Enlightened

A/N: Own nothing, make no money. I'd like to thank all of my readers and those of you who let me know your thoughts! This little writer is one happy camper, thanks to you :)

And a special giant thank you goes to potionsmistress23, my beta, who helps my fight with commas become a winning battle.

*************************************

During her entire teaching career, never had Minerva McGonagall felt so disappointed with herself. Never had she failed a student in such a shameful, neglectful way. A feeling of magnificent guilt that only a perfectionist could develop swirled in her head like a Cornish Pixie in a right snit. She paced in the Headmaster's office, her shoulders slumped, while the Head of Slytherin stood leaning casually towards the sill of a tall lancet window.

"How should I have known, Severus? She is a bright girl and a pleasure to have in class, but she has never demonstrated anything beyond the realm of a regularly gifted student; she's a... she is of Muggle heritage, and Muggles have never been known to produce a..."

"Oh, Sweet Circe, Minerva, spare me your histrionics. Just because she wasn't making herself transparent and then gallivanting around the school premises, shooting carol-singing skylarks out of her arse in her first year, or making a family boggart fall in love with her with the help of a self-invented potion," Professor Snape gave his Gryffindor counterpart a pointed look which made her cringe slightly, "does not mean she couldn't have been discovered."

"I looked through her file, Severus. Miss Granger wasn't even manifesting like a regular witch. No levitated toys, no baby-sitters beaten up by flying kitchen clutter, no curtains burnt in anger. No such things! If not for her Hogwarts letter, her parents wouldn't have had the slightest suspicion that she's... a witch at all."

"And that made you comfortable enough to let her on her own, obviously." Snape's voice oozed disdain. "Too preoccupied with your precious Potter, as usual."

If one could say so about Professor McGonagall, one would suggest that she looked profoundly chastened.

"She was never into much trouble, Severus; always the sensible one. Always trying to keep Ha... the boys... in line," Minerva managed, conceding defeat.

"The sensible one? Surely you jest, Minerva? If anything, that chit of yours has always been opening new venues for trouble-making to Potter and his sidekick. Her intellect was used directly for elevating trouble-making to a whole new level of danger," Snape said, his words as cutting and precise as a fine duellist's wand. "Should I remind you of her second-year atrocious escapade with Polyjuice? Third year, Stupefying me and helping that mongrel, Black, elope with the Hippogriff? Last year, her being the only one severely wounded? Rushing into any hazard like it is a test to pass with shiny marks?" Snape sounded positively peaked, which added a distinct hiss to his voice.

"It is of no consequence as of now, Severus," Minerva bristled. "We have to decide on our course of action, considering the discovery."

"This is of every consequence as of now."

Snape's words punctuated the already tense air with sharp consonants.

"I don't know whether you have finally overdosed on both the literal and figurative lemon drops the meddlesome old codger keeps stuffing down everyone's throats and into everyone's minds, Minerva, but I am perfectly aware why my presence was required at this little soiree; trust me when I say I'm not looking forward to it in the least. In fact, I happen to a priori loathe it."

If the venom Professor Snape's words were loaded with could kill, Minerva's battered dead body would have been crumpling to the floor at that moment.

"The meddlesome old codger is still here, Severus, my boy," Dumbledore, who had been sitting at his desk, threading his fingers through the end of his beard, finally spoke up.

"And I know that you are very well aware of what I'm about to ask of you, once again," the old wizard continued in a weary, breathy voice. "But you're the only one who can take up the task at hand. Even you would agree that we simply cannot leave the matter as it is."

"Send her to Beauxbatons, and let them deal with her. I, personally, couldn't be happier if this was the last time I heard about the annoying chit," Snape said airily, as if he was making a suggestion about something so trivial and insubstantial, it was hardly even worth dwelling upon.

"You are also quite aware I can't do that. We will... need her. Who knows how invaluable she may prove to be..." the Headmaster countered and sighed heavily.

"The girl is a walking, talking, breathing catastrophe waiting to happen, Albus. Merlin's balls! Add to that her most dismal choice of friends and a contemptuous inability to use that despicable appendage on her shoulders when it comes to safety, and all of us are sitting on a nest full of hatching dragons here!" Snape exploded and slammed his fist on the Headmaster's heavy, cherry wood table.

A chiselled cup of tea, sitting on top of an almost see-through saucer on the table, jingled, a merry and dainty sound, which stood out clumsily in comparison with Professor Snape's violent outburst. Then, something inside the bowels of the ancient, worn piece of furniture produced a long, trembling clink, and everything went silent.

"I'm aware of the fact that she is dangerous to her peers, and it is not going to be neglected," Dumbledore went on in a tone that was resolute enough to suggest that he'd put a reign on his Potions master's temper, if need be. "Yet, I tend to be positive that she can manage her powers quite admirably, given her nature. You are to train her, Severus; that is what I must ask of you."

Snape leaned over the table and lowered his head to the eye-level of the Headmaster, who was sitting across from him, and his spidery hands pressed flat into the surface of the cherry wood.

"And if I refuse?" His voice was so dangerously low, any lesser man than Albus Dumbledore would cringe in desperation.

Dumbledore answered with nothing, yet his eyes ceased their eternal twinkling. Though his expression changed little, apart from the way the corners of his mouth tensed, and a few more lines wrinkled around his eyes, such heavy tension enveloped both wizards that even Minerva McGonagall, who usually had steel nerves, shivered and fidgeted, waiting anxiously for the silent conversation to end.

And end it did, quite abruptly, when the door to the office creaked and the embarrassed shuffle of two lithe feet broke the silence.

Dumbledore's face immediately assumed the grandfatherly expression his students usually dealt with.

"Ah, here's the subject of the heated discussion herself! Do come in, my dear. Might I treat you to a lemon drop? Or tea, maybe?" Dumbledore immediately rose and fussed about, conjuring a fresh tea service.

A trembling, bewildered Hermione Granger entered, a halo of rampant curls around her head making her look truly like a young lion: a very young, reckless, scared, and dishevelled lion cub.

********************

When Hermione finally reached the gargoyle, guarding the entrance to Hogwarts' 'inner sanctum', she was in a right state. The pressure and anxiety mounted in her with each ascending step she took. All sorts of worst case scenarios and explanations as to what was wrong with her ran through her mind.

"Nutmeg Nougat," she grumbled to the gargoyle, as if it were her personal enemy, and passed through when the odd creature moved aside.

The entrance door appeared slightly ajar when Hermione approached it. Despite her very obvious snit, her agile mind quickly worked out that it wouldn't have been done unintentionally, so she halted her steps and listened.

"...pening new venues for trouble-making to Potter and his sidekick!"

Hermione's heart skipped a beat, and her hand went automatically to her mouth to stifle a gasp while she listened. Exactly how much trouble was she in, she wondered, if whatever was happening to her had put Professor Snape into quite a magnificent strop? Why he was even present at this little get-together was the next question that her logic supplied. Couldn't it have been settled between her Head of House and the Headmaster? Unless she was being ex... No, hell, no, she wasn't even going to think the word in her head. She wasn't getting kicked out of school over a godsdamned book.

Meanwhile, Snape went on with his diatribe, and, despite herself, Hermione couldn't help but feel hurt. She couldn't even tell what ruffled her more: the offensive epithets he used for her and his indifference on the subject of her fate or the fact that she actually gave a damn. It wasn't like he hadn't belittled and insulted her on every possible occasion for the last five years and then some. She should have been immune by now, right? Hermione sensed a sulk coming on in addition to an array of emotions she was already dealing with.

Hold on.

Wait a second.

Training her? Training her?? For what?!

Her mind didn't even stop to think about why she should need additional training in the first place. Instead, it clutched to the thought that, in some inconceivable way, she, Hermione Granger, would be stuck with the Bat of the Dungeons in some sort of one-on-one training. Harry's most unfortunate Legilimency lessons immediately came to mind, and something inside her wanted to howl and claw like a caged Kneazle. Oh, Harry would have a fit and Ron a full-blown temper tantrum, without a doubt. They never had fully trusted the man.

Another convoluted scheme of Dumbledore's, it must be. After the previous year's fiasco at the Ministry, Hermione had ceased looking up to Dumbledore through the rose-coloured spectacles of blind trust. No matter how thrilling the idea of learning from Snape privately would be under another set of circumstances, no matter how much she actually respected the man, she wanted to run inside and scream 'perish the sodding thought!' at the Headmaster.

Oh, gods be damned, she did care about where she stood in his books. Well, fuck a duck. That was even more of a reason for her to dread the idea of having Snape train her.

For a few stretching, painful moments Hermione felt awkward and insecure, like a blundering first year all over again. No, she couldn't just go ahead and place herself in a situation where she would be at his complete mercy, a target for most imaginative barbs one was capable of. Given an opportunity, he'd nit-pick her to the point when her self-esteem would turn into an extinct notion. She suddenly had a very vivid vision of herself as a giant, ugly, helpless scarecrow, a crowd of guffawing, cheering Slytherins prancing around her, pointing fingers and laughing, laughing endlessly.

Please, please, whatever it is, refuse, she almost prayed into the heavy silence that hung over the Headmaster's office all of a sudden. When the silence became too unbearable and Hermione was close to ripping at the seams, the door creaked. It was too good of a timing to be a mere coincidence, of course, and when the eyes of all those present inside Dumbledore's quaint office turned to the entrance, the Gryffindor Prefect had nothing left to do but stumble inside. Which she did with a pathetic lack of grace.

Dismissing Dumbledore's untimely offer of tea, Hermione went straight for the kill.

"Whatever I've done, Headmaster, I'm very sorry about it, please, rest assured that it was not my intention to cause anyone any trouble, and I'm prepared to atone for it by any means... I promise, it won't happen again, and I'm ready to accept the punishment, but please, know that I can be fully in charge of my bearings in the future... and I can control my magic, well, most of the time... I'm sure additional training is quite superfluous in this situation, though I'd be honoured, of course, to learn from Professor Snape, but I'd rather not be a nuisance or inconvenience anybody any further and..." Hermione inhaled sharply, lagging behind her own breath after trying to cram all her thoughts and fears into one long sentence, and it gave her just the necessary moment to realize that she was babbling, babbling hopelessly.

"Please, don't expel me," she breathed out and stood still, a heavy weight of sickly anticipation slumping her shoulders.

"Sit down, you idiot child," Snape gritted out and bestowed such a look of contempt upon her that Hermione visibly cringed.

"You have already made yourself an utter nuisance, even if we disregard your blatant eavesdropping, and you are more of an inconvenience than you can even begin to grasp as it is, so sit down and be quiet for once in your life!" Snape went on, fuming.

"Now, now, Severus, no need to be so callous. It's not Hermione's fault, being who she is." Dumbledore patted his Potions master on the shoulder with unceremonious affection since, apparently, affection was the only thing which confused Snape enough to have him back down a bit.

"Miss Granger, won't you, indeed, sit down, my dear girl. I'm afraid we have a long talk before us." Dumbledore's papery-skinned hand gestured towards a vacant chair, and Hermione sat, dumbly at first, but then her mind was reeling, reeling and finally finding it, the nagging little thought lightly clawing at the back of her mind.

What was it the Headmaster had said while she was laboriously dreading being expelled? Something about who she was? She really did have her priorities messed up, didn't she? Oh, gods.

"Being who I am, sir? And wh..." her lips trembled with the sudden emotion welling up, unwilling to obey her and form the sounds.

"Who am I?" she croaked at last, scared out of her wits.

The Headmaster approached her, much quicker than his age would suggest, picked up her cold and clammy hand, and pricked her thumb with something tiny and sharp. A droplet of blood beaded up over the miniscule wound, and Dumbledore touched it to something in his other hand that looked like a sphere with blurry edges.

It all happened so fast that Hermione didn't have time to squeak at the unexpected pain. When her blood touched the mysterious object, she was completely taken with wonder because it came to light and its shape suddenly became very sharp and clear. Every indentation and intricate carving was made apparent, as if it was coming out of a fog. For some reason, Hermione thought of Harry and how things probably looked like this to him when he got up in the morning and put on his glasses, the world coming out of the blur.

The thought was so random, it would have made her smile, but the sphere, shining with iridescent colours, mingling and swirling, held all of her attention.

Before she could gather her thoughts and ask the question again, Dumbledore, who looked, for the lack of a better word, triumphant, announced, "Why, Miss Granger, I have it on a very firm authority that you are, most certainly, a Mage."

Well, if that was not anticlimactic, Hermione did not know what was.