When she was little, her parents used to bribe her with books.

Before magic, or before magic being real, books were the only thing that could settle her. They calmed her mind—the shapes of the words on the page, the way they ebbed and flowed, all pointed serifs and empty graceful spaces between them—and books were the only way she could make sense of things. To learn all about things, their histories, how they worked. They gave her a away to rationalize all the emotions (being confused or uncertain or scared or cowardly) that made her weak. If she knew everything she possibly could, then she could beat all of those things with her knowledge. To know something is not to fear it.

She had a vivid memory of going to work with her parents when she was eight or nine, when things started to get weird. The door to their practice had a bell above it that spoke of every patient, coming in or going out. She liked to sit in the waiting room with her eyes closed, counting the number of rings and guessing who came in and who left.

One day her father gave her a book while she sat in the waiting room, a thick tome that told of every possible mouth ailment that could affect a person, and told her to sit still. It was the only thing that worked to calm her mind, to read over and over the lines of the book until they were ingrained inside of her. And sometimes, when her father would be stumped as to what was wrong with a patient and express his annoyance at the dinner table, she would quietly say one or the other of the diseases she had learned in the book. Not in the know-it-all way she'd adopt later and be proud of, because it was a shield, but in the way of shallow uncertainty, because she could be wrong and it wouldn't bother her.

Hermione always loved books. They lived inside of her, a sheltered home for the lost words.


It was late in the day—Potions had lasted far longer than the allotted time because Seamus somehow kept blowing up his cauldron when the directions clearly stated that you were to dice the tear berry and not crush it—and Hermione was tired. She had two scrolls to write for History of Magic and pages and pages of reading to do for Arithmancy, plus Harry and Ron had asked for her help with the Transfiguration homework she'd gotten done last week, so it didn't look like there'd be any time to rest tonight. She should've been used to the lack of sleep, should've been bathing in it, because all of her time spent not sleeping at night was spent in the common room, touching and kissing and accessing something primal that she'd only read about. Read extensively about, mind you, but nothing actually compared.

But today, no. She would fall asleep at the table at dinner if she let this go on. Perhaps she could sneak into her dormitory while everyone was gone and curl up on her bed and pull the covers over her head and fall inside that emptiness of dreaming. She readjusted her bag on her shoulder and watched the rest of the class file up the stairs, then turn toward the Great Hall. Her bed was all the way on the other side of the castle and it would take ages to walk there, even if she took her favorite shortcut past the Divination tower. The library was much closer. The library had cushy chairs and books to surround her, words to lull her to sleep. She could nap in the library, then wake up and finish her homework. Perfect.

The walk to the library was short and her feet seemed to lead her there of their own accord. It was her home, more than her four-poster bed and the window that overlooked the lake. She loved the worn spines that lined the shelves, the red diamond-shaped tiles that dotted the floor, and the fragile elegance of Madam Pince's desk, presiding over all with its peeling gold paint and the old, stained-glass pull-chain lamp. Madam Pince understood getting lost in books. She liked books better than people, as evidenced by the permanent downturn to her lips, but she and Hermione had a truce for the sake of the books.

She wandered over to the Reference section, trailing her hand along the beveled carvings on the shelves as she went, praying for no splinters. When she turned the corner, though, there was someone already stationed in her favorite chair, his legs thrown lazily over one of the arms. He was wearing shiny snakeskin loafers that reflected the lamplight from the tables around and it caught her eye. She held up a hand to shield against it and he let out a chuckle.

Draco Malfoy.

Ever since last year, there'd been a quiet truce between the two of them. Perhaps not so with Harry, but then Harry didn't know what Hermione had done. How she'd saved his life when the only other option was ending it. No one knew how Malfoy had gotten out of there alive, save himself and Hermione.

Words failed her. They didn't often, but no clever quip came to mind, no insult that would worm its way into his mind and stay there, making his hatred grow. Only silence, inside of her. The kind of silence that books gave her.

"Well?" he said. "Can I help you?"

Even his voice was pure arrogance. She knew it was a front, the only front he'd ever learned and that it worked, that only truly evil people actually wanted to be friends with him because he was a bully and a snitch. But that didn't bring any insults to mind. It only brought more silence.

She turned and left the room, her heart racing in her chest. Sleep wouldn't come, now. And even if it did, in some other part of the library, she would feel his presence like a heartbeat, on the other side of the shelves.

They were connected, now. And the only way to get away was to run, to find the safety of Ron and Harry and their stupid inside jokes and constant babbling about quidditch. Draco Malfoy wasn't safe. He was the furthest thing from it.