Laboring Under the Delusion

    The enchanted ceiling of Hogwarts’ Great Hall was stormy, reflecting the way quite a few of those inhabiting it felt. There was a tension in the air, as the entire staff of Hogwarts was gathered--Dumbledore, the newly appointed Minister of Magic, leading the discussions. In a darkened corner sat a confused Seer--having made a prediction again, and not remembering a word of it. It was rather tiring having a gift that only worked sometimes, and only to predict terrible things. People began to be irritated by your presence.

    Among the faculty sat Professor Severus Snape. He was wearing a look of general disapproval--he hardly had the patience or disposition for prophecies. Especially ones involving potential dark wizards that could potentially brew a potentially dangerous potion that could potentially lead to the destruction of former student Hermione Granger, ten years from now.

    “Now, we all know that since the death of Voldemort,” Dumbledore said, causing a few flinches and a few more downcast eyes, “there has been no significant threat of Dark Arts. But it is only a matter of time until someone else decides he or she would like that kind of power. It happens with regularity, and our Professor Trelawney has predicted it will happen within the next ten years.”

    “One must reasonably wonder why we are gathered now, then,” Snape muttered. Apparently he spoke a bit too loudly, as all heads swung towards him, many of them scowling or looking disapproving.

    “I understand what you mean, Severus. But I believe we will all be able to relax when we locate Miss Granger.”

    Snape rolled his eyes. Terrific… she had been gone from his life for a whole blissful year, and now they were going to invite her back. Dumbledore sent a warning look his way, as if perfectly aware of what he was thinking. Snape gave an impatiently placating smirk and sat back to let the hysteria unfold.

    “What does Hermione have to do with this?” came a defensive voice from the back of the room. Snape rolled his eyes again. Of course everyone knew the former Head Girl, but now she even had the ghosts on her side? I thought the school would recover from its worship of that girl. True, she’d been instrumental in the defeat of the Dark Lord… but honestly, wasn’t this all a bit unnecessary? He thought longingly of the quiet dungeons where he had left a potion simmering.

    “Hermione has been prophesized to become an instrument in the rising of this next dark wizard.” This statement elicited several gasps. Snape scowled, as he had heard this all when Albus had burst upon him in his office, panting and excited. Which was rather odd, Snape realized suddenly. Even when Albus was imparting the worst of news, he tended to be rather calm, a trait Snape tried to model.

    “I’ve sent an owl requesting her presence here immediately. We must be allowed to meet privately, so I suggest you all patrol the corridors until I’ve acquainted her with the situation,” Dumbledore said pointedly. People began reluctantly standing. Snape was up in a flash and practically bounding to the door when the dreaded words caught up with him. “Not you, Severus, I’ll be needing your presence.”

    Snape turned and tried to force a look of complacence, but was unable. “Severus, come, surely you realized I would need you for this?”

    “No, sir, I had not realized that.”

    “The prophecy involves the brewing of a potion… of course I need the best potions master in the world,” Dumbledore said. Snape knew he was merely trying to pacify him with flattery, but it worked. Snape felt a small smile come to his face.

    “Of course,” he agreed, while silently regretting his existence.

-----

    The hours were passing so slowly Snape was sure someone had enchanted the world to turn at half speed. He was altogether unable to generate an excited facade when Hermione finally showed up at the castle, looking exactly as Snape remembered her, if a bit taller and heavier. Her hair was its usual bushy mess, probably made worse by the wind, and she wore an expression between curiosity and annoyance. In all his years of teaching, Snape had not encountered a more voracious student--and that was not exactly a trait he admired. She could be downright irritating. He watched with mild disgust as Dumbledore tried to gently explain the situation. He was expecting nineteen rapid fire questions or a hysterical outburst. What he got was infinitely better.

    “You dragged me out here to hear about something that ridiculous woman made up for attention? Thank you, Minister,” she snapped. Snape could hardly believe his ears--he’d rarely heard her speak in such a manner to an elder, and never Dumbledore. He was vaguely amused, however, as he had experienced similar thoughts when Dumbledore came to him with the story. He certainly respected him, but was quite aware that Dumbledore had grown progressively more paranoid with the passing years. During Voldemort’s reign, it made sense--his paranoia had saved lives. But now, one year after his defeat, it seemed Dumbledore’s paranoia was worse than ever. As Minister of Magic, he had learned a great many things that had been covered up--simultaneously proving that Voldemort had been worse than they all knew and on top of that, that Dumbledore did not, in fact, know everything. The sheer number of ministry officials who had turned out to be working for Voldemort had boggled his mind.

    “We must be vigilant, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore was arguing. Snape snorted a little… had Moody possessed Dumbledore’s body? “I wanted to be up-front about this… I think we all could have benefitted from honesty last time. I don’t wish to make the same mistake again.” He said this simply, mildly, but it caused Snape a pang. He loved the man as his own father--probably more, he reflected. He knew he blamed himself for the death of Harry Potter. Despite all Snape’s hatred for the boy, he hadn’t been pleased to see him die--and he was even less pleased to see the effects it had on the magical community.

    “Right. So, I’m supposed to do what?” Hermione asked waspishly. Dumbledore looked a little bowled over; he had probably not anticipated this reaction any more than Snape had. The proceedings were momentarily halted as Professor Flitwick scampered in to the Hall.

    “Headmaster, there’s an urgent message for you. You must get to the Ministry as soon as possible,” he said, panting slightly. Dumbledore stood up and formally bowed to Hermione, who had the wherewithal to shake his hand.

    “I’ll speak to you soon, Miss Granger. Severus, can you please settle Miss Granger and do what you can to better explain things?” he asked over his shoulder. Snape gave a curt nod.

    “Of course, Headmaster,” he said a bit resentfully. Dumbledore swept out, Flitwick hot on his heels, leaving Snape and Hermione sitting in complete silence. This silence continued for several stony minutes while Hermione stared at an indiscriminate spot on the table and Snape ruminated. What on earth was he supposed to tell her? That he was going to brew the potion that would one day lead to her destruction? Maybe he’d tell her to go with her gut--Trelawney had been wrong before. She never predicted Harry Potter would die with Voldemort, yet he did. Snape opened his mouth to speak and was beaten by a half second.

    “Do you believe in fate?” Hermione asked. Snape was stunned by the urgent abstractness of the question. He was silent for several moments, sensing that this question was, for once, not one she wanted an answer to. “I mean… Professor--and I use the term loosely--Trelawney made this prediction about me. But… well, she also predicted other things. And then there are things she didn’t see--that none of us saw,” Hermione forced, and Snape could see something painful flash across her face. She seemed to push it down to continue, “do you think there’s an unavoidable bit of our future? Or can we change it… just because its been ‘foretold’ that this would happen, does that mean it has to happen? Especially since I know it’s going to happen… could I avoid it happening?”

    Snape took a few minutes to process everything she was saying--she seemed to be talking more to herself than to him. He felt obligated to respond. He’d pondered this topic a bit himself. He started slowly, “I don’t believe in destiny, or prophecy for that matter. But I do believe that certain people will meet certain fates--no matter what happens. For example--”

    “--but what if… let’s say I knew what day I was going to meet this… dark lord. I wouldn’t go out,” Hermione interjected.

    “Do not interrupt me, Miss Granger. But, yes, precisely that. Perhaps it operates as both our own will and a larger sense of outcome.”

    “Like the ending is decided, but everything up until then can vary?”

    “Which leads one to ask why such variance is necessary when it will end in the same manner regardless.”

    “Essentially, nobody knows?”

    “Correct as usual. Destiny is a finicky topic.” He paused for a moment, giving her a chance to respond. She merely looked at him expectantly. “In brewing a potion, if one changes the minutest of details, everything changes. A harmless potion could become poison,” he said thoughtfully. He had always wondered if time were the same--he knew about Time Turners, understood that you could live parallel lives, but there were more questions than he could name associated with the business of time and eventuality.

“The difference lies in the fact that with a potion, the brewer is completely in control of the outcome. We know this. With time, one cannot know if they are fully in control. Life is not quite so easy to control as a potion.”

    “Is that why you love Potions?” she asked quietly. Snape considered biting back at her, but something about the weight which seemed to have settled on her shoulders stopped him.

    “Yes,” he offered simply, careful not to look at her. She must be feeling a bit vulnerable, and he’d seen her hysterics before--not at all something he wished to recreate. She made no response. “So, you see, Dumbledore thinks it wise for me to brew this prophesized Potion--”

    “So we know what we’re dealing with.”

    “Miss Granger Do…not…interrupt…me ” he snarled, thoroughly irritated. She had never known when to shut up, that girl.

    “I’m sorry.” Her voice was curt and wholly unapologetic, but he accepted it without further comment; he was beginning to itch to get back to his potion. It would do well to sit and simmer--it took two weeks, at any rate--but he felt somehow more comfortable watching it.

    “Do you have any further questions for me?” he asked, trying to be polite.

    “No, you’re perfectly fine to run off,” she said with a slight smirk. Snape felt a strange tug as he glanced at her; she looked physically exactly like the Hermione Granger he knew--her eyebrows knitted in concentration. But there was a bite in her voice, a roundness to her tone, that had been missing when he’d last seen her. Of course, he’d last seen her minutes after the death of her best friend; perhaps in the passing time she had turned the grief into anger. Something I understand too well, he thought briefly.

    “Good evening, then,” he said stiffly, fleeing the Hall as quickly as he could. As he swooped back to his dungeons, he was unable to rid himself of the nagging sensation that something about Miss Granger was entirely… askew.