A Conspiracy of Books

Chapter 3 The Spy

Hermione stopped short. She dithered a moment at the top of the winding staircase to Dumbledore's office before she heard it again. There, she thought triumphantly as she picked up the faintest of swishing sounds behind her. I knew I heard something. In the silence she bent down and retied her shoelace. Her follower apparently thought it best to remain still.

Straightening up, Hermione did her best to remain composed as she approached the high-arched door. She could feel the unseen person waiting. Well, she'd have to be ready, then. Self-consciously, she brushed back a strand of hair and knocked punctually on the solid panels of the carved door.

"Come in, come in, my dear," it said, opening of its own accord and speaking in a high creaky voice. "No point standing on occasion, you know."

Normally she would have found this unnerving, but there wasn't time. Swiftly, Hermione went in. But when she spun to close it, the door was already shut fast behind her. She blinked, startled. There had been no disturbance of air, no evidence that it had ever even been opened. She took a moment to re-group and concluded, with a certain amount of wry satisfaction, that the invisible someone was now barred from entering. It made this little interview decidedly less stressful.

She found herself in a vaulted antechamber. She started towards the half-open door at the other end, then realized that the low murmuring she was hearing were drifting fragments of muted conversation. "The boy's parents contacted me. They'll be here at noon for the Inquiry with the Minister of Magic." She'd recognize Snape's growl anywhere.

"Poppy, how is Irma this morning?" asked Dumbledore.

"Decidedly better," Madame Pomfrey sniffed. "She woke up a bit--just long enough to take another draught of sleeping potion." Hermione detected deprecation in her tone and hesitated before entering the office. "I assured her that one was quite enough to have done-- but she claimed she felt another wave of hysterics coming on."

"Mmm, yes," Dumbledore said, his tenor verging on amusement. "Well, I shall speak to her at the meeting later."

Hermione took the opportunity to look around the room, which despite its chapel-like architecture, old portraits, sooty fireplace, untidy bookshelves, and shadowy nooks and crannies, was surprisingly cheery and comfortable. It reminded her of the Gryffindor common room in the way it was pervaded with a sense of non-officious magic--and in the way that it seemed to have grown old and comfortable with the habits and eccentricities of its inhabitant. Judging by a dozen toffee wrappers and two coffee-stained mugs on the table beside the armchair (and was that a worn slipper, half exposed under a corner of the rug?) some of these habits appeared to withstand the industriousness of the house-elves.

She glanced toward the door to see if it was safe yet for her to go in. Dumbledore was barely visible, seated at his desk, but Hermione had a good view of Snape, scowling from beside the far bookshelf.

"Do have a biscuit before you go," Professor McGonagal said, presumably to the fireplace. Hermione nervously entered the office just as Madam Pomfrey's head disappeared from the flames with a pop. The chamber seemed much bigger than she'd expected. Like the Great Hall, the ceiling was enchanted to reflect the outdoors-- right now they were enjoying morning sunlight, which brightened her mood considerably.

"Ah," Dumbledore said absently, accepting a McVittie's biscuit from Professor McGonagal. "Thanks for that--I thought perhaps it'd vanished when Dobby did the wash." He winked at Hermione and a red plaid slipper sailed by her ankle and skittered under the desk.

Hermione's face felt like it was on fire. "Sorry," she offered.

Dumbledore smiled mischievously, securing his slipper. "Actually, Miss Granger, I do not generally eavesdrop on other people's thoughts. Especially, I'm sure you'll understand, when one is mainly surrounded by teenagers." He chuckled at Hermione's rueful smile. "Far too much drama. However, occasionally, one can't help overhearing. A little like how memory is recalled by a trigger, I suppose--a scent, or a sound--that alerts the listener to the presence of a thought, an object. . ." he trailed off, wriggling his foot into the slipper.

Or a creepy feeling that someone is watching . . . Hermione thought, envisioning the carved wooden panels of the closed entryway door. Dumbledore gave her an appraising look and resettled himself in his chair. "Now Minerva, Severus, please sit down and join us for a spot of tea."

Brooking no arguments, a steaming kettle appeared in the air above his desk and poured strong black tea into white china teacups. Hermione seated herself, but Snape scowled and sourly refused the chair Professor McGonagall offered. She handed him the biscuits anyway. Gingerly, he removed one from the package and then stood there holding it awkwardly, apparently afraid that attempting to eat it would provoke it into crumbling all over his robes. He didn't notice that a pair of tongs judiciously added three lumps of sugar to his teacup.

Despite feeling relieved by the informality, Hermione's fingers still shook as she reached for her cup. Professor McGonagal must have seen because after waving Snape's tea toward him she sat down next to Hermione. "We're just here to fill in some holes. There's no need to be anxious--this isn't a deposition. Have another biscuit."

Hermione couldn't bring herself to say it was the first she'd been offered. She wished the entire thing were over.

"At any rate," Professor McGonagal continued, scooting a chair up to the desk's corner and balancing her teacup precariously on a stack of parchment, "Albus has informed us of most of the essential details. Are you feeling up to a few questions?"

Hermione nodded, and took a bite out of her biscuit.

"Good. We'd like to hear about yesterday evening, starting from, say, the end of classes," said Dumbledore, brushing crumbs out of his beard. They fell among the papers on the desk.

"Okay. Right," she began. Hermione gave them a very detailed account. When she mentioned finishing dinner early to study in the library, Professor McGonagal seemed pleased. Snape pursed his lips. Professor McGonagal hid it behind sips of tea. As Hermione went on, Snape continued his efforts to appear unimpressed. At one point he tried to get chocolate off his fingers in a not very dignified manner.

"Did you happen to note what time Miss Parkinson's group arrived?" asked Professor McGonagal. Snape's eyebrow shot up briefly. McGonagal ignored it.

"Erm," said Hermione, keeping her eyes on her tea. "I'd just been finding books, so didn't see exactly. Probably between seven-thirty and eight." She said nothing about seeing Pansy there, alone, every night last week.

Snape said nothing, satisfied.

"And," Dumbledore continued, helping himself to a sixth biscuit, "Do you recall anything at all extraordinary?"

Hermione's hand tightened around the teacup. She quietly measured all three of them before speaking. "I think so. Several, actually."

Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. She took another biscuit. "First. When I was in the stacks I brushed against something. Not the shelf--I was in the centre of the aisle. I was alone, so thought maybe it was Peeves or Nearly Headless Nick. But then when I was trying to get to sleep I realized it hadn't felt cold." She considered the biscuit and added, "And it didn't seem like a spell."

Snape cleared his throat so quietly Hermione almost didn't hear it. She waited before continuing. "Second, I had an eerie feeling while I was reading--at the table--like someone was watching. I noticed it more than once. It happened again right after the Sly--Pansy's group left. By then the library was empty, nobody was there. . . " She stopped as she realized that, of course, someone was there. Someone was waiting for Goyle, in the far stacks, watching to see what she was up to, whether or not she was absorbed enough not to mind the sound of books falling. . .

Nobody said anything. It was obvious they'd already thought of it.

Hermione was holding her teacup so tightly she wondered it didn't shatter. Right, she thought, loosening her fingers. Even though she felt like all the chocolate biscuits in the world wouldn't help right now, she looked at them determinedly, and said,

"Whoever they are, it had to be the same person. . . They must've been waiting in the library all the time-- probably coming back all week. Just after I felt it the last time, I heard the crashing." While she was speaking a similar, prickly feeling had begun traveling up her spine, making the hair on her arms stand up. What if I'm wrong? What if the person I thought was out on the landing is actually. . . What if. . . They were all waiting, watching her rather closely. She blurted out, "And I think it's possible that they're here. Right now."

Snape had been swirling his teacup gently above his saucer. He brought it down now with an undainty clash. "That is impossible, Miss Granger." He was white.

"Quite right," Professor McGonagal chimed in. "The wards on this part of the castle are too strong--unbreakable to even the best-trained wizards."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Severus, Minerva. . . my dear," he said to Hermione, "please let me reassure you that there is nobody here but ourselves. We are in absolutely no danger of being overhead, in no danger of interruption. . . not even by a house-elf," he added as a twinkling afterthought. "In fact, we are still awaiting the only other person who will be attending this conference. They shall be here momentarily. So if there's anything else?" he asked Hermione.

Professor McGonagal was strangely silent. Hermione's mind worked rapidly. She had to tell them about Malfoy. But first there was something bothering her. "I've been thinking about Hogwarts, A History. . . Volume VII is probably really central to. . . to. . . " Hermione was watching Dumbledore's face very carefully. "Well, to. . . to how it was done. And I mean, that book could knock someone out, right? But even though it's really large. . . it would've had to have a spell on it--p'rhaps a weight charm, or a double-gravity jinx--to have done that sort. . . of damage."

Dumbledore's face remained neutral. But Professor McGonagal was looking very pale indeed, and Snape wasn't much better. He had been intently wadding his napkin into a very small, very compact white ball the entire time she'd been talking. After a moment Dumbledore spoke.

"Severus, how much do you know about Miss Granger's research?"

Snape got very cagey. "I have a certain. . . limited understanding," he admitted carefully. Professor McGonagal raised an eyebrow eloquently. Snape returned her expression. "Minerva, you don't really expect me to be entirely ignorant on this point? Remember, I have an interest as well."

"I never disputed that, Severus," she began, but Dumbledore cleared his throat, looking serious, and they both fell silent, Snape's mouth hardening into a thin line. Professor McGonagal, nostrils flaring, nipped at her teacup.

"My dear," Dumbledore said to Hermione, "it seems that, as we allowed from the beginning, your work for us has placed you in a great deal of danger. I cannot, in good conscience, ask you to continue--"

"I should say not!" interjected Professor McGonagal from around the teacup.

"--without alerting you to this fact. Which I find it likely you already know," Dumbledore ploughed on.

"Albus, you certainly don't mean to?" Professor McGonagal's voice verged on the next octave.

"And why not?" inquired Snape, his mouth twisting grimly as he said the words, "Because one student is dead already?"

Something in Professor McGonagal's sharp silence eluded Hermione. A thin line of possibility began unfolding in the back of her mind, and she watched them carefully.

Dumbledore avoided their eyes with the air of one who had, unfortunately, become accustomed to finding oneself in the midst of arguments. Hands folded, he sat with a faraway look upon his face. The two professors glared at each other mutinously. "Perhaps I should go. . ." Hermione suggested faintly. When they didn't answer, she cautiously started to rise.

"Sit down, Miss Granger," Snape snapped irritably. Hermione sank down miserably. He and McGonagal hadn't moved an inch.

When a loud knock disrupted the standoff Hermione's shoulders sagged in relief. Snape and McGonagal collected themselves. Hermione glanced at Dumbledore, wishing she'd managed to mention Malfoy. He gave her another twinkling smile, which for some reason reminded her that there was a person outside under an invisibility cloak. Although, she'd likely been right--it wouldn't matter if he managed to slip in now.

They silently waited for the newcomer. Hermione wondered who it was, but under the circumstances didn't dare turn around in her seat. Instead she concentrated very hard on her tea, listening. A leather sole scuffled on the steps. Then Hermione felt the color drain from her face. Draco Malfoy stepped smartly up to the desk and stood rigidly before it, chin up.

She was stunned. She looked at Dumbledore, thinking, Why didn't he warn me? Snape was gauging her. She attempted to appear calm, suppressing the urge to glare at him.

Malfoy seemed equally displeased. Rudely, he directed his question somewhere to the left of Dumbledore's ear. "You wanted to see me?" His voice was like marble--cold and very businesslike. There was a thin vein of anger running through it.

Professor McGonagal gasped, but Dumbledore held up his hand appeasingly. "Please, Mr. Malfoy, take a seat."

Not even startled when one appeared, Malfoy stepped back and lowered himself into the armchair, carefully settling his robes before regarding them with thinly veiled animosity. Hermione hoped he wouldn't be offered any biscuits just yet.

After an interminable pause, Snape irritably stepped forward and conjured another chair to Malfoy's left, sitting down. Dumbledore passed him the biscuits and waved a full teacup toward Malfoy, who looked as if he'd prefer to refuse.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger has given us an outline of what happened last night in the library. I hope you'll be kind enough to do the same."

Hermione felt her eyebrows lift.

Eyes narrowed vengefully at Snape, Malfoy didn't dally with pretence. "I don't see how anything I have to say concerns her," he stated baldly.

Hermione's Gryffindor blood boiled. She squelched it, repeating to herself, Not helpful.

Then Professor Snape did an unexpected thing. He leaned over and forced the package of biscuits into Malfoy's hand. "Have one," he commanded.

Malfoy shot him a brief, rebellious look. Unable to withstand Snape's hawk-like glare, he smiled and changed tact. It looked painful. Hermione fervently hoped so.

"Fine. Of course." Malfoy made a show of taking a biscuit and biting into it, pretending to get comfortable. "However, I insist that everything I say remains in this room," he said lightly, masking the strain in his voice.

"Miss Granger?" Snape prompted.

Hermione couldn't quite contain her disdain, even if her tone was otherwise cool. "Of course," she said, echoing Malfoy. She returned Draco's icy confidence levelly, taking in his casually arrogant posture. There was melted chocolate on his thumb and index finger. Her smirk barely perceptible, she said sweetly, "Do have another biscuit."

* * * * *

How interesting, Hermione thought as the door to Dumbledore's office closed behind her. Draco Malfoy was still shut up inside, answering a few more questions. Professor McGonagal had signaled to her that it was time for her to go or risk being late to class, so she had wrapped her uneaten biscuits in a napkin and shoved them into her bag. Professor Binns wouldn't notice her eating during his lecture.

Starting across the landing, she listened hard, but heard no sound of dogging footsteps. She went unmarked down the stairs and along the corridor. How very interesting. The invisible someone had either gotten tired, or was waiting for Malfoy to come out. Somehow, she doubted that.

As she suspected, Harry was already in his seat when she arrived, last minute, at History of Magic. She slid onto the bench beside him and started pulling books out of her backpack. Rummaging for her quill, she noticed his rumpled pajama bottoms poking out from under the folds of his robes. They were printed with little quidditch players on broomsticks.

"How'd it go?" he hissed in her ear.

"You wouldn't believe it," she whispered back. Then she stopped herself. "I'll tell you later." Right now the meeting was the last thing she wanted to discuss with Harry. In fact, she wasn't even sure if she could.

Professor Binns surveyed the room over the top of his owlish glasses. He gave a final nod to the attendance list, which rolled itself up and stored itself away in a drawer, then lifted a very large volume off the desk.

"How's he do that?" Harry muttered. "It ought to fall right through him."

Hermione, fishing out biscuits to hide under the open flap of her textbook, grinned. "Simple. Anti-gravity charm."

"Oh," Harry said, sheepishly. "Right."

Late as usual, Ron slid into the remaining few inches beside Hermione. "Budge up," he grumbled, trying to get one lanky leg in. Getting no response, he exchanged glances with Harry, who looked in the direction she was gazing.

"Hey, Hermione, what's the matter?" Harry asked in an undertone, examining Professor Binns, who had started lecturing and was holding up the large tome for emphasis.

"That book--it's--"

Harry squinted across the room at the bold lettering on the spine. "Hogwarts, A History," he said heavily.

"Volume VI," Ron said unhelpfully. He and Harry exchanged second glances as Hermione thought of volume VII, bloodstained and binding broken, tucked away somewhere in Dumbledore's office.

* * * * *

"Oh, hi Professor," Harry said. Class had just ended and Hermione was trailing behind in the corridor, hoping to evade any more of his questions by asking Neville if she could check some of his notes before Herbology. Professor McGonagal waived Harry on. Hermione saw her just before she was cornered.

"I need to speak with you. At once." Neville made a quick exit. Reluctantly, Hermione turned and followed her down the adjoining corridor toward the Gryffindor tower. She winced. It was miles from the greenhouse. She'd recently developed an aversion to using the time turner. Fortunately, Professor McGonagal walked briskly.

"Furball," Professor McGonagal announced grimly when they finally arrived. Hermione sighed. That's the absolute last time I let Ron pick the password. He and Crookshanks had never quite worked it out, even if Scabbers had turned out to be that nasty Peter Pettigrew.

In the portrait, the fat lady winked and hid a smirk. Hold on . . . Something in Professor McGonagal's tight-lipped expression struck Hermione as suspiciously familiar. It was the one she'd worn when handing back Ron's Transfiguration paper last week. That's his third C- this term, isn't it? As the door swung open, Hermione stifled a giggle. Everyone knew Professor McGonagal's fondness for shape-shifting into a cat.

Normally, Professor McGonagal would have behaved very primly indeed. Instead, she practically shouted, "Quickly!" and ushered Hermione up the staircase to her private chambers, avoiding any stragglers on their way to class. At least it gave Hermione time to regain her composure.

"Lumos." The antechamber lit up. It was, of course, very tasteful, much more like a proper Victorian sitting room than Dumbledore's. Professor McGonagal had found ingenious ways of blending the blood-red and Gryffindor gold all around the room--the deep carpet, the stately Chippendale chairs, the dark cherrywood of two narrow bookcases--even the tiffany-glass lamps on the end tables. An elegant silver tea set sat ready on the antique sideboard opposite the shaded window, but Professor McGonagal made no move toward it.

Instead, she hung up her hat, smoothed down the flyaway hairs from the crown of her head, and said "Now. I know we discussed this earlier, but I want to be very clear. You have a great deal of difficulty ahead of you--coming up with explanations is going to be the least of your problems. We can't be seen helping you, and I am absolutely certainty of the danger--to one, or both of you."

Not to mention everyone else, Hermione thought. She realized she'd merely been nodding her assent up to this point, and had to speak. "Yes, Professor, I know. But I really do want to do this. I wouldn't say yes if I didn't think--"

"My dear, I appreciate your willingness and optimism. But there is no guarantee this will work in the slightest." Professor McGonagal regarded her for a moment. She really looked very desperate. At last she sighed. "However, I accept your decision. You, like Harry, are very brave." Her gaze flashed around the room triumphantly for a moment, and written in the lines of her face were the vestiges of a somewhat younger, fiery version of the Head of Gryffindor House. Hermione remembered that, of course, Professor McGonagal had once been a Gryffindor herself.

She caught Hermione studying her and smiled with a certain amount of pleasure. "Yes. You see, there are loyalties that go a great way in making up who we are, to the degree that we often forget how much they influence us. And which sometimes, in situations where it becomes necessary to do so," she said, a warning creeping into her tone, "become very tenacious and difficult to put aside."

Hermione thought of McGonagal and Snape facing off earlier. "I understand," she replied quietly.

"Very well." In an uncharacteristic moment of gentleness Professor McGonagal placed her hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I know you'll do the best you can. Thank you, Miss Granger."

Hermione smiled. She tried to do it bravely. Professor McGonagal nodded once, then dropped her hand. "Well, I think I'd better let you go. I have some papers that need grading."

"Thanks, Professor," Hermione said, a bit relieved. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulders and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Miss Granger," she offered in parting, "we really did mean that you'll be on a strictly need-to-know basis--so do be careful."