There was only one word that could describe the way she felt right now, at this moment.

Alone.

Under normal circumstances, the library was her safe haven. The quiet sounds of quills scratching parchment, of pages being flipped, of robes being rustled, had been the perfect combination of noises that created what sounded like a symphony to her ears. Now, with each stroke of ink and tired sigh, her headache grew along with the pit in her stomach.

She bent her head down to rest her forehead on the cool, varnished wood of the cubicle. The papers she had been pouring over fell onto the ground but she made no move to retrieve them. Instead, a shaky breath escaped her lips as her hair fell in messy curls beside her cheeks, blocking her view of the rest of the library.

Hermione was tired. And angry. And most of all, she was lonely.

Lavender and Ron. Ron and Lavender. Everywhere she looked, she was reminded. And when she closed her eyes, as she did now, all she could see was their lips touching, his hands in the blonde girl's hair. With each second that her imagination ran wild, the more she felt out of control of her own feelings. And that was what she hated most.

It was illogical, her jealousy. If she had liked him so much to begin with, she could have gotten to him first. But they'd been friends for so long, she wasn't sure if she actually did want to, you know, be with him. Maybe it was just the attention she missed. Maybe she just assumed he'd always be there for her. Either way, all this confusion, all these messy feelings, were the most infuriating circumstances she believed she'd ever been in and would ever have the misfortune to be in.

Harry wasn't helping either. She knew that no matter what she said about that textbook, he wouldn't listen to her. And she knew that one day it was going to come back and bite him right where the sun don't shine. Then he'd come crawling back. Because she was right about this so-called 'Prince'. The way he (or she) wrote made her skin crawl. That's what these papers were for, trying to see if she could make a connection with any past students and this potions mastermind. But so far, her instincts were blind and she'd found nothing.

And then there was Malfoy. Oh, Harry would just not stop talking about him. "Malfoy's a Deatheater, I'm telling you!" or "If I could just see up that sleeve one time." or "It's in his eyes, he's pure evil, there's no doubt about it!" It was starting to sound like he was questioning his sexuality. For Malfoy, of all people. She knew that he was a prick, but she also knew dictators and tyrants. Muggle history told a lot about those who use power to fulfill their prejudiced actions, and those leaders never trusted the newbies with personal missions. It would be idiotic. And Malfoy wasn't exactly star of his class. No, he was a bad person, but not who Harry thinks he is.

With that, her two closest friends were preoccupied. Obsessing over girls and boys. Leaving her behind in the dust. Hermione was strong, but she was still a teenage girl. What she wouldn't give to have one conversation with either of them with their undivided attention. To feel like she mattered. Or that she wasn't going to crazy under all this stress. She tried talking with Ginny, but with her slim, athletic build and long, flaming hair, just by looking at the two of them she knew that in the end they had little in common besides the boys.

She hadn't felt this awkward since she'd been ten years old.

Back before she knew all this, before she knew why things would randomly explode if she lost her temper, or why if she concentrated really hard, she could make her books come to her instead of the other way around. It was a brilliant, confusing feeling. But she couldn't share it with anyone. The Grangers weren't a particularly religious family, their tendency towards logical thinking didn't lend itself towards that lifestyle, but she knew that anyone else who knew what she could do might think she was possessed or cursed or something. Because even though she was gifted with something so simply magical, she was still different. Before her magic revealed itself she was the overeager bookworm. Then she was the overeager bookworm with a secret she couldn't share.

And then she'd found her place. Here. At Hogwarts.

Turning her head on the desk, she blew the hair away from her face as much as she could. Unencumbered, she could breathe in the scents of the library. The old book smell, the lanterns starting to burn as the sun was setting. This was supposed to be where she felt at home, and now it was all slipping away.

She opened her eyes a sliver to look out on her surroundings. Dust was floating the orange sunbeams that turned the room a darkening golden colour. There were a group of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors at a table across from her, trying to figure out their Transfiguration assignment. Working together to figure out what they were doing wrong when they tried the spell. It was a pleasant sight. Until one boy accidentally turned the blanket they were supposed to be making into clock into a giant palm tree instead. The girl next to him burst into laughter and his cheek blushed. Seeing this, the girl stuck out her tongue and then leaned forward towards him, pressing her mouth against his, her scarlet tie swinging as she grabbed onto his blue one. His lips curled into a smile against hers and the rest of the group cat called at them, disregarding the accidental vegetation they'd added to the library decor.

Hermione turned away quickly, trying to beat her imagination from morphing the boy's light hair into a mop of ginger. She lifted her head from the desk, shaking it a little despite the ache that seemed to rest in her temples. She had to get out of there. The air was stuffy and the sun was warm, and that wasn't what she needed right now. She needed fresh air, maybe an aspirin, and some sleep.

Bending down, she grabbed her bag and picked up the fallen parchment. As she left, she dropped the papers off on a trolley for Madam Pince to take care of later. Usually, Hermione would re-shelve her things herself just to extend her stay a little longer, but this was not that kind of day. Instead, she walked straight out the door into the corridor.

Walking through the halls, she already felt a little better. It was easy to get away from things she didn't want to see (like certain paintings who didn't know how to keep their mouths shut about gossip) and just getting the blood pumping through her legs was a relief. So much so, that she decided to drop off her things in the Tower before going outside. She wouldn't be able to sleep for another few hours and she didn't really feel like keeping all these books on her person as she wandered the grounds, so she began to bound up the stairs before they could move on her.

The farther up she got, the less people she saw. At this time of the evening, everyone was either already in their common rooms or still lazing around the Great Hall, picking apart their desserts. In fact, between the fourth and eight floor, the only person she saw was Malfoy, who didn't even seem to notice her as he rushed down the left corridor on the seventh floor. The absence of people in such a large open space felt freeing and the loneliness was less crushing.

All she knew now was that she couldn't wait to get outside.

…

There was only one word that could describe how he was feeling right now. One word in his entirely vocabulary that he never dared to admit to himself.

Scared.

As he hurried across the stone floor towards his destination, his head was clouded with thoughts that were all drenched in nervousness and desperation. But he wasn't desperate yet, no, but he was getting there. He had to do this. He had no choice. But he didn't know how.

He was already a couple months into his mission and he was nowhere near success. Crabbe and Goyle, who had given up on standing guard for him, were already starting to whisper behind his back about it. They didn't think he knew that they were, but he did. God, they could be such idiots sometimes. All the time. Whatever. It was just idle chatter, but he hoped it wouldn't spread to Zabini or Pansy. Or someone who's opinion actually mattered.

His robes were swirling angrily around his legs as he picked up his pace. There, opposite the tapestry, was it. Was his ticket to win back his family's pride. His ticket to survival. His only way to make it out of this mess alive. The Room of Hidden Things.

Draco reached forward and opened the door that hadn't been there only seconds before. He'd been here so much, the room was accustomed to his usual thoughts of "I need to get in". Laying in front of him as the door swung back was the most astonishing and random array of objects he'd ever seen, but the sight was familiar to him now. Everything about this mysterious Room was familiar. Sure, he'd always be finding something new inside it, and sometimes the layout would rearrange itself on him, but the smell and feel was always the same. It collected so much dust it was hard for anyone to breathe. But he always could, because he needed to. The Room vibrated with the secrets it held. It was tangible, the way the air was always full of a dry static that made his hairs stand on end. That was the one part of the place that he couldn't get used to as he walked through its aisles.

It took mere moments to find what he was looking for in the mess of a place. The Vanishing Cabinet, by the weird bust with a wig and crown and towering piles of books. But even as he approached it, he knew nothing had changed since the last time he'd come. He could tell. Every part of this damned thing was etched in his brain. When he opened the door, he saw he was right. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like every other time he'd been in here. Fucking. Nothing.

Draco longed to just hit it. To smash the fucking thing to bits. Splinters could line his hands and arms and he wouldn't care because it would all be over. But he couldn't. He didn't know what was going in his home at this moment. If his parents were even alive. Maybe they'd done something else wrong to screw everything up for them, and he was just left here, alone. His friends had already given up on him, he wouldn't be surprised if his family had as well. Well, his father probably already had. He'd given up on him the day he was born. His mother might be the only person left in the world who could care for him.

So he just sat on the floor in front of it, staring up at it. It's black wood was rough and there were splinters littering the floor underneath it as if it had been tearing itself apart. His hands found their way up to his hair as his knees slid up under his chin. His pale hair was bunched between his fingers as he started to pull, tucking his head between his legs. It took everything he had not to scream.

That's one thing he wasn't sure of. Whether or not this place was soundproof or not. It's not like it came with a manual, or something simple like that. He had to play it safe. He had to make sure no one found him in here. Found the cabinet. It was easier when he had Crabbe and Goyle to stand guard but now that they seemed to have some semblance of independent thinking he would just have to be careful. Which wasn't too hard, since no one ever came up this way. The only person he'd passed today was that Mudblood, Granger, and she had seemed too preoccupied in her own thoughts to give him any attention. Not that he cared, it was all for the better that she didn't notice him. And he wasn't surprised either. She always acted like such a know-it-all, but what did she really know? She had her silly little issues with Weasley and new little bitch-girlfriend as they pranced through the halls together, the anger was written all over her face. But she had no idea what was really happening in the walls of the castle.

Potter was the one he had to worry about. It was like he had been stalking him since the beginning of the year. He'd hoped that breaking the bastard's nose would've sent him a clear enough message to "Stay the fuck away!" but apparently that kid was a masochist, or something. Draco knew that he didn't actually know what he was up to, but he was still someone he had to watch out for.

Always looking over his shoulder. Always being aware of who was around him at any given moment. Where Dumbledore was or where Potter was. Whether or not his apples would ever get back to him through the cabinet. He was tired of it.

Just tired.