“beyond wandpoint” 070a by gingerbred

[beyondwandpoint]

“11 11j Tuesday - Coping” Part 1

Hermione, the Bloody Baron, Minerva, Albus, Ron, Harry, Peeves, Crookshanks, Irma Pince, Ernie Macmillan, Padma Patil, Tracey Davis, Terry Boot, Morag MacDougal, Michael Corner, Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, Draco, Filch, Hafsa Devi, Severus
Originally Published: 2018-04-21 on AO3
Chapter: 070 part 1

The original version of this chapter exceeded livejournal’s maximum post length. It’s been split in two parts.
As the last student files out of the Potions classroom, Albus leans back in the instructor's chair and lets out a satisfied sigh. He hadn't made too bad a job of filling in for Severus if he says so himself. And so he does.

"Well done, Albus."

It's not as though Severus was likely to praise him for it. No, he'd probably just point out it's what he does day in and out and tell Albus not to let it go to his head... The man is preternaturally gloomy. Positively morose. Well, negatively... All the same.

Still, there may be some justification in that, given he'd ended in the Infirmary yet again. The poor lad really does have some of the worst luck...

And doesn't that thought completely ignore the role Albus had played in making it so both yesterday and over twenty years ago.

The Headmaster flexes his injured hand, trying to massage some feeling - other than pain - back into it. It's getting worse. He'd missed most of breakfast dealing with it. He speculates that he'll have to miss lunch as well if he needs to be fit enough to manage the Potions classes for the day. It can't be helped.

Of course, his morning hadn't been improved a whit by the Howler from Mr. Smith. Senior, that is. Just as well he was in his office at the time. He doesn't enjoy receiving those in the Great Hall any more than the next witch or wizard. Not that he enjoys receiving them in private, either, but less so in front of the entire school, obviously.

It's interesting that Mrs. Devi hadn't sent him one. Gryffindors. Good people. He can count on them. He'll never understand how Smith, Senior or Junior for that matter, ended up in Hufflepuff. He fancies they should have been in Slytherin, but knows Severus would disagree heartily. Deep down, Albus has a hunch, if just for the fact of the Howler alone, there's probably some truth to that, but it's more fun to claim otherwise. Hufflepuff really is exceptionally good about accepting those who fit nowhere else.

Typically pleased with himself for his work with the class, and perhaps bolstering himself for the next, he pops a lemon sherbet in his mouth in reward.

It had helped, of course, greatly, that the Potions Master had left him such meticulous notes. He supposes they were detailed enough that presumably Argus Filch could have managed the material, not that he, as a Squib, would have been able to brew a Potion himself, but that wasn't the point.

As if by magic, and right on cue, Filch enters the room at just that moment. Truthfully, there is magic involved, but it has far more to do with Albus knowing the movements of those in the castle. He knew Argus had been waiting patiently outside the room before class even ended. The elderly caretaker is holding something in his hand that seems to be, yes, smoking... That's never disturbing... Always a good sign.

He sighs. "Argus? Dare I ask?"

"Yes, Sir. You requested that we screen the Professor's wife's mail." Filch jerks his head towards Severus' office door and Albus nods for him to continue. "This would be today's take then." He holds his arm out towards the Headmaster, displaying a Howler that's clearly in the process of becoming increasingly less stable now that it has reached its destination. On occasion, less frequently of late, but still, there's method to Albus' madness. Having a Squib take receipt of the Howler had probably been the only thing that kept it from exploding before now. Once delivered, the things aren't exactly known to sit about patiently awaiting opening.

"Thank you, Argus. I appreciate your bringing this all the way down here." The scruffy man brightens at the words of thanks, a good indication of how rarely he hears any. "Just set it on the desk, if you would... I'll see about making other arrangements, but it was good of you to take care of this this morning for me." Albus rises as he speaks and escorts the caretaker from the room.

He hasn't long before the seventh year N.E.W.T. class arrives, but the time should be sufficient. He does a quick double check on the location of his target, it's as expected, takes the Howler gingerly between thumb and forefinger of his good hand, and then making use of the Headmaster's privileges, Apparates from behind the closed door of Severus' office to an empty alcove right off of Minerva's classroom.

As the last of her classmates disappears from view, Hermione scrapes together the courage to ask Professor McGonagall for a favour. It's not the favour itself that requires courage, it's the admission she's making by asking it.

"Professor, I was hoping you might be willing to write me a note for Madam Pince? Giving me permission to do research in the Restricted Section..."

With a wince, Minerva remembers how she'd taken Irma to task Saturday morning when she thought the young woman had been savaged by one of the Librarian's books. Hardly optimal, no question about it. Just one more thing Albus has to answer for. Well, there's no changing it now.

She summons a parchment and has her quill in hand, but pauses. Unlike some colleagues, Professors Taylor and Lockhart spring instantly to mind, she's no fool. Minerva requires a few more details. "What would you be investigating?"

Hermione bites her lower lip hard enough that it goes pale beneath her teeth. She swallows, visibly, and then also swallows her pride. "I need to do some research on bonds. And I'm quite certain the material I need won't be in the regular section."

Minerva, to her credit, blinks only once.

Obviously, as the witch is bonded and the bond can't be undone, it isn't constructive to point out that it would have made a great deal more sense to have done that prior to the bonding. That fact, however, rarely stops people from saying as much. But the young woman's expression more than conveys that she herself is only too aware that the research comes belatedly, and Minerva has all too clear an idea of how traumatised she may have been after the attack Friday. She really can't fault her.

Minerva considers again how Albus was able to manoeuvre the young Gryffindor into such a thing. There can be no shame attached to her for consenting to the bonding; Merlin knows, he'd somehow managed to bully Severus into it, too. Albus can be quite a force of nature, the Headmaster can. It's hard to resist him when he's set his mind to making a thing so. The concern also visible on Madam Snape's face has the Transfiguration Mistress beginning to write almost at once.

"There," she says, handing over the bit of parchment. "That should be sufficient.

"If you need another, don't hesitate to ask. Or anything else, for that matter." Her student finally relaxes a little as she tucks the paper into a pocket, and raises her eyes to meet Minerva's gaze.

"You did very well, Madam Snape," Minerva is intent on assuring her. "I think you accomplished what you set out to in class today." For the blink of an eye, Hermione thinks she means with regards to the lesson plan, but something about the set of the older woman's eyes... Her meaning becomes clear in a flash.

Hermione teeters on the brink of panicking, ever so briefly, but the tone reaches her instead, pulling her back to safety. Minerva proceeds, "I don't think a single person in that class would have had reason to believe this room held any meaning for you beyond the usual. I was very proud of you."

Hermione has to swallow hard again, a lump seems to have been Conjured in her throat, and thanks her Head of House, probably more for the words of encouragement than the library permission slip, and heads out into the now empty hallway.

Hermione hasn't gone far when she hears a laugh from an alcove in front of her that's all too familiar.

"Potty and Weasel's witch! Where are the Weasel and Potty?" Her wand is in her hand in an instant. She can feel her muscles tense involuntarily, her shoulders rise practically to her ears and her stomach drops, before she gets it all back under control and forces herself to approach the niche.

She peers into it, and sure enough, there's Peeves, and he comes bobbing out to face her, becoming more solid as he does. Only then does she notice that the sound of 'the Weasel' had apparently triggered something very visceral in her and she's actually relaxing upon spotting the Poltergeist. Which is just wrong. She files it away for later, but concludes it came from hearing so much about 'the Weasel' Friday evening. Just perfect.

Well, Ron's beginning to elicit that gut-turning response just as is after his performance, or lack thereof, the past several days. If he keeps this up, the events from Friday won't have any bearing on her reaction at all.

She's trying to decide if she should simply hold still and accept whatever abuse Peeves means to dish out, really what difference does it make anymore, she was heading back to quarters and could change if need be... Or if running was likely to do any good. She suspects not. She can't outrun him, and it would just label her as prey. That fact is well recognised on her end, and serves nicely as a metaphor for how she's conducted herself this morning. Maybe it's begun to sink in.

Or perhaps the Draughts are suppressing her instinct to panic.

And so she stands there, turning to more fully face the Poltergeist when a coarse whisper whips through the corridor, "Peeves!"

Witch and spirit alike freeze at the sound. Then she turns, and with a great rattling of chains, the Bloody Baron appears behind her. "Your Bloodiship, Sir!" The Poltergeist snaps to attention. Hermione follows suit.

"Leave the witch alone."

"Just for the moment, your Baronship?" Peeves sounds hopeful, and Hermione can see him shifting what appears to be... a loaf of bread from hand to hand. At least it's not a pot of ink. Of course that's the sort of thinking that comes from someone who hasn't yet been beaned with terribly stale bread and has momentarily forgotten that a Tergeo sorts ink stains fairly well.

"Leave the witch alone!" The Baron commands more firmly, drawing closer. His voice never rises above his usual whisper, but it carries clearer than most shouts. Hermione could swear she feels it in her marrow.

"All day?" Peeves sounds less hopeful, but it doesn't keep him from wheedling.

"All year," comes the decisive hiss.

Hermione thinks Peeves might be... pouting. Isn't that a thing?

"Fine, but only because you asked so nicely, your Bloodiness." Hermione is fairly certain there was no asking involved. "But make her tell me where Weasel and Potty went," he whines, still hoping to get something out of this.

"You were too late, Peeves. You have missed them. No one values punctuality anymore..." It's the strangest thing. He's a ghost, a clearly bloodied ghost, complete with terrifying rattling chains and all, and yet as he says it, he reminds Hermione of nothing more than her late grandfather, before he was late, that is, moaning about the youth of today. It's very familiar, and it puts a reflexive smile on her face.

Actually, they might have more in common now that her grandfather has passed, but then he isn't a ghost... To her knowledge.

"Leave her alone," he commands again, now hovering in the space beside Hermione.

"It's alright," she volunteers. "They went to Potions."

With a cackle of unimpeded mirth, Peeves does an about face and whisks off down the hallway.

"You did not have to tell him a thing," the Baron tries to explain to her. "I would have handled him." She thinks he sounds a little affronted.

"I'm sure you would have, Sir. But that seemed easier," she answers.

The Baron continues to glide down the hallway in the Poltergeist's wake for a little ways, and then stops and turns towards her, apparently waiting. For... something. She hesitates for a moment, not quite sure what he expects of her, and then he makes it easier, "Come."

That's all it takes. She closes ranks, falling in alongside him, and he glides next to her as she makes her way back to her quarters in the dungeons.

Once again he secures his chains tightly, silencing them as he escorts the little witch so as not to rattle her as well. Ha!

"He will not be pleased when he discovers you have lied," he tries to make her see sense. The young, especially the non-Slytherins, they seem to understand so little of their world and the way it works. It's a wonder he can still find the patience for them.

"But I didn't lie," she assures him.

"You... revealed where your friends could be found?" The Baron sounds a little taken aback now, and frankly he's trying to calculate how far off his understanding of her lies.

She's clearly not a Hufflepuff. Still, this was... unexpected. He often finds the living confusing. Curiously, he hasn't the least problem reconciling that fact with the fact he also finds them boringly predictable, which seems inherently contradictory. It probably helps that he generally tries to avoid thinking about them more than absolutely necessary.

This particular witch is proving an exception to the rule. He's not at all sure how he feels about that.

Presumably not good.

He doesn't think he ever feels... good.

"They have enough of a head start. He won't catch them." She's reasonably sure anyway. And it's far too complicated and seems both rather sordid and frightfully banal to try to explain their falling out to the spectre.

The Baron lets out a huff of something. It might even be amusement, "You are assuming he will not wait for class to end. Peeves can be patient. On occasion. They cannot hide there forever."

They continue down the corridor in silence until the Baron breaks it with something that sounds like a motor far past its sell-by date, assuming motors had them, trying to turn over. On reflection she realises that must indeed be what passes for laughter from his lips. It's disconcerting. "Not the least because the Potions Master would never permit it."

But she answers that with a genuine chuckle of her own, "No, I rather doubt he would." It was undoubtably bad enough the Professor had one student invading his quarters now. There is no conceivable way he'd ever be willing to expand that to three, and certainly not with those two. Merlin, it was something of a miracle he was tolerating her.

And Crooks.

Minerva looks up at the knock on her door. "Albus? What can I do for you?"

"Madam Snape has received some mail," he replies, and it strikes her as somewhat odd, both the statement and that he should be informing her of it. On the other hand, she knows very well that the witch had been on the move when the owls arrived this morning; perhaps they'd been unable to locate her.

"I'm afraid you've just missed her," she starts, gesturing in the direction the young woman had gone, and then Albus extends his hand to reveal a smoking Howler. "Oh, Albus!" She looks at it with a great deal of distaste. "You can't mean to give her that!"

Her hand claps over her mouth, subconsciously trying to hold back the stream of words that would reflect precisely what she thinks about that. Her indignation only makes Albus' mission simpler.

Minerva is appalled. No one had any right to send the witch such a thing, this is absurd. She may even have mumbled something to that effect, or perhaps it simply shows very clearly on her face. Far more probably, Albus has been engaging in a bit of Legilimency again. His reply virtually gives it away.

"I agree entirely, which is why I had hoped you'd be prepared to help us. I had meant to ask you at breakfast this morning, but you had already gone when I got there. Severus asked that we have someone screen her mail for the foreseeable future, and I thought, I hoped you might be willing to do so."

She gives him a slightly withering look. Of course she'll do it, and he knew she wouldn't be able to say 'no'. Particularly not when the alternative is to have the poor thing receive it instead... Minerva recalls how badly the girl had been affected by Severus' Howler. Clearly that's not an option. But naturally Minerva's mail duty would begin with yet another Howler... She takes it from him, wordlessly, her displeasure obvious as she does so and eloquent enough.

With a moue of disgust, she drops it on her desk, pushing it away from her, for all the good it does.

Albus gives her a small smile, only faintly apologetic, everyone has their role to play after all. He thanks her and turns to leave.

"Wouldn't you care to stay to hear what it has to say?" She asks him rather innocently. The bondings were his idea after all...

"I'd love to, I'm sure, but sadly I must dash."

"I didn't think so," her tone chiding.

"Come now, Min. I was so kind as to deliver it in person."

"You're a paragon of solicitude, Albus. Whatever would we do without you?"

"Tut tut. I'm filling in for Severus, my dear girl. It wouldn't do to be late for class," he tells her almost ruefully, and as though he had no intention of Apparating back to the dungeons just as soon as he turns the next corner. He's reasonably convincing, but she knows him too well.

"Coward," she calls out after his retreating back.

He chuckles and waves over his shoulder at her as he turns into the the nearest stairwell and disappears from sight.

A moment later, he reappears in Severus' office, and no one is the wiser.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," Hermione tells the Baron, giving him a smile far less timid than yesterday's. Of course the Draughts are helping, but the real difference is that she's growing used to her strange companion. That process has been greatly simplified by his refined comportment, and the fact she knows he has come to her rescue, at least twice now.

"Yet again. You seem to be making a habit of it." She's practically... chirping. She's... odd.

He has no idea what the proper response is. He considers it for a moment, mulling it over, but still nothing occurs to him. Truth be told, he rarely has extended conversations with the living anymore. And when he does, it generally takes the form of... instructions. Giving or receiving, dependent on the other parties. He's out of practice.

He doesn't even talk to the dead all that long. Not if it can be helped.

With a start, it occurs to him that he talks to Peeves most of all.

He goes almost completely transparent with the shock before fading back into view. Hermione makes nothing of it, the habits of ghosts still too thoroughly foreign. Presumably, that's likely to change in the foreseeable future.

Peeves. Well, he owes that primarily to the fact that he's the one stuck managing the Poltergeist, and the troublesome spirit requires a good deal of managing indeed.

He considers the question of Peeves.

It doesn't take long to decide he doesn't even like the Poltergeist. Not remotely.

That probably shouldn't be unexpected. He's not sure he likes... anyone. No, he's at a loss there. He can't name a one. 'Liking' goes too far.

Surely.

But he likes Peeves a good deal less than... yes, than everyone else.

He supposes that makes the fact he spends the most time talking to him... sad, then.

And then he supposes that's... appropriate. He is doing penance, after all.

How... fitting.

All of which leaves him unaccustomed to chatting with the living, and unsure if he even should.

At a loss for an appropriate rejoinder, finally he just changes the topic. That usually works. "You were not in chambers this morning."

It's not a question. It's a statement with a hint of reproach, and she could swear there's something almost a little disappointed in his voice. And then she realises that he can only know that if he had observed their quarters for some time this morning.

"You waited?" She asks, quite surprised.

He's silent. She thinks she's touched, which is fortunate - the way things have been going lately, she was almost as likely to fear she'd gained a dead stalker. And then she realises it was no coincidence that he was there to run Peeves off either.

He still doesn't say anything but she's confident she's right and suspects it tied in peripherally to his complaint about punctuality as well. His, or possibly hers. That's... Well, she'd never expected this.

"You're keeping an eye on me?" She enquires carefully, keeping her tone very level.

"At the request of your bondmate," he explains. She thinks it sounds like he's eager to justify his actions. And somewhat uncertain. Uncertainty is definitely not something she associates with the Baron. He looks like he finds it every bit as unusual as well.

She's trying to make sure she's grasped the situation, that she's not reading anything into it. "To make sure nothing happens to me?" She's not quite sure what to make of that. She's been getting around the school for years now with nothing... She stops right there. In the first place, that's not remotely true, a basilisk comes unbidden to mind, and secondly Friday had changed a great deal. And presumably Sunday, and the bonding, had changed a great deal more.

This isn't just about her, and the Professor had been very clear about the meaning of the Geas. 'It would obligate me to act. I can conceive of situations where you might find it... invasive or inappropriate.'

The Baron seems to nod. "There is the Protection Vow to consider."

As she thought, then. "So he asked you to watch out for me." She tries not to smile. As solutions go, this seems minimally... invasive. It's hard to get less visible than a ghost as a shadow, she supposes. And already she had managed to give him the slip, she thinks wryly, when Sunny Apparated her directly out of chambers. She'll need to ask the Professor about it and how to handle that little detail. She has a strong feeling it's highly sensitive.

The Baron nods again. It's more like his whole body bobs up and down, but she reads the movement well enough.

How incredibly kind! Of both of them really. He doesn't look like he wants to hear that, though. He looks... wary. She considers her reply and settles on, "It's very good of you to do so for him then."

"I serve," he answers succinctly.

She has no idea what to do with that declaration. It's a curious choice of words, and she intuits that's not by chance. Not entirely sure she won't be giving offence, she tries to get him to expand on that. "Whom do you serve?"

"The School, the House, the Head of House." She wonders if there's an order to that and surmises there is. She doesn't have the courage to question that yet, or the experience to properly weigh the answer if he gives it, and lets that go for another time.

She wants to ask 'why' he serves, but doesn't. That seems much too likely to offend him. She's lucky if she hasn't so far. So she tries from another direction. "Do all House ghosts 'serve'?"

He shakes his head. Ah. She thought not. "But I must atone," he answers, indicating his chains and further explaining not very much at all.

Well, it's as clear as mud, but nothing a Skurge wouldn't sort. That's utter rubbish. She expects she won't understand him for some time to come, if ever.

"And you're currently doing so by helping to keep an eye on me."

"But not as well as I had intended, it seems." And there's the note of disappointment again. She wonders if he's disappointed in her for inadvertently thwarting him or with himself... That he wasn't able to help more... She imagines being immaterial must be frustrating for spirits from time to time.

Eager to put his mind at ease and make abundantly clear what had occurred and why she'd effectively gone missing this morning, she launches into a perfectly Hermionesque explanation of where she'd spent the night and why - just what had happened to her battered bondmate, how she'd had to fetch him from outside last night - although she carefully doesn't mention Sunny's role - and how Madam Pomfrey had laboured to heal him, and as they reach the door to her chambers, she wraps up explaining that the poor Professor is still in the Infirmary. More or less just like that.

The Baron seems simply gobsmacked.

"Well, surely that's not too unusual," she tells him once she finally notices his reaction. "Goodness, he's spent so much time there lately, I was beginning to think he'd taken up residence. Or maybe he was trying to avoid me."

The Baron just floats there, still staring at her.

It's entirely possible that she's said more to him on their way to the dungeons than everyone else has in the whole of the past year put together.

He doesn't know what to make of it.

"That was supposed to be a joke," she clarifies when he still doesn't say anything.

"I know it wasn't very funny...

"You know it becomes even less funny when you have to explain it..." She tries to coax a response from him. Any response from him.

No, just her and the Chizpurfles. It's becoming a thing. She really may as well get used to it.

He still doesn't say a word, and she's finding the silence awkward. Ghosts have very different perceptions of time, and that could be playing a role here. For the most part, however, the issue is she's rendered him speechless.

"At any rate, I'm sorry you waited for nothing this morning. If I had known, I'd have had Sunny let you know we were in the Infirmary."

Finally! That he knows the response to! "You hardly need to apologise for being in the Infirmary." Yes, he's satisfied that's correct.

"Well, no, not for being there, simply for keeping you waiting."

"You had no way of knowing," he concedes, mollified, and a bit bewildered at that fact.

"And thank you once again for the rescue. Again," she smiles.

The smile makes him uncomfortable.

He's been thinking about her thanks from yesterday. Rather a lot. It's all very baffling, not the least because that means the living are encroaching further on his thoughts. He's not sure what to make of it. But he thinks he's discovered part of the issue.

"Perhaps not 'again'," he corrects. She looks confused so he continues, his posture as formal as his tone, "There was no need to thank me for my services Friday. I was doing my duty towards my House. As such, I am undeserving of your appreciation for my actions on that evening."

He feels better even as he says it. Lighter, which is silly of course, he weighs nothing. Still, he floats a little higher. He doesn't wish to accept gratitude under false pretences.

Hermione, unfortunately, doesn't feel better.

In fact, that throws her quite a bit.

She stands there thinking about it, and it's an extremely good thing the Potions dull certain responses, because it's something of an emotional quagmire. The idea he had been acting to protect her assailants is...

Well, it's something else.

She had fooled herself into feeling special, possibly valued, under his watchful eye, and then he says this...

But she's able to remain calm, enough anyway, and she realises she has a choice to make. She can get upset about this, well, more so, or she can try to get to the bottom of it. She chooses the latter. "How so?"

He registers the change in her demeanour and feels... he feels worse again now. Apparently his confession had been very... self-serving. It's more than odd enough having his own feelings, dead as he is. Considering the feelings of others... This is all very strange. He had been right - he probably shouldn't interact with the living more than necessary.

Still... Disappearing now seems like it would be leaving something unfinished... Ghosts have far too much unfinished business as it is.

So he stands, well, floats (ha!) his ground and tries to explain. "Those boys would have been sent down, should have been sent down, had the Head of House not put an end to their doings."

'Doings'. Well. She can't say she likes the term. 'Doings'... But she's still calm. Calm enough. And she thinks she understands something, this may be true, but it doesn't have to be the only truth. Ironically, it's something she seems to have learnt from her interactions with the Professor. So she chooses to pursue another truth.

"Would you have acted, would you still have gone for help if they hadn't been in danger of expulsion?"

"Naturally," he agrees without hesitation.

"Yes. I thought as much." It feels like she has the ground back under her feet again. It's a significant improvement.

It's still a little disquieting for her to think that someone could help her as monumentally he had and not consider that deed worthy of thanks, not see it as significant. Because it seems horribly significant to her. But she has a firm sense now that wasn't quite what he'd intended by declining her gratitude.

"Well, there you go then," she assures him. "What matters is that it was a priority, I'm not going to fault you for the order those take, as long as it was a consideration." She accepts that she doesn't understand the ins and outs of the ghosts' duty to their Houses, and as she says it, she realises she isn't just being glib. She means that.

"But I didn't consider it before I went to find help..." he feels compelled to add.

"But you would have," She answers now with conviction and smiles again. She gets the sense the Baron is very proper, that he hadn't wanted her appreciation unless he truly felt it was... earned.

He hovers there, puzzled. He can't understand how she is so sure she knows his mind when he hardly knows what to think. But he can't quite fault the statement either. She's correct. He would have.

She wonders how the Baron could ever have been a Slytherin. His overwhelming urge to come clean, his unwillingness to accept her gratitude under a pretext... That hardly seems right for a Snake. And then even as she thinks it, she feels she's doing the Professor a grave injustice with that assessment of his House. That wasn't really what she meant. It's as though the Baron has forgotten much of what it was like to be human. Which is precisely what happened actually.

It's all very... odd. He has no desire to make her unhappy, but he also feels uncomfortable on the receiving end of her smile. Perhaps he's out of practice with that as well. Naturally, because people so regularly smile at the sight of him...

Still feeling that pressing need to be clear, the Baron tries again. "I wasn't a... good man," he offers simply, holding up his chains which he now permits to rattle for demonstrative effect, as though it explained everything when in fact it explains very little.

"No," she replies solemnly. "I hadn't thought so."

Coincidentally, this is another line of thought the Professor had inspired and to which she has given quite some consideration in the past several days. She'd spent a great deal of time staring at the Dark Mark. She doesn't know the details, she imagines she may never, but she knows no one has ever suggested in her presence that he took the Mark to infiltrate You-Know-Who's ranks. He became a spy sometime thereafter.

Logically, he must have been... sincere when he joined the Death Eaters.

She has no doubt he gives more for the Order than anyone else. The experience of the past few days may be distorting that impression, but she's not wrong either. She's been thinking - a lot - about what it means to have made bad choices and to make amends. And how she feels about it.

So she's not entirely unprepared for this line of conversation with the phantom before her. "You aren't forced to wear those?" She asks, gesturing to the apparition's chains.

The Baron shakes his head and then does something no one has ever seen him do before, because no one has ever asked. He releases the translucent chains, allowing them to clatter down to the ground, and wafts away from them, coming to a halt on her other side. Unchained. Free.

"You wear them in penance?" Her voice is still soft, he nods again, his demeanour sober. "And you've done so for a very long time, haven't you?" Again he doesn't reply, but she thinks that might have been a shrug. It was a rhetorical question. She knows from 'Hogwarts: A History' that he dates back to the Founders' era.

"Isn't that what counts? What you do, voluntarily, for centuries? Not the mistakes, deeply regretted, of a single lifetime...

"If you've spent centuries, nearly a millennium atoning, at some point, doesn't the slate have to be clean?"

He doesn't answer, deep in thought, merely drifts over to the chains and takes them up again.

When he finally speaks, it naturally has nothing to do with what went before.

"I imagine Peeves is hereabouts somewhere," he gives her a meaningful look, and she feels his mild reproof for having effectively directed the Poltergeist this way. "You should exercise caution when you leave for the meal."

"I was going to go to the library in a little bit, before lunch," Hermione volunteers, letting the information float much like the ghost does on the air between them.

"Shall I... wait?" He asks slowly, patently unsure this is what she wanted. "And... accompany you?"

The answering smile is immediate and bright. "Would you? I won't be all too long." Her lower lip half vanishes under her teeth and then she adds, "But I don't want to keep you. If you have something else you need to take care of..." Why, yes, he needs to see the elves about his laundry... It sounds ridiculous to Hermione's own ears even as she says it, but Nick had indicated often enough that the living were frequently very inconsiderate of the dead...

"I know exactly where the Library is; I won't have any trouble getting there on my own," she tries to reassure them both.

The spectre looks at her closely. The issue, as he understood it, was not that she didn't know how to get around the castle, but that it was crucial to make certain she did so unassailed.

"Or I can wait here for you until you're finished with whatever you wish to do in the meantime, so I, um, don't keep you waiting..." she winds up a little weakly.

He likes her manners. And her premise is preposterous. "That will not be a problem, Madam. Ghosts are accustomed to waiting. It comprises most of our existence." Hermione thinks she detects a hint of amusement again.

With another quick word of thanks and an assurance she won't be too long, Hermione enters her chambers as the Baron renders himself invisible and waits, pensively floating by her door.

A quick flick of Minerva's wand sets an Age Line of nineteen across her doorway. It's force of habit to use it for such purposes now, a Charm that has grown in popularity with the Professors since the Tri-Wizard Tournament three years ago, although - usually - without the option to sprout beards. It tidily keeps students out, while allowing all of staff and faculty to enter. She used to use fifty as the cutoff, but Severus had made some pointed remarks about that.

He was right of course.

Which isn't to say it hadn't been amusing... Particularly the time Rolanda had, quite by mistake, one might hope, inadvertently set the Charm so he ended up sporting a wispy white beard. The Flying Instructor had soon come to regret that. Antagonising a Potions Master is seldom a wise course of action, especially one so versed in the Dark Arts. The Depilating Draught, for example, had universally been deemed a rather appropriate response. It was fortunate she usually wore her hair so short, and it hadn't taken overly long to regain the status quo. After a week, much pleading on Rolanda's part, and a bottle of Ogden's in restitution, a truce had been reached.

Another swish and twist erects a gossamer barrier across the doorframe, good protection against Extendable Ears, an arc and thrust has the surface Silenced, a Privacy Charm in effect, and now the students won't be able to hear what transpires within her room, either.

With a deep sigh, she reaches for the Howler lying on her desk.

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but naturally does, when the Howler bursts open and she's greeted by Molly's voice once again. It's a credit to Minerva's heart, if not her powers of deductive reasoning. She stands there trying to think of a curse colourful enough for the situation, and discovers she's just not given to suitable language. A side effect of being the daughter of a Minister, no doubt. This might be enough to make a convert of her though.

Fudge on a broomstick, as the children like to say.

The only consolation is that Molly must have lost her voice creating these. Minerva's undecided as to how much of a consolation that really is. She hopes Arthur, at least, enjoys it.

Molly's Howler is quite a piece of work. A bit of absurdist theatre, really. Would that it ultimately concluded in the witch's lasting silence. It seems far too like something the drama students from the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts might put on late on a Saturday evening in Carkitt Market and then complain that no one 'got'. Minerva is now exceedingly glad Severus thought to have Madam Snape's mail collected, and she's stopped being even remotely annoyed with Albus for his ambush.

She can't begin to imagine what would have happened had the young woman received that thing in public. The very idea of having that utter... rubbish brayed in front of everyone in the Great Hall...

The staff isn't above using humiliation to work for them in disciplining the students, but this... This gives new meaning to the word. It goes too far. It makes her wonder if Howlers should even be allowed. They've been a part of life for her so long that the very fact she thinks to question it at this late stage...

When people recognise their own failings in others, they frequently respond by either trivialising and overlooking them, or by being even less tolerant than a neutral party would be. Minerva hasn't a hint of understanding left in her for these failings. That might also be the result of her upbringing, but right now, she bristles with righteous indignation. And a residual soupçon of shame.

Molly hadn't known what happened to the young Muggle-born's parents, hadn't thought to help them or bothered to ask after them, one may safely assume, or surely the entire Order would have known their fate. But here, all of a sudden, she feels the need to be the responsible party. Entitled to be the responsible party. She only seems to feel responsible when it's about bollocking someone. It's words, not deeds, and exceptionally easy words at that.

Barring the damage to her larynx, that is.

One lives in hope.

The only good thing, and Minerva can't begin to explain why she feels the need to look for a good thing, but she does, is there is no casual dig at the Grangers in their daughter's Howler. At least the Weasley matriarch had shown that minute bit of... tact. Now what difference that might have made given Severus' presumably would have been howled in his bondmate's presence... But it wasn't as utterly thoughtless as it had seemed at first. Or, no, it was certainly thoughtless, but not quite as hurtful taken in itself.

Because of course it existed in a vacuum.

Minerva doesn't know why she keeps trying to find something defensible in all of this. It's not. But that urge is probably the result of a decade spanning acquaintanceship with the woman. They had bonded over the loss of their brothers in the last war. Minerva wonders what she would have done had she lost Malcolm as well as Robert. And at least she had her nephews. Sometimes it seemed the loss of Fabian and Gideon had caused something in Molly to become... unhinged.

In response to the Howler sent to Severus, she had intended to write Molly after classes today and explain what had actually happened to the poor young woman this weekend and why she and Severus had taken this drastic step. Now Minerva stands there realising what a presumption that would have been on her part.

That wasn't her story to share.

No, Molly will learn nothing from her. The last thing she's going to do is provide her with more ammunition.

If she's quite honest with herself, the first Howler had already proven beyond any doubt that Molly had no idea of how to manage sensitive information. None whatsoever. There's no question, the things being shrieked in these mailings would have been hurtful, both emotionally for the recipients and in terms of the responses of the others that could have been expected to be listening. But they were less hurtful for their inaccuracy. Wild accusations wouldn't damage the way the truth would.

And Madam Snape has made it clear, her plan is to continue as though unaffected.

How unaffected would she be were the facts of her assault broadcast for one and all to hear?

Minerva can't tell if one of the woman's benighted children had passed along castle tittle-tattle, or if Molly had allowed her imagination free rein, but she had done so in such a mad fashion, Minerva finds herself fearing for the woman's sanity. In the passage that best illustrated it, both the utter absence of logic and insensitivity to claims being made, Molly had managed to decry the completely subjective evils of a presumed abortion and pass along her condolences for a miscarriage; mutually exclusive, one should think. And all while simultaneously chastising, it was really probably closer to berating, the young witch for getting herself in the family way to begin with: she really must brush up on her charms; that was simply Unforgivable.

All the more questionable, as Molly had scarcely been any older than Madam Snape when she fell pregnant with William.

It demonstrates a glaring absence of healthy thought processes, so much so that Minerva finds herself tempted to reserve a spot for the woman in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's. But then Molly would probably enjoy being kept beside Lockhart...

Minerva leans heavily on her desk as the opprobrium washes over her. It leaves her feeling as sullied as a dip in Stinksap and less easily cleaned.

Outside the classroom, one of her fifth year O.W.L. classes stands watching their teacher listen to the Howler apprehensively. One of them in particular, Hafsa Devi, is growing increasingly anxious. She has very good reason to fear that this is another Howler from her mother, and the Professor does not look the least bit pleased. That anxiety only gets worse, much worse, when Professor McGonagall ends whatever Charm had blocked the door and bids them enter, turning to single her out in the process. "Miss Devi, would you kindly stay for a word after class?"

Damn.

Her surprise will naturally be all the greater when Professor McGonagall asks her to put an end the Charm causing her brother's tail instead. Especially because Professor Flitwick already had.

When Harry and Ron arrive at the Potions room, there's no sign of Snape, and Ron has a flicker of hope that the man won't be making it today. There's nothing on the blackboard saying that class has been cancelled, and the classroom door was wide open and unwarded, so at the least it seems likely they'll have a substitute teacher today.

But whoever it is isn't there yet.

That's not quite correct, as Albus is currently next door in Severus' office, trying to marshal his strength after the Apparition for the class to come. But as far as the students are aware, they're unsupervised, and Albus truly has weightier worries just at the moment.

His magic isn't stable. Some might argue he isn't stable either; they'd probably be right. But just now his magic is of pressing concern to him. On the other hand, given his impaired cognitive faculties, he might not even realise how serious the other issue is. Either way, the curse is progressing at an alarming pace, and he's having a bad day. The sort of day where an Apparition might leave him wanting a nap.

He's been able to Apparate for one hundred years, give or take. This is absurd.

And yet it is.

Some days his magic surges in response to the curse, and the least little thing he does takes on dangerous proportions. He finds himself frequently not trusting himself to use his magic at all lately. It's not a daily phenomenon, thank Merlin for that, but not a week goes by when it doesn't manifest. Severely. It makes him wonder how long before Severus will be forced to act, to release him from his miserable existence. And they still have so much to accomplish...

Even maintaining the Notice-Me-Not on his hand seems an effort.

He collapses into the chair at Severus' desk, staring at the pile of what appear to be... wedding presents deposited there - how ridiculous, Severus will be thrilled - and tries to catch his breath.

The Ravenclaws have finally made their way to class, and everyone is now accounted for but the instructor. Ernie Macmillan's wand vibrates very softly as his Tempus chimes. Whoever is conducting the course today is now late. Ernie still seems to think that's Snape, and wonders aloud what's keeping the man.

Armed with the news Finnigan had provided, Terry Boot tells him that would probably be Pomfrey and an Infirmary stay. There are some chuckles, Michael Corner can't quite resist telling the others about the 'Marriage-related Injuries' much to the general amusement.

And not inconsiderable speculation.

The four Slytherins and both Gryffindors abstain.

Harry is positive Michael's full of shite. "Stop talking out of your arse, Corner," he growls. The fact the boy had once dated Ginny often seems to make him even harder to stomach. But that isn't helped any when he opens his mouth and such utter bollocks constantly seems to come pouring out.

There's a quick backlash in which the other Ravenclaws, Padma, Terry and Morag MacDougal leap to Corner's defence, but it doesn't sway Harry in the least. Nothing does, he's too sure he knows what's what, as usual, that is until he takes a look at Ron and realises the ginger has gone atypically quiet. And an all too familiar shade of crimson.

It's hard to decide if it's embarrassment or anger, and probably it's a mixture of both, but as someone who had heard Nurse Wainscott pronounce just that as the reason for the Professor's hospitalisation, he knows better than anyone else there that Corner's actually got it dead right.

The door to Snape's office bangs open and the budding argument is arrested as thoroughly as if Stupefied. The relief is unanimous, particularly given the topic of the disagreement, when Professor Dumbledore strides in, all oblivious grins and friendly nods, and proceeds to offer Michael Corner a lemon sherbet, as though he didn't have his wand in his hand and weren't threatening to hex Harry.

Everyone takes their seats and pretends nothing had happened, but Harry keeps hissing at Ron to please tell him what's going on. Ron's too miserable to answer. Dumbledore gets them started on the day's lesson, and watches as everyone sets to chopping their ingredients and stirring their cauldrons.

The adaption of the Homonculous Charm that allows him to track the movements of those in the castle, without the need for a map it should be noted, although that last modification is thanks to his position as Headmaster, alerts him to a presence he's been waiting for. With a few words of apology and exceedingly generic encouragement, he disappears into Severus' office again.

"'Don't blow yourselves up'? Is he serious?" Morag asks Terry, as she adds the next ingredient to her cauldron.

Severus would be inclined to agree. Particularly when the time comes to add the grated Knarl's quills. Merlin knows, that can prove... prickly.

Terry just shakes his head in disbelief as he stirs his cauldron six times clockwise and then quickly twelve in the reverse. Sod it, or was that the other way around?

Hermione had spent long enough standing with the Baron within the Professor's wards to know something is different. It's... lost some of its... Well, it doesn't feel as good as it did yesterday. Which is a great disappointment. Sure, it was nice, there's no denying that, but it hadn't been... well, nice.

That was it, it was nice, but nothing to owl home about.

Assuming she still had a home or anyone to owl there.

As that's hardly a healthy train of thought, she worries instead that the wards have lost their effect. She's certain they're still in effect, that is to say effective. She could feel the ripple across her skin as she entered their chambers, but not that other sensation that had left her wanting to spend more time there than remotely reasonable or, say, in her perfectly wonderful shower.

It would be a real pity if that's gone for good.

She warmly greets Crooks, who gives her a reproachful 'Mrowr' before remembering he meant to ignore her, which he then does, turning his head demonstratively away from her. He's not quite the consummate actor he takes himself for, though, and as she gets some of the kippers for him from the icebox, his eyes still track her every move regardless of the direction he's ostensibly looking. And it's hardly convincing that the modern artwork should suddenly hold his interest so raptly.

She's extremely relieved to see he's now ensconced in 'her' chair. At least that worked. She laughs a little bitterly at herself that it had seemed so important to her to solve that last night, and there the Professor was marching to his... Well, not doom, exactly, but... But then it wasn't as if she hadn't suspected how dire the circumstances were.

She had just been trying to distract herself from it.

And hadn't that worked swimmingly.

She sets a saucer of milk down next to her little man's kibble and kippers, and Crooks relents. Truthfully, he's missed his witch. He leaps from their chair and darts over to her legs, winding himself between them with a steady stream of purrs, and she bends to pet him and begins apologising that she never returned... home last night.

Crooks hasn't quite the heart to resist her, at least not when fish is on offer, and soon he's in her arms for a cuddle. She buries her face in his fur, hugging him tightly, and tells him he's the loveliest boy ever. On consideration, Crooks imagines her obviously keen powers of perception must be the reason he likes her so. Beyond the kippers, of course.

It's perfectly normal for her to tell him what she's been doing, and she does, giving him much the same treatment as the Baron. Crooks is decidedly less fazed than the ghost was at her recitation. But then he's had a number of years to grow used to the witch's ways. And indisputably, fish goes a long way towards improving any story. He could recommend it wholeheartedly, but he has no intention of sharing. Which is fine, as it wouldn't help the Baron in the least anyway.

Hermione doesn't particularly notice as she does it, but her story is entirely about what happened to the Professor and their stay in the Infirmary. She still hasn't told the feline about what happened to her Friday night. Now might not be the best time for it, as she doesn't wish to keep the Baron waiting too long, but the Oath she gave the Headmaster wouldn't keep her from telling the half-Kneazle about her misadventure. Not that she's aware of that fact, as she hasn't even made an attempt. But the primary reason she hasn't tried to mention it is she still isn't quite up to putting her experience in words.

Despite Draughts.

Crooks is no fool. Sooner or later she'll explain their move to the dungeons. And how they came by their shiny new wizard. Well, perhaps not entirely 'new' or 'shiny', but then Crooks probably shouldn't be one to speak as to that. And if not her, if she doesn't spill, and soon, he'll simply go to work on said wizard. The man doesn't seem to have as much experience with felines. Crooks imagines he'll be easily mastered.

The elf is a different story altogether...

Slightly frustratingly, his witch drags him with her to her room, leaving his food bowl still untouched, setting him down in her bathroom while she continues her story as she runs a brush through her hair. He's torn. He can't begin to imagine why she'd put food out first and then expect him to follow a word she says, but he's waited this long. He can give it a few heartbeats more.

But there had better be still more fish in it for him. Or an ear scratching. That might be for the best. It probably wouldn't do to become fat.

Hermione lets out an "Oh!" of surprise when she spots her reflection. She trusts Madam Pomfrey's skills completely by now, but if this is what she looks like after the Matron had tried to tame her mane, no wonder the witch had insisted upon it. 'Tousled' is putting it mildly. She does look rather wild. Which now has her wondering just how wild she must have looked when she marched into the Great Hall this morning... Perfect.

Her hair is all the more strange for the fact it's simultaneously more styled and yet... bushier than usual, they way it gets when she's been brewing too long.

She grabs a brush and starts trying to beat it into submission, with only moderate success, continuing her rather one-sided conversation with Crooks as she does. He has his exceptionally thoughtful look about him, clever, clever boy, and no one will ever convince her he doesn't understand every word she says.

She's just moved on to brushing her teeth, Crooks takes advantage of the opportunity her forced silence provides to race back to the kitchen and his bowls, when there's a disturbance in the wards. There's a knock at the office door and, stupidly, Hermione has a moment where her heart skips irrationally with relief before she realises the Professor can't possibly be at the door. And he wouldn't knock.

And she knows from their trials yesterday that it feels... different when he's the one standing there.

She quickly rinses and goes to the door.

Hermione is surprised when she opens the door to the office to discover the Headmaster. She's even more surprised to discover that he can't enter when she bids him to, although on consideration it makes perfect sense - she has no idea of how to adjust the wards.

She, of course, has no way of knowing that he's feeling weaker today, but he isn't entirely sure he could best the wards on a good day. That sort of thing is very much Severus' forte, and to give the man his due: the wizard is no slouch. He's also very fond of material Albus has made a practice of avoiding for quite some time now. And of course acting under the guise of a double agent provides Severus with the perfect excuse to still immerse himself in darker magics.

Hermione's intrigued to discover Professor Dumbldore can't simply cross the wards or they haven't been adjusted to allow him entry. There's a tendency on the part of many students, particularly Gryffindors, to think he can do just about anything. Severus, understandably, prefers to adjust his wards as he sees the need. Naturally, he rarely sees a need.

She's even more surprised when the Headmaster brushes aside her apology for not being able to invite him in to ask her to step into the office instead. He has something for her. In point of fact, he has a whole bunch of... somethings.

There's a pile of what seem to be gifts, wedding gifts, how unexpected, apparently for her and the Professor. She has a fleeting moment of worry as to how he'll take that. Then she spots a bottle of Ogden's and imagines he'll be sensibly pragmatic about it. But she makes a note to herself that she should probably handle the 'thank you's without him. Yes, that would undoubtedly be for the best.

She sets a Wingardium Leviosa to work to shift the haul to the nearby dining room table. There's a brief flash of pleasure when she spots what she is sure must be a gift voucher from Flourish & Blotts, before she decides she should probably leave that to him, too, given he's the one who has clearly suffered losses off the back of this bonding of theirs.

Albus watches the witch's expression as she moves the things into her chambers. She really is incredibly easy to read. The happiness, ah, books. The concern, yes, champagne. He smiles slightly, her instincts are probably right on that score. The concentration as she summons a yellow glazed ceramic plate from the kitchen and arranges what can only be Rock Cakes from Hagrid upon it. For the adventurous, to be sure. It's followed by a glass which she Transfigures into a vase for her... wedding bouquet. Yes, those are the flowers from Sunday, which she then Banishes in the direction of what used to be Severus' study.

It's presumably her room now...

And then with equal concentration she sets to cleaning the cheery yellow vase the bouquet had been in so it can now hold Pomona's flower arrangement, in pride of place in the centre of the table. When she's done, it all looks rather lovely, set up the way she's done it, somewhat artfully arranged around the bouquet. She has a deft touch.

Severus will absolutely hate it, he's sure.

"How is Severus doing?"

"Madam Pomfrey says he'll wake soon." She doesn't really answer his question. She holds him and his bloody announcement yesterday to blame for the Professor's state, and she finds it difficult to wish to be... cooperative just at the moment. But she's also not terribly good at bucking authority, and instead offers, "I'm planning on joining the two of them for lunch."

Albus tries not to smirk at how Severus is likely to receive that. Still, she's every bit as loyal as he'd hoped. That should help. Merlin knows, she'll need to be.

"I'm covering Severus' classes. He's been... painstakingly thorough with his notes," he says with a huff of humour. He can't help thinking about entries such as 'Kurz is a catastrophe personified. Under no circumstances let him out of your sight for even an instant when brewing.' No, Severus had made it practically idiot proof.

"The whole week is prepared, should we need it, so there are no worries there. There's no rush. He should take as much time as he needs. Or wants. But I was hoping to hear how he's faring."

Hermione has a sudden awareness of what that means. With a sense of horror she realises that probably while she'd been inanely trying to master Charms to Vanish Crooks' fur, of all the utterly, unbelievably stupid and inconsequential things, the man must have sat there at his desk knowing full well he'd soon be out of commission, at least for a while, or possibly worse, and had prepared for it calmly, all on his own, as if it were a day like any other.

Which it may well have been for him.

Just the thought of it kind of makes her sick.

Albus watches her blanch, Legilimency takes care of the rest. Yes, she's beginning to understand. Well, if she had tended to be loyal before, this understanding will only help. He asks her to keep him informed about Severus' condition. He doesn't think she heard a word. He tells her he needs to return to class. Absently she thanks him for the presents, almost as though they were from him. With a twinge of guilt, he realises none of them were as she closes the door between them.