It had been two days since they came to an accord. She had not become his apprentice; she declined for a multitude of reasons. Every point was valid, her reasoning fwless. But Dumbledore, seasoned in the art of statecraft, knew these were not her true reasons. She still refused to let herself trust others, and he feared that would be her undoing.

  Now, two days ter, he entered the hospital wing to find the girl in question pacing in a way that reminded him more of a caged animal. Her hair was wild, her robes unfastened at one shoulder, ink smudges on her hands and jaw. Her eyes reminded him of the mania he'd once seen in Beltrix Lestrange.

  She looked like she hadn’t slept. Pomfrey had warned him she hadn’t eaten. And from the scattered parchment, the annotated margins of Sazar’s journal, and the faint hum in the air around her, he suspected she hadn’t stopped moving since she’d started reading.

  “You’re here,” she said, before he could even open his mouth.

  Her voice was dry—hoarse from disuse or overuse, he couldn’t tell, but he could hear the desperation, how cruel he was to dangle this hope before her.

  "Thank you for the book. It has been enlightening, to say the least. Some of the Parselscript expins what he did. The issue is with her core, but it isn't unstable, so it is fixable. He used a method that required he bind his serpent to the 'root' of Hogwarts to help bance the flow of their magic so it wouldn't damage their body. Magical knowledge has come a long way since then and I have another method, the root can alter the way the magic flows, the frequency or wavelength it operates at. I believe the only reason he couldn’t do the same was that he cked the tools. I, however, have Professor McGonagall’s bracer to assist me. It should allow me to reset her core with the aid of pure leyline magic."

  “I need access,” she said immediately. “To the lower levels—beneath the Chamber, beneath the school itself, found within its foundations. Sazar mentioned a site he called the Root. It's where your ward stone is to be tied to the Wards. If memory serves, there was a battle there versus the Goblins in 1890.”

  Dumbledore stilled. “That information is not commonly known.”

  Hermione didn’t react, too wound up in her own urgency. But he stepped closer, studying her intently now.

  “You should not know that,” he said, voice quiet. “The memories of that battle were erased—from every mind involved. It was done to prevent a war. The one who wielded the magic that saved Hogwarts gave their life in the process. Their st act was to purge the knowledge from history itself.”

  He paused, watching her carefully. “Only the Headmaster retains access to that memory. It is part of the bond to the Heart of Hogwarts—our link to its living magic. And yet you speak of it as if it were fresh in your mind.”

  She seemed unbothered by this fact.

  Dumbledore’s breath caught just slightly.

  There were too many coincidences. Too much knowledge she could not possibly have. He said nothing more—but in the silence between them, the possibility hung heavy in the air.

  How would Hogwarts move to protect the one who had once protected it and all its children? Yes, she was the Heir of Slytherin. But was that all? Or had the castle recognised something older? Something buried?

  Then he recalled the spell she had used on the troll. It was eerily simir to the one used by the Hero all those years ago—a Miss... Hermione Granger.

  Same name. Same spark. Same defiance in the face of death.

  He didn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, though it did cast his old belief about death being the next great adventure in an entirely different light.

  He cleared his throat softly. "Clean yourself up, Miss Granger," he said, the authority in his tone returning. "You will accompany me to the Restricted Section."

  Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue. He saw it then—the flicker of something just beneath her exhaustion. Not surprise. Recognition.

  Ten minutes ter, they were walking through the castle’s lower levels. Dumbledore said nothing as they descended. He didn’t tell her where they were going. He wanted to see what she remembered.

  They reached the outer corridor of the Restricted Section. She didn’t hesitate. Her hand grazed along the spines of the books, then paused at the far corner wall, where the ancient stone was etched with the faintest of arcs. She raised her wand, fingers steady despite her fatigue.

  “Revelio,” she whispered.

  The stone shimmered, its texture rippling as ancient wards acknowledged her presence. The archway revealed itself slowly, deliberately, as though the castle itself were weighing her worth.

  She stepped forward and pressed her palm to the now-visible seal. The door responded—not as if it had been unlocked, but as though it had been waiting.

  Dumbledore followed in silence, his gaze unreadable.

  They moved deeper, the air cooling with every level they passed. The torches here did not light with magic but with memory—fring to life only after Hermione had passed them. Dust clung to everything, and yet the way ahead remained clear.

  She took each turn without hesitation.

  He did not guide her.

  Stone gave way to carved passage, then to a staircase that spiralled deeper than any section of the castle ever should. The air was thicker here—older. And still, she did not stop.

  They reached the great doors at the base of the descent. Hermione paused only briefly, fingertips brushing the worn surface.

  She spoke no spell. She didn’t need to.

  The doors opened.

  The Map Chamber awaited.

  She stepped inside first, eyes flicking across the glowing threads of magical pathways etched into the floor. The ancient statues that circled the chamber stirred faintly, not in warning, but as if recognising something long lost.

  Dumbledore followed, his footsteps slower, more deliberate.

  When they reached the centre, he stopped and watched her carefully. “Are you the same Hermione Granger who ended the Goblin Rebellion of 1890... who saved this school?"

  Hermione turned to him sharply, confusion fshing across her features. "No, I—"

  Her voice caught.

  She tried again. "I’m not—"

  Nothing.

  No sound came.

  Her throat moved. Her lips formed the words. But her magic refused.

  She stared at him, startled. "Why... why can’t I say it?"

  Dumbledore did not answer. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable. But behind his silence was certainty. And awe.