Chapter Text
o0o
She stood atop the Astronomy Tower and gazed down at the field of battle below. One by one, her friends were felled by curses or mauled by monsters, until there was nobody left but her.
'We have triumphed!' crowed Voldemort, his magically amplified voice cutting through the din. Across the battlefield, black-robed men and women raised their fists and cried out their support.
The voices faded as the spirits of the dead began to rise from the corpses strewn across the lawn. They rose like a silver mist, dozens of dead faces, dead hands reaching skyward, toward what she was unable to determine. Perhaps heaven, perhaps others among the dead, perhaps they sought in mute anguish the point of it all.
Suddenly her reality shifted, and instead of reaching out to the sky the spectral hands were reaching for her. She raised her arm, in part to deflect them and in part to keep from looking at the disappointed and envious faces of those who had died.
She lowered her arm and found herself facing the spirits of Harry and Ron. Her eyes filled with tears.
'Don't cry, Hermione,' said Ron, who looked ready to cry himself. 'We'll be together again someday.'
'Yeah,' agreed Harry. 'Don't feel bad for us. We're getting out. You're the one who's going to have to deal with the world under Voldemort's rule.'
Ron winced. 'What'd you say his name for?' he demanded.
'Weasley, you and Potter are dead,' came a sardonic voice from behind them. The shade of Severus Snape stood before her, his neck streaked with silvery blood. 'The Ministry is no longer tracking your taboo words. And I hope you're happy now, Miss Granger.'
Outrage overcame fear. 'What are you talking about? I didn't want this!'
Snape's ghost smirked at her. 'You always wanted definitive proof that Divination is rubbish. The Dark Lord has given you just that.'
'This isn't real,' she said firmly. 'This is a nightmare. We won, you see, but loads of people died. I don't think I'm taking it too well.'
He smirked at her. 'Welcome to the world of the traumatised survivor, Miss Granger,' he said. 'You may take comfort that your visit here will be of short duration.'
'Is that a threat?'
'No, Miss Granger,' he said with a sigh. 'It's time for you to wake up.'
Every muscle in Hermione's body clenched, and she jerked into wakefulness, covered in sweat.
She immediately threw back the covers in an attempt to cool her overheated flesh and sighed as the night air hit her skin. Her bed in the infirmary was closest to the open window. The spring breezes carried with them the smells of the forest and blooming flowers but also the sulphurous tang of the day's battle. If the nearby duet of snores was any indication, Ron and Harry were fast asleep.
Despite having sent all the other wounded off to St. Mungo's, Madam Pomfrey had insisted that they spend the night in the infirmary. Hermione was profoundly grateful not to have to answer any questions about Voldemort's demise just yet. However, it seemed that her conscience was not deterred by Madam Pomfrey's insistence that they rest undisturbed.
She slid out of bed and carefully opened the infirmary door just wide enough to slip through. The moon was visible from the corridor windows, and she found herself winding down the hallway between patches of moonlight.
She knew that no teachers would be about; she'd overheard Professors Sprout and McGonagall describing the last time the Hogwarts staff had reason to celebrate, which involved cleaning Madam Rosmerta out of mead and Professor Flitwick collecting a pair of knickers from every female staff member. She wondered how anybody could be celebrating tonight.
She paused by the window and gazed out over the lawn, where Ministry officials were cataloguing and removing the dead. Given the scope of the battle, they would be at the task for quite some time. Moving lights behind the windows of the Great Hall led her to conclude that efforts were still underway to stabilise parts of the castle that had been damaged, in spite of its ancient magical protections.
Hermione wondered if they'd fixed the wall that had collapsed on Fred Weasley or cleaned where Lavender Brown had fallen. Hogwarts had stood for a thousand years and would likely stand for thousands more, but its hallowed halls were now stained with blood, and she feared it would never feel safe to her again.
Hermione found that her feet had carried her to a familiar tapestry with dancing trolls. She smiled ruefully at the blank wall where the Room of Requirement's door had appeared to her so many times before.
The Room was another safe place that had been violently taken from her. She felt very foolish for not having understood that the room wasn't just there because she needed it, it was there for anyone, regardless of their intentions. Apparently, Neville and the rest of Dumbledore's Army had learned from her mistake, but she knew the error had been one of the causes for Sirius's death.
She knew that she was not entirely to blame, but she couldn't help but imagine how the night might have been different if they hadn't been caught by the Inquisitorial Squad that night. Harry might have had the sense to search Grimmauld Place for Sirius instead of taking Kreacher's word for it that he was gone. Powerful Order members might have taken the Death Eaters by surprise without bloodshed.
Silent tears began running down her face as she wondered how the previous day's battle would have been different if she'd thought to check the Room of Hidden Things for the diadem first, or if she'd been brave enough to use Fiendfyre to destroy the Horcruxes, or if she hadn't broken Harry's wand. Perhaps Hogwarts never would have been attacked. How many more would be alive today if she'd been smarter and more determined? She sank down against the wall by the portrait and cried, her entire body wracked with silent sobs.
She wished fervently that there were some way to make amends to the victims of her stupidity.
No sooner had the thought formed in her mind than a soft scraping sound came from across the hall. She lifted her head and was surprised to see a door in the opposite wall. It wasn't the brass-finished oak of the Room of Requirement, or the ancient ironwood of the Room of Hidden Things. Instead, this door's fixtures were made of metal that was so dark a silver that it was nearly blue.
Too surprised to cry any longer, Hermione lifted the latch and opened the door.
o0o
She entered an enormously tall room whose walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, except for one gap where a handsome fireplace stood. A single wing chair sat by the fire next to a table with a reading lamp. Several books had been stacked on the table.
The shelves contained books of every size and colour sorted by publication date, if the brass signs on the shelves were correct. She was surprised to realise that she didn't recognise any of the titles, though there were occasionally authors whose names she knew from History of Magic, such as Professional Lute-Playing by Helga Hufflepuff. As she continued examining books' spines, Hermione began to get an inkling of the room's purpose, but it wasn't until she came across Dumblewald's Magical Confectionary by Albus Dumbledore that she began to understand what she was seeing.
The room was a repository for wishes and dreams. To test her theory, she pulled Holyhead Harpies' First Male Seeker by Sirius Black from the shelf and began to read.
Though they both rode Cleansweeps and played for the same team, there was no question in Gwenog's mind which of the young Gryffindors bore further consideration. While James Potter struck amusing poses before throwing the Quaffle through the scoring hoop, to the sighs and screams of the female students, she only had eyes for the dark-haired boy- no, she corrected herself- the dark-haired man flying far overhead. His flying didn't have the flash and dash of Potter's. He was economical and spare, not one turn wasted, like a bird of prey. She found it hard to believe that he was Gryffindor's reserve seeker, who was playing today while the regular Seeker was in detention. She concluded that he must be a modest, serious sort of player, not the kind to showboat and flirt, but rather to do what was needed in order to win. Gwenog could respect that.
Suddenly, there it was- a flash of gold by the Slytherin scoring hoops. The announcer had seen it too and shouted its position into his microphone. Two dark blurs descended upon it while the audience screamed their support. The Snitch was not to be caught so easily. It led the Seekers on a merry chase around the stands, through the goal posts, and finally up into the sky so high that they were barely visible.
James Potter ignored the spectacle and flexed his muscles after making a particularly fine score. He scowled when nobody cheered and looked up to see what they were watching. Gwenog was holding her breath.
Was it her imagination, or were the tiny dots overhead getting larger? Sure enough, the Snitch was leading the Seekers back down to earth in a large corkscrew. Gwenog knew from her time with the Holyhead Harpies that the Snitch never continued in one direction for very long. What often separated the good Seekers from the great ones was their ability to anticipate when the Snitch would veer off and what its new direction would be. Was this Gryffindor merely good?
As if in answer to her question, the Snitch broke out of its downward spiral and zoomed off towards the crowd. The Gryffindor came with it, but the Slytherin continued spiralling and realised too late that he was much closer to the ground than he anticipated. A sympathetic groan ran through the crowd. The Slytherin Seeker must have crashed, but Gwenog's eyes were on the Gryffindor. His fingers were reaching out towards the Snitch.
Gwenog gasped as she realised that both Snitch and Seeker were headed directly toward her. Would he be able to catch it before crashing into the stands? Time seemed to slow. The Seeker's fingers closed around the Snitch, and he pulled up hard on his broomstick, changing direction no more than two metres away from her. The turbulence from his prior trajectory swirled deliciously around her, and she found herself cheering wildly with the rest of the Gryffindors.
Time seemed to return to normal, and the announcer's words rang through the stadium. 'BLACK HAS THE SNITCH! BLACK HAS THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS, THREE HUNDRED TO SEVENTY! THE QUIDDITCH CUP IS GRYFFINDOR'S! WHAT AN AMAZING CATCH FROM THE RESERVE GRYFFINDOR SEEKER!'
The man in question had landed on the pitch and was being mobbed by his teammates and the other members of his house. The stands slowly emptied, and the crowd around Black began to dissipate. He modestly accepted their congratulations, but he did not join the procession back to the castle, presumably to celebrate the brilliant victory. Instead, he headed towards the showers.
Gwenog slid beneath the bleachers and surreptitiously followed him. Merlin, but fantastic catches made her hot. She and Black had much to discuss.
Hermione pulled herself from Sirius's narrative with a start. Her cheeks were flaming as she skimmed the rest of the book, which involved an extremely steamy encounter in the showers and creative use of a wash flannel. The next chapter seemed to be about a terribly rude hazing ritual for new members of the Holyhead Harpies, and the third was another post-victory shower scene, but this one involved the entire team. The story ended with a warm domestic scene of Sirius at Grimmauld Place with the Harpies. Gwenog and both Beaters were great with Sirius's progeny, a dozen other new additions to the Ancient and Noble House of Black cavorted around their mothers and father, and everyone was happy.
Hermione would have been uniformly revolted if she hadn't realised how sad it was that Harry's godfather had desperate and ultimately futile fantasies about continuing the Black name. She also thanked her lucky stars that she hadn't started reading Dumblewald's Magical Confectionary. But she felt as though she understood why these particular dreams were shut away in a secret room. These dreams were dead, and would never be fulfilled.
Anxious to test her hypothesis, she continued perusing the shelves. She was relieved to find that not all of the books were sexual in nature or as detailed as Sirius's fantasy. For instance, Regulus Black hoped one day to find the cherished stamp collection he accidentally left in Diagon Alley when he was fourteen. Remus Lupin had once wanted to be Head Boy. Obviously, that wish never came true.
When she neared the end of her circuit, she noticed something odd about the final bookshelf- its books were moving. No, that wasn't quite right. They were disappearing and reappearing, blinking in and out of existence at a blinding rate, so quickly that she couldn't quite see their titles.
Of course. If the rest of room housed dead dreams, this shelf likely contained the dreams of the living, or at least dreams that were still alive. As long as there was a possibility that the dream could come true, it could not be confined to the room. And suddenly it all made sense. She had expressed a desire to make amends to the dead, and now she had a way to ensure at least some of their secret wishes came to pass.
The only problem was that the static stacks of books contained dreams that had died, and short of stealing a Time-Tuner, it was impossible for her to change that. She would need to search among the improbable but living dreams until she found one that would be of use. She turned again to the moving shelf, held out her hand, and seized the first book her fingers touched.
Having a Better Broomstick than William Beardsley by Cyril Pennifold. No, that wouldn't do. She put it back on the shelf, and it disappeared a moment later.
Getting Invited to Janice Morley's Birthday Party was the next volume, followed by Telling My Boss to Get Stuffed, GURG GRAWP GETS GOATS, and Running Off With Gwenog Jones to a Deserted Island Far Enough Away Not to Hear My Wife Nagging About the Washing Up. Hermione was beginning to wonder if there shouldn't be an entire section devoted to fantasies about Gwenog Jones.
Nine N.E.W.T.s was next, written by Romilda Vane. That was pure fantasy as far as Hermione was concerned, given that the girl spent far more time thinking about boys than she did her homework. And finally, Teddy: Not Always Knocking Things Over Like Me by Nymphadora Tonks. Hermione made a mental note to talk to Tonks's mum about getting Teddy into dancing lessons as soon as he was old enough.
She put the book back on the shelf and grinned. She knew it was silly to feel cheered by resolving to bring about Tonks's dream of having a graceful son, but it felt like a weight was lifting from her shoulders.
She stood in front of the shifting shelf once again and began pulling out titles: Being More Famous than Celestina Warbeck, Losing My Virginity on the Knight Bus, Gringotts Accidentally Putting a Million Galleons in My Account, and Buggering Draco Malfoy in Detention While Being Spied on by Professor-, which went back on the shelf before she could finish reading the title, much less the author.
It was then that she wondered whether grabbing random fantasies was a good idea. She knew she'd be horrified if someone else had unlimited access to her fantasies and dreams. What if she came across something she'd rather not know?
As she gazed at the books that buzzed tantalizingly before her, a thought occurred to her. If the room could grant her access because of her wish to help the dead, surely it could help her locate specific dreams.
She closed her eyes and thought very hard about Fred Weasley, willing one of his dreams to come to her. When she opened them, she was slightly disappointed to find that the books were still flickering in and out of the shelf. She closed her eyes and focused harder on her wish to help victims of Voldemort's campaign. She turned in circles for good measure and extended her hand. Her fingers closed on a book
Everyone Loves My Pussy by Argus Filch.
Hermione scowled and threw it back on the shelf. It winked cheekily out of existence. It was then that the stack of books on the reading table caught her eye. Chiding herself for not having looked at them sooner, she sat in the chair, turned on the reading light, and began examining the titles.
Eureka.
Not Being a Werewolf by Remus Lupin. Well, curing Lycanthropy might take some time. Three Chasers, Two Beaters by Fred Weasley. Honestly, did Gryffindor boys have fantasies that didn't involve Quidditch? She continued through the stack, perusing more dreams by Fred and Remus until she found Make George a Fantastic New Ear and Improve Werewolf Standing through Lobbying and Otherwise Being a Pain in the Arse, both of which sounded like dreams she could accomplish with a bit of metallurgic research, a few letters and Replicating Charms. She set the books on the other side of the table and intended to get to the bottom of the stack, but she paused. It was a terrible temptation to simply read, especially if it meant finding out what kind of ear Fred thought George should have. The Weasleys were planning a memorial service in two days' time. She was confident that she could come up with something by then.
Hermione shifted in her seat. The chair wasn't nearly as comfortable as it looked. She stood and lifted the seat cushion, intending to fluff it, and was surprised to find an unmarked black leather notebook beneath the cushion. Unlike the other books in the room, it didn't proclaim its title or author. She began flipping through the pages, and a cold feeling washed over her as she realised that it was completely blank. The book fell from her shaking fingers and fell open on the floor.
She frowned, irritated by her irrational fear. There were dozens of reasons for the book to be blank that didn't involve Horcruxes. It could be written in Invisible Ink. It might be enchanted to reveal its contents only to the owner. It could have even been provided by the room for the purpose of note taking, since she strongly suspected that the dreams only had physical form in the room.
She attempted to finish Remus's instructions for being an arse, but she realised that she was reading the same paragraph over and over. She would be able to absorb no further dreams, and the black book was still lying innocently on the floor, practically begging to be investigated. Though perhaps not tonight.
Satisfied that she had wishes sufficient to alleviate her conscience for a while, Hermione tucked the black book under her arm and left the room. The door disappeared as soon as it closed, leaving Hermione alone in the moonlit hallway.
One of the trolls in the tapestry waved merrily at her as she passed on her way back to the Hospital Wing. However, she soon found that going to sleep was the last thing on her mind. What she needed was a bath. Madam Pomfrey's Cleansing Charms only went so far, especially when one had been in hiding for months. She had towels and toiletries in her beaded bag, by her bed in the Hospital Wing. Hermione wasted no time in retrieving it. She prayed that they hadn't changed the Prefect's Bath password in the past year.
o0o
Bliss.
The password hadn't changed, or else the gargoyle had been knocked silly, and Hermione was floating in a tub of lilac-scented water, allowing the pain and soreness to drain out of her body. It had been so long since she had been properly alone and able to let her body relax. Unaccustomed as it was to stillness, her mind was still spinning, weighing the pros and cons of various materials for George's new ear, making a list of libraries to peruse for her werewolf project, wondering if Muggle martial arts might be a better choice for Teddy, and half wishing she had looked to see who wanted to bugger Draco Malfoy in detention.
Finally, her thoughts turned to the mysterious black book. Her body and mind felt refreshed by the soak, and it seemed a shame to waste her privacy. She paddled over to the edge of the pool where her bag lay. After drying her hands on a towel, she pulled the book from the bag and laid it open on the edge of the tub.
She waved her wand. 'Specialis Revelio!'
The book was instantly enveloped in a purple glow. Odd, it was supposed to be red if the book was cursed or blue if the magic on it was neutral. How could it be both? Her speculation was broken by a flare of light from her spell, which formed a ghost image of the book opening, and a pen writing it.
So the magic would be activated when the book was open and written in. The final part of the spell was supposed to show what the magic did, but the book began to tremble. Then, it began to shake, and before she knew it, it was clattering around the rim of the tub. Finally, the book flipped up on its spine and made a frantic flapping motion with its cover, and Hermione's spell disappeared with an audible poof.
The book, radiating smugness, lay open before her, pages rustling innocently as the book settled into stillness.
So much for Invisible Ink.
Still, it didn't look like any of the Horcruxes she'd seen. Voldemort's were blindingly red when she cast the charm on them, and she couldn't imagine any split soul would be even particularly benevolent. Even if it wasn't a Horcrux, she had no idea what it was or what it was intended to do. She supposed that it couldn't hurt to ask it.
She rummaged around in the bag until she found what she was looking for: a Dictoquill. If the book were intended to influence her, its power over her would be weaker if she didn't touch it.
She tapped the quill with the end of her wand, and it sprang to attention, hovering expectantly over the blank page.
'Hello,' she said. The quill scribbled the word on the page.
The ink appeared to be soaking into the page, but just before it disappeared, it began to shimmer and rearrange itself.
What the hell are you?
'Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.' The quill scratched out her response.
How are you writing? I can't sense anything.
'You expect me to reveal my identity when you haven't told me what you are?'
The ink faded into nothingness, which Hermione supposed was its version of a thoughtful pause.
I'm not a toy. Play with me at your peril.
'Well, other than being a book of cross words, what are you?'
This is a journal containing research notes far beyond your comprehension.
Hermione was amused to note that her derisive snort had been transcribed as 'Hmph.' 'Oh really?'
Unless I have the honour of addressing someone of Masters level or higher, you can sod off.
'You're technically addressing a Dictoquill. However, I could be convinced to give you my academic credentials in exchange for the subject of your research.'
No, and that ploy was utterly obvious. You must be a Gryffindor.
Hermione frowned. The book must have been made by a Ravenclaw or Slytherin to have embraced that particular stereotype. She thought fast. 'Well, if you're content being lost in the mists of time, I'm happy to help by Transfiguring you into a rock and throwing you in the lake.'
I think you'll find that destroying this journal is a bit more difficult than you suspect.
A Slytherin, then. A Ravenclaw would find the notion of lost research romantic. She found herself smiling at her invisible opponent. 'I might not have a Mastery under my belt, but I do know a thing or two about ridding the world of stubborn magical artefacts.'
I wish you'd rid the world of yourself.
'Are you this obnoxious to everyone that finds your book, or are you just angry that I've got around your detecting spells?'
Gryffindors are careless. It's only a matter of time before you make a mistake.
'That begs the question of whether or not I decide to throw you in the lake tonight. And honestly, I've managed to write in the book without your being able to tell who I am. What makes you think I'll have any trouble disposing of you similarly?'
Oh yes, your Specialis Revelio was truly formidable. You might have noticed that it's no longer working. Go ahead and try a Hovering Charm or any other movement charm and see how well those work.
Hermione was torn between irritation and admiration of the book's ability to convey sarcasm. 'So you embedded the countercharms. Too bad I'm too far away for you to sense my boundless admiration.'
Obviously, your mother never taught you to treat unknown magic with respect.
'That would be a safe assumption, considering that my mother is a Muggle.'
The ink from her last statement faded nearly into nothingness. Hermione stared at the blank page, surprised that the Slytherin book hadn't said anything insulting about her parentage.
Look. It's obvious that you're not completely stupid, albeit annoying. But you need to understand that I'm not going to let you see the contents of this journal unless you let me gauge your knowledge and intentions.
'Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I'm not going to allow that for the very simple reason that I don't deal with anything if I can't see where it keeps its brain.'
You must be on poor terms with the Fat Lady, then.
Odd. A Slytherin who not only knows the Fat Lady but also knows to call her the Fat Lady? 'You expect me to believe that you're simply a mechanism protecting the information inside?'
Why wouldn't I be?
'Because you haven't asked for a password or any way for me to identify myself without a gross intrusion of my magical space and consciousness. Unless this is some sort of test to see if I'm dim enough to be bullied into exposing myself.'
Fine. Then give me the password.
She scowled at the book. 'I don't believe there is one. You'd have asked for it straightaway.'
Not like I'd tell you, either way.
Hermione thought for a moment. The only other enchanted object she'd seen with content protection this elaborate was the Marauder's Map. Was it possible that this book was made by the same makers?
'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,' she said.
Delighted to hear it. Unfortunately, that still doesn't tell me who you are or why you want to access my research.
'I don't even know if I want to access your research,' she protested. 'You won't tell me what its subject is!'
Then why are you bothering me? Surely there are less argumentative books in the world.
Hermione gritted her teeth. 'Because whoever you are, you've put together an interesting set of protection charms, and I'm curious to know what they're protecting. However, it's obvious that you desire to be read by nobody, ever, and I suppose the least I can do for troubling you is to help you with that. Goodbye.'
She had wrapped her bath-wrinkled fingers in a towel and reached to close the book, when two words appeared on the page.
It's Potions.
'What is?'
The research in this book. It's all about Potions. The book allowed its words to fade. You like Potions?
'It's all right,' she said, somewhat bewildered by the book's change of heart. Or whatever it was that enchanted books changed. 'The teacher leaves something to be desired.'
Don't I know it. Still, it could be worse. If you weren't so good at Charms, it'd be impossible to break into his ingredients stores.
Hermione froze. How on earth could the book have known that? Obviously, the Dictoquill wasn't an effective enough barrier. She sent the quill flying back into her bag and slammed the book shut with a towel-wrapped hand.
Just to be on the safe side, she covered the book with a damp flannel when she got out of the tub, in case it had the ability to spy on more than her mind. After a cursory scrub with a towel, she slipped on her bathrobe and began combing the tangles from her hair. As she detangled methodically from the ends of her hair to her scalp, she recalled the bizarre conversation she'd had with the book.
They'd done nothing but skirmish verbally until she'd revealed a piece of information about herself- that her mother was a Muggle. It was then that the book had changed tacks and tried to argue logically with her. But then it had made the remarks about their Potions teacher, her Charms ability, and breaking into the Potions stores.
It was the comment about breaking into the Potions stores that she understood the least. The book's tone had been conspiratorial almost, as if it had somehow been involved. And what had her ability with Charms to do with it? She'd stolen from the stores at the one time it was left open- during class. The only charm she'd used was one to enlarge the capacity of her bag to accommodate the Polyjuice ingredients, which was unremarkable, even though it wasn't taught until fourth year.
Or perhaps the book hadn't been lying when it said it couldn't sense her. Perhaps the book had drawn its own conclusions about her identity from what she'd said, or how she'd said it. In which case, she could identify the book's creator by trying to determine what person with a Muggle mother had been friends or acquaintances with someone serious enough about Potions to have written an independent research journal on the subject.
The obvious answer was Harry's mum, which meant that the journal belonged to Professor Snape. According to what Harry had told them about Professor Snape's memories, they'd been friends before they started running in different social circles, and Snape had been in love with her.
Excitement swept through her as she took the flannel-wrapped book in her hand once again and slipped it into her bag. She cast a quick Drying Charm on herself and ran to the empty hallway as quickly as her feet could carry her.
I need a quiet place to do research on this book, she thought desperately. Someplace I won't be disturbed or interrupted, she amended hastily.
She nearly fainted with relief when the familiar door to the Room of Requirement appeared, and she found a cosy room inside with a table and a wide array of automatic quills and books on Charmed Journals.
Her hands trembled with excitement as she pulled the journal from her bag and laid it on the table. She removed the damp flannel and used it to flip the book open. The Dictoquill hovered over the page, waiting for her instructions.
Suddenly, she found that she had no idea what to say. Should play along with the book's assumption that she was Lily? Given that Lily had married James Potter, was that even a viable option? This was compounded by the fact that she still wasn't entirely sure of the journal's intentions, or those of its maker.
However, the journal took the decision out of her hands.
I'm dead, aren't I?
'Why do you say that?' asked Hermione carefully.
Because you came back, even after realizing who I am.
'What's that supposed to mean?' she asked with a touch of asperity.
You made it clear that you never wanted to speak with me again. Now, tell me how I died. You owe me that, at least.
'I fail to see how I owe you anything,' she said. 'If anything, I rescued you from an exceptionally boring eternity under a seat cushion.'
Nothingness is better than not knowing.
'You would say that.'
Quit stalling. How did I die?
'A snakebite.'
Impossible, the book scoffed. I've built up immunity to every snake venom in existence, not to mention most poisons.
Hermione remembered the Half-Blood Prince's Potions text and smirked. 'Why didn't you just carry around a bezoar?'
You can't shove a bezoar down your own throat if you're tied up or otherwise incapacitated.
'The things one learns from associating with Mulciber and Avery.'
That was Lucius Malfoy, actually, and at least my friends never pretended to be anything they weren't, unlike yours. Now, tell me about the snake that killed me.
'This obsession with your own death can't be healthy,' said Hermione, not wishing to discuss Horcruxes with a possibly cursed object. She didn't want to give it any ideas.
If I'm dead, what difference would healthy behaviour make? Did it swallow me whole or something?
'It wasn't an ordinary snake,' replied Hermione, carefully. The quill paused over the page, as if waiting for the rest of her statement.
A basilisk?
'No, but it was enhanced by very dark magic. The snake's poison nearly killed my friend's dad because it prevented the blood from congealing over the bite.'
Do you know anything about the magic that was used to enhance it?'
'Forget it. I'm not going to talk about it. Besides, you owe me now. Tell me a bit more about how you got a version of yourself into this journal. Did you use a potion like the one they use to develop magical photographs?'
Tell me about the magic on the snake, or you'll get nothing more from me.
Hermione's hands were shaking. 'For the last time, no! The last thing you need is more knowledge of the Dark Arts! Isn't the fact that Dark Magic killed you enough to keep you from wanting to know about it?'
It's the fact that it killed me that makes me want to know about it, and you are such a bleeding hypocrite to lecture me about it. I never believed you for an instant when you said you were giving it up. You loved it as much as I did, the hexes we invented and the potions we made for fun. What would your precious Gryffindors say if they knew that the countercharm for Sectumsempra was the lullaby your mum used to sing you? We thought it was a great joke. Do you think your house mates would see the humour in it?
Hermione stared at the ink that shone on the page before her, hardly daring to believe what she was reading. That certainly hadn't been one of the memories that Snape left for Harry. Of course, the memories that Snape left were intended to help Harry and possibly to help clear Snape of Dumbledore's murder. Memories of dabbling in Dark Magic with Lily accomplished neither goal.
She pondered how to respond for a moment before finally seizing upon an idea from the memory that Harry had characterised as Snape's worst.
'They might have done,' she said, hoping the Dictoquill could translate her nonchalant tone. 'You may recall that they were rather fond of Levicorpus.'
The spell was too good not to share with your bully Gryffindors mates, wasn't it?
The bitter tone of the question set of warning bells in her mind. 'I don't know what you mean.'
I know you lied to me, Lily. You taught them that spell, knowing they'd use it on me. You told me they'd stolen the journal and that's how they knew, but that's not possible.
'Why not?'
Because I was the one who stole your journal.
'You stole it?'
Don't you dare play the injured party! I was using it your notes to make this journal for you. It contains all of our work, all of the things we wanted to do, and it's safe as houses. I worked harder on the protection charms than I'd ever worked on anything, and then you gave your mates our private weapon to use on me.
Hermione's mind was struggling to reconcile what Harry had told her with what the book was telling her. 'But you came back to me. You apologised for what you said.'
And you refused to forgive me. The next day, you let James bloody Potter snog you.
Hermione only had Snape's memories of that day through Harry's description, and she could think of no plausible reason for Lily to have done such a thing, though she doubted that Professor Snape needed much reason to believe the worst of anyone.
'Did it never occur to you that one of them could have read my journal in secret before you stole it? Or perhaps they even pinched it from you after you'd pinched it from me.'
I might actually believe that if you hadn't run to Potter for comfort so soon after.
Hermione felt a stab of indignation. 'Of all the things you can say about him, he never automatically believed the worst of me without giving me a chance to explain, unlike you, who were supposed to be my best friend.'
He would have done if you'd been in Slytherin. You're hopelessly naïve if you believe otherwise.
Hermione couldn't dispute the truth of the statement. If James and Sirius hadn't been so blinded by their Gryffindor bias, they might have sensed the traitor in their midst before Voldemort had shown up at the Potters' door.
'James and Sirius are dead, you know,' she said, not quite sure what comfort this would give this magical imprint of Snape.
Her words lingered on the page for a surprisingly long time before they faded.
Did I outlive them?
Trust Snape to still be looking for a way to one-up them. 'Yes.'
Did we ever find each other after Potter's death?
His question made her heart swell painfully. 'No. We never did.'
Do you still hate me for what I said that day?
'I don't hate you.'
Then why won't you touch the journal? I made it for you. Why are you still using a magical quill to write?
'What possible difference could that make?'
Not all of the charms on this book are meant to ensure privacy.
In her mind's eye, Hermione could see Professor Snape's self-satisfied smirk, which made her smile. It also made her shiver in anticipation. However, a nagging voice in the back of her head reminded her how dangerous enchanted books could be, and she was determined to figure out what sort of threat, if any, the book posed to her before writing in it anymore.
'I need to go now.'
Will you return?
'Maybe.' She deactivated the Dictoquill, pulled an old jumper from her bag, wrapped the book in it, and tucked it safely into her beaded bag.
As she made her way back to the hospital wing, the exhaustion that her curiosity had held at bay came crashing down on her. She fell into healing, dreamless sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
o0o