Educated

A/N: The response to this story blows me away. Thank you so much to all my readers and those who add this to favourites and especially to those of you who take time to leave me a note. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated! And you make me a happy little scribbler :)

This story was beta'd by Potionsmistress23, who is all sorts of fantastic. By the way, check out her Love Vigilantes, it's a great story where Severus is deliciously conflicted. And now, to the chapter.

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The Hogwarts Owlery was one of Hermione's most favourite places in the castle. On the inside, its high roof was lined with roosts and perches, usually occupied by hundreds of birds of every possible owl variety. The apex of the onion-shaped dome was open, letting out the hooting dwellers and letting in a pillar of daylight, which contrasted starkly with the dim interior. This bright column was constantly pierced by slowly descending feathers, which danced chaotically on their way down amidst the dust motes. It all created a vision of an almost ethereal beauty no other castle inhabitants seemed to appreciate.

The Gryffindor Prefect loved coming here by day when it was empty and calm. Apart from an occasional house-elf, few ever visited the Owlery. Most students and teachers had their own owls, which could be called upon. Those who did not preferred their messages to be sent out by complaisant house-elves, while they themselves shunned the Owlery for its feather- and bird-dropping-littered floor. But not Hermione. She loved spending a quiet afternoon snuggled up in one of the niches. The soft hooting and the constant, languid fall of the feathers through the column of light provided a jovial incentive for work, reading, and contemplation. She had discovered the place back when she had been just a gangly child, and the owls had grown used to her presence. They had even established a pattern. She'd come, she'd be hooted at in greeting, she'd leave her treats on the floor, in the unlit area, and she'd retire to her niche.

Today, however, she actually had a letter to be delivered. Hermione placed a few slices of toast for all to nip at near one of the lower perches and dangled a strip of bacon she nicked from the kitchens. Half a dozen birds, hooting maniacally, descended from the upper roosts. Hermione picked a small, agile owlet with spotted wings and tied her note to Fred and George to its outstretched leg. Feeding it a bit of bacon, she shared the rest with the other five who deigned to interrupt their morning slumber for her and walked to the niche.

The pull of the book in her satchel was as strong as a river current in high water. She supposed she could just take a peek while the bird delivered the message. It was too irresistible for her sanity.

The book was waiting. She could almost feel it thrumming with the anticipation of being opened and...because there was really no better word to describe the process...devoured. The same tugging sensation somewhere under her heart answered the call of the book, and she hurriedly seated herself, cushioned by a few hasty charms and her warm cloak.

Now that she had herself settled for some quality time with the folio, Hermione tried to savour every single moment. Reverently, she pulled the tome out of her satchel and caressed its soft, leather binding. The book felt almost... Dumbledorish, minus the insufferable meddling. It basically smacked of omniscience to Hermione. She closed her eyes in blissful contentment that could only be felt before launching into the terra incognita that was a new book. Opening the first page, Hermione let her fingers play over an intricate monogram of the title. Scientia Abscondita, the title read, which she vaguely translated as 'hidden knowledge'.

Her fingers tickled with the need to turn the page. Hermione obeyed the sweet command, and the world around her ceased to exist for an indefinite stretch of time.

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She was violently dragged out of the fascinating world that the magical tome offered by an incessant, screeching sound. She focused reluctantly to discover a smallish, light-brown owlet clawing the robes on her shoulder, its feathers standing out indignantly. A strip of parchment was tied to its leg.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you poor little thing," Hermione cooed to the bird and scratched the dotted head affectionately.

The owlet offered its leg haughtily and took off, still screeching, as soon as the weird, bushy-feathered human, who tended to fall asleep with her eyes open and glued to a stack of paper worthy only of a good nibbling, took her post.

Dearest Hermione,

P.S. The bird you sent is a menace. Three Pygmy Pufflings fell victim to its claws, and it definitely prefers them orange. Now you owe us three Galleons. Oh, George, don't be an ass. Mione, he was just joking, you owe us nothing, however, the bird's palate needs to be educated.

Hermione laughed at the twins' antics and was suddenly aware that the sun had traversed quite a distance over the sky because the pillar of light in the middle of the chamber was of different intensity. As if time itself decided to remind her of its run, her stomach rumbled, and the rush of blood to her legs, which had fallen asleep from the long immobility, brought about an unpleasant prickling. She looked at her Muggle watch and was surprised to find that it was quarter to two. But, oh, how glorious those few hours spent bewitched by the book of Mages were.

Quickly gathering her belongings, Hermione decided that she'd have to miss out on the opportunity to stop by the kitchens to grab a bite to eat if she wanted to walk to Hogsmeade. Most of the eligible students had already left for the village, and since it was not her turn to chaperone, no one came yelling and searching for her. She quickly ran down several flights of moving stairs through the empty castle and set out to see the twins.

As Hermione trudged along the winding path to Hogsmeade, the weather was changing rapidly for the worse. Where there was a bright, if austere, sunny October afternoon, a messy, ashen-grey cloud started to crawl over the sky from the North, slowly claiming the light and laying deeper shadows around the Forbidden Forest to her left.

Shrugging her cloak tighter around her, she knocked the new knowledge of Mages about in her head.

After a quick look through the book, Hermione had an impression that it had been written by at least a dozen scribes. The earliest accounts of Mages dated back to the Golden Age of the Roman Empire. The earlier stories had taken the contours of mythology, and Hermione vaguely recognized some of the lesser Roman deities among the Mages mentioned.

The medieval descriptions were sometimes portentous, sometimes completely inane, dimmed by the echoes of witch hunt and religious fanaticism. However, they stayed much closer to the way beholden to factuality.

It was the more recent entries that she had found the most interesting and informative. It looked like they all had been recorded by one and the same Mage (that she did not doubt); the narrative was full of calm and measured tones of a journalist steeped in the facts.

She had come across many familiar names, but almost always they hadn't been the ones she'd historically appoint to being Mages.

Of the four founders, only Helga Hufflepuff had been a Mage, a Crafter. She had been extremely well-versed in the Magic of building, growing, and creation. Hermione was astonished to discover how many deeds that were generally attributed to Gryffindor or Slytherin had, in fact, been brought forth by her. She was solely responsible for building and enchanting Hogwarts; the school grounds and the Forbidden Forest were practically imbued with her magic. Over the years, however, many things of Hufflepuff's creation had fallen into the wrong hands or become corrupt and misused.

Another story, which puzzled Hermione to no end, was the story of the Flamels. Miraculously, it appeared Perenelle had been the Mage of the pair. She had belonged to the rare Shifter kind, her ability to handle matter and energy and the powers therein beyond imaginable. Their story was a sad one: Perenelle had been discovered at a young age by no other man than her own future husband and had been literally enslaved for the rest of her life, which was reported to be quite miserable. Perenelle's artifacts were highly sought after, and each had a bloody history of murder, betrayal, greed, and possession behind it.

The book did not divulge what Hermione had come to call the 'classification' of the Mages, but it usually stated to what kind this or that Mage belonged. There were numerous Crafters, like Helga Hufflepuff, of various degree and fame. Then, there were Talkers, those able to communicate with various beings, alive and inanimate alike. There were quite many Loki, ranging from innocuous pranksters to huge-scale schemers, liars, and provokers; many of the Loki would be found as second-in-commands to most outrageous tyrants and dictators history had seen. Then there were Menders, those with the powers for healing and renewal. There was an early and ambiguous mention of a Walker, the one who could step outside the realm of this world and come back. Some of the descriptions were extremely detailed, to the point of getting bogged down in exegesis on the very nature of Magic. Others were mere mentions, oblique and almost reluctantly given.

The book ended on Dumbledore, and whoever had written that particular entry down had had obviously no great liking for the elderly Wizard. Dumbledore was identified as the Player, the one who manipulates fates and gambles lives. Hermione felt that she was growing very much fond of that particular narrator.

After quite some time, she had noticed another peculiarity. It appeared that she had actually gained more factual knowledge than she'd read about. She could not explain the fact, and it was rather mind-boggling, but there it was – she knew that, for instance, Merlin, who had been a Finder, and Nimue had had a relationship similar to the Flamels, that Nimue had benefitted hugely from her husband and brought about a strain of bloody, devastating events for her people. However, the version of this legend in the book was very much the same as everywhere else: there was no mention of Merlin and Nimue giving the vows of wedlock, yet Hermione knew it like a fact written in stone that they had been married. After she had discovered quite a few of such rather important tidbits, she decided that there was a pattern. She tried to put a finger on exactly how this little discovery made her feel and stopped on 'apprehensive'.

The friendly vista of Hogsmeade was drawing near. Dainty chimneys emitted merry little smoke puffs, and the town bustled with energy and the onslaught of the larger part of the Hogwarts student body. Generally, Hermione hated crowds, but the sight of Hogsmeade so literally stuffed with life was attractive in a way of a Muggle amusement park, even though it was overtaken by greys and browns of the muddy October.

Her Prefect persona kicking in, she broke a brawl about to start between several third-year boys, one of whom lost the other's newly bought wand polish, and headed for The Three Broomsticks.

The small, cozy pub was not yet swarmed by schoolchildren, hungry and thirsty after the morning filled with shopping, and Hermione immediately spotted the two identical crowns of red hair in one of the booths. She nodded her greetings to Rosmerta and practically ran for the table where the twins were making their forks perform the dance of the little swans.

For a brief moment, Hermione contemplated whether disclosing herself to the twins would rather go against the order not to discuss her Mageness with anyone or if it would more follow the Mage code of conduct, which okayed revealing their identities to their peers.

Her strong, inborn inclination to belong to a group, to be part of something, quickly weighted in for the latter option, and she called for the twins.

Mere seconds after she had been spotted, they wrapped her in a four-armed hug, her hair was ruffled by one hand, and her cheek pinched by another, the third hand was squeezing her shoulder affectionately, and one more – patting her back.

"Well, if it's not our dear Frizzball!" a young, melodious voice exclaimed.

Hermione had earned the nickname a few years ago at the Burrow, where she had been spending holidays, after an unfortunate incident with one of the twins' inventions. Her hair resembled an enormous brown dandelion parachute ball for days. Yet, she had become somehow very partial to the nickname and the kind teasing that came along ever since. Every time Hermione saw the two red-headed devils they would ask, "So, how's the mop, Hermione?" or "Have any berries finally grown in your bramble?"

"Mione, now that your owl claimed some of our Pygmy Puffs, you'll have to donate some of your hair for future innovative development!" a voice similar to the first one added, and both twins, joined by their frizzy friend, exploded in contagious laughter.

"Fred, George, you can't even start to imagine how glad I am to see you!" Hermione finally managed after extricating herself from their embrace.

"Whoo, so much love, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Fred (for it was definitely Fred) asked cheerfully.

"I'm a Mage," she blurted out without any preliminaries and watched their smiles go slack for a few seconds.

Then they simultaneously turned to each other, two identical unfathomable expressions overtaking their faces at absolutely equal speeds.

"Fred, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" George asked, not taking his eyes off his brother.

"If you're thinking it, I'm definitely thinking the same, George," his living reflection replied.

Their pounce was almost instantaneous, and she felt the nauseating tug of an Apparition.

Hermione stopped whirling and found herself in what must have been the Weasley Wizarding Wheezes storage room or accounts and records cabinet, or both, with an occasional supporting role of being an experimental laboratory, judging by the quantity of odd marks and splotches on the walls.

"You two carrot tops! You whisked me away! I'm not even allowed to be here! I'm going to be skinned alive, you berks!" Hermione fumed, waved her hands emphatically, and was generally furious.

"Rosmerta's place is crawling with Extendable Ears, silly," Fred answered quickly, and his line was smoothly picked up by his brother, "She orders them under an assumed name in indecent quantities, 'Mione."

For a moment, Hermione just shot daggers with her eyes at the two, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"Easy, Frizzy," George said with a characteristic twitch to the corner of his mouth, thanks to which Hermione had learned to differentiate between the two a long while ago.

The twins eyed her curiously, as if she had suddenly grown a unicorn horn.

"So... Say that again?" Fred said, still watching her.

"I. Am. A godsdamned Mage."

And then she was immediately hugged and squished again, laughed all over, dragged into some improvised dance of joy, which included yowls and howls and unimaginable pas. All of a sudden, the room was full of carol-singing skylarks and random shooting stars, and Hermione dimly remembered that she'd heard of this somewhere before... Her anger dissipated in direct proportion to the escalation of the skylark's frenzied chirruping.

"Blimey, Hermione, but this is brilliant!" Fred practically squealed never stopping with his bad jig.

"And who would have thought, our Hermione!" George yelled over the shrill sound of skylarks, who caroled so diligently that their feathers were standing on end.

The impromptu celebration quieted after a few minutes, and all the stars and birds popped out of existence one by one.

"So, why had you kept it a secret all those years?" Fred finally asked, and Hermione detected a barely there tinge of hurt in his voice.

"I didn't. I only discovered last night," she answered and sighed.

"Merlin's pink pyjamas!" George whistled.

"It's a miracle you're still in one piece," his brother added with awe.

"And she's come to us, Fred."

"That she did, George!"

And then she was enveloped in yet another hug and oohed and ahed at.

"Come, tell us everything now," both of the twins said almost at the same time and led her up the stairs to their quarters above the shop.

"I'm not really allowed to be here," Hermione tried to chime in, but her little inner imp of rebellion struck again, and she thought that she hadn't actually done anything to get here, so, technically, it couldn't count as an offense. Getting rid of the last twee remnants of self-deprecation, she followed her two redheaded friends.

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"So, do you know your kind yet?" Fred asked after her story, a pot of tea, and a tray of biscuits (courtesy of a house-elf who sported a patch of red hair on its head, which obviously wasn't a part of its natural heritage) were done away with.

"No, I don't even know how one finds it out," Hermione replied.

"The Midwife. You are seeing her tonight, aren't you?" George said, finishing the last biscuit.

"Oh," was all Hermione could say and waited for some elaboration.

"Goodie, this should be fun, George!" Fred giggled. "A galleon says Hermione's a Frizzer!"

"Don't be a twit, Fred, what kind of Mage is a Frizzer? I'm most certain she is a Mopper! Just look at that thing. It gets wilder with each passing year. 'Mione, George and I are sure that whatever Mage variety you are, it's all about that living thing on your head. Has it been demonstrating any special powers? I do so hope it doesn't try to strangle you in your sleep."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Please! Can I just..."

"Sorry, Mi. It's all..."

"...George'sfault," Fred finished his brother's sentence, and both looked at a rather annoyed Hermione with their perfectly calibrated shop runners appeal.

"It's all so new to me. It's been too much. And now I wear this... tracking thing. I feel like a prisoner with a collar programmed to explode if I step out."

There was identical confusion in the twins' features.

"Sorry, it's a Muggle thing; your dad would know, I brought him tapes with all those prison shows," Hermione mumbled.

"Snape put a tracking nugget on you?" Fred asked, almost casually.

"Yes!" she answered bitterly. "Did you have one?"

"No, but he threatened us with it," George said and added after a small pause, "He won't know you're here, dandelion. The nugget only tracks your magic, not your location."

"But if you want us to tweak it a bit," Fred suggested with a mischievous wiggle of his eyebrows, "we can."

"I'm not sure..." Hermione answered with a great deal of hesitation, though a little voice inside her went hoarse screaming, Do it! Do! It!. "I don't want to get in trouble with Professor Snape this early in my training. He hates me as it is. Oh, he's the worst of all the possible teachers with whom to be stuck in training.

Her flame-haired counterparts looked at her with a mirroring gleam of amusement in their eyes.

"Hermione," Fred started.

"You'll probably think we've gone barmy," George picked up.

"But before you do, please consider the possibility that we haven't," Gred added.

"Even though what we are about to say to you can come across as absolutely insane," Forge finished.

But the time their co-spoken tirade was done, Hermione sat with eyes wide open, anticipating the main course, which certainly was to follow such a flowery prelude.

The twins looked at each other, as if some kind of a decision were being made.

Finally, Fred took a deep, fortifying breath and let it out, "Snapeisactuallyadecentmentor." The tips of his ears burned crimson.

"I'd even go as far as saying he's a decent human being. When he wants to be, that is. Which is, of course, once in a month of Sundays," George added and exchanged a horrified look with his brother.

"I suppose I should take it as one of those 'I'd tell you but then I'd have to Obliviate you' confessions let out unexpectedly," Hermione suggested sourly after a pause.

"Fred, have I told you recently how much I love brains on a woman?" George's face lit up in a positively victorious smile.

"No, recently it has been arses and tits mostly, but I hear you, brother of mine!" Now it was Fred's turn to sport a disarming grin.

"In fact, I'm thinking The Frizz is not a Glumbumble nest, but rather her genius brain trying to take root in the outer world!" George made an emphatic gesture about his head with his hands, trying to convey exactly how fascinating he found the idea.

His copy let out a guffaw, and Hermione felt mollified enough to laugh with them.

"I'd really like to know how it was, being taught by Professor Snape," she said quietly and looked at her folded hands, feeling somehow insecure and out of place in this house of perpetual mirth, jokes, silliness, and brotherly love.

Something in her pose must have stricken a chord in the two Loki Mages, and their faces assumed very unfamiliar expressions which were both serious and a little wistful, as if they were to recollect something treasurable which was lost beyond recovery to the inexorable run of time.

"I don't think we could find the right words, Hermione," Fred ventured forth, the usage of her full name, instead of a shortened version or a nickname adding even more weight to the seriousness in his voice.

Yes, Hermione thought, it was definitely easier to joke about the professor.

"He really does know a lot, 'Mione. He taught us a lot, too," George said and looked to his brother for confirmation, and then both nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, your swotty little heart shall sing and rejoice, I suppose," Fred added.

"So, are you saying he is... He was not mean to you? I'm just preparing for the worst here, you know? He so obviously despises the fact that he has been... saddled with me..." Hermione trailed, trying to wrap her mind about the new information.

"Don't worry, 'Mione, if you want your fill of nasty Snape, you are sure to get it aplenty." George chuckled and smiled wickedly at her.

"Oh, yes, the good ole' bat can be a right git, especially when he's not busy being a minging shampoo dodger or a generally colossal steaming twat," Fred completed his brother with a laugh.

"Fred!" Hermione barely managed to look horrified at Fred's rather colourful foray into cussing because inside she was shaking with laughter.

"Oh, Mione, to cut the long story short, we think you're in for finding out Snape is not what his delightful social graces and gentle approach suggest," George said sarcastically, putting a resume to the discussion by summoning the house-elf with the ridiculous auburn bangs so that the odd creature could clean up the tea trays.

Hermione looked at her Muggle wrist watch and sighed. She really should be going. However, there was one question she could not leave hanging.

"Do you know what his kind is? Professor Snape's, I mean," she asked, her eyes glued to the red-headed elf, scurrying about with tea things.

"Oh, his kind?" Fred gave his brother a puzzled look, and both faces broke out into that same slightly reminiscent and a tad wistful smile she'd already seen on them not a quarter of an hour before.

"We had never found out, Frizzball," George confessed, hanging his head, as if it were his personal defeat.

"But don't you think we didn't try!" Fred wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she immediately smiled, her head full of ways the two prankster Mages could employ to worm their way into their surly mentor's secrets.

"I see," she answered quietly. "Um, I think I should be going now. And thank you. It's been...enlightening."

She smiled gently and had a fleeting thought about how fitting it was for Fred and George to be what they were. How definitely in their element they seemed.

She briefly considered asking what kind of Destiny they thought their lives were ruled by, but something told her that trying to indulge in philosophical discussions with the twins would be like talking Advanced Transfiguration with Ron.

Still, the meeting lifted her spirits considerably. Perhaps, she did not find the sources of information she hoped for, but there, with her, were her two allies, fussing about her with tea and giving her sweet little pieces of advice like 'don't bug Snape with questions when he's grading' and 'oh, his Saturday mornings are sacred and his own, he goes into the Forest for ingredients' and then 'if he's being in a mighty strop it's best to smile or pull a joke, it confuses him'. It was touching, it was welcome, and she was feeling accepted, the feeling as rare as it was precious.

She thanked the twins heartily and received another four-handed hug in front of the Floo which would take her back to Rosmerta's.

"I... I'd like to call in on you from time to time if it's okay," she finally said, a handful of Floo Powder in her palm, her eyes shining a bit.

"Of course, Frizzylocks!" the twins said in chorus and petted her head affectionately with two right hands.

"It's a good thing to... to know you are one of us. Our folks don't know. Mum and Dad do, but prefer to act like they don't and... We're so few and... it's just great to know, um... yes," George babbled. Hermione had always suspected he was the more serious one of the two, if the term 'serious' could ever be applied to the twins.

Hermione kissed two smooth left cheeks and threw the powder into the big, rather dilapidated hearth. In a second, she was popping out in Three Broomsticks.

The discreet pub owner raised an eyebrow at her, and seeing as the Floo traffic wasn't as packed in Hogsmeade as it was in Diagon Alley, to say nothing of the fact that she was a student with travel limitations placed on her, Hermione mumbled something about an urgent meeting with friends and flashed her Prefect badge at Rosmerta in what she hoped looked like her cloak falling open accidentally.

Rosmerta scoffed rather good-naturedly and turned to a patron in need of more flaming cherry grog.

Hermione thought that she wouldn't mind a quarter of the heavenly warming nectar (and Rosmerta's was specifically brilliant) herself but decided to pass.

Most of the students were either walking up the path to Hogwarts or in the castle already, and she'd hate to be caught out dawdling by Filch.

Five minutes to eight saw Hermione shifting from foot to foot and trying to hide from the piercing wind next to a wall just inside the Hogwarts Gates. She had only been outside for a few minutes and was already chilled to the bone. She had spent a quiet afternoon hiding away from her classmates, hopped up on sugar and excitement after the Hogsmeade journey, and finished off the Book of Mages. It was indeed an enticing read, but mostly of the same sort – an account of all the has-beens. But one important piece that she had filed away for future research was the fact that she now knew with a definite certainty that she was somehow learning more than was textually written.

The icy wind whirled about some brown, withered yew leaves from the Forbidden Forest and howled somberly. Hermione was getting impatient, and the minutes stretched in annoying eternities in such dreadful weather.

When the clock on one of the towers chimed eight, there was a small pop behind her and she turned around, expecting to see Professor Snape, but was faced with a tiny, huddled, and immensely old-looking house-elf. Its eyes were watery-yellow, and it was dressed in something remotely resembling an ancient House Scarf, though Hermione certainly could not discern the colours, which had long before given up in the face of filth and old age. But the most distinguishing feature of the elf was that it had enormous, wrinkled ears that folded forward, like those of a pig, and bore tears here and there.

What is it with today and odd-looking house-elves anyway? Hermione thought and watched the wizened creature drag its feet towards her.

"Master Professor Snape is saying to wait, Miss. Master Professor is sent Lop, and Lop tells Miss. Master is to be coming here shortly," Lop croaked and shivered when a violent gust of wind caught its flapping ears and lifted them up like ugly, veined sails.

"Thank you, er... Lop," Hermione answered, feeling a wave a pity mixed with an odd aversion for the elf. What a fitting name the creature had. She made a few hasty steps towards the entrance doors when her progress was interrupted by a bony hand on her knee.

"Master is saying Miss is not to go anywhere and to wait here," Lop screeched. The importance of its words was underlined with a jaundiced, long-fingered hand pointing to a flagstone underneath her feet and the elf's eyes bugging out in a way that suggested that Lop meant business. With that, the little elf popped back to where it came from.

"Oh, fine!" Hermione snapped back and wondered what kind of Multi-maladies Fly bit her in the head on the day she had decided to launch SPEW.

Ten minutes later, Hermione started to get nervous. What was taking the usually punctual professor so long? Was he summoned? Had something happened? She was feeling like every single cell of her body was shivering with cold, and every single muscle was straining to keep the warmth in. The Warming Charm she kept recasting did nothing to shield her from the wind.

After another fifteen minutes, her lips started to get chapped and her eyes watered. She started thinking of whether she could possibly get away with disobeying Snape and waiting inside, especially since her little trip to London went seemingly unnoticed, when she spotted a dark silhouette gliding swiftly up and across the field from the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

Hermione barely had the time to register how odd it was that the professor was coming from somewhere outside the castle because the Potions master was by her side within seconds.

"Come," he ordered and looked around warily.

"What's happened, Professor?" Hermione retorted, her meager attempt to follow the Number Two rule easily quaffed by irritation and cold.

An eyebrow rose up almost lazily, but Hermione could tell that the usually precise and economical in his movements professor was in a great hurry. It only ignited her annoyance with him, and her wish to make him reckon with her being a person and not a ragdoll to drag aroundwithout as much as an explanation took over.

"I've been waiting here in this mother of all bad weathers for over half an hour! And your... Lop said I couldn't even go inside!" She was getting pathetically shrill.

"We have wasted enough time. And as for that - you're a witch aren't you?" Snape hissed, bringing his face closer to her.

A snide response about his obviously shameful mark in Charms, which prevented him from remembering that the Warming Charms were useless on wind, was about to leave her mouth when an entrance door to the castle creaked open and immediately there were voices.

"...how annoyed and disappointed I am, Draco. Do not make me suspect you are no good for handling a simple task, ever again."

As soon as she attributed the voice to one Lucius Malfoy, she was roughly yanked away and immediately felt like a bucket of ice-water was poured over her. Her yelp was effectively prevented by a firm, wiry hand over her mouth.

"Don't even breathe," her professor's voice rustled in her ear, and for a moment there was nothing but the vicious howl of wind, a mad thumping of her heart, which seemed to have jumped up to her throat, and a measured clicking of metal-shod boots on the flagstones.

She was pressed flush against her mentor's chest, one of his arms restricting her movements and the other still clamped over her mouth, and both of them were standing Disillusioned in a little niche behind a sculpture separating the segments of baluster railing.

Trying to calm her breathing, Hermione watched the regal figure of Lucius Malfoy, a shimmering of silver fox fur around his shoulders, stride across the courtyard towards the Gates, his wand out.

"Father!" came a slightly desperate cry from Draco, and Hermione noted that there was still a lingering crack left in his voice, which somehow made her feel pity for the ferret. She pushed the uncomfortable feeling away.

Lucius did not as much as halt his steps. He did slow, however, when he was passing by the very sculpture behind which Hermione stood securely clasped in Snape's steely embrace; Malfoy's chiseled nostrils flared as he took in the air. She felt her heart race with some innate, primal horror which she could neither explain away nor qualm. Her sensible side frantically tried to whip her entire being into calming down, screaming at her that she had never feared Malfoy so, and it would be the worst timing to start now, but it was of no use. The horror curled and writhed inside as if it were a parasite worm eating away at her guts, an alien being she had no restraint for, and she felt that if something, some outlet, some form of release did not come fast, she would erupt, either with magic or with her dinner, and that terrified her even more.

The hand over her mouth relaxed and moved slowly to cover her eyes and forehead. It felt... oddly comforting and almost gentle. She thought she felt a whisper of magic across the back of her head which raised the hairs on her nape, but ascribed it to her own state. Though Hermione still could see Lucius through the slits between her professor's bony fingers, she felt the horror ebb away and realized she was as tense as a rod.

Meanwhile, the clicking of Lucius's fussy dragonhide boots stopped.

"The air here reeks of muddy blood," he spat with contempt, turning to Draco. "They must have left already."

"Father, I'm sorry, I did arrange for him to be held back for at least half an hour, I don't know where she..."

"Cease! And be glad this order did not come from our Lord. He does not suffer incompetence lightly."

With that, Malfoy senior swept in a flurry of furs and velvets and expensively styled silvery hair to the Gates and was gone. A full minute later, the entrance doors to the castle closed behind Draco.

As soon as there were no more sounds in the air but the occasional yowls of the wind, Snape released his trainee.

"What was that?" Hermione managed, feeling the tension leave her body and give way to shaking. Her mind reeled trying to connect the dots and understand how many of the circumstances were connected. Had Lop just prevented her meeting with the elder Malfoy?

"That was your godsdamned magic almost doing both of us in!" The Potions master was positively livid.

"I meant, did you send Lop to warn me not to come inside and that whole thing with Lucius and Draco and..."

Oh.

The realization dawned on her, and she felt a desperate need to sit down. So that was what the tracking nugget was for.

"So tell me, Miss Granger," Snape spat, his voice rippling with cold fury, "What will it take you to remember to take me at my word? I'm afraid you do not fully understand the extent of free rein I have with you per Dumbledore's arrangement, and trust me when I say that if I inscribe the words 'I must do as I am told' in burning letters on your forehead, it will not be considered an inappropriate teacherly digression."

Hermione recoiled in fear and hurt. But even more hurtful was the feeling of her own inadequacy. It felt like that her messes were piling in quantity like an avalanche. And the pile seemed to have the same destructive capacity. She had just placed herself and her mentor in danger, all because of her dawdling and an irritating tendency to question everyone's actions. She should have just gone with him and asked questions later. But she was so cold and so annoyed, and yes, so worried about him and she...

And being close to him felt safe, somehow.

"I'm sorry, Professor, and thank you for... handling this situation and... me... so well," she whispered, a feeling of defeat washing over her.

"Not every inspiring platitude has real substance, Miss Granger," Snape answered, the malice almost gone from his voice. "We still have an appointment to go to, and you have some explaining to do."

He looked at her with disappointment in his eyes and gestured for her to follow him.

Hermione followed with her head hung low and a distinct feeling that her mentor's disappointment stung worse than his vicious anger.