Chapter 7 - Toleration

Instructing the Professor

Chapter 7 - Toleration

Hermione, who had acquired little tolerance for anything like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts or even deficiency of all mental improvement, was growing to be particularly ill disposed to be pleased with Dumbledore's visits. It was now late January and she had been in the past for the past five months. While the state of her spirits and general dour manners forbade the advances of her students, it did little to deter the curious questions of the staff. Her youth and reticence had excited much speculation, which was intensified all the more because of her unvarying coldness towards her colleagues and students. However, the novelty of questioning her soon wore away as her taciturn scowls checked every endeavour at intimacy on their sides; at least, it had checked everyone's attempted intimacies but Dumbledore and Severus's.

Severus, she could easily keep at bay with a well-placed glower and curling of the lips. Dumbledore, on the other hand, would not allow such displays to get the better of him. He had purposefully imposed on Hermione by conversing with her every evening on probable plans to transport her home. This evening was no exception. He sat with Hermione in her office before the fire, trapped in another speculation that she felt certain would end in failure.

"I've tried that already, Professor Dumbledore," she sighed, tucking a stray frizzy lock behind her ear. "The potion did not bind to the spell as I had hoped. And your first proposal is even more ludicrous! I've checked the books and found that it is not feasible; in fact, the prodigious number of ingredients renders it quite impossible. They are not even available on the wizarding black market!"

Dumbledore chuckled as he watched her fish through her pockets for a hairpin to adhere the errant lock to her chignon. "Nicolas and I are working to finish Copernicus's time travelling spell," he said, offering her a nougat candy.

Hermione glared at him and curled her lips contemptuously. Tapping her fingers on the small tea table, she spat scathingly, "And what makes you think you will get it right this time? Every week I try another harebrained scheme. In fact, short of exploding myself, I believe I've tried almost everything!"

The headmaster pretended to wipe mock saliva off his face with a poor imitation of a frown. "If self-detonation did not come with the danger of dying, I do believe it could work," he offered, his eyes twinkling roguishly. "We could charm an amulet to work like a portkey-cum-time turner."

"And how are we to do thus? What incantation are we to use? Has it been proven to work? And what if it transports me anywhere but home? You seem to forget, Professor Dumbledore, that the properties of the portkey and time turner hybrid render it too unstable to reverse!" she cried in almost a shriek. Fortunately, she checked herself in time. It would her no good to lose her temper. The only thing worse than a woman with an irrational temper outburst was a woman in hysterics. She closed her eyes to steady her mind and calm her tumultuous emotions.

"Is this about Severus?" Dumbledore asked, kindly patting her hand.

"Which Severus Snape are you referring to? My Potions Master or my student?" she asked in a vitriolic tone as she snatched away her hand.

"Does it matter?" he quizzed.

She narrowed her eyes and wrapped her robe closer to herself, before folding her arms defensively. "I want my Potions Master. I am not to be pursued by my student! I am flattered by the attention – yes – not even Ron or Harry treated me like that. But he is not the Severus I know!" she hissed.

Dumbledore scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Let me put it to you this way. From what you've told me, he's likely to remain as fractious as ever. You both are feisty; both have tempers that could flare and tongues that could lash. If I understand it correctly, you admire the electricity of your Potions Master's mind and he admires the electricity of your soul. The seventeen year old Severus can see that something in your soul; you know, I think you're the only person he has ever judged correctly thus far. He's making a huge mistake with Lucius and that lot!"

The Headmaster looked up in resignation. "And you've told me how he will end up! Poor lad! Ah, but Hermione, you must see that the two of you, your potions master and you – you two share an enormous need to talk."

Hermione snorted in an unladylike fashion. "I do believe we are both rather sociable! He would rather be alone in his rooms reading and I wish for the same," she flicked her wrist dismissively as she leaned forward in her seat.

The Headmaster shook his head dolefully. "You're well read, my dear, you should know we adopt Goethe's maxim of defending a genius by loving him."

"And what good will it do me when he's there and I'm here?" she protested vociferously as she narrowed her eyes.

"All the more you should hope, my dear," counselled Dumbledore, popping another sweet into his mouth.

"And what about my student?" she challenged quietly. "Do we cast a memory charm on him? Why stop there? We might as well cast it over the whole school!"

"That will only be necessary as a last resort, if and when the situation escalates out of control," he solemnly declared before adding in a lighter tone, "Seriously, my dear, Copernicus's incantation seems to our only hope. I've never known Copernicus to be wrong."

"I cannot make sense of the sketchy notes. And you've been working on it for the past two and a half months; do you expect me to have faith in your abilities?" she casually questioned in a steely voice. "Three alchemists working on an incantation that has never been tested; it does not make coherent sense to me!"

"Do not imagine me ignorant of your reading habits, Hermione," Dumbledore cautioned. "As Severus's student, you should know that according to the ancient Greeks, incantations only limit those who love honour that has been accorded to virtue."

"Ah," said Hermione in a low dangerous tone, "But I'm an arithmancer as well; and my calculations advise prudence. Incantations are all very well when one knows what one is doing. In this case, however, the point is moot. The time travelling spell here is a seductive incantation; we know so from examples such as Odysseus's experience with the sirens. If they are seductive, they are, therefore, dangerous. The corruption of the incantation manifests itself in the violent struggle for superiority in every known field!"

Dumbledore threw his hands in exasperation as he rolled his eyes. He was about to respond to her misinterpretation when a pale and unusually dishevelled Minerva McGonagall burst into the potions office. Her wild eyes surveyed the scene before her in revulsion. Both the Headmaster and Potions Mistress stared at Minerva, whose thin frame was protected only by a pale blue nightdress and tartan dressing gown.

"Professor McGonagall," began Hermione slowly as she pasted on an artificial lopsided smile. "Perhaps you have lost the knocker on my door?"

Her mordant remark only elicited the ire of the older witch who hardened her eyes unnaturally at the effrontery. She pointed a trembling bony finger at Hermione and shrieked, "Harlot! How dare you! What arts have you employed?"

Dumbledore rose and tried to calm his transfiguration teacher. "Minerva, this is not what you think it is," he quickly offered, taking her hand.

Fully aware that he was trying to mollify her, she forcefully flung his hand off and as she did so, her neatly piled hair tumbled down over her shoulders. "What sort of a game are you playing, Albus? Are you toying with her the way you did with me? Am I too old?"

"Minerva, listen to me," pleased Dumbledore as he closed the doors.

"I see," she spat in a quivering voice, "You collect young women, don't you? I'm not another bead on the string! I am not an award that you can collect and cast aside!" She flew viciously at Hermione's throat.

"What does she have that I do not?" continued Minerva, miffed that her supposed rival had the sense to cast a protective circle around herself. "Is it just her youth? Or is she better in bed? What does she have that I do not? WHAT IS IT, ALBUS!"

The Headmaster flushed and cast the stunned Hermione an apologetic look. He was thankful she had the guile to adopt a look that was a cross between serene disinterest and faint amusement. "My love, Sweetness – there is a perfectly rational explanation for this!"

"Oh?" Minerva shot him a calculative and hateful glare. "I am all ears!"

Worried at the consequences that might arise from this unnecessary misunderstanding, Hermione interjected as Dumbledore was about to reply, "Perhaps we should tell her, Professor Dumbledore."

"So formal with him? You bloody vixen! You won't keep him like this, you know!" screeched Minerva before she descended into her thick Scottish brogue of profanities.

"I think she's jealous," revealed Hermione coolly as she nodded knowingly to a visibly flustered Dumbledore.

He concurred with her assessment as he stared worriedly into his beloved's face. He smiled warily at both ladies. "Minerva, I cannot tell you. Trust me, my pet. She requires assistance and I'm merely helping her. Ask Nicolas Flamel if you don't believe me. Trust me, dearest, this is out of my hands."

"How convenient!" she shrieked, flailing her arms. "You come here every night and you expect me to believe it is nothing!"

"That's it! I've had enough!" announced Hermione, her lips curling in disdain. She swished her wand and carefully pronounced, "Petrificus Totalus!"

"Now you've done it, Minerva! See what you've done!" chuckled Dumbledore sadly as the transfiguration teacher fell over as stiff as a board. Although she was technically immobile, her glowering eyes still managed to dart hotly between the accused parties.

"Tell her, Professor Dumbledore!" insisted the potions mistress impatiently. "Hurry and tell her before all hell breaks loose! Worse comes to worse, there's always the memory charm!" Hermione sat down again with a forced calm. "I know you are distraught, but really, Professor McGonagall, I expected better from you."

Dumbledore looked askance at the ladies as he sat beside Minerva's rigid body.

"Oh, hurry up, Headmaster!" chided Hermione, "Do you want her screaming at us again?"

Dumbledore smiled nervously and explained the situation in its entirety to his lady. As she heard the narration, her eyes softened as they flitted from Dumbledore to Hermione. When the eyes expressed Minerva's assent to behave rationally, Hermione released the Transfiguration Mistress from the total body bind.

"Honestly, Professor McGonagall, you are nothing like this in my time!" muttered Hermione under her breath. "Such a dereliction of decorum!"

The Transfiguration Mistress rolled her neck gently as her lover helped her to a seat. "I have overreacted," she confessed with a light blush. "Albus receives so many offers of marriage that I am afraid he will leave me for one of those younger, more beautiful witches."

"You exaggerate my charms, Sweetness," laughed Dumbledore as he kissed her hand and stationed himself at her feet.

Hermione smiled and dryly replied, "Indeed, Professor Dumbledore does have a way about him that is sincerely capable of attaching a lady." She shut her eyes so that the couple would not see her rolling them.

Minerva coloured becomingly as the enormity of her outburst sank in. "I am sorry, my dear – I should have known better."

"No," Hermione answered coldly, "You should have trusted Professor Dumbledore."

As the two ladies were about to conciliatorily exchange information on men and relationships, Dumbledore silenced them by placing a long finger on his lips.

Hermione understood the implication immediately and smiled at the bemused Minerva. She loped to the door, her grey robe billowing and enveloping the path behind her. Signalling the two heads of the school to be silent, she opened the doors to Severus Snape.

"Must you always eavesdrop on my private conversations, Monsieur Snape? Or shall we put you in detention for insubordination?" she hissed softly in a French lilt.

"It's Monday, Professor Grenarm, we are to have my potions project meet," replied Severus, curling his lips disapprovingly at her memory as he sniffed the air.

"Would you mind if I cancel today? I am otherwise engaged."

He arched his brow. "Pas de tout, professeur," he purred lowly, "I know you are busy with Professor Dumbledore." He paused to school his face into indifference as the sickening feeling in his mind and stomach coursed through his body. He would not allow base emotions to get the better of him. He managed to meet her amused smirk with a half-hearted one of his own. "I only wanted to give you something."

She scowled in disapproval and curled her upper lip. "The asphodel essay is not due until Wednesday; you might want to check it through first." She moved to close the doors.

"You will hear me out, company or no," he snapped, jamming the door with his foot. "You can read, can't you?"

"You mean you cannot?" she retorted with mock incredulity.

He smirked at her reply. "Then read my essay," he said quietly, pushing the scroll towards her and removing his foot from the doors.

"Before you go," said Hermione, staring at the scroll and his slightly turned profile. "I would like you to assist me tomorrow when we complete the liberati tempus solution."

He bowed with an arch look.

"Thank you for your conscientious work, Monsieur Snape."

"No, thank you, Professor," he murmured lowly before leaving.

Hermione shut the doors firmly behind and smiled at the quietly conversing couple by her fire. As she unrolled the parchment, she found another smaller piece enclosed within it. "For Prof. HG" was scrawled on the top; the next line, presumably its title, was underlined. Intrigued by this clandestine message, she read on:

The Insouciant

Deceptively subdued with unspoken judgements

Weaving the loom with a ponderous air sublime

She does not see or hear the ample smitten cries

Of clamorous chiefs of lounging ways duly amorous.

Quietly censuring all with justified cavils

As the intoxicated mob waft more offerings

Tittering into her bosom sacredly fair

She finally declines with dismissive tone even

Tinctured with a last insouciant privileged tone

"Severus, how can I tell you it's impossible," she muttered as she hastily slipped the note into a book on her desk. Quickly composing herself, she drew herself up and rejoined Minerva and Dumbledore by the fire.

Footnotes:

"Pas de tout, professeur" means "Not at all, Professor."

The poem is mine. If it is terrible, I apologise.

My internet connection has been ghastly of late. The last chapter will be up (hopefully) by the weekend. At the very latest it will be up by 16GMT on Monday next. Thanks to all my kind reviewers. I know this is not an easy story to follow.