Pilgrim's Regress

“Memory, once waked, will play the tyrant..."

Chapter Three // Pilgrim’s Regress

Hermione put her quill down and cradled her head in her hands. She and Harry had been in the Hogwarts library for hours, scratching out endless theories and Arithmancy equations.

Students weren’t typically allowed to come back to the castle during the holidays if they hadn’t signed up to do so. They hadn’t, but she supposed being with The Boy Who Lived had its benefits. Professor McGonagall had been unusually accommodating, and Hermione could have sworn she saw the corner of the steely Transfiguration teacher’s mouth twitch when she pulled out the book and explained why she needed the library.

All her equations kept coming back to one number – four. She knew that there were four children in the book, but couldn’t see what that had to do with the Stone Table or Dumbledore. It couldn’t be talking about the so-called Golden Trio. She didn’t know of any magical quintuplets, though she’d checked the directories for all the major wizarding schools.

Harry was deeply absorbed in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She’d never seen him read anything with that much interest, with the exception of the Half-Blood Prince’s… well, Snape’s Potions book. She rolled her eyes. This was just like Harry. He got a new piece of information and took off running with it without even stopping to think. She was reminded of their fifth year when he’d gone to the Ministry of Magic based on a strange dream and words from a snarky house-elf. Hermione was all for house-elf rights, but to trust anyone who acted like Kreacher without a second thought was folly.

Couldn’t Harry see how illogical his current train of thought was? No, probably not, she mused. He was so desperate to believe that Dumbledore wasn’t gone that he’d pushed aside the evidence he’d seen with his own eyes.

She sighed and set her quill to paper again. The sooner she proved that Dumbledore was dead, the sooner Harry could move on. More importantly, they could concentrate on finding the remaining Horcruxes.

Her quill was once again flying over the paper. What did it mean, if it meant anything at all? Slowly, the equations moved and the symbolism started to become clear.

Lucy. The feminine Lucius, meaning ‘one who walks in the light.’ The youngest. Harry, also the youngest, the one who walks in light, the ruler. Even though Harry was neither Lucius nor a girl, the value of ‘Harry’ was accepted and that part of the equation stabilized. A line of the purest gold curled around his name, waiting to join the rest as they unfolded.

Susan, from Susanna. Derived from the Hebrew word for ‘lily’ or ‘rose.’ The falsely accused. Accused, accused… could it be Snape? The equation closed down – no, that wasn’t right. Lily… could it be Harry’s mother? Again, the equation stopped. Roses… roses are red… Ronald! Sure enough, Ronald was accepted into the equation, a rose-red line. It did not join with Harry’s, though. Instead, it connected to another line which ran off the page. It was putrid green and gave Hermione a distinct feeling of nausea. She’d come back to that. She didn’t want to think about Ron right now.

Peter, meaning ‘stone.’ The meaning here became clear almost instantly. Hermione, derived from Hermes, the god of wisdom whose name also meant ‘stone’. A silver line ran from her name, connecting with Harry’s. Ron’s line reached out for hers, but her line shied away, running for the last name on the list.

Edmund. The protector.

For hours, Hermione tried plugging in different variables. Still, the equation would not move. The protector refused to make his presence known. She slammed a fist on the table in frustration.

Ten points from Gryffindor for conduct unbecoming of the Head Girl.

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Hermione jumped up in confusion, looking around the library. There stood Minerva McGonagall in a tartan bathrobe and fuzzy cat slippers, holding a covered plate that was emitting an enticing aroma.

“I’m sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again? You forgetting to eat? Well, I should hope so! You’ve been in here for nine hours, child. Didn’t you even notice when Harry left?”

“No, I didn’t! Sorry about the house points, Professor. I wasn’t thinking.”

“What points?”

“You… just took ten points from Gryffindor for ‘conduct unbecoming of the Head Girl.’”

“You must be tired! I just got in here, and I most certainly didn’t take points! It’s Christmas, Hermione. Even I’m not as strict as that. Severus is the only one who would have done something like that. Now, eat up and then it’s back to the Burrow and to bed with you! We’ve found Albus’s will; we’ll be reading it tomorrow. You’ll need the sleep.”

With that, the professor set the plate down, winked, and was gone.

Whose voice was that?

“…Severus is the only one…”

Could it be?

A yawn threatened to split her face in two, and her stomach felt like it had wrapped itself around her spine and was attempting to devour it. Nonsense. She was tired and hungry and obviously hearing things. She picked up a sandwich and began packing her book bag. They could start again tomorrow.

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Hermione stumbled through the Floo at the Burrow, barely able to keep her eyes open. Taking a look around the empty kitchen, she realized just how late it was. She trundled upstairs, eager to collapse into bed.

Upstairs, Molly Weasley stirred in her sleep. Her infamous clock, which she had started carrying everywhere when Voldemort returned, ticked ominously.

The golden hand labeled ‘Ron’ had just moved from ‘Traveling’ to ‘Mortal Peril’.

A/N: The beginning quote is taken from ‘Til We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis. The chapter title is another work by Lewis.

Thanks to my wonderful beta, WickedlyWanton, for being so much better with punctuation than I. Today, you get an A plus!