll bet," she said, laying the dead soldier gently on the ground. The hordes paid no mind to their fallen comrade. "Hagrid said they get really aggressive over territory. Whole races get killed in the colony battles . . . You really ought to go to the hospital wing; it looks like you might be allergic."

"No, we'll finish the lesson. I just have to think where – I lent the classroom to McGonagall this morning."

"Somewhere in the Forest? There won't be any Myrmidons in there," she said. "We could say hi to Fluffy," she added, stifling a giggle.

"Damn that dog! I still have that scar," I muttered.

She searched the ground studiously. "How about the Room of Requirement? That's a good space for Defence Against the Dark Arts . . . You know about that room, right?"

"Of course. Everyone does."

We had begun the walk back to the castle when she said without preamble, "Professor Snape? Does You-Know-Who know about me? I mean – that I've been assisting you?"

"No, not that I am aware of. But he would think nothing of it. He is well-acquainted with how Hogwarts functions; you need not be concerned."

"But what about you? What if the wrong people find out you're training me in Defence?"

"There's always memory modification." She looked aghast. I added, not quite truthfully, "It's a joke."

"Seriously, sir, what if a-a suspicious student reported our – our meetings to You-Know-Who? Wouldn't it make your job as an Occlumens that much harder?"

Her suspicion of me was so manifest that I hesitated. Had she divined the indecent stratagem of our sessions? "It might," I said at last. "It is true that the less dissonance between my actions and the thoughts I project to – ah, him – the easier it is to practice Occlumency. But . . . there are . . . nevertheless . . . good reasons to train you." She waited politely till at last I said carefully, "The war is closer to Hogwarts than you think."

She seemed pale and drawn. Had I said too much? Was the weight of her own burden finally beginning to dawn on her? How young she was for such responsibility!

"You've got to keep so many secrets," she said.

"That is my job. War is deceit."

"We mustn't be seen together in public, I don't think."

I answered scornfully, "No, what humiliation! To be seen with a Slytherin – that would be Unforgivable, wouldn't it?"

"That's not it at all! I don't want to put you in more danger," she rushed on. She had picked up a twig and was worrying it between her fingers as she trotted to keep up with me.

I was somewhat mollified. "It is a small matter compared to the rest of my work."

"I can't imagine how difficult it must be. You've got to be so careful, haven't you?"

"Of course." She had clearly been reflecting on the matter, and I could not help the spot of pride that surged within me.

"Sir?"

"Yes?" I said, not untenderly, feeling a little erotic shiver.

"What is it that you project to Lord – I mean, to him? I mean, I remember what you taught me; I've been practicing, but how do you do it? How do you form a projection?"

My brief pleasure withered. At length, I answered, feeling the chill of the unspoken name, "Well – it is not so very difficult to think of what to project. You have learnt something of that. What is difficult is to maintain one's image at all times and with solid consistency." I paused. "I suppose the best way to describe it, crudely, is that – I must convince him that my sole aim is to serve him . . . and that everyone else is expendable." I hoped my tone was dispassionate. The castle loomed before us now; I pictured the Dark Lord sweeping through it, invading the minds of the students, rounding up the Muggle-borns, taking whatever liberties he wished, and I knew I must prepare her for anything.

As we neared the castle, she whispered, as if he himself were listening, "So – no matter what – always – you've got to pretend like you don't care about anything? Or anyone?"

"That's correct." I faced well away from her. "Luckily, that is not difficult."

¹ These personal protections stood in addition to the other suffocating Hogwarts security measures newly in place, many of which I myself had arranged round the estate's border. They included a thicket of invisible Razorvine, a Caterwauling Charm, and a Cave Inimicum, a spell that particularly caught Miss Granger's fascination. The spells may have seemed impressive, I suppose, but everyone knew such scarecrows were part of the Ministry's farce. Anyone truly determined could easily find a way through.

² As I explained to Miss Granger, the real threat to anyone close to Potter was not the Confundus, but the Imperius, the counterspell to which is rather similar to that of the Confundus. Since I could not employ the former in training (much as a part of me might have otherwise wished to), resisting the Confundus was thus a crucial goal of her training. As for her ability to resist the other likely threat, a Legilimantic attack, I had to make do with her assurances that she was practicing on her own. I instructed her to Occlude at all times any sensitive memories, and to the best of my knowledge she did so. It was far too risky to test her, given my compromised state of mind.

* Thanks so much to Countrymouse for her editing and insight.

* The Muggle version of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them does not actually contain the entry on Myrmidons.