Chapters 41-50

Worrying and Worse

Harry Potter was worried. This was nothing new. Rather, it was his customary state of mind. In fact, he barely remembered how it felt not being worried, or worse.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed the scar on his forehead, before turning his attention back to Hermione’s letter.

Harry was aware of the conditions of Hermione’s apprenticeship. She had explained the magical contract very carefully to him, since its clauses meant she would probably not be able to tell him about some developments concerning The Plan. She was sworn to keep her master’s secrets. Things might come up that she couldn’t tell him, even if she wanted to. Harry would have to read between the lines.

He sighed and read the letter again.

Hermione had looked awful at the last Order meeting. Her face had a pinched, painful look, the skin almost as pasty as Snape’s, plum-coloured circles under her eyes. She’d been jumpy, too. Nervous. And when she’d picked up her glass of pumpkin juice, her hand had been shaking.

Come to think of, Snape hadn’t looked a whit better. Harry frowned in concentration. A good part of his auror training was devoted to noticing things, little details that other wizards would miss. While Hermione guarded Snape’s secrets, Lois Petrel was not bound by any oaths or magical contracts. (Another frown and a mental note—one of these days he had to look into whatever was going on between Lois and Ron.) Anyway, Lois had told Ron about the incident with the Dark Mark and its subsequent removal by Muggle means. Ron in turn had told Harry, who’d had enough by that time of all that talking around corners and had gone straight to McGonagall. At first pretending that she didn’t know what he was talking about, the Headmistress’ frustration had finally made her spill the whole story.

Apparently recurring nightmares had pushed Snape into using Dark Magic of all things to try to remove the Mark, almost killing him in the process. McGonagall had been utterly furious at Snape’s unprecedented foolhardiness and lack of trust. But Harry suspected that Minerva’s uncharacteristically emotional reaction to the incident was mainly due to her concern for the well-being of the Potions master.

Well-being, my arse, he thought, his mind jumping to the latest news from the Ministry of Magic. With Umbridge appointed the new Probations Officer, Snape’s happiness was the least of their worries. Arthur had managed to get his hands on Umbridge’s timetable, and it seemed her first check-up visit with the notorious ex-Death Eater was scheduled for the second week of January.

He put Hermione’s letter on the table, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Placing his palms on either side of the missive, he leant over the table, scanning the lines once more.

Something really bothered him about that letter. Something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

He couldn’t say why, but there was something about that question that chased shivers down his spine. Harry shook himself. It’s probably my imagination, an overreaction on my part, he thought. Just an augurey flying over my grave…

DAMN. Grave. That was it. How do you live with yourself—a question that implied an alternative. Death.

Overreacting. Reacting. Something must have happened.

oooOooo

‘Arbroath,’ he muttered, and the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the office of the Headmistress slid aside. While Professor Dumbledore’s passwords had reflected his sweet-tooth, Professor McGonagall attempted to educate anyone who had access to her office in the history of Scotland.

Arbroath for instance, Harry’s reasearch had revealed, referred to a declaration of Scottish independence and confirmation of Scotland’s status as a sovereign state in 1320.

As the revolving staircase elevated him to the office, he wondered how the hell he should go about discussing Snape and Hermione with the Headmistress of Hogwarts.

oooOooo

When Harry Potter announced his desire to discuss Severus Snape and Hermione Granger with her, Minerva McGonagall cast a longing glance at the shelf that held her impressive collection of single malt whiskies. Unfortunately—and contrary to the beliefs of her beloved grandfather, who had held fast to the conviction that it was never too early for a wee dram—the headmistress didn’t regard eleven o’ clock on a Sunday morning as the appropriate time to indulge in the water of life.

‘Well,’ she said, adjusting her spectacles. Harry appeared to be more than concerned. And he did not have the doubtful pleasure to observe the Potions Master and his apprentice on a daily basis. ‘Well,’ she repeated, took off her glasses and carefully rubbed them clean with an embroidered handkerchief.

‘As far as her apprenticeship is concerned, Hermione is doing very well indeed. She is teaching the First and the Second Years and supervising the study groups of the Third and the Fourth Years. Additionally she is involved in Professor Snape’s private research and has started a potions project of her own.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Impatiently Harry waved away those technical details. ‘I want to know how they are. I know that Hermione is doing well, she’s Hermione, for God’s sake.’

‘Not well, I’m afraid. Not well at all.’

Since the Wizengamot had pronounced the ridiculous conditions for Snape’s probation, not a day had passed when she hadn’t worried about the younger man. While Minerva admired Hermione’s determination to save Severus’ life, she had rather serious doubts concerning the young woman’s plan and its prospects of success.

And to top things off she had to allow Umbridge inside Hogwarts again. The evening and the opportunity to enjoy a rather hefty nightcap really couldn’t come too soon.