Author's Note: This chapter is a kind of mini-tribute to good old-fashioned mystery novels. Sliding bookshelves, hidden corridors, old family secrets... I love them. Give me Sherlock Holmes any day! Thank you, as always, for your review iwasbotwp. Reviews can help shape the whole story.

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Draco's eyebrow quirked up as the heavy bookcase slid to the right across the stone of the library wall revealing a black corridor beyond. He was surprised how easily he'd found it once he knew where to look: the back of the bookcase behind the genealogy book revealed a series of scratches, which turned out to be instructions for wand movements, not unlike the entrance to Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron.

"Lumos," he pronounced.

A flash of light threw the dark corridor into sharp relief. It was stone, a continuation of the walls of the library. Draco glanced behind him, suspicious by nature. Experiences in the Dark Lord's inner circle had made him wary of entering hidden places alone. Who knew what lurked in the dark? Still, even if there had been someone to accompany him, he wasn't sure he wanted to share this moment with anyone else.

Surely Father wouldn't send his only son to his death, he reasoned.

"Festus, here boy," Draco called softly. All seven dogs raised their heads but only the Irish Wolfhound stood and padded over softly to his master. Festus might be a huge, but he was a gentle giant. All the same, Draco felt comforted by his presence. The dog had been gifted to him as a sixteenth birthday present by his mother.

Draco stepped forward and realized the corridor led shortly to a set of steps spiraling downward. Raising his wand to peer down, he began the descent with some amount trepidation. It wasn't that he didn't trust Lucius, but that he was afraid what he might find that was so important to the Malfoy family.

Draco had never known any Malfoy to put much stock in the art of soothsaying. He had never bothered studying Divination at Hogwarts. In fact, until the famous prophecy detailing that Potter would destroy the Dark Lord came true, he'd always sneered at the idea that a human could predict the future. Now he was not so sure. A lump formed in his throat, but his step quickened in defiance of that fear as he wound his way down the spiral stair of stone, Festus trailing only a few steps behind.

The stair was not long, probably a single flight, but it was a dark descent except for the glow of Draco's wandlight and the faint blue haze of something ahead. As he stepped off the bottom stair, a pair of torches sputtered and blazed into flame in reaction to his presence, startling him with the sudden light.

The room was barely half the size of Narcissa's old walk-in closet and completely unadorned. The walls were formed by the same stone as the passage leading to it. In fact, the room was entirely empty except for the torches on the walls and a pedestal in the very center of the room, upon which sat a glass orb small enough to fit in the palm of Draco's hand. The faint blue light he'd noted in the passage seemed to come from within it.

Draco stared at the orb for a few moments. Festus stepped up beside him and nudged his master's hand as if to say, Go ahead.

"I must be barmy," he muttered to himself.

Draco reached for the orb. It was cold to the touch and filled with a misty substance. The moment his fingers made contact, the thing began glowing brighter and a vague fog seemed to rise from it into the shape of a middle-aged man, his face lined with wrinkles, completely bald but with an impressive dark beard reaching his chest. The projection of the man was wearing plain, old-fashioned homespun and his eyes had rolled back into his head. In a deep voice that filled the entire room with its reverberations, the man intoned:

"Verily it shall pass… the line of Malfoy shall jealously guard in secret… for ten and five generations… a divination ensuring their own continuation… and amaranthine eminence… by virtue of one of their own. Heretofore the dragon sleeps… an upheaval of what once was sacred… a reckoning of the connection betwixt two souls… victims of hate and prejudice. The otter protects that which is ancient in nature… the liminality of star-crossed souls. Thither go to speak to the stars in the wandwood grove… erelong the northern constellation shall reveal the truth… to which memory alone binds us."

The vision of the man retracted into the orb, leaving only the soft blue light once more.

Draco blinked a few times. The words the soothsayer had spoken were archaic, as the prophecy itself also was. The bones of the man must have long since turned to dust.

Memory Alone Binds Us.

Draco blinked quickly, repressing the feeling bubbling up within him.

He listened to the whole thing several more times, sitting on the bottom step of the stair while Festus paced nervously. Neither man nor dog was used to being confined in a small room, in semi-light.

The first part seemed clear enough: "Verily it shall pass… the line of Malfoy shall jealously guard in secret… for ten and five generations… a divination ensuring their own continuation… and amaranthine eminence… by virtue of one of their own." That part had already come to pass, most probably because the Seer had ensured it with his words. The Malfoys would guard this selfsame prophecy in secret because they had been told that doing so would ensure the family line would continue on, characterized by everlasting respectability. This would be cemented in place by the Malfoy family members themselves, for fifteen generations.

The part that bothered Draco was that Lucius had indicated this secret had been kept for fourteen generations already and the prophecy clearly referenced the importance of the fifteenth generation of Malfoy... which was himself.

Draco frowned; he had enough on his plate already without something ancient and mystical occurring.

He moved on, trying not to think too hard about it.

"Heretofore the dragon sleeps…" Did that mean there was a real dragon somewhere that would awaken? He wasn't sure he wanted that. Of course, he recognized it could also be a play on his own name, considering he was the ill-fated fifteenth generation that would ultimately have to deal with this... whatever it was.

Great.

"…an upheaval of what once was sacred…" Did the prophecy refer to the reduction of the Sacred Twenty-Eight to the Sacred Fifteen? The Sacred Twenty-Eight had been established hundreds of years after the prophecy would have been made. Not that, that disqualified the idea.

"…a reckoning of the connection betwixt two souls… victims of hate and prejudice." Well, there was certainly a lot of both hate and prejudice going on these days, even a handful of years after the Dark Lord's downfall.

The next part was the most frustrating of the lot: "The otter protects that which is ancient in nature… the liminality of star-crossed souls."

Liminality was such a hazy idea, but Draco had not been third in his class for nothing. Still, the concept of being neither here nor there was about as obscure as its definition. The most concrete thing in the entire sentence was the mention of the otter, which he had no inklings about of any kind, having never even seen one. It apparently would protect something ancient in nature, whatever that might be.

He would have to give that part some more thought.

"Thither go to speak to the stars in the wandwood grove… erelong the northern constellation shall reveal the truth…" This bit seemed to be actual instructions. Speak to the stars and they will reveal some great truth.

"...to which memory alone binds us."

Memory Alone Binds Us. Draco had often wondered why his father had decided to use those particular words on Narcissa's grave. They had always seemed so formal and cold; now he realized they were highly personal. What had Lucius known?

Festus let out a low whine that startled Draco from his thoughts. He'd tarried there too long and the dog was getting anxious.

Draco set the orb back on its pedestal where it rested serenely, as if it hadn't just thrown his already-turbulent life into near-chaos. There was a moment he thought about seizing it and smashing it against the stones on the walls, but the more rational part of his brain reminded him that he would regret it if he did. Instead he allowed Festus to lead him up the hidden stair and back into the library, where the late afternoon light was filtering pleasantly through the stained glass windows, leaving kaleidoscopic patterns on the library floor.

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Hermione knew her parents had always been early risers. Since her work day started at nine and she knew her parents had been up and about at half past six, she felt no reservations against trudging into their kitchen the morning after her fight with Ron, seeking comfort and advice.

She was promptly given a mug of hot chocolate, a seat on the couch, and invited to launch into the entire story with her mother. She left out very little.

Her mother was silent throughout the whole ordeal, allowing her daughter to pour her heart out. When Hermione had finished, Katherine Granger took a deep breath and merely observed, "I think Ron may not be mature enough for you, love."

Hermione sniffed, the mug of chocolate warming her hands comfortingly. "But we've been together for three and a half years. Why is it so suddenly?"

Mrs. Granger chose her words carefully. "You've been living in peaceful times, Hermione. It's always easy to be happy when there's nothing to disagree on."

Hermione thought over this for a moment, her brow furrowed.

"Why didn't you tell Ron you were going to this colleague's house?"

"I suppose… because I knew he wouldn't like it, that he would overreact. He's always hated Malfoy."

It hit Hermione suddenly that she'd always known in the back of her mind that there was a possibility Ron might leave if she'd told him. When then, did she still continue to go see Malfoy? Was she stuck on some redemption kick? It wasn't her responsibility to redeem Malfoy... was she trying to fix herself?

"But you went anyway," Mrs. Granger pointed out.

"But what does that mean?"

Her mother crossed her arms over her chest and looked her grown-up daughter in the eye as she replied, "Maybe it means you've outgrown your Mr. Weasley."

Hermione was stunned into absolute silence. Her mother had met Ron numerous times and her parents had both approved of him. The Weasleys were already like family to her. She'd imagined – for years – growing old with Ron, giving him children, sending those children to Hogwarts, eventually grandchildren…

But just like that, the future crumbled into dust before her eyes and disappeared.

Hermione sniffed and began to cry. She liked order and consistency. She took comfort in knowing the answer. The unknown in an uncontrolled environment was scary and vague. Her mother comforted and held her like she was a child again, instead of a young woman almost twenty-two.

"Wh-What do I do?" Hermione stammered between sniffles.

"Whatever your heart tells you, my love," whispered Mrs. Granger, tucking a stray lock of her daughter's hair behind her ear lovingly. "But don't make any decisions while you're upset. You've got to find peace with yourself and think critically. You've always been good at that."

Hermione nodded, sitting up. She glanced at the clock and realized it was about time for her to get to work. Wiping her eyes and putting on a brave face, she said gratefully, "Thanks for the chocolate and sympathy, Mum."

"I am always on your side, love."

"I know."

The two women embraced and Hermione bid both her parents good-bye before Disapparating from the kitchen.

The Grangers stared at the spot where their daughter had disappeared before their eyes with a small 'pop'.

"I'll never get used to her doing that," Mr. Granger admitted to his wife.