Weariness pervaded her body as she heaved the ancient tome from the shelf onto the table. Sighing, she slumped into the chair and cracked open the book. She tried but couldn't get her eyes to focus on the text. With elbows resting on the table, she buried her face into her hands and rubbed her eyes, imploring them to eke out a few more minutes of research.
Voldemort was amassing strength and support with each passing day. While Harry spent most of his time outside of the castle forging the resistance, Hermione spent most waking hours these days in the library researching anything that may help abate the tide of darkness.
Voldemort employed archaic magic. Hermione believed the key to defeating him similarly lay buried deep in ancient magic, magic long-forgotten as unnecessary and outdated.
The book in front of her now was titled Furry Fungi from France by Margot Champignon. What did fungus have to do with combating evil? Hermione had no idea; she'd been traipsing through this specific mushroom patch because three days ago she read there was once a witch who concocted a potion to temporarily turn one's skin as hard as armor. Fifteen dusty volumes later and the trail was all but dried up. The only thing she was going on now was a vague reference to metallic-tasting mushrooms from the Loire Valley in central France. She didn't expect to glean anything useful from the book in front of her. But what else was she supposed to do? Hermione intended to help fight Voldemort and his Death Eaters however she could. While she knew the time would come for her to pick up her wand and fight, right now she was determined to find whatever she could to give the side of virtue an advantage.
Her research thus far had begot spells and strategies on which Harry had coached Dumbledore's Army who, in turn, coached the ever-growing legion of wizards and witches willing to wield their wands against the forces of evil. If Harry was a well-meaning Alexander the Great, taking the fight into enemy territory, Hermione was Sun Tzu, brilliantly strategizing their maneuvers. There was no cleverer witch than her for the task. She enthusiastically embraced the responsibility, but the weight of it was getting heavy. Her innermost fear had always been not knowing an answer. Now, that fear had metastasized into paranoia, eating at her and whispering in her head: when the time comes, you won't have the answer.
So she prepares; she studies; she researches. She tenaciously follows any lead, regardless of its probability of yielding results. Case in point: mushrooms.
Over the next hour and a half she read passages at random. She learned how to mash a certain orange-hued fungus and combine it with flobberworm mucus to produce a potent acne cream. She learned she could blend the shavings of a foul smelling brown fungus with fur clippings of a niffler to produce sweet smelling potpourri. She learned she could add a particular brown fungus to broth with chopped onions and other vegetables to make a delicious stew. She learned the specific variety of mushroom to chew on, and for how long, to induce hallucinations that one was flying with hippogriffs.
While reading about a hairy green fungus purported to boost concentration when ingested, one line of text roused her from her trance-like studying.
"Of course it's no brain expanding potion, but the Focus Fungus can do the job in a pinch," she whispered aloud.
Hermione stewed on the concept for a while. What if there really was a potion one could concoct to increase their intelligence? The idea sent a lightning bolt of excitement coursing through her.
She knew she was done reading for the night. There's no way she could concentrate on anything else. She marked her place and tucked Champignon's book under her arm and headed for the Gryffindor dormitories.