Confused

I'd like to thank potionsmistress23, my beta, for her encouragement, patience with my commas, and being generally wonderful.

I hope you enjoy it! Please, let me know what you think :)

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"Why, my dear, 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. For a few seconds, she simply sat there, stared, and wondered if Dumbledore's announcement was supposed to taper the seventeen years she had lived previously to a palpitating point and vanish them altogether. At least, that was exactly what his solemn tone suggested.

She stared at the two expectant faces and the annoyed one, waiting for something, anything, any tiny bit which would suggest how she must react. Wasn't she already a mage, in a broad sense? A witch, a sorceress, a human being of magical persuasion, or any other such synonym one could think of?

Dumbledore was still beaming at her like Father Christmas about to receive a thank-you kiss from a particularly exultant child. McGonagall's look was shifting from the Headmaster to Professor Snape, who rolled his eyes in exasperation and asked irritably, "Miss Granger, have I been suffering from a long-term deception, and you, in fact, are not the know-it-all your incessant hand-waving and book-quoting led us to believe?"

"I have never striven to usurp that title, sir," Hermione replied defensively.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall started with a good deal more patience and a hint of regret in her voice. "Hermione... do you... happen to know what a Mage is?"

"Well, isn't a mage another way to name a wizard or a witch? A person with magical abilities?" Hermione suggested, musing that it was, probably, what Lavender felt like when asked a particularly tricky question which was way above her head. It was a very, very uncomfortable feeling. Obviously, there was much more to Mages.

"Do us all a favour, girl, and put that thing between your ears to use," Snape snapped after muttering something undeniably offensive about Muggle heritage. "Have you ever heard anyone being referred to as a Mage?"

Hermione pulled her anxiety-addled brain together and suddenly realized that while in Muggle culture wizards and witches would have a variety of names applied to them, it was certainly not so in the Wizarding world. The whole situation was so obvious, so blatantly on the surface that it had never even occurred to her that there was some factual base behind it. There were wizards and witches, and she also had heard of seers and sorcerers; she knew people who were warlocks of various categories, but when she tried to fish in her impressively capacious memory for a name, or names, attached to the concept of a Mage, only one came to mind.

"Merlin?" She breathed out, her eyes widening with a sense of dawning immensity of the whole matter. Merlin was often referred to as the Mage, and it was truly mind-boggling to discover she could be... gods, her mind refused to even contemplate that thought.

"Merlin indeed," the Potions master affirmed in a rather malicious tone. "And, before you lose yourself to delusions of grandeur, I'll have you know that you are most definitely not the only Mage since Merlin, but you are, very possibly, one of the most ridiculous."

This dragged a bedazzled Hermione back down to brown Earth and helped her to settle on her feet a bit more firmly and reconnect with her usually sensible self. Which meant that questions were to follow. And, probably, an obscene amount of them.

So, she asked away.

After giving her this short and rather uninformative introduction to Mages, Professor Snape refrained from further conversation, demonstrating with his entire appearance and body language that it was way beneath him; most of Hermione's barrage of questions was addressed by Dumbledore.

The first bit of information, thrown into the depthless well that was Hermione's thirst for new facts, was that there really was no clear understanding as to exactly what made a Mage. Supposedly, a Mage was a witch or a wizard with immense power and some rather unique talents. But there were Mages who were below average in terms of their sheer powers of magic, and there were regular wizards and witches whose original talents were quite extraordinary, yet they didn't belong to the cohort.

The only solid and certain way to know whether one was a Mage or not was the test performed by Dumbledore with the help of the mysterious spherical object; it went by the name Veritas Antica and was even more obscure than the Mage lore. The Headmaster only mentioned that the Veritas Antica 'has always been here, at Hogwarts, and is spelled to remain within it at all times' and that 'the principles upon which it functions are very unclear'.

Though, as Dumbledore had informed her straight away, there were some tell-tale signs, by which one could be suspected of being a Mage, especially, by someone familiar with the concept. For instance, Mages often attracted and formed bonds with unusual magical creatures, a fact which Hermione immediately filed away as the reason behind the inexplicable pull she had felt when she first saw her bandy-legged, squishy-faced familiar. Snape used this turn of conversation to try and cavil at the Head of his rival House.

"You could have sorted her out as early as her third year, Minerva, the lover of all things feline," he noted in a voice which was disgustingly saccharine.

Before another argument could start, Hermione immediately asked if it took a Mage to bond with a Phoenix and earned a shrewd smile from Dumbledore and a suspicious look of grudging... not exactly acknowledgement, but something akin to it, from Snape.

Her quick mind immediately jumped to another parallel, and she inquired cautiously if it also took a Mage to be a malevolent megalomaniac with aspirations for taking over the world and a giant venomous snake of indefinite species for a friend. She immediately regretted her brash question, seeing as the Potions master was trying to flay her alive with his look alone, and was glad when Dumbledore brushed the question aside. Another time then, Hermione immediately thought, never one to let important information slip by. The Headmaster muttered a something or two about 'stunted magic' and 'such a waste', as if it would whet her interest, and quickly moved onto another point.

Which happened to be the quantity of Mages. Hermione learned that Mages were few and far between. Despite their being extraordinary magical beings, Mages were often taken advantage of, proving, once again, that the road to the top of the world wasn't necessarily shortened counter-proportionally to the amount of magical power at a wizard's disposal. However, a certain mindset and persuasion skills made this journey much straighter.

In the days of old, Mages were fervently sought and fought over. Many dictators and tyrants, contemporary as well as ancient, had a Mage or two at their service, much more often to the great detriment of their own people, and their allies and enemies alike, than not. This forced many Mages into hiding and led to the development of an unspoken code of conduct, where secrecy was the main rule, goal, and means. Eventually, they had become dwindling, elusive folk, scattered here and there across the globe, their secrecy guarding them but also standing in the way of gathering the knowledge of their own kind and even of estimating their actual numbers. Stuff of quaint legends, they were, to most, a fairy-tale, told in half-whisper at a fireplace on a snowy evening.

They did, however, take care of their own, since an untrained Mage was a human or, to be more precise, a wizard equivalent of a volcano waiting to erupt. The ability to wield the power of a Mage never came with the power itself. Ever since its founding, Hogwarts, as well as most other schools for magical children, covertly looked for Mages among its students and assisted in their training. Dumbledore let her know, with no small amount of pride, that they tested all gifted students, whom they suspected had the makings of a Mage, as late as their second year. Some ambitious pureblooded families, who kept the Mage lore as an opaque ancient heirloom...useless and outdated, but cherished for no apparent reason...would test their offspring even before they learned to tell a wand from a regular twig.

No doubt, Draco Malfoy was tested right after he left his mother's womb, Hermione thought with dark amusement, but the openly apologetic look at Professor McGonagall's face prompted her to ask another question, forgetting Draco's nature.

"But why wasn't I tested? I thought I was..."

"The smartest witch of your age?" Snape interrupted her with an eye roll worthy of the National Theatre Stage. "Your guileless lack of modesty is as despicable as your classroom manners, Miss Granger. But, to answer yet another one of your insipid questions, you were never considered for such testing by our absolutely unprejudiced Headmaster," Snape delicately stressed the word, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "because you are Muggle-born. Mages either have it running in the family or are of very mixed origins, but never has a Muggle-born Mage been known up to this date. And, to answer one more of your questions, Miss Granger, no, young Mr. Malfoy is not a Mage, no matter how much his father wished for it."

Snape looked at her with an air of undisputed superiority, and she made a mental note to herself to think less... obviously.

"It is true, my dear, that our unfortunate neglect has created a dreadful mistake." Dumbledore's voice was unusually regretful, though Hermione had an unpleasant tingling feeling he wasn't completely frank in his sentiment.

"I would thank you, Headmaster, not to include me in that collective 'we' you have used. Such a nonsensical situation would never have occurred in my House. It wouldn't have happened in any other House either, if not for your mental hygiene of noninterference."

At that, Snape gave the Headmaster and his Deputy another disdainful look and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You all say how horrible and unfortunate it all is," Hermione chimed in impatiently, annoyed with all the drama, "but isn't it supposed to be a good thing? Isn't it... good that I'm a... Mage?" She couldn't completely keep the hurt out of her voice and watched McGonagall sigh guiltily, though it was small consolation.

"Oh, no, dear Miss Granger, it is quite a miracle, in and of itself, and you are no doubt a remarkable young woman, but the fact that you have been discovered so late, when your magic is almost established, remains unforgivable. That we do not know the extent of your capabilities, neither what kind of Mage you are nor how well you can harness your magic... makes you dangerous. To yourself and to your peers. That is why I asked Professor Snape to train you. On such a short notice and with so much time lost already... he will be doing us all a great favour," Dumbledore said and patted her shoulder in what was supposed to be grandfatherly reassurance, while he looked at the Head of Slytherin expressively.

This prompted Hermione to finally ask a question that was threatening to jump from the tip of her tongue for some time already.

"Is he a Mage as well?" she said in the most off-handed manner she could manage, making a point of not looking at Snape directly and speaking of him as if he were not present. There. Let the sarcastic bastard choke on his own venom and know that she would not be diminished to a quivering mess with a few well-aimed words.

After a pregnant pause, during which, Hermione could swear, she heard the sound of gritted teeth (apparently, it was considered something of a social faux pas to speak of your Mage identity in the Mage world), the Headmaster spoke again.

"Professor Snape is our best chance to try and rectify this... situation. Or, at least, salvage what we can."

"However, one thing that is beyond salvaging and the realm of our interference, the truly horrible thing, Miss Granger, is that you just up and presented yourself to all and sundry in a most foolish and arrogant way," Snape added, his irritation so pleasing to her that Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit of defiant fondness towards her incident with the book.

The truly horrible thing is that I'm obviously stuck with you in training, you great condescending git, she thought as clearly as she could and watched with grim satisfaction the way the professor's eyes narrowed to fiery slits.

So many questions were beating at her mind, begging to be asked, and her head was swimming with the new information.

"Right... the book." Hermione dared a reproachful glance at Professor McGonagall. "But if Mages are such a well-kept secret, most of them... the students, I mean, will just think I'm barmy, won't they?"

"While this astounding piece is old news," Snape purred, his long fingers curling and uncurling leisurely around his elbows, "I'll have you know that a few of my Slytherins have made it a habit to report to their parents any oddity, however small, that involves the Golden boy or one of his two appendages. And trust me when I say, Miss Granger, that Lucius Malfoy and a few others are more than capable of making an educated guess about all this." His voice gradually turned from a purr to a threatening hiss, and Hermione felt cold, sleek tendrils of fear crawl down her spine.

Her defiance and readiness to withstand the Potions master, which she had felt not a few minutes before, sifted away like fine sand through her fingers.

"What will they want with me? What will he want with me?" she asked no one in particular quietly, looking down at her hands where they were now clutched together tightly on her lap.

"No one knows the depth of the convoluted schemes that his mind harbours, but the best you can hope for, if he manages to catch you, is that he simply drains your magic and disposes of you quickly. However, this outcome is as probable as Longbottom scoring an Outstanding in Potions, were the NEWTs held tomorrow," Snape answered plainly, and the lack of sarcasm in his words scared Hermione more than anything else on this strangest of days.

She swallowed a tight lump in her throat and fidgeted, ever aware of Snape's heavy look on her.

"I see, then..." She tried to sound nonchalant, but only managed a voice that suited a rain-drenched kitten. "So, about that book, I guess, it was not a figment of my imagination?"

"As it happens, no, my dear," Dumbledore replied. And then Hermione's mind was taken off to the wondrous land of her favourite subject.

The book did, in fact, exist. Alongside a few more, which were written by Mages, for Mages, and could only be read by Mages, and only at times when the book deemed it appropriate. This led Hermione immediately to wonder how much of what had happened was her affinity with the books and how much was the book's unique quality. This very quality, along with some semblance of sentience the Mage books possessed, was such good means of protection that they were left at Hogwarts library on free display, never to be found by any, librarians included, save but a select few. Of course, it was practically unheard of for a Mage to remain undiscovered by the age of twelve, which, ultimately, had led to such a tremendous misunderstanding on McGonagall's part.

Before Hermione even started to seethe anew at one of the most devastating point losses she had suffered during her stay at Hogwarts and, certainly, the most unfair one, McGonagall interrupted her train of thought.

"My dear, I feel we have to rectify the situation, and therefore, it is with pride that I award fifty points to Gryffindor for... the courage you showed in accepting such... highly unusual news, which will change the entire course of your life."

Well, if it wasn't the most gratuitous points acquisition ever, Hermione thought, irritated still with her Head of House, even though the way Minerva's chin turned up high with the pride she took in giving points to her favourite cub, mellowed the said cub somewhat.

Hermione dared a quick darting glance at Professor Snape and caught him rolling his eyes for what must have been the umpteenth time during the entire conversation. Perhaps, he also thought that the courage bit was more extravagant than her rather intimidated state suggested.

"Now, concerning your training, my dear, I'm afraid we will have to impose quite a pressing schedule upon you," Dumbledore said brightly and rubbed his hands with an eagerness Hermione certainly didn't share. "Both of you," he added quickly, looking at Snape.

And so it was arranged that Hermione was to come to Snape's office the first thing after breakfast the following day, which happened to be a Sunday and, as her luck would have it, a Hogsmeade weekend. Not like she had a lot to lose missing it out. Ron would blab about Quidditch and his latest conquest, who, as far as Hermione heard, happened to be a rather ripe for her years Hufflepuff fourth-year and the reason for an embarrassing Howler from Mrs. Weasley. Harry would, no doubt, either sulk somewhere in a dark corner of Rosmerta's tiny establishment, a steaming mug of tea the only thing warming his expression, or forego the entire trip in favour of discreetly spending the afternoon with Hagrid. Sirius's death hurt him more than he was letting to be seen, and Hagrid's jovial and clumsy simplicity seemed to be the only company he could bear for a long time.

No, she wouldn't miss anything at all, except being whipped into walking faster by a light sting of autumn wind, perhaps. And losing herself amidst the divinely smelling shelves at Ex Libris, the new, tiny bookstore on the outskirts of the village. Her expression immediately soured at that particular thought. Dumbledore seemed to be going on and on, bickering about details with Snape in a way which Hermione deemed to be absolutely supercilious and unnecessary. She tuned him out and tried to focus. So many, many questions. She still could not wrap her mind around the concept of a Mage: exactly what distinguished one from your regular witch or wizard? And how was her being one going to affect her life? Their fight? Harry? The questions swam in her head, taunting her, speaking in little high-pitched voices, making her head spin.

"...Miss Granger? Miss Granger!" Dumbledore's slightly impatient voice ripped through the haze of her own whirling, disjointed thoughts.

"Oh, sir? I'm sorry, I got... carried a way," Hermione answered, her tongue lax and feeling like it was a lump of foreign tissue.

"It is understandable that you might feel smitten by all this, dear girl," the Headmaster soothed, "but do try to pay attention. What I'm trying to relate is vital, to you, to all of us, and to our cause. You must not speak of your... nature to anyone except Professor Snape and me."

"Why? What about Ron and Harry? I can trust them with everything!" she replied vehemently, her brows knitting together.

Hermione hated to keep secrets from her friends. She couldn't boast a large number of them, and she was only too well aware of how fragile their friendship was in the face of trust issues. The very idea of keeping something that huge from them was revolting. The thought of them finding it out later on their own (which, she was sure, would eventually and inevitably happen) was terrifying.

"It will do you wells of good, Miss Granger, to remember, once in a blue moon, that not everything in this life is about being Potter's extension," Snape inserted, obviously aiming to hurt.

Only the presence of her own Head of House and the Headmaster stopped Hermione from giving a very snide reply. She decided to give it a lick and a promise; after all, there would be plenty of time to polish the immediacy of smart comebacks later, if the words 'pressing schedule' meant anything. Looking pointedly at Dumbledore, Hermione waited for his explanation.

"I'm asking you to take my word here, Hermione." The Headmaster's voice was suddenly grave, and his dotty old man exterior slipped away, revealing the formidable wizard he was known to be. "The Mage Code of Conduct requires it, and there are reasons behind such measures."

"I need to understand these reasons to decide whether they are worth ruining a friendship over." Hermione answered firmly, even while inside she felt shaky and fluttery all over, like a yellow leaf about to be swept away from its home tree by a sudden huff of wind. She might be viewed as Harry's extension, but she was no Harry. She refused to let Albus Dumbledore, master manipulator, play with her for motives only known to him. She was not going to be made a pawn. That lesson was learned well and hard the previous year at the Department of Mysteries.

"Very well, my girl," Dumbledore conceded, a little too readily for Hermione to believe that it wasn't his plan all along. "You are probably wondering what it is that makes Mages different."

Hermione immediately tensed, a welcome strain which appeared when she knew she was about to learn something new and exciting.

"Albus," Snape interrupted the older wizard, a warning so rich and clear in his voice that Hermione shivered.

"No, Severus, I think Miss Granger... needs to know this," Dumbledore went on eagerly, and the Potions master looked away in rebellious resignation.

"You see, Miss Granger, the peculiar thing about Mages is not so much their nature; although it is quite unique and distinguished, it is not distinguished enough to draw a clear set of criteria which can mark one as a Mage. It is all about Destiny."

The word was laid with such a careful and reverend stress that Hermione, who firmly believed one's destiny was always in one's own hands, felt this belief to rock slightly where it was pillared by logic, common sense, and healthy self-esteem. Could it be... No, it was out of question. The idea that your life and your choices were not your own made her nauseous.

"What does it mean, Headmaster?" she asked, confused. "And how is it connected with the fact that I cannot share all this with Ron and Harry?"

"Oh, it is not something I can give you a detailed account of, my dear," Dumbledore replied with an apologetic smile. "But not because I'm unwilling, rather, it's due to the lack of such information. All we have are merely guesses, conclusions based on facts, half of which are hardly proven. But, to answer your question, it seems that each Mage has a purpose to fulfill. If the Universe were a sheet of cloth, and people and wizards were threads, Mages would be needles which embroider this cloth. Histories, lives, memories."

"Do you mean to say that it is a handful of people like me who run the course of life for the entire..." Hermione trailed, horrified by the magnitude of this possibility.

"Oh, no, no, my dear. Why, that would be a terrible thing to live with." Dumbledore chuckled, smoothed his beard and went on, "Don't forget that the cloth itself is also made of threads."

"That leaves one important detail out, Professor Dumbledore," Hermione said, ever the one to think logically. "The needles need to be held by someone."

"Exactly, my dear, exactly." Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "And that is what needs to be prevented. You have to sew your own pattern, hold your own needle. Throughout the years, dozens of Mages were used to achieve numerous things by wizards and Muggles alike: things like riches, power, glory, and even the greater good. And it always brought about disastrous consequences."

"If we drop the silly metaphors and allegories, Miss Granger," Snape interrupted the Headmaster, "the stark truth is that once you let it be known who you are, you will be taken advantage of. And while I do not believe in such things as destiny, the fact remains that Mages are used, abused, and stripped of their power. And it is never pretty."

"But Harry and Ron would never do me harm!" Hermione leapt to defend her friends.

"Ah, my girl... it is never those who would outright want to use you or mean you ill that end up using you in the most destructive ways," Dumbledore stated and gave his Potions master a pained look-over, which made the latter purse his lips in disgust. Such infinite sadness was lacing the Headmaster's voice that Hermione was immediately subdued.

The summer before this year, spent at the Order Headquarters, gave her a unique insight into Snape's routine as a spy for the Order. Though she was not let in on much, once or twice she had seen him stumbling in through the doors late at night, when she, driven out of bed by her own anxiety or a random nightmare, sat perched at the top of the staircase with a book on her lap, finding the library, where Sirius's lingering presence was felt disturbingly strong, for some reason, too sombre for the night time. On those nights, heavily overcast or close to new moon, when impenetrable darkness seemed alive and crawling with wild and malevolent beings, the Dark Lord would issue summons, and Snape would return broken, panting, sometimes - bloody, reeking of humiliation, fear, and things she refused to even contemplate. It was a sight even more terrifying when she had years filled with his opaque, dignified, unruffled superiority being a constant in any situation. He might have been doing it willingly, but the degree of Dumbledore's involvement in Snape's actions was not lost on Hermione.

"So... how do I find out my purpose?" she asked, unwilling to dwell on such depressing thoughts a minute longer.

"You don't. Your purpose finds you. You only have to make sure that you are not forced to fulfill a purpose someone else wants you to fulfill," Dumbledore answered.

"And how do I know you are not imposing your purpose on me as we speak?" The question left her lips before she was able to give it a second thought, and her hand immediately flew up to clamp over her mouth.

"Five points to Gryffindor for the sole instance when your impertinence comes in handy, Miss Granger," Snape drawled with a wicked quirk to his mouth and arched a chiseled eyebrow at the Headmaster.

"You don't. But, perhaps, my honesty in telling you that would mean something," Dumbledore replied and rummaged in his pockets for some sweets. The lack of the usually subsequent offer of a lemon drop made Hermione think that she might just have hit the mark with her question.

"I believe this discussion has gone long enough to give me a headache for the rest of the evening now, and, since we have covered everything that seems to be of immediate import," Snape said, looking as satisfied as a cat who got the cream, "Miss Granger, loath though I am to deal with it, I'm expecting you immediately after breakfast tomorrow morning. Headmaster, Minerva."

Acknowledging his colleagues with a slight and elegant bow of his greasy head, the Head of Slytherin strolled out of the room.

The whisper of his measured steps didn't yet finish reverberating over the spiral stair case, and Hermione already hated her predicament, him, Dumbledore, and herself, for her approval-mongery.

"I suggest you take the remainder of the day off, rest, and give it all a good pondering, my dear." The Headmaster lay a warm, gnarled hand on her shoulder, back to his benevolent self. "Professor Snape may be a very tasking instructor, but you are in good hands."

"Has he trained a Mage before?" Hermione asked, with a petulant desire to doubt the condescending Potions master.

"Why, yes, he has experience," Dumbledore answered, and Hermione had a momentary thought that it all sounded like some convoluted Muggle job interview and almost snickered out loud.

"Can I know who his last trainee was? I may want a reference," she added with a slightly haughty air.

The Headmaster hesitated and looked at his Transfiguration professor. Yes, definitely speaking of other Mages was bad, bad form.

"His first and last trainees were the Weasley twins, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall added with a smile that was mysteriously sad.

"Fred and George are Mages?" Hermione's heart leapt with joy at the feeling only newly-found kinship, a sudden sense of belonging, of acknowledging a shared secret can give.

"Yes. They are Loki. Their kind, that is," Dumbledore replied and gave her a hand to help her up from her chair with an obvious intent to shoo her out. "Let me detain you no further, dear. You will have your time for more questions, and I'm sure Professor Snape will be most efficient and accommodating in answering them."

"Do I have a kind? What kind am I, that is?" Hermione blurted, unable to control the onslaught of questions which were queuing on her tongue.

"Of course, like every Mage." Dumbledore was getting impatient, or uncomfortable, or both, she could tell, and though Hermione felt she was entitled to as many answers as she found necessary, she decided to let off.

If the Headmaster was giving her a free rein to question Snape to her heart's content, maybe she should withhold her curiosity for the time being, she thought. Possibly, annoying Snape with questions could invoke the consequences she wouldn't dare to give thought to just yet, but it was a sure means to retaliate if his control, or barbed-wired tongue, or domineering presence grew to be too much to handle.

"Right, I'll go then. Um... thank you... I guess," she offered uncertainly, too miffed by thoughts of the Headmaster's obvious neglect and manipulative streaks to offer a heart-felt gratitude, but too polite to just leave.

"I'll see you to your common room," her Transfiguration professor suggested, and together they left the Headmaster's office, leaving the old wizard to sigh and adjust to yet another addition to the weight on his shoulders.