A Tragic Circle - Chapter One

"The Beginning?"

Hermione Granger stifled a yawn as she pored over her arithmancy homework.  Only six weeks into her sixth year at Hogwarts, and already she was driven to suffer all-night study sessions in an attempt to keep up with her excessively heavy courseload.  As she rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes for the umpteenth time, she wished she’d been blessed with a Ravenclaw’s natural knack for understanding material, so that she wouldn’t need to work so hard to achieve the depth of knowledge she craved.  It was the desire for knowledge that drove her, not the act of studying.  She wasn’t crazy; if she could learn what she wanted to without the long hours of study, she would.

She looked over toward where her roommates, Lavender and Parvati slept.  Parvati was dead to the world, and Lavender snored lightly as the two of them enjoyed the untroubled sleep of those whose greatest worry in life was whether their hair was in place and whether their boyfriends were faithfully devoted to them.  Neither of her roommates ever put mundane things like homework ahead of their social lives, and honestly they seemed none the worse as a result.  Other girls were more like Lavender and Parvati than like Hermione – Hermione’s ‘unnatural’ devotion to her studies earned her an inside-joke status throughout Gryffindor House.  Every so often, being so different made Hermione wonder if perhaps she should try to be more . . . normal.  Tonight was obviously going to be one of those nights.  Hermione tried to push such depressing thoughts aside as she struggled to concentrate on Professor Vector’s assignment.

“Tap-tap-tap.”  A noise at the window startled Hermione out of her studious reverie.  An unfamiliar small, black owl was perched on the ledge outside, tapping furiously on the pane.

 Afraid the noise might wake the others, Hermione hurried to let the bird inside.  As soon as the window cracked a bit, the bird shoved his way through and rushed towards Hermione, extending a knobby leg towards her.  Hermione gently removed the small scroll that had been taped there and began to read.

 “Hermione,

 Perhaps it is sheer folly to write this to you, but given the circumstances I find myself unable to give a damn.  You are, I am sure, perplexed as to why I am writing you at all.  No doubt the answer will soon become apparent and I do not wish to disrupt the fabric of time, space, and mystery by delving into it now.  I can only say that one indulges in ridiculous flights of fancy when faced with their own mortality.  The only thing that interests me now is that this is my last chance to share with you the words that have been building up in my mind for nearly twenty years.

 Why am I passively accepting my fate, willingly walking toward it like a lamb to its slaughter?  I could choose to fight the inevitable, shirking my duties toward Professor Dumbledore and mankind and just refuse to go.  I will not do so, however.  I have learned, primarily from you, Hermione, that sometimes one just does what one must, at great personal sacrifice, for a greater good. 

 I must confess though that my intentions are not wholly pure.  I die not for the greater good but to escape a greater pain.  For six years I have watched you grow from an annoyingly self-superior child into the image of the woman I have loved in vain for twenty years.  Fear not, I know you can never be mine, but I can not bear to look upon you any more.  The irony of the situation would amuse me were it not my heart being ripped apart and torn asunder.  But it will be over soon.  And you will understand someday the truth of which I write and you too must not be afraid do what you have to do, just as I am doing now. 

 Farewell, dear Hermione.

 Severus Snape”

Of the many emotions passing through Hermione as she read, confusion was the greatest.  What on Earth was he talking about?  Had he gone mad?  She reread the letter.  Part of it could not be mistaken – Professor Snape thought he was going to die.  Whatever he was thinking when he wrote the letter could wait; she needed to show this letter to Professor Dumbledore now, while there might still be time.

 Hermione pulled on her cloak and raced toward the Headmaster’s office.  It wasn’t until she arrived that she realized that the Headmaster was probably fast asleep.  So, she did the only thing she could think of – she started to scream.

 “Professor Dumbledore!  Please, wake up!”  She ran up and down the halls shouting, thinking that maybe Filch would find her and summon the Headmaster to punish her impertinence at being out past curfew.

 She did not, however have long to wait.  Less than a minute after she began yelling, Professor Dumbledore himself came down the stairs from his office.  He was fully dressed, and did not seem to have been awakened.

Hermione rushed over to him, holding out the letter.  “Professor Dumbledore!  I’m sorry to disturb you and I know I’m out past curfew but look!”

He took the letter gently from her and began to read.  He paled slightly as he read, and his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.  He handed the scroll back to her.  “Will you please come with me?”

 “Of course,” she answered, following the Headmaster up the stairs to his office.  Madame Pomfrey was already up there, pacing back and forth.  She looked expectantly at the pair as they entered, becoming dejected when Professor Dumbledore merely shook his head.

 “What is going on?” asked Hermione, “The letter I got from Professor Snape makes no sense at all, save for the fact that he obviously thinks he is going to die.”

 Professor Dumbledore sunk down into his chair with a sigh, “You know of course that Professor Snape does important work for the Order, at great personal risk.”

 Hermione nodded.

 “We recently received some . . .intelligence. . . of a Death Eater operation of some magnitude.  Professor Snape volunteered to infiltrate the operation, with the intent to sabotage.  Obviously, such a task was exceedingly risky; to observe is one thing, to interfere another.  Were Professor Snape to be caught, his life would most certainly be forfeit.  Despite the risk, he was insistent upon going.  He led us all to believe that he was sure he would succeed.  His letter to you belies that; apparently he did not expect to return from the operation.”

Hermione gulped, “And he’s there now, isn’t he?  That’s why Madame Pomfrey is here, in case he comes back injured.” 

“Yes,” nodded the Headmaster.  “He was due back several hours ago, I’m afraid.” 

Madame Pomfrey, who had been silent throughout this exchange, continued her pacing as she muttered, “I told him this would happen one day, that eventually he’d slip up and no amount of magic would put him back together again. But did he listen?  Of course not, he’s the impervious Severus Snape!”

Hermione approached the nurse, soothing, “There’s still hope, isn’t there?  We can’t be sure that he didn’t succeed after all?”

Clunk!  The three turned their heads toward the stairs and the sound of heavy footsteps coming up into the office.  Hermione and Madame Pomfrey raced to the door.  It opened to reveal Hagrid, with tears in his beady black eyes, carrying the limp body of the Potions Master.

“I found ‘im like this at the edge of the dark forest,” sniffed Hagrid. “The bastards just dumped him.”

“Quick!  Let’s get him to the infirmary!” shouted Hermione.  Madame Pomfrey was already checking for vital signs.

“No time,” the nurse responded, motioning toward the settee. “Hagrid, lay him down.”

Once Snape was lying on the couch, Madame Pomfrey got to work.  She unbuttoned his collar and leaned forward, trying to hear or feel his breathing.  She placed one hand to his jugular, feeling for a pulse. 

“Damn it, Snape!” she snapped, pulling out her wand and casting a diagnostic charm on the still figure before her.  A green cloud appeared for a moment above the Professor, and then dissipated into the air.  The nurse fell to her knees and began to sob. 

“Madame Pomfrey?” whispered Hermione.  “He’s not . . .”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Granger,” Professor Dumbledore had risen and came to stand beside Hermione, one comforting hand on her shoulder, another on Poppy’s.  “He was hit with the Avada Kedavra.  There is nothing we can do for him now.”

Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears and her stomach curl with shock.  Even though she hadn’t particularly liked the Professor, she admired him for the work he did for the Order. And it always hurt to see someone you know die, whether you liked them or not, leaving an empty place inside you where that person used to be. 

“Hagrid, could you please escort Miss Granger back to Gryffindor Hall?” requested Professor Dumbledore sadly.  “Madame Pomfrey and I will take care of everything from here.” 

Hagrid wiped his eyes on his sleeve, “Of course, Perfessor.  Come along, Hermione.”

Hagrid was uncharacteristically quiet as he walked Hermione back to her dorm.  She herself didn’t feel much like talking either.  When they arrived back at the Fat Lady, Hagrid addressed her once before leaving.  “A darned shame it is, Hermione.  Perfessor Snape’s been risking his life fer years, and almost no one even knows about it.  They don’t know what a fine man he really was.  Well, g’night.”  Hagrid blew his nose again and ambled off, head lowered, to go home.  

Once inside, Hermione returned to her room.  Lavender and Parvati were still asleep, oblivious to the loss Hogwarts had just suffered.  The little grumpy black owl remained though, hopping anxiously toward Hermione as she entered. 

“I guess he told you to remain here, little one.  I don’t suppose there’s anyone else to care for you now.”  She held up a finger towards him, he nuzzled against it gently.  “I don’t even know your name.  I’ll ask Professor Dumbledore tomorrow if he knows what it is.” 

Hermione began disrobing for bed, only then noticing the scroll that she still clutched in her left hand.  Professor Snape’s last letter.  She read it one more time, still not understanding most of what he said.  She shook her head sadly, thinking what a waste it was that he had died.  Not wanting her roommates to find the scroll, she opened the trunk containing her winter clothes and shoved it to the bottom.  Maybe someday she’d understand, but for now, she just wanted to sleep.

Hogwarts reacted to the death of its Potion Master with a mixture of shock and apathy.  Despite Professor Dumbledore’s moving speech about the sacrifice Professor Snape had made to save scores of Muggle-born children, most of the students were rather blasé about his passing.

At first people spoke very little, except to say how surprised they were he was gone.  Then as the shock wore out the bravado returned, and many students were heard to indicate that Potions class was much more enjoyable without the Greasy Git.  Ron Weasley enjoyed a very bruised shin after making such a comment in Hermione’s presence, leading him to tease that he “didn’t know she cared!”  Although Hermione found no particular fault in the new Potions Master, Professor Norman, she couldn’t believe so many of her friends and classmates were so quick to speak ill of the dead.  She quickly learned though that to express such feelings led only to derision from her classmates, and thus began keeping her feelings to herself.

By the time several months had passed, people rarely spoke of Professor Snape at all, except for the occasional joke.  Hermione herself found herself thinking of him less and less as she buried herself in schoolwork and her plans for the future.  Ron finally grew the nerve to ask her out, and their romance was blossoming.  Life just goes on.

“Could you pass the potatoes, please, Filius?” The faculty were enjoying their dinner on the Thursday that the new prophecy was revealed.  The House Elves had been gifted with a new cookbook from one of the muggle-born students, and faculty and students alike were enjoying the new cuisine.

“So, Rolanda, will you be willing to chair the end-of-year party again this year?” asked Professor Dumbledore as he sampled some rather hot curry.  “With assistance, of course.”

“The party will have an unexpected guest this year,” mumbled Sibyll Trelawny.

Minerva glared at the diminuitive seer, “An unexpected guest?  That’s better than a death, I suppose.”

“He’s already dead,” returned Sibyll simply. “Pomona! Leave some of the pudding for the rest of us, please!”

Minerva rolled her eyes and returned to her conversation with Professor Vector.  Sibyll accepted the bowl of pudding from Pomona and began to spoon it on her plate.

Clang!  The spoon dropped and Sibyll’s eyes became cloudy.  She began to speak in a voice not her own, deeper and more forceful than had been heard from her mouth, save two single times.

“The Boy Who Lived and the Man Who Knew He Would Not will blind the Dark Lord and the Last will be fulfilled. Time that is borrowed must be returned, or the innocent will perish.  She Who Extracts the Key must also release it. The circle must not be broken.” 

The faculty all turned to watch Sibyll with their eyes wide and mouths agape.  Most had never seen Sibyll in the throes of a real prophecy, and it was a sight to behold.  Even Minerva, Sibyll’s harshest critic, was moved by the sight.  Only Professor Dumbledore seemed unfazed, he merely listened attentively.

“Oh dear, I’ve made such a mess,” whined Sibyll as she noted the pudding splashed all about her.  “I knew it would happen, but I wore white anyway.”

“Can you repeat that, Sibyll,” said Minerva.  “The part about the Boy Who Lived and blinding the Dark Lord?”

Sibyll laughed and shook her head.  “Whatever are you going on about, Minerva?  I was talking about the end-of-year party.  My inner eye tells me that though the band will be wonderful, you won’t be doing much dancing, Minerva.”

Minerva just looked at her in astonishment, until Albus caught her eye by shaking his head negatively.  She looked at the Headmaster inquiringly, to which he merely mouthed the word, “Later.”

Minerva and Albus sat in the Headmaster’s office, drinking tea and pondering the prophecy.  They’d already poured their experience into a Pensieve so as to maintain the words perfectly, and were now trying to make sense of them.

“The Boy Who Lived is obvious,” said Minerva.  “Everyone in our world knows that is Harry Potter.  Poor boy is at the center of everything related to the Dark Lord, so that’s no surprise.  But who is the Man Who Knew He Would Not?”

Albus thought for a moment before speaking.  “I have my suspicions, but they are highly farfetched.”

Minerva snorted, “I’d be surprised if they weren’t, Albus.  Nothing to do with prophecy and He Who Must Not Be Named is straightforward.”

“Before I was headmaster, I had a student take an extended leave of absence.  He was gone six months but seemed to have aged much more than that.  I’d attributed it to illness and stress, but now I wonder. . .” His voice trailed off into his own thoughts.

“What does that have to do with the Man Who Knew He Would Not,” asked Minerva as she popped a lemon drop into her mouth. “Please, keep the riddles to a minimum.”

“I can only think of one person who predicted his own death, though he tried to hide it from us.  This same person wrote a very curious note to a . . .person. . .who understood not a word of it, a note that seemed out of place, or perhaps even out of time.” 

“Enough prevaricating, Albus.  Who are you talking about?”

“Why, Severus, of course,” answered the Headmaster. 

Minerva’s eyes narrowed, “Severus?  I suspect there’s an awful lot you haven’t told me . . .” 

After Albus filled Minerva in on all the missing details the two sat and formulated their plan.  Actually, it wasn’t so much a formulation as it was a deduction of the plan – forces beyond them had formulated it, they merely had the clues as to what the plan was and needed to be sure they acted accordingly.  A great sequence had been set in motion, with a start and an end that required strict compliance in order to avoid the disasters that could accompany messing with Time. 

Once they thought they had it down, they decided to consult a third.  What they intended was highly illegal, despite its intent to further the greater good.  They would need cooperation from inside the Ministry of Magic for their activities to remain unnoticed, and thus Arthur Weasley was invited for tea and serious discussion.  Despite his natural misgivings, he agreed that drastic measures were necessary to stop He Who Must Not Be Named and further agreed to camouflage their dubious use of Time Turners from Ministry eyes. 

Plan designed, all that remained was to enlist the aid of She Who Extracts The Key.  She, who was currently snogging young Ron Weasley in the Astronomy Tower.