The Light

Chapter 29- The Operation

Hermione stood outside the office, staring at the eagle with a sense of mild trepidation.

She didn't dislike Dumbledore, but she didn't trust him. In her younger years, she had idolised him with an unveiled astonishment, for he was the person who had started everything. That one simple letter had been signed by him, in the emerald ink on the parchment, delivered by the owl that had tried to eat her dad's toupee. He was the embodiment of magic, of safety. Dumbledore had been the symbol of hope for so long...

Until he wasn't. Until he fell from the top of the tower. Until his killer's memories revealed the truth.

And despite everything she knew, despite her better judgement, she couldn't help but feel awed by him. He was everything Hogwarts was meant to be; his inspirational speeches, his twinkling eyes, his reassuring way of always knowing what to do and what to say.

Now, though, Hermione wasn't sure what he could possibly have to say. And she couldn't contain the worry eating away at her. He'd called her up to his office- there was no way it was just for tea and biscuits. She hardly believed that the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had called her up for a gossip.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair, before she resignedly said the password. The revolving stairs seemed to go on forever, and it was with great difficulty and reservation that she eventually came to stand outside of the doors.

Lifting her hand up to knock, they clicked open of their own accord, swinging wide to reveal Dumbledore sat behind his desk. He looked like he always did, that indescribable familiarity brimming in his blue eyes, and wrinkled face. He motioned for her to sit down. The doors closed behind her.

"Miss Granger," he greeted, smiling amicably. He gestured to the small ornate bowl of sweets in front of her. "Lemon drop?"

"Oh, no," Hermione said, and did as she was told. "Thank you."

Dumbledore helped himself to one, and he seemed to take his time, leisurely unwrapping the sweet and observing it before he put it in his mouth. She shifted in her chair, wishing he'd get to the point. She was starting to sweat.

"How are you?"

Almost closing her eyes in exasperation (she really couldn't handle this small talk), Hermione smiled and said carefully, "Very well. And yourself?"

"Good, good," the Headmaster replied. He interlocked his fingers on the desk. "And school is going well, I hope?"

"Yes," she said. "Well, at least, when I'm actually there, it is."

Dumbledore's lips quirked. "You do seem to have spent a considerable amount of time in the Hospital Wing. Fear not, Miss Granger, I'm sure your incredible academic ability prevents you from falling behind."

Hermione blushed, looking away. "Thank you."

There was silence, in which Hermione took the chance to survey the office. She couldn't remember actually coming in here that much in her time- she'd never had reason to, but she was surprised to find it very eccentric.

Honestly, she didn't know why. It was Dumbledore, after all.

The shelves were stacked and filled with a mismatched assortment of various objects with buttons and knobs and retractable arms. There were glass vials filled with all sorts of strange colours and picture frames wedged between old books and remembralls.

A tall wooden and empty perch stood near the bottom of some stairs to a higher level, where the walls were encompassed with books, and there was a small pile of ash underneath it. She frowned. The black heap marred the floor, and yet Dumbledore hadn't cleaned it up yet.