The Room of Lost Dreams

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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, 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.

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