Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters, places and names are the property of J.K. Rowling.

A/N: This is a story in three parts, placed during the events of The Half Blood Prince. Though it will not interfere much with the actual plot, I have written with my own story in mind, therefore a slight AU may occur.

CORPORIS

Chapter One – Days of Autumn

I

September

Hermione Granger thought she might as well hunt down that book herself, for the librarian had her work cut out for her, tending to the needs of students less familiar with the place than herself, and besides, she was young, and relatively limber, making it far easier for her to use a ladder, though perhaps not as easy as it ought to have been. The library would close soon; she could hear the steady ticking of the clock, counting down her minutes, like a warning, musical when the hour struck, irreversible as the last note fell. Besides, the book, she had seen it before, was on the top shelf. Much better then, to take action herself.

If Ron, or indeed Harry, had been here, he could have taken care of it, both of them having far out-grown her in hight. But as Ron had so vehemently argued, there was not much work to be done. Not at a Saturday evening at the start of term. And so they had left her to it rather early on. It would seem he regarded it as a personal insult that she would prefer books to him. But there was a peace here, a mandatory silence, into which she could withdraw. A trait few found commendable, but as danger loomed ever closer, nothing worked as soothingly on her nerves as reading, in the dampened light of the library, hidden from view by the ample shelves.

Looking out, she saw; it was almost dark already, the autumn descending on them quickly, and with it, the cold. It somehow appeared more substantial this year, not carrying its customary freshness, but rather more oppressing, as being locked in a dark room, the only exit being fleeing the country. Standing by the window, a solemnity settled, with the notion, so strong, that something awful was about to happen. Her powerful skill of deduction being at work once again. The rain tapped in a comforting rhythm against the sill, the noise of which completely obscured the sound of her feet crossing the floor, setting out to retrieve the book.

Corporis – substance and non-substance, a basic theory, she could grasp the most elementary bit, but then it had been mentioned; the paradox of being and not-being at the very same time, and she had, surprisingly, unusually, been stuck. And so a book, surely a book must help. Passing by the shelves, she noticed, thought not particularly cared, that most of the work-desks where empty, their green lights distinguished, thought some had decided on wasting good wax and left their candle to burn, to the benefit of nobody, except perhaps a house-elf that would thrill at the added work-load. She scoffed, out loud, in indignation. But seeing as there was no-one here, that hardly mattered. She could hear the sounds of muttering, of pages being turned, but in this wast library she was as good as alone.

The subject of disappearance and reappearance, both in terms of animals and objects, had been granted it's very own section, not just a shelf, but three, stacked to the brim as it where. It was, of course, at the very top – she could see it now – thick, no doubt heavy, smelling of dust and old parchment, as any old book ought to. And there, next to it, was one on transmigration. And next to that one – but she would have to curtail herself. One at a time had always been a good motto, in all aspects of life. The golden mean, and so forth.

"Musing amongst the shelves?"

A pale face, made paler still by the dampened light, as though it shone out to her from between the shelves. Or perhaps it was simply the surprise of seeing him here, not one to waste to much of his precious time in the library; Draco Malfoy, enemy of the muggle-born, and all who wanted to read in peace. Or indeed muse amongst the dusty old books.

"I prefer books to men. Certain men, at least."

The smile was that of a wolf. Of course, that was impossible. And yet, it was the first thing that came to mind as his lips curled upwards in a predatory fashion. Leaning nonchalantly against a shelf, he did not give the impression of 'being on his way', and so she could only conclude (there it was again, those deduction skills, sharp as a knife), that he had settled there for the moment, as a raven, or indeed peacock, on it's perch, to taunt her. Had he really nothing better to do?

"And that's why you're here alone I assume. Weasly being no match to … disappearance and reappearance... I see."

As he leaned backwards to appraise the section-name, she could not help but admire his flexibility. At least someone took the care to work out. But no matter, the sooner she got the book, the sooner she could get away from his infuriating presence. Furthermore, she could hear her precious minutes tick away, as she dallied her time away with this banter.

"Please leave, Malfoy," was her only comment. Short, to the point, and not to be misunderstood, as she turned, striding forth to collect the ladder, a bulky, wooden thing, hoping beyond hope that it was not so heavy. She dreaded the thought of a laborious struggle with a piece of furniture in his presence. But of course it was heavy, she knew it was heavy. There was always the tempting option of charming the ladder, and then no inelegant struggle was needed. But as with the corridors, magic was forbidden, as not to harm the books. The mental health and dignity of their students, did not seem to matter to the school. If she should ever be head-mistress, she would see to that. No, in fact, she would see to it that scum like Malfoy wasn't let in. Of course that would make her just as bad as the people she was opposing. But no matter, she felt entitled to a little political in-correctness as she put her weight to the ladder, pushing it across the floor.

"And what are you doing here anyway. Can't find any first-years to terrify, so you've come to annoy those who work instead."

As she said it, though it was meant as no more than an obnoxious comment, it occurred to her that it was indeed surprising. Few chose reading as their Saturday night-time activity. And for Malfoy, who spent little to no time studying (being of the infuriating ability to know without working for it), it seemed almost indecent.

"Believe it or not, Granger, I did not surrender my prefect-badge as to dally away the time, no doubt as your friends are doing." He's grin shifted into a more sombre expression. But there did seem to be a hint of enthusiasm underlying it; she found the thought alarming. "There's something coming, and we both know it. So if you would be so kind as to fetch me a book while your up there. Yes, the one on transmigration, if you'd be so kind."

His voice sounded normal, and she could not quite believe the indifferent way in which he addressed the matter. The fact that he spoke of it at all, was rather unsettling, but they might one day have to face each other off in a more direct way than banter, and the fact that this did not seem to bother him, spoke of a coldness hitherto unseen.

She had frozen on the ladder, she did not notice until now, and upon looking down, glancing at him by chance, she saw that his eyes where not directed at his book, but was rather fixed on something lower down, though she could not comprehend what it was. His expression had not changed, and so she hurried, resuming her task of climbing to the top of the ladder.

Upon listening, she could hear naught but the clock, time slipping away at it's steady pace, and the breathing of the boy, or was it man, underneath her. The rustling of pages, and scratching of quills had died down, and it occurred to her; they might be completely alone. And if they should get locked in, what a prospect! Furthermore, it would not seem that she would get her book after all. Standing on the topmost step, tiptoeing dangerously, her fingertips where mere inches away. She might have retrieved it with a summoning spell, how easy it all would have been. But the risk of being banned from the library was not an option.

The sound of the doors closing, rang through the room with extraordinary vigour, cutting the silence like a knife, as if a sound could be inconsiderate, brutish, indifferent. And then it was only his breath, the clock, the sound of hard rain falling in ever greater quantities.

"Will you hurry up, I have things to do, and they do not include detention."

"You shouldn't have given up your prefect-duties then," she countered. It was all she could think of, and yet the quip lost some of it's edge, by the panting quality in her voice; it sounded thin, almost feeble, almost as if it where very far away.

"You are too short, just summon it."

"Why can't you do it?"

She loathed asking for his help, but this was ridiculous. And if he should get caught, all the better. He accepted, thought not in good grace, but with a rather theatrical sight. If he was not set on being a death-eater, there might be a place for him on the stage. He would make an excellent Faust. She sniggered at the thought.

"You viscous harpy. I know your plan," Malfoy sneered, completely misinterpreting her smile, though not her intention.

"Fine, I'll just leave them then."

She was perhaps not entirely without a dramatic streak either. With a vision of herself turning from the shelf, gracefully stepping down, she'd forgotten to account for the rather confined space. There was a crash, a tumble, an inelegant whimper, and then the swooping sensation of a fall, wonderful in it's way, if not for the knowledge of imminent pain. Strange then, that it did not occur.

Again, there was the sounds of rain, of breathing, of the clock, striking eight at last, the first tone reverberating through the room. She could feel herself shrink, like some small bird, curling together, as if that could save her from the second ring; it was imminent, detrimental, or at least occurred as such, while resting in the arms of her nemesis. It was wrong, everything was wrong, and for all of it to come crashing down (figuratively speaking) at once, did seem so unfair, that a major conspiracy did not seem unlikely.

Of course, it did not really matter at all. Time trickled past, as it always would, not concerning itself with closing hours of any sort. But to her mind, in that moment, her fatal error; the falling off the ladder, and the finality of the hour, seemed one and the same.

Because he had, in fact, this narcissistic and cruel little boy, stepped forth in a moment of chivalry, and caught her. The moment was rife with symbolism, and she could not help but consider them in passing, as the found herself resting, ironically safe, in his arms. She also could not help but notice that her skirt had slid up.

But Draco Malfoy was no longer an insolent schoolboy. He was a danger. Pride was naught more than a triviality. There was life, and there was death, justice, freedom; those where her concerns, and yet, this; her being caught up in his (albeit not very enthusiastic embrace), would seem like the end of the world, and reduce her to this frightened little creature.

His breath was warm. She had imagined it to be frosty. It did not seem in accordance to his suave nonchalance, this very human thing; a warm, humid breath stroking, light as a kiss, against her cheek. She blushed. He did not seem bothered, but then, as previously noted, he was rather cold. Yet, thankfully, mercifully, he did not speak as he placed her, rather carefully, on the ground.

"Thank you."

"If I'd let you fall, they would no doubt have charged me with something. Deliberate harm of a mud-"

"That's enough!"

"Do not interrupt me!"

"Do not call me a you-know-what."

And there it was again, that frail, distant quality to her voice, as though a quarrel was more than she could bear. But it would seem that Malfoy had decided to end the fun. Lifting his wand, she was about to grab for her own, before realising that he was in fact retrieving the books. Both of them.

As Madame Pince came storming out from behind a shelf, where she'd no doubt been lurking, yelling of abuse, disregard of rules, ten points from Slytherin, and so forth, Hermione did not quite know what to make of it, as he handed her the book, casually, as though it was the most natural of things.

Later on, in the dark confines of her bedroom, she decided he must not have thought about it, being distracted by Madame Pince. Or else perhaps he thought it would look better in her eyes, to help the most avid user of the library. Yes, that must be it, that must be why, and a comforting notion indeed, to know that it would not make the librarian the least bit lenient. The room resounded of the heavy breathing from those who slept, and the rain, that persisted through the night.

II

October

When he read, his tended to lean on his elbows, of which he had his shirtsleeves brought up to. His hair would sometimes fall in disarray after a long session, and if he encountered something interesting, his lips would move to make out the words that formed inside that blond head of his.

...The act of disappearance is, one must note, not of the same quality as that of obliteration, which is the irreversible annihilation of matter. Nor is it like transformation, that which changes the matter and...

There he was again, reading, studying, and making her confused, distracted, not to mention suspicious; it was not the subjects that he was reading. But being a sixth year, he had access to all the books he could want, and that included the restricted section, and so she had no right to inspect his reading-material, though she was made restless with curiosity and need to know; just what could hold Malfoy's attention for so long. Weeks, it had been.

...form, in short, quality of one object with clear boundaries, into another. The state between disappearance and reappearance is a none-state, unlike dying, which is not a state at all. This must be understood, if one is to successfully master the technique...

He brought his hand to his forehead, massaging a temple, as though he had a headache. There where rings under his eyes, not strong, but prominent enough for her to see across the room, bearing evidence of someone who read extensively and with poor lighti.

...which is not a state at all. This must be understood, if one is to successfully master the technique. It has been compared to the act of suspended animation, otherwise known as petrification; this is a common fallacy...

He had skipped dinner three times this week, he looked better with his hair a little unkempt, it softened his features, what could he possibly want with a book on transmigration? It must be much too complicated for him.

...not of the same quality as that of obliteration, which is the irreversible annihilation of matter...

Annihilation of matter, was that his goal? It was certainly not school-work that occupied him. Was it actually possible that he was working towards her destruction with such vigour, mere meters from where she sat. Such absurdity, as if it was all a game.

...this is a common fallacy...

There was no use, she surrendered. The book, though interesting, and also indeed instructive, had the annoying habit, possessed by many ninteenth-century professors, of categorically stating what everything was not, before commencing with the actual matter of interest, and thus she had to fight past page after page of basically drivel, in order to get to grips with the subject at hand. She had brushed her hand through her hair so many times now, it must no doubt stand on end, and her back ached; the chairs not at all suited for long reading-sessions, ironically enough.

His grey lashes cast grey shadows, his skin paler than before, perhaps due to the seemingly perpetual darkness outside. Transmigration, he was reading a book on transmigration. When first encountering the expression, she'd been surprised to find it mentioned in a wizarding-book, believing the notion to be a muggle one. Only upon further reading did she realize it was a branch within transfiguration, though not a corporal one, but rather something deeper; it all sounded rather conspicuous to her ears. Furthermore, she could not grasp it's significance. It was not relevant during their lessons, and she failed to see how it could be put to more sinister uses.

She had told Harry none of this. With the number of theories he produced, his head might well explode if he ever caught wind of it. As it was, he was becoming tiresome. Malfoy was no doubt up to something, but for that something to be the resuming of his father's duties, she very much doubted. He would become a death-eater in due time, but at sixteen the notion was simply too ridiculous.

And so she sat there, musing, no longer reading, but not gathering her things so she might leave either. She would not, no matter how childish it sounded, give evidence of her quick surrender. She always sat for hours when she read, and this display of inconsistency would do little for her reputation as a bookworm, a title she was proud to claim. Furthermore, she would not leave before him, lest it appear he was the harder worker. She would simply need to press on. And thus she resumed her reading.

She would resume, she would simply resume, there was nothing to it.

… We can thus divide corporal existence into three different states of being: that which is evident and perceptional , that which is hidden and inperceptional, i.e none-state, and the transgression period between the two, also called Corporis...

III

November

With the unhappy prospect of another Slug Club meeting this eve, and consequently Ron's fowl mood, Hermione had sought refuge in the library, wandering the selves, looking for something to read; something light and amusing; pleasure-reading. She recalled Harry's dumbfounded expression at this word. This thought brought to her attention the matter of a certain Prince.

It was irritating, infuriating beyond belief, this trust, as if history had taught him nothing, that Harry placed in this book. Throwing caution to the wind as usual, and people fancied him clever. She snorted, turning the corner into the restricted section, and noticing; first an unpleasant drop of the stomach, then the pounding, as if her treacherous heart wished to escape it's confines and flee the premises; it could only be Draco Malfoy.

Here, yet again. How many weeks had she spotted him over the brim of her books, whilst he leaned over his own. But the newly acquired knowledge did little for his appearance. His pale cheeks, now seemingly having lost all it's colour, or rather adapted a yellowish hue, as of that of someone ill.

"You look sick," she mumbled. As soon as the words where out, she could not grasp why she'd spoken them in the first place. Why would she willingly place herself in his line of fire. And furthermore, why did she notice the way he looked?

"Why, thank you. And may I say, likewise."

Though his words where that of light-hearted banter, his voice had a cruel streak to it. She turned to leave. Then he spoke.

"Did you enjoy your book? I found it a little trite, myself. Much too old-fashioned, just theory and no praxis."

"Have you read it?"

She could not help asking, the surprise deterring her determination.

"Indeed, or I would hardly have asked."

"Well, I liked it. Besides, one need to grasp the theory before applying it, and we haven't gotten to that yet, so it doesn't really matter."

She shrugged, and made to leave yet again, but was once more held back, this time by the sight of Cormac, stepping out from behind a shelf. So this was to be her choice; either suffering Malfoy's abuse or McLaggen's relentless flirting.

"Why did you read it?"

He smiled that woolf-smile of his, looking as though he was glad she's asked. Yet he yielded no answers.

"None of your business Granger."

"Fine then. But how did you like it, did you find it helpful?"

"Why do you want to know?"

She had only asked to stall time, but by the suspicious narrowing of his eyes, she realized she might have asked a little too much.

"No reason," she singsonged, as though that would not make him all the more suspicious.

"Really."

It wasn't a question. Furthermore, Cormac was homing in, coming ever closer to their 'hideout'. She took a decision then, spontaneously, some would say foolishly; she sat down.

"Of course Landin is considered the authority, I found Dilligans book quite instructive. That was the one McGonogol recommended. Have you read it?"

He seemed almost shocked by her foolhardiness, and yet, although she could not conceive why, he seemed eager to discuss the subject. She suspected Crab and Goyle did not make great conversation. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes fixed, strands of hair adorning his forehead. In the dim light his eyes looked black. She noticed he had delicate hands, a seekers hands, well-groomed and no doubt soft.

"Yes, I have. Or rather, I'm reading it at the moment. But the same problem occurs."

And she who had always, upon looking at that delicate blond hair, thought him a fool.

"How so?"

"Well, their both concerned with the human form. But what about objects?"

"They are less complicated. If you have mastered the art of disappearing and reappearing, your mindset will be ready for something as comparatively small as disappearing an object. Of course, we take it the other way around now, but still, I don't think Landin would have thought that to disappear a, let's say cup, was of very great importance."

While talking, she listened for a sound, a footstep, but McClaggen seemed to have stopped for the moment. Perhaps there was another way around, and she could avoid them both. But it was too late now, she was sitting, she was here, she was discussing transformation of matter with Draco Malfoy.

"That's not true of all objects though. You are thinking of those with fixed boundaries. But how does the mechanism of those with a fleeting boundary work? That is a matter neither speak of."

They where so close she could hear his breath, almost taste it. It was deep, steady, his chest rising and falling like the lazy wave of a still ocean.

"Like a port-key?"

Odd it was, and yet, satisfactory. To think, they where talking, conversing, in a free manner, pure of insult.

"Something like that."

"I have a book about it somewhere," she said, shaking her bag, "but port-keyes had not been invented in Landin's time. A fleeting boundary..." to be sure, she did not know, she had never even contemplated it. Having once been accused of a limited mind, this was rather disturbing to her; how had she been able to not conceive of this problem? "Perhaps you need to work with the understanding that there is a prototype-"

There was thudding, as that of big, ungraceful feet stomping their way. She was accustomed to the sound, Ron made it all the time. And then he was there, that silly hair swept to one side as if he'd just dismounted his broom, the lion of Griffyndoor emblazoned across his chest, sporting a vacant expression. That was, until he saw her.

"Hermione!"

His exclamation, though she knew it was coming, startled her. She looked to Malfoy, who, surprisingly, meet her eyes. It must he nerves, there could be no other explanation for the little swoop, not wholly uncomfortable, that her stomach made.

"Excuse me, this is a library. Would you please keep quiet."

Cormac's face lost some of it's charm as it transformed from delight to anger.

"No Slytherin orders me around. Is he bothering you? That's ten points."

She braced herself for a yell of indignation, perhaps even a fight. But Malfoy, not one to let his suave mask fall, leant back as if in utter indifference.

"Whatever."

"Come on, Hermione."

It reminded her rather like a master, addressing his dog, the way he spoke to her. The insensible brute! Yet what was there to be done? She could hardly chose to stay with Malfoy in front of a fellow Gryffindoor, no matter how annoying.

Draco was still sporting an expression of indifference as she rose. Rummaging through her bag, she soon found it; a book, newer than the others, perhaps it would contain some information as to what they'd been discussing.

"Here," she held it in front of him as an offering. Perhaps as a way of excusing McLaggen, or else to show her appreciation of their conversation. To be sure, they where few and far between. He accepted with good grace, and as his hand grasp around it, his fingertips brushed past the back of her hand. Like a kiss, she thought, like the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp, and there it was again, that feeling of solemnity, looking upon him, and feeling with such certainty, that something awful was about to happen. Or perhaps it already had.