A/N: Continuing with the story.

For my "wow, another Mary Sue" readers. laughs yeah, I knew I'd get that reaction out of you lot. So you know, I /was/ going to have her simply /in/ college, but I figured Snape wouldn't respect her enough that way (and I needed them to work together). If it makes things better, pretend she's a third-year college student, who just happened to write one brilliant Potions/Chem treatise, that got published. And that Snape has suddenly become a kinder, more charitable soul. Or something.

For those who awaited this chapter anxiously. This isn't the original; the original is tidily stored away on the hard-drive of a laptop in my possession, whose motherboard decided to quit on me without warning a few months ago. At some point in the future, I may put that chapter in the place of this one; it was, undoubtedly, better. At this time, however, I'm going to give you all something, because I want the story to move along just as much as you do. I can't wait for the end, where… you'll see.

Chapter 6

Hermione woke to a falling sensation. It was beautiful; so free, like nothing held her any more. She could finally understand Harry's love of flying. For just an instant, she was released from the bonds of worry and frustration that had held her for three years, and tightened their hold in the last week.

For one, beautiful, instant.

And then, she hit the ground.

"OW!"

After which, she opened her eyes, finding her gaze fixed on the wood paneled base of the window-seat. Shaking her head to clear it, she looked around. It was dark, but it had an odd feeling to it; like she hadn't slept for just the few instants it felt like. As if to prove her point, Ambell's bed was empty. Not only that, but Hermione was tangled in blanket; obviously, Bell had put it there, and that ruled out a nighttime trip to the bathroom. And there was absolutely no way her best friend would be out of bed and marching about if it were still early enough in a morning to be dark out.

Staying /up/ until it was early in the morning notwithstanding. Ambell was practically famous for falling asleep at dawn – just as Hermione was getting up. But Bell had been sound asleep last Hermione saw, and it had been at least three or so, then. No way was it still morning. The only possible conclusion, then, was that she'd slept through an entire day.

Not that Hermione was particularly disappointed about that. No, she was quite happy to have missed a day of life-in-waiting, as they all stared at each other dumbly and hoped for a miracle. Oh, the others said they were "researching", or "brainstorming", or "discussing", but they were all just as clueless, if not more so, than she'd been for the last three years – and it was rather depressing to be around, with so much on the line. She was, however, rather upset to find herself a full day closer to the full moon. Nine days, she had, now. Nine days for Lupin to live. Or, if some twisted, half-welcome miracle did choose to occur, for her to.

If Hermione had her choice, she'd be in line for a bungee-jump just now, rubbing the ache in her arm from the tattoo she would've gotten three days before. She ought to be out living it up, really, because everything ended in nine days. She'd either be exceptionally depressed, exceptionally dead, or exceptionally not herself anymore. She found herself oddly ticked about always having been a good girl; she'd never done even half the things she'd always intended, and now she had no chance. What, after all, is the point of avoiding something that might kill you, when you're about to die? Especially considering splatting to the ground from a botched parachute would be a much more exciting, and less painful, way to go.

Then, the oddest thought struck her. Oh, but it couldn't be possible, could it? For just a moment, she wondered if there were such a thing as the magical equivalent of a holodeck. But then a voice laughed in the back of her mind, telling her she'd seen far, far too much Star Trek. And then, suddenly, she was laughing aloud, for the first time in days.

"So what if it means I'm crazy? At least that way I'd have something to think about that's not…" she sighed. Things had gotten so complicated, these past days. And on top of contemplating her possible murder-in-nine-days-time of her favorite professor, she was now battling some odd, but somehow extremely depressing emotion, related to him, that she couldn't understand.

Hermione didn't quite know what to make of their kiss, yesterday. It had been nothing more than a chaste brushing of lips, the sort of thing her roommates hadn't bothered bragging about since the fourth year. But it had lit a fire in Hermione, simultaneously disturbing her and burning away every uncertainty. The spot on her lips where his had brushed had burned for hours, as though his lips had never left her own.

And that soft, glowing warmth had lulled her to sleep, allowing her to rest for the first time in days. But, oh, it was so odd. He was, what - eighteen, nineteen years older than her? Something like that, anyhow. But she felt so positively right in his arms, yesterday. But, seriously, she couldn't… like Professor… Remus. She couldn't want…And yet… she'd felt so safe, so protected, in a way she'd never felt around Harry or Ron. And with everything she'd been through in her life, Hermione doubted there was anyone her own age who'd understand, who could relate, who talk to her on her level.

So many guys would be scared of just her intellect. Let alone the whole wolf thing. Perhaps…

With a shake, she forced a rational argument into her rather emotional line of thought. She was reacting oddly to things because the situation she was in was odd; that had to be it. She saw Remus as a Professor, or perhaps as an … well, not a brother, like she saw Harry and Ron; that would be somehow… wrong. As a friend. That's it. He was a very good friend, and she couldn't possibly be anything else to him. They'd shared a kiss because of the situation, and she'd reacted strongly to it, also, because of the situation. And besides, she couldn't possibly consider anything else, because in three days' time she was most likely going to end up killing him.

The ache in her chest intensified, but she pushed past it, forcing herself to find another topic. The only thing she could think of was the topic that had plagued all of them since that first moment in Grimmauld Place; the night of the moon. They couldn't lock her up, or knock her out, or feed her Wolfsbane. No lock would hold, and the wolf's magic would wake her up from any unconsciousness short of death.

But what /would/ Wolfsbane do? Would it let her keep her mind? Perhaps, let her keep herself just well enough to avoid the killing blow? Or would it, perhaps, make the wolf too calm, and easily submit? But wasn't that what she wanted, anyways? For Remus to win?

Well, it was certainly worth looking into. If nothing else, it would occupy her mind, and keep her from the agony of waiting. But she had to be careful how she went about it – if she found something she could do, it would be likely to be something dangerous. Just now, she didn't imagine she could convince anyone to let her try it.

A part of her whimpered that occupying herself would make time pass faster, and she'd find herself at Moonrise far, far sooner. She shoved it in a box, and locked in the key, snarling that the waiting was worse than anything. She almost slammed the door as she strode determinedly from the room, curbing the impulse only at the last possible second. It would do her no good to call the attentions of the entire household, and especially not those of Remus.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Waiting at the entrance to the Library, hidden in the shadows of an odd little alcove, Hermione caught the tail end of the oddest conversation she could have imagined.

"Call me Severus, Ambell." Came the deep, surprisingly even-sounding voice from within the room.

She'd heard them arguing, and had even debated exposing herself to the wrath of the rest of the order for the sake of rescuing her friend. Oddly enough, however, Bell seemed to handle the situation rather well, ignoring the biting quality of the professors' words, and giving as good as she got (if rather pridefully). Professor Snape was still speaking, even now, but his voice was rather muffled, as though he had turned, and was, perhaps, gathering up his things.

"…however, like to take meals together. As such, we are rather expected at dinner, and it would be wise of us to journey downstairs, if for no other reason than giving your friends' excuses, and thereby staving off the man-hunt."

Hermione didn't wait around for Bell's reply, instead looking frantically for a hiding place, and, when none was to be found, pressing herself as fully into the corner as she could manage. Professor Snape emerged a moment later, Ambell at his side, both entirely too immersed in their topic to pay any attention to their surroundings. Even having heard the conversation, seeing the Potions Master so engrossed in conversation with a teenage Muggle that he failed to take in the smallest nuance of every shadow was shocking. Pushing every thought of the odd pair from her mind, she slipped into the now-empty Library. Dinnertime was the surest bet for finding space to herself, but still, Hermione worried that someone would walk in on her.

Not that they'd be upset to find her in the Library itself, just that everyone seemed determined to "allow her time to herself" – something she was far from sure that she wanted. Especially not the way they interpreted it; no books, no study; let everyone else do the housework, the searching, the researching. If she'd been fully herself, there wasn't a chance she'd have let them keep her out of the loop. But she wasn't, and she knew it quite as well as they did.

So she had to choose carefully. And quickly. Unfortunately, nearly every book that might be helpful seemed to have already been pulled by Bell. And taking one (no chance on her best friend not noticing) would be a clear signal that she had been here, which would lead to questions, which would lead to more "time to herself". There were only two books still on the shelves that were at all related to the curse. One looked more like a fanciful romance, and the other was one that both she and Ambell had read so many times it was quite fully memorized.

She wondered whether there was some other approach; the feeling from earlier returned, that there was something simple, something obvious, that they'd all missed. At the same time, however, she knew she couldn't stay in the Library much longer without getting caught. It had been at least twenty minutes since Snape and Bell had left, and someone might come in at any moment. Desperate for something, anything, to read, just to take her mind off things, Hermione grabbed three books from the shelves at random, and, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to make a mad dash for her room, slunk back into the shadows.

It was fortunate she did. Just as she retreated into the oddly placed little alcove, Tonks and Ginny appeared around the corner and headed into the library, determined expressions fixed on their faces. Hermione wondered what had occurred at dinner, to cause two of the most light-hearted girls she knew to turn so solemn-faced, but attributed it to a combination of the situation and having Snape present for dinner. If nothing else, the mans' biting comments certainly made for excellent motivators.

The rest of the trip to her room was uneventful. The closest she came to an Order member was in passing the door to the kitchen, from behind which an oddly half-jovial set of sounds emanated, the sort of company that soldiers might share before a battle, or relatives might share in the days after a funeral: happy, but with a keener-than-usual knowledge of great grief. It called to her, but she knew that, despite being the one who needed it most, despite the fact that she, more than any save Lupin, was the one going into battle, her presence would be … unwelcome. Or perhaps simply… awkward. They would feel badly about enjoying themselves around her, and she would feel too badly herself to make the effort necessary to keep things moving. No, it was better that she simply continued on her path.

She sagged in relief upon reaching the sanctuary of her room, locking the door behind her, and flopping onto her bed. Plopping the stack of books beside her, she stretched out for a good, long read. Only Ambell would disturb her, with the door locked, and Bell would understand her need for books. And, considering the topics of the books were "safe", her best friend might even encourage her to read.

"Then again, the books could be about anything." Hermione said to herself, flipping the first book over.

Bound in green, titled in black, and edged with gold, the book made quite an impressive picture, pristine enough to seem newly bought despite the thick layer of dust that declared otherwise. Oddly enough, it was the "romantic" book on werewolves, the first page featuring a tissue-covered drawing of a woman being swept up into a mans' arms, both gazing adoringly at each other; a pair of wolves, emerging from a forest, framed them on either side, obviously intended to look daring and roguish; the couple's intertwining capes creating an even more dramatic, and romantic, effect. It was titled "Love in All Forms", and Hermione had to bite back a sarcastic bout of laughter, settling for a snort. Love, of all things, was most definitely not what the life of a werewolf suggested. And, honestly, those two wolves would eat the poor, unsuspecting, twitterpated idiots for breakfast before they even knew they were being attacked.

Screams, terrible screams. Howling, echoing, mingling screams and barks and tearing. Trees above, dirt and grass below. Black and green-black and brown-black; unidentifiable shapes whipping past. Everything a shade of black. Black of pain… black of blood… black of vision.

Hermione shook her head to rid herself of the images. Even now, she couldn't bear to have them called up. Even now, as she stared at the very real, very solid walls around her, she could still see the shadows of trees and wolves and forest. Hands slightly shaking, she shut the cover of the offending book, and, moving to her trunk, tucked it away where it wouldn't be seen. Slightly apprehensive, now, she turned to the next book, wishing she hadn't grabbed things so blindly. A nice, muggle, unassuming novel would be the best thing for her right now, but there was little chance she'd have found such a thing in the Black family library.

As if it might bite her if she moved too quickly, she slowly flipped the next book, almost flinching away as it fell the rest of the way over. Glancing at the cover, she breathed a sigh of relief. Places One Must See in London was hardly going to bring up any bad memories, and might even serve to distract her for a bit. Emboldened, though worried the next text might be a tome of dark curses, Hermione flipped it over.

Muggle and Magical Watercraft met her eyes.

"Nothing troublesome there." She declared, happily. Though boats were hardly a subject that interested her. Honestly, what sort of a person found entertainment in stranding themselves out in the middle of a body of water?

The tourist book was the best of the lot, really. There were so many places she wanted to see, so many things she'd never had the chance of doing, that she'd always wanted to do. If only she could do them, if only she were free of the order for the next nine days, and could do as she pleased. But how could she face them, if she went off to enjoy herself, only to return, not having even been present for the search for a cure, in order to kill Remus? What sort of person would she be, if she left like that? How could she expect them to simply… wait on her, like that?

No, if she couldn't solve her problems herself (and, at this point, she wouldn't dare risk losing her soul in an attempt to go to the ministry), she'd have to face the music here. If only there were a way to give them more time, even if it were a risky chance, she could take it. And if she survived, they would, at the least, have another month to work out a plan. And if not… no harm done. No more problems, no more wolf, and no worrying about becoming a mindless automaton, either.

Unhappily, she shifted over to her side, in an attempt to focus on her book. Behind her, however, the other book slid off the bed when she moved. Grumbling, but unable to surrender any bit of literature to such a fate, she reached to grab it back up.

And then she froze.

Boats.