The Birds and the Bees

The portrait of the woman with the bunch of lilies was dozing quietly in the headmaster's office when a loud noise awakened her. Opening her eyes, she was about to have a good yell at whoever had woken her, but then she saw who it was and kept her painted lips still. It was that dark man, the one who always looked angry. She knew his face well.

Sometimes, in sleep, she idly painted him in her mind. She liked to dream-paint him posed under a willow tree, sunlight casting sharp features into relief, or maybe a portrait of that intimidating scowl. She sat up a little straighter, rearranging her lilies and sketching herself a demure smile to wear. The man took no notice, but she kept watching anyway. She always did prefer the dark ones.

The man had moved to stand before the headmaster, and the portrait marveled at the contrast. One man all sharp lines and heavy brush strokes, the other with a gentle watercolour smile, and soft, pencilled hair. The old man spoke.

'Good evening Severus, my boy; what brings you here this evening?'

'Good evening. Headmaster, this afternoon I had a most unusual lesson. Something is the matter with Hermione Granger; as you are no doubt aware; and I would like to know if this something is likely to affect the rest of her class.'

'I'm not sure I understand exactly what you mean, Severus. Is the girl unwell?'

'Don't be evasive, Albus, you're no good at it. Now, either something odd is going on with Miss Granger, or I am going mad. Since you seem to know everything that goes on in this castle, I am sure that you will be able to tell me which is the case.'

The old man sighed. 'Very well, child. You know me too well. I shall explain.'

'Albus, I am not a child.'

'Yes, Severus, you are right. You have never been a child, have you?'

'What are you trying to say?'

'Never mind. Now sit. Listen. There is much to tell.'

The portrait yawned, bored, and started to settle back into slumber. As she drifted through her painted sleep world, though, occasional words and phrases filtered through, colouring her dreams.

'I understand what you are saying, Albus, but...it just seems impossible....'

Impossible like the trees that were dancing and twirling past in her mind...speaking nonsense words...the noise of the two men talking, though, kept rousing her from any deep slumber. Dumbledore's voice sounded like it was coming from far away...

'Interesting, very interesting,' said the headmaster. 'I had never pondered the fact that she might have an affinity with potions. Hmmm...There are possibilities there. Definite possibilities. I assume that you gave her the detention in order to question her further?'

'Er, yes...of course. Oh stop chuckling in that imbecilic manner. Fine. I gave her detention because I was annoyed at being shown up in my potion making. Now will you kindly get out of my mind? It's hardly polite to use Leglimency without asking.'

The portrait was tired, her mind heavy. The fragments of conversation started to blur and run into word puddles. She let sleep reclaim her. As she floated away, the old man's parting words drifted by her.

'I entrust this to you then, Severus. It should not be hard. She is loyal and strong. You must make her see that it is her fate. It is time for her to join the fight.'

***

It was seven o'clock. Hermione lay, spread-eagled on her bed, waiting for it to be time to leave for her detention. She had already finished all her homework for the next month, and really couldn't think of anything else she should be doing. She had tried to get Professor MacGonagall to tell her the next essay topic in advance, but she had refused.

'You need time to rest, too, Hermione,' she had said. 'You need to spend some time with you friends...just in case...' She trailed off, not wanting to voice her fears, but Hermione understood. These days Harry, Hermione and Ron were in constant danger. The Order knew from Professor Snape that Voldemort was becoming stronger. He had recruited new Death Eaters, and had started to organise these servants into something resembling an army.

Nothing had happened yet, only threats and rumours, but fear loomed over the trio constantly, colouring every carefree moment with dread. Sometimes they sat out on the grass in a tight little circle, listening to the chatter and buzz around them and feeling a hundred miles removed from it. Life these days was flavoured with the anticipation of a terrible responsibility, and it made them feel older.

Hermione turned over onto her stomach to greet Crookshanks, who had jumped up onto the bed. She hadn't had a chance to really play with her cat since the day before, and he looked ready for a good pat. Maybe a brushing too; his fur was becoming matted. She felt slightly guilty as she reached under her bed to grab Crookshanks' brush; maybe she really had been spending too much time on homework and too little time with those who loved her.

As she brushed the purring ball of fur, she thought of Harry and Ron and how she still hadn't told them the full story about what Dumbledore had told her in his office that morning. She felt a rush of affection as she thought about her best friends; so loveable, so loyal. They deserved to know the truth, and she resolved to tell them the next day.

She wondered what they would make of it, if they would understand this natural magic idea. After all, she loved them both dearly, but they really were a bit thick sometimes. She imagined that they would have a fair bit of trouble understanding the 'why' of it, the whole idea of the world as one living, breathing entity. As for the 'how', though...she would have to think up something impressive to show them. Maybe she could ask nature to teach her to fly a broom, she thought, giggling softly.

She could feel Crookshanks' belly rumble with purrs under her hands. He politely requested that she concentrate the brush more on his left shoulder blade, and she obliged. Hang on, though...she looked down into his squinty little eyes. He greeted her politely with a slow blink, and conveyed a thought to the effect that he had been very much enjoying his brushing, thank you, but why did she stop?

'Oh Crooks!' she whispered as she squeezed him round his ample middle, 'there's so much I want to ask you!'

He wiggled gently out of the hug and started sending her pictures of piles of cushions, servants brushing his fur and silver platters heaped with fresh-cooked mice. Oh, and a prettier collar. And catnip every day.

'Good to see that you're still the same old self-centered grump that I know and love,' she chuckled as she scratched behind his ear. He simply purred. He may have been half kneazle, but he was still half cat; and as such was very aware of the value of silence and contemplation.

'You're a true Zen master, aren't you Crooks?' she said sarcastically as he settled down to sleep, thinking of nothing but how soft the bedspread was and how very nice it was to be a cat at that particular moment. Hermione shrugged and lay down next to him, sharing his thoughts. Forget detention, forget Harry and Ron, forget school. Just warm cat and silence. The world was still talking to her, as always, but she focussed it in so that it only talked through the old cat. And all the cat said was 'sleep.'