11. Sensed

A/N: I write for pleasure only! Your reviews made my week, my darling readers. This chapter, like all others, was lovingly beta'd by potionsmistress23. Enjoy!

"It's putting Mrs. Norris in a trance!" Filch screamed, pulling at the filthy, greasy cuffs of his tattered overcoat, the colour of which had been history long before Hermione was even born. "All she does anymore is crawl after it like it's a giant rat stuffed with catnip! The pantry mice have gone on a rampage! And then there are students reporting missing clothes. Mr. Crackledew, one of your own, Minerva, said that he'd seen this thing ramble about with a Slytherin scarf. It must have a nest somewhere! If it does, it will breed! And then we can kiss the school good-bye!"

Filch was livid, his spittle was flying everywhere, and the ugly patches of receding, gray hair poked in all directions from his head, making it look like a dandelion from hell.

The culprit, guilty of so many gruesome crimes, sat, all ruffled up and sulky, in a cage that was too small for it, emitting a loud quack of protest now and again. Hermione was holding the cage, her expression crestfallen. If not for Hagrid's heavy, soothing hand, which was currently resting on her shoulder, she was sure she'd be starting the waterworks right about now. Professor McGonagall's face didn't give any positive signs about the Dodo's fate, meaning it was probably forfeit.

It had been almost two weeks since the Dodo followed her to the castle after her very remarkable first lesson with Professor Snape, and currently, it was one of the many things that disturbed the fragile routine into which she had fallen. The other one was Harry. He seemed to be spending an awful lot of time huddled up in Dumbledore's study, and when he wasn't, he was poring over tomes that came from Merlin knows where. Those folios were obscure even in Hermione's judgment, which was very liberal when it came down to books. This would have been simply suspicious, if the very fact that Harry would be burying himself in books for hours at all didn't set all the alarms inside her screaming. Considering this, Hermione was mind-boggled.

She tried to confront Harry about all the secretive book-studying, but in vain. He did have things to hold against her, and she felt he was absolutely in his rights when he said that he could keep secrets from her all he wanted, since she was the one doing it for a long time already. This shut her up effectively, but she cared. It nagged and hurt, and after a few days of wracking her brains, she went to Ron. Ron, who always had boasted an acute sense for fishy happenings, was surprisingly clueless. It appeared he had believed Harry's lame excuse of needing to study to get the passing grades in his NEWT classes. He was so shocked by Hermione's pointing out the obvious that he managed to forget his own offenses, at least for some time, and the two were seen conspiring a few times on the subject of how to get around to Harry. As the only common policy both seemed to agree on for the time being was 'wait and see', Hermione had plenty of time between waiting and seeing to attend to her own important issues.

Strangely enough, the almost daily practicing with Professor Snape became almost normal. On a few occasions, Hermione would even call them comfortable. And most definitely, they turned out to be extraordinary educational experiences. In fact, Hermione grew to relish them. Snape's head seemed to be chock full of the most delicious pieces of knowledge. The reluctant, grudging way in which he shared them made her crave them even more.

At first, she was very blunt, pestering him for more facts and theories on Mages, running ahead of his own pace in order to get more. Their first attempts to have a what she thought would be a normal, scholarly, teacher-student discussion went awry, leaving him crackling with fury and her frustrated and almost in tears. After a couple of days' break, where during their lessons Snape only drilled her on how to harness the magic flow and feel all its subtleties, she decided that a change of tactic was long overdue. Her father would always say in such situations, 'When you're hungry and the fridge door is broken, don't try to pull the handle all the time, Hermione, if it doesn't work. Use your brain.'

She had a journal delivered to her by post-order, charmed it for privacy, and titled it How to Make Snape Talk. Two sleepless nights, full of exhausting monkey labour, and it was full of ideas, recorded brainstorm sessions with her own self, written observations about Lop, which at the end proved quite useless, and even flow-charts. And Hermione had a solid theory.

After analyzing everything she knew about Snape, she came to a conclusion that he must be a very inquisitive person. One didn't get to be so godsdamned clever without a hunger for knowledge. This was, in its turn, something she knew inside and out and, thus, material she could work with. She realized that the best way to make Snape share would be to poke his own curiosity and leave him no choice but to ask for the information she could give. And give out what she needed in the process.

"I have this thing with books, Professor, which is somewhat... strange," she started casually once, while they were practicing the techniques which helped tune oneself to the magic of the outer world. It was a planned move. After a good deal of thinking, Hermione decided that giving away her affinity with books would be worthy of getting his attention and thoughts on the subject in return.

But he ignored her and continued on with the training without as much as acknowledging her remark.

When the lesson was almost over, Hermione was about to give in to the sharp, deep despair that only seeing that her effort had gone in vain gave her.

She was about to leave his study when he called out to her.

"Miss Granger, what was it about you and books?" he said, sounding bored out of his wits.

Yes!

She turned slowly, trying with all her might to display none of the elation she felt and act just as reluctant and pressed for things as he was when she asked him something.

"Oh, it's really just a trivial thing, Professor. Now that I've thought of it, I gather it wouldn't be something pertinent to bother you with. I'd hate to get on your nerves again," she said solicitously.

"Fine, suit yourself," Snape answered without raising his eyes from his grading, and gestured her out.

At first, Hermione panicked, thinking she overdid it with the reluctance part. Then, her rational side kicked in and reminded her that if his curiosity were anything like she thought it was, the seed had been planted.

She didn't even have to wait long for the proof. Only two days later, Hermione was sitting in Snape's study, at a measly, shabby desk he put in the corner for her, along with a creaking chair and a single candle, and she was making notes. The subject was a journal of a wizard who had developed a tedious, but working, routine for those who wanted to enhance their magic. Hermione flipped a page and suddenly had a sharp feeling of strangeness. She closed her eyes and concentrated, like Snape had taught her, trying to open up and pick up whatever stirred the sensation. Her fingers ghosted over the book with deliberate thoroughness. The presence was certainly there, elusive, but there. Hermione felt like she was seeing something out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look at it directly, it was always gone. Putting all her magic into her concentration, she tried harder. There. As her fingertips ran over the well-worn spine of the journal, she felt it again, and this time, she caught it and was able to put words to it. There's a much faster way.

Her eyes flew open as she realized that she'd said that out loud.

Her mentor was watching her intently, pinching his chin with a thumb and a forefinger. It looked like he had been doing that for some time already.

"So, what is it with you and books, Miss Granger?" Professor Snape asked levelly.

"Sometimes, I read more than is written, Professor," she answered, allowing him the dubious pleasure of coaxing the information out of her.

"Is that all?" he inquired.

"No, not really." The temptation to give into a barrage of words that was ready to gush out of her was beyond great. But she didn't yield, even though her very tongue itched with the effort.

"Well?" he prompted impatiently after some time, when it became clear that she wasn't going to elaborate.

She allowed herself a small smile at her victory. Just a nervous little shrug at the corners of her mouth.

"I, uh..." She made a show of stuttering a bit, as if she didn't expect his questioning. "Sometimes I have a feeling like something calls, maybe? The books, I mean, but don't get me wrong." Her confusion wasn't even half-faked. After her debacle with Malleus, she was pretty touchy on the matter of her human-like treatment of books.

"Explain. In details."

Yes! But no, not just yet.

"Um... Professor? Do you think this can be one of my, uh, special powers, so to say? The way I'm connecting things?"

And so it began.

It appeared that Snape was very curious, in fact, about what being a Middler entailed. He mentioned owling the Midwife and requesting particulars. Hermione forwent pestering him for Venla's answer and wrote to the sunny creature her own letter with questions, instead. Venla was very gracious in her reply, and the fact that her written English seemed to be much improved with the help of some translation spell did wonders for their communication.

Venla informed both of them that she'd never heard of Middlers, but being an inexperienced Midwife (and not exactly well-versed in English), she said that they should look closer into Talkers and, maybe, Finders. She, unfortunately, could not provide them with the necessary information, as it was a law among Midwives not to keep records of all the Mages that went through their hands, for obvious reasons of secrecy and safety of said Mages.

One of the first things Snape did after he wormed (which Hermione enjoyed immensely) the information about her book quirk out of her was put her to various tests. They were so simple that Hermione was unpleasantly surprised with herself for not trying these things out before. She attributed it to her inherent fear of not being like everyone else. After all, before she'd learned she was a Mage, she'd had a hard time believing her book thing was something out of the ordinary. It had never been anything but a shameful queerness.

He'd offered her books to 'read', a word the semantics of which had noticeably broadened of late, and compare the experience.

It appeared that well-used books had more additional information to pick up. There was definitely a connection between how much time a book had spent in the hands of its owner and how much it was able to give. But the most interesting and giving were the handwritten books and journals or books with lots of notes on margins. Those projected clear and broad. The professor suggested that Hermione was somehow able to pick readers' and writers' thoughts on subject matter of the book.

The other peculiarity was the thoughts themselves. They all shared one and the same quality: all of them looked like something a reader or a writer would be very uneasy speaking out about. Like that mishap of a meditation trainer. Although his methods appeared solid, he, himself, did not believe in their efficacy and practiced a much more intensive and faster working technique. This tidbit was provided very grudgingly by Snape himself, since the writer was an acquaintance of his who owed him not one favour.

This did put Hermione very close to Talkers, if not for two little things. Talkers could derive information from any objects, living or not. Hermione appeared to be very narrowly tuned. The other was the little matter with her experiencing the pull, hearing the call, while Talkers always had to initiate the 'talk' themselves.

Snape also hinted that she should look at her kind in a wider sense. He wasn't talking about Destiny as openly as Dumbledore would, but the allusion was obvious. When Hermione gave this idea a thorough pondering, she realized how eerily numerous were her social roles that could be described using the word 'middle'. First and foremost, she was in between the two worlds – Muggle and Wizarding. Hermione didn't know many Muggle-borns, but the ones she did know either tried to assimilate into the Wizarding World completely, to the point of hiding their origins when possible, or hung on to their Muggle heritage with fervor. She, on the other hand, tried to be the equal part of both. Fred and George, with whom she had taken to conversing on a regular basis, would always tell her, 'Hermione, you have your arse crack directly over the borderline between Muggles and Wizards.' She used to laugh it off, but now she couldn't help but think how precise, if brash, the description was.

Then, she often acted as a mediator between her friends, between her friends and their studies, between students of various Houses, being a Prefect. The occasions were too numerous to ignore. When she relayed her observations to her mentor, he didn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth lifted up slightly before he gave her the task for the day's lesson.

This was another thing she had managed to change in their interactions. He now seemed to be more inclined to react and react positively. She noticed that he was pleased when she made progress; even though he had a weird way of showing it, she did know. When she picked up her latest essay with an O- (minus stood for a few commas he inserted), she felt a sense of satisfaction as her fingers ran over the mark. His satisfaction. She knew he wasn't just pleased with the essay. He was pleased with her overall work.

The elation she felt at this realization was almost embarrassing.

"H'mione, dontcha worry none," Hagrid rumbled beside her. "I'll take care of the little guy. Did you know they are very... ugh... what's the word... intelegant?"

"Intelligent?" Hermione suggested absently.

"Yes, that's the one!"

They turned into one of the seldom-tread corridors in the Hufflepuff part of the castle. Here, some of the windows faced the garden and were so old there wasn't any glass in them, and the climbing ivy vines were cautiously spreading a few sprouts inside the castle. Most of the Dodo sightings occurred here. The place was favoured by young lovers for its romantic atmosphere of abandonment and wilderness, and the poor bastard scared amorous couples with its friendly screeches.

The collective decision stated that Hermione was to locate her charge's nest, clean it up and place the unfortunate bird in Hagrid's caring hands. She was bringing some small fish, a few live locusts and a giant mantis, a Dodo's craved treats if one were to go by Hagrid's word.

They were rounding a stony corner of the wall, covered with moldy spots and green moss. A beam of light was piercing the still, slumbering air of the corridor from the nearby window.

"What's that smell?" Hermione said as she caught a whiff of something stale and putrid.

"The nest is close. Dodos could give charity shops a good ole' run fer their moneys," Hagrid said with a great deal of pride.

Just as Hermione was about to ask exactly what they were about to see, she saw it.

It was giant. It was horrible. It was morbidly fascinating.

The pile, which was about five feet tall, consisted of garb that made the Room of Hidden Things pale in comparison. There were old clothes, obviously snatched from unobserving house-elves, judging by their state, intertwined with scarves of all the Houses in what looked like a clumsy pattern. Underwear and socks that sported various degrees of wear and cleanliness constructed some sort of an outer wall, with odd, pairless shoes for turrets. Quaint leaves and withered blooms were stuck in at odd places. Hermione even thought she saw a dead bud of Devil's Snare. Cracked tableware was placed strategically here and there, and the top was ridiculously decorated with bended forks and spoons. There were a few dead rats folded in a circle around a very pretty broken hair clip with gems that changed colours. The Dodo presided proudly on top of that extravaganza. When it saw Hermione, it gave a cackle of utter glee and rolled down, knocking a few things on its way, to have his head rub and snack.

As Hagrid fed the Dodo his locust, and both were cooing together in perfect harmony and happiness, something flashy drew her attention. It was a quill, but not something a regular student would have. It was exquisite, exotic, and obviously expensive. The soft-looking texture of the long hairs rippled at the slightest change in the air, and Hermione had never seen such vibrant blue and green colours on a quill. She thought it may have come from a peacock, but definitely not your regular garden variety.

She reached out to pick it up, thinking that whoever owned it must have been very unhappy to find it missing.

That was when it hit her. The surge of information was so forceful, so immediate that she swayed on her feet.

When Hagrid put a steadying hand on her shoulder and looked inquisitively at her, she knew she most probably had no time to spare. Grabbing the quill and shouting some incoherent excuse to dear old Hagrid, she ran to the only person with whom she could share the information.

A few minutes after, she was pounding on her mentor's private study door, oblivious to the usually stifling narrowness of the passage that led there.

The door flew open, and she was met by a rather infuriated Master of Potions, but she didn't allow herself to be surprised and distracted by his casually rolled up shirtsleeves and the lack of a regular multi-buttoned coat.

"This better be important, girl," Snape said with a cold warning, but after he took a second look at her frazzled state and scared face, he motioned her to a chair and said something Hermione didn't discern, into the dark.

A few seconds later, Lop, curiously solicitous and bashful in the presence of his master, popped in and handed her a glass of water. She gulped it down in several large draws.

"Well?" Snape asked impatiently when she still failed to speak.

"Who is Fazeem Noorta?" she asked breathily.

"How the hell shall I know?" Snape looked puzzled and not in a good way.

"Someone named Fazeem Noorta is a Mage. And he or she is in a world of trouble," Hermione answered with firmness she didn't know she had left.

"How do you know that?" Snape's tone took a whole new cadence now that he understood she was dead serious.

"This. Does this look familiar to you?" she said, showing him the quill.

He didn't need to confirm it. Judging by the stiffness his pose suddenly took, Hermione saw that the professor knew exactly to whom this quill belonged.