Own Nothing

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The steady stream of footsteps choked into the odd shuffle of a tired student leaving the warmth of the library common. At eleven thirty all had left but Hermione and the Librarian. One of whom was awake.

The other seemed to have been suddenly attacked by an overwhelming desire to sleep. Her sea-foam locks were in violent disarray, lying every which way but flat, and the woman herself was splayed in a most uncomfortable position. Long, throaty snores could be distinguished from where Hermione sat, jealously eyeing the librarian's slumber.

Actually Hermione was looking at the seams on her Mary-Janes, the crescent white on her nails, the beautifully vaulted ceilings, and everything that might distract her from acknowledging what she was doing. What was she doing? She was waiting on Draco Malfoy, though she wasn't sure why. For a moment she though that something desperate in his tone had compelled her to patience. Quickly she brushed the thought to the recesses of her mind, and chalked everything up to curiosity. 'Yes,' she thought, 'leave it to curiosity to damn my pride and loyalties.'

Just as the twelve 'o' clock bells chimed, footsteps could be heard. Hermione cocked her head and mumbled, "Quick steps. It's a student". She uncrossed her legs, "Heavy reverberation, defiantly male." She smiled, "No late study groups tonight…" (She would know). She stood up and turned to face the new-comer.

Never disappointing, Draco Malfoy paced into the Library. Smooth crimson lips pressed into an acknowledging line, "Granger." He stood regally, night-like robes falling at a perfectly measured length.

For her part, Hermione ignored the regality and brushed past him, "Malfoy".

He smirked, "I'm sure you're familiar with this library and its operations, so stay beside me." He stepped up to the monstrous library and boldly walked into its dim corridors. The shelving before him swiftly melted in and out of form, books sorted and resorted along the shelving, and the eerie calls of forbidden books swelled in the air.

Hermione looked in wonderment at the library she knew so well, but had never known. With every twist and turn further into the library, she glowed a little more. 'The range of titles, the sheer and staggering volume of pages,' she thought with glee. The books called to her like wailing sirens and she ventured a finger to a weathered spine.

"GRANGER!" The blond snatched her hand, "no touching." Eyes of righteous innocence looked to him, and he melted… a little. "Look at the spines, Granger. These aren't the early editions of 'Hogwarts: A history', nor picture books of kindle-figs." He loosened his grip and moved gracefully forward.

Hermione looked furtively at the books. 'Promethean Torture' lay inches from her pale hand. Her eyes opened and then averted. She drew her hand into her billowing robes and gripped her wand.

The pair continued until they reach an opening. Hearty enough, a little fire cackled and two armchairs innocuously waited. Hermione's vision swept the well-worn carpet, the towering window filled with solid midnight, and the boy beside her, now reclining in one of the chairs. He motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite him, and with a flick of hair, she deigned.

The air felt charged and heavy around them. Draco turned and reached into the frenzy of books. He waited for the feel of the books to connect with fingers and sate his eager mind. He closed his eyes in concentration, silently calling the books.

Hermione only watched this display with the strongest discomfort. She looked at the hair that needed no sunlight to sing pure white notes, the hands that trapped hers moments before, and she wondered. Her mind reeled with their sudden armistice; where, when, why?

Draco smirked and pulled two books from the shelf. The first one was had a worn leather complexion and Draco unceremoniously dropped it onto the table beside him. The second was small and not so carelessly strewn; rather, Draco extended it to Hermione. Her eyes, already wide from wonder, could not open further, so her jaw went slack.

"This book…" she began, but couldn't even stutter on. She looked to Draco, pleading for his explanation. When she didn't take the book he placed it on her lap.

He lolled his head backwards, so as not to be so distracted by her hungry looks. "I suppose I should first dispel the myths around this," he gestured blindly to the book, "book."

"First, it is not infallible, only mostly infallible. Second, Salazar did not write nor have the prophetic capacity to write this book. Most likely it's the workmanship of Merlin or one of his contemporaries. And third," he faltered. "And third…" his words died off again. He pulled his head off the back to look into Hermione's eyes. He noted the innocence, their clear sweet color, and then he forged against their humanity.

"I need you. My background in Rune is inadequate to address some of the more complex syntax; however, what I have translated leads me to believe that magic is decaying. There are references to a solution, but,"

"Malfoy," she cut out.

"Now, Granger, this is no time to panic," he spoke in low patronizing tones.

"Malfoy, give me the book. My Rune is perfect." With that she snatched the book and began reading the delicate scrawl of man writing a thousand years ago.

Unseen by Hermione, Draco smirked, small, yes, but satisfied. He gave her the book.

"How did you find this book?" Hermione said in the wispy voice of a distracted, "How did Hogwarts even obtain this book, it shouldn't exist. It's archaic, illegal, and," she looked up sharply, "believed to have been burned by Icelandic mages in the early 12th century."

"Granger, I'm shocked. What you must think of Purebloods! You must consider us so common, sending our precious offspring to this dusty castle, with its sub-par staff, to mingle with the unsophisticated masses. No, it's this library, with its enormous stock of contraband, long forgotten, and… informative… literature, that has purebloods scrambling to send their sons and daughters to this sham," Draco drawled.

"This library, disturbing even to the most Hufflepuff of Hufflepuff, constantly changing and rearranging is Hogwarts' greatest draw. Do you know it reads your desires?" Draco's eyebrows rose with the question. Hermione shook her head no.

"Well, it does, and caters to them, shuffling, rearranging, and adapting to accommodate you. For the curious, shelves will race to feed your light, intellectual desires; however for the sinister, shelves moan with the weight of a million criminal tomes, the library itself confesses delight and provides you an alcove… so as to wither your soul in safe anonymity."

"As for those Icelandic mages, well, they didn't really have it in them to destroy the only known prophetic anthology, so they kept it. And, as all books eventually do, it ended up here to feed the sinister ambition of curious purebloods."

Hermione tucked a coppery curl behind her ear, and blinked several times. The book sat on her lap, awaiting discovery, but moment Hermione stilled her desire to discover the book. Instead, she thought.

She was a bright girl, of course she knew that there was something amiss with such representation of the pureblood population at Hogwarts and something was missing, but why hadn't anyone else? Of course the library could rearrange, everyone knew that, but why didn't Dumbledore do something about the ease of obtaining dark arts books… she thought… she thought… Then in sad realization, she knew no Headmaster would ever want to find that out. Why would they? Hogwarts can't control the library and if the staff could, Hogwarts would lose the fourth of the school whose power, prestige, and money gives it life.

Draco smiled as the foundation of Hermione's beliefs rattled. He knew what she would conclude. He wondered mildly if she would next ask about the other benefits luring future Slytherins, but to his surprise, she didn't.

"Why are you telling me this?" She wondered aloud.

"I tell them to you so that you will trust me. I told you I need your help. I wasn't lying, whether or not you join me is essential in preserving magic." He spoke levelly, his face jarringly void of the emotion that such a statement carries.

Silence ensued.

Hermione opened the book and began to read, feverishly. Draco didn't watch her in amazement. He didn't marvel at her familiarity with such a difficult and archaic language. Instead he relaxed at the scent of cinnamon subtly accessorizing the girl in front of him.

He had lied when he said he didn't have the background to read the text she read, but he needed a preliminary test for her. He had needed to prove the existence of intelligence beyond the classroom. So far, he thought, so well.

The fire spoke in customary lulling sparks and catches and the hours passed in a comfortable quiet. Hermione cut the quiet with the grate of a stark and frightened voice.

"So, this book… "

"We're the only ones, Granger. We have to orchestrate the final battle, kill Voldemort, and bring about the next Dark Lord, who happens to be the damnation and salvation of our whole bloody race," Draco snorted.

The corners of Hermione's lips turned in a wry though thoroughly depressed smile.