She regarded anyone without parents as being her charge. With Hermione's parents obliviated and hidden in Australia, that meant Minerva regarded Hermione as being under that umbrella as well.
They went to tea in muggle London.
When they had seated themselves, she stared silently at Hermione for a long time.
"I had hoped you would refuse," Minerva said at length.
"Did you really think I would?" Hermione asked, her voice steady as she finished pouring the tea.
"No," Minerva said stiffly. "My hopes and beliefs have been separate things for some time now. Which is why I said it was unconscionable."
"The Order needs this."
There was a silence as each woman studied the other. The tension between them vibrated; like the sob of a violin bow drawn carelessly across the strings. Sharp. Aching. Deeply felt.
After a minute, Minerva spoke again.
"You...were one of the most remarkable students I had the privilege to teach. Your relentlessness back in Hogwarts was always something that I admired—"
Minerva paused.
"But—?" Hermione pressed, preparing herself for the sharp critique that waited on the far side of the compliment.
"But—" Minerva put her teacup back in its saucer with a sharp click, "the way you have carried that tendency into the war has troubled me. I sometimes wonder where the line is for you. If you even have one."
Once — such a rebuke would have made a Hermione blush and reconsider herself. Now she didn't even blink.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she said. "For extreme diseases, extreme methods of cure, as to restriction, are most suitable."
Minerva's expression hardened, her lips thinning.
"And what of 'first do no harm'? Or do you think the oath does not apply when the harm is to yourself?"
"Hippocrates never said it." Hermione sipped her tea with more casualness than she felt. "Primum non nocere. It was coined in the seventeenth century. The Latin gives it away. Besides — I'm not doing this as a healer."
"That Moody is asking this of you at all makes him as depraved as the mind that conceived of it." Minerva's Scottish burr became overt from the emotion her voice carried. "I would have thought there would be limits. When does the price of winning become too steep? This is a war already waged with the blood of children. Are we selling them now too?"
Hermione sighed. "I'm not a child anymore, Minerva. This is a choice I'm making. No one is forcing it on me."
"Anyone who knows you knew you'd agree to it. Draco Malfoy knew without any doubt what you'd say when the question was put to you. Do you really think that for someone of your nature it was ever a question of choice?"
"No more than becoming a healer or anything else I've ever done then." Hermione suddenly felt drained. "Making hard choices — someone has to do. Someone has to suffer. I'm willing to. I can bear it. Why try to force it onto someone who can't?"
"You're so like Alastor," Minerva said in a bitter tone. There appeared to be tears in the corners of her eyes. "When he told me, I told him no. I said, never. There are lines that cannot be crossed because once we ask those things we're no better. And then he told me he wasn't telling me in order to consult. The decision had already been made by himself and Kingsley. He was simply telling me so that someone with concern for you would be aware — in case of what Draco Malfoy does to you—"
Minerva's voice cracked abruptly.
Hermione felt overwhelmed by a surge of affection, but she forced herself not to react. Not to waver.
"He killed Albus," Minerva said after a moment, the words trembling with emotion.
"I know. I haven't forgotten."
"He was barely sixteen then. He killed one of the greatest wizards of our time in cold blood in a hallway full of first-years. Even Tom Riddle was closer to seventeen when he started killing, and he started with a schoolgirl, in secret in a bathroom. What kind of person do you imagine Draco Malfoy is now? Six years later."
"He's our best chance of turning this war around. We need this, Minerva. You see the orphans, but I see the bodies. We can't afford to waste any opportunities now. I'm not going to turn down something that can give the Order even a fraction of a better chance of winning. No single person matters more than the whole war."
"You would do anything to end this war."
"I would."
"James Potter used to say that war is hell. I used to agree with him. But now — I think he was wrong. War is far worse than hell. You're no sinner; this is not a fate you deserve. And yet, it seems as though you're determined to try damning yourself if it means winning."
"War is War. Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse," Hermione quoted and then smiled sadly. "My father used to say that. It came from a muggle television show."
Hermione hesitated for a moment before adding "You're right. I am willing to do anything to win this war. I don't know that I'm doing the right thing, I'm sure that most people will say I'm not. I know there will be no coming back from this — not to Harry or Ron, even if it buys us a victory in the end. But — saving them is worth it to me. I have always been prepared to pay the price for the lengths I'm willing to go. I have never been blind to the consequences."
Minerva didn't reply. She sipped her tea, and stared at Hermione as though she never expected to see her again.
Hermione met her gaze and wondered to herself whether it might be true.
Chapter End Notes
I know, no Draco yet. He is coming.
Quotations are from Hippocrates and M.A.S.H.
Hermione's occlumency by sparetimedoodler.
Flashback 3
Moody sent word that Severus would be at Spinner's End late in the afternoon on Friday. Hermione got ready and hoped it would be an easier conversation than the one she'd had with Minerva.
She and Severus had struck up a friendship of sorts during the war. It had been started by Hermione when she appeared at his door following Dumbledore's death, asking him to train her in potion making. Over the years, as Hermione's relationships with other Order members had grown fraught, they came to enjoy the mutual bitterness of each other's company.
Not that they were close.
Neither of them had time to be friends with anyone.
They simply signaled their respect for each other with small gestures. Severus by not viciously insulting Hermione during Order meetings the way he insulted everyone else, and Hermione by shutting down the ongoing suspicions of Harry and others about whether Severus was truly on the Order's side since they weren't winning.
When Hermione arrived at Severus' home, she found the door left ajar for her, and Severus brewing in the kitchen. The steamy room was a sensory assault. Potion making had given Hermione the habit of compulsively identifying scents. The air was thick with the combined aromas of stewed herbs and tinctures. Sharp and sweet yarrow, the mustiness of dried dandelion flowers, the mineral bitterness of ground roots, and burn and grittiness of ashwinder eggshells she could almost taste in the air. The tang of Magic was effused through the scents, clinging to her skin and hair.
“Something new?” she inquired after watching him huddle over the cauldron for several minutes.
“Clearly,” he replied in a snide tone as he added a drop of Acromantula venom.
The potion burped a cloud of sour yellow vapour, and Severus stepped back to avoid it with a faint hiss of irritation.