Hermione placed her book gently on the shelf and shivered. The library was cold as ice in the night-time, but it was nice. It seemed somehow bigger without all the other students, and homier. Hers. The gas lanterns had gone out hours ago, and Madam Pince had long since gone to bed. Hermione checked her lighted watch – twelve thirty, and yet she wasn't tired.
The one thing she didn't love about Hogwarts was its lack of privacy. She slept in a room with four other girls with only a scarlet curtain to separate them. She lived her life among hundreds of students, with hardly any time to herself. The rules prevented her from being alone, so she had to break the rules, and the curfew, and the lock on the library door.
She had read many books in this way: dozens, perhaps hundreds, from all sections of the library. Astronomy, Astrology Economics, Herbology, History, Magical Creatures, Magical Politics, Psychology... but never anything from the Restricted Section. That wasn't allowed.
Technically, she wasn't allowed in the library at night either, but she didn't mind doing something she could see was reasonable. Not anymore at least. It had been years since the incident with the troll, her first bout of mischief, but gradually she had changed into someone more independent who could think for herself. Though she didn't particularly like breaking the rules, there was a certain freedom about it, a naive naughtiness that was quite releasing from her well-ordered day. And it wasn't as if reading a naughty book would do any real harm, was it?
Decided, she tiptoed barefoot across the wintry stone floor, counting the aisles in the dark with her hand. It was a curious thing, how the futility of one sense could heighten the others, as it did every night. She could smell the pages of the books, the change in the air. She could hear Madam Pince's breathing in her room across the passageway, her own soft footsteps and –
Hermione stopped short behind a shelf and caught her breath. There was an extra sound that night: a ragged breathing, crying even, just to her left in the Herbology section. The crying person kept seizing their breath, as if trying to regain their composure. Hermione stood silently, frozen and listening intently, unsure of what to do.
"S-stupid. Can't even k-keep myself t-together," the person muttered – a boy.
Hermione peeked around the shelf as the moon emerged from its clouds, giving a shade of light to the room. She could just make out a shadowy figure sitting and leaning against the books, knees drawn up protectively, light hair covering his eyes. He sniffed and took a deep, shuddering breath. The young man lifted his head and looked up through the window, the moon directly shining on his face.
And then she realized. The boy was Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Prince, king of all bullies. And his strong face wore the look of a lost child. She couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't even think. She heard a sharp intake of breath – her own – and his head snapped up.
"Who's there?" he whispered sharply.
Hermione didn't know what to do. She was about to be caught red-handed catching Draco Malfoy red-handed crying, and she couldn't see any way out.
"Show yourself! Who's there?" He stood up, recovered now, and angry. He took out his wand.
"Okay! Okay," she found herself whispering. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to –"
He stepped around the bookcase, pointing his wand at her chest. "What are you doing here?"
"I – I'm a Prefect, Malfoy, I –"
He cut her off. "Granger?"
"Yes?" Her reply sounded like a question. She expected him to be furious, violent even, but he merely lowered his wand and gave a heavy sigh. His face became soft and calm. Was it possible that he was relieved to know it was her?
"You won't tell anyone. I know you won't."
"But – what?"
"You won't tell anyone," he repeated. "You... you're that kind of person."
She was speechless, and his face hardened suddenly.
"So you're the one who picked the lock then? Nice work, for a Mudblood," he scoffed, attempting bravado. "I must say, Granger, I never expected anyone as uptight as you to break the rules. Or is someone else here?"
"No. No, I'm alone."
"Fine. Good. Excellent. I'm sure McGonagall will be very interested to know about this little excursion of yours. You're not quite so perfect as you seem, are you? How disappointing."
Finished with his tirade, he smirked and turned away, but not before Hermoine thought she glimpsed the softness in his eyes again.
"You won't tell anyone," she realized.
He stopped mid-step. "How do you know that?"
"You won't tell McGonagell, or anyone."
"I see. Anything else?"
"Yes."
He turned to face her. "Well, come on, Granger. I don't have all night, you see. I need my beauty sleep." He smirked.
"Are you okay?"
He paused, opened his mouth, and shut it again. Then he turned with a swish of his cloak and stormed from the library, leaving her alone in the dark and, for the first time, lonely.