the

R A P U N Z E L

C O M P L E X

- Saeriel -

- Dim Aldebaran -

:i:

Chapter Two

Fair is Fowl

"Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked."

Oliver W. Holmes Sr.

:i:

Life, Hermione decided, is one long joke.

It was supper at Hogwarts. At best, it could be seen as a feverishly paced free-for-all. The students could hardly appreciate the hard work of the House Elves at the pace they ate at—though Hermione found herself not caring quite as much as she once had. It was as if the trumpets had sounded, and everyone just wanted a last supper before the Avada Kadavras, before the Dementor Kisses, before the Crucios, before the blood and before the storm—

She glanced, suddenly moody, towards Harry. Between classes and helping with the Order, he had been stretched like putty in the hands of a child—but, unlike her, he wasn't used to the general state of AlwaysDoing Something. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened considerably until they seemed carved with an ebony knife: late night (or rather, early morning) returns had not been rare occurrences so far this year. His black hair was even scruffier than usual, resembling more the fur trim on an Eskimo's anorak than proper hair. His green eyes were noticeably bloodshot, like a Christmas tree rimmed with holy light and laced with red tinsel.

He was so tired, in fact, that he had not bothered to hide his scar.

Hermione was tempted to tell him; he was still extremely conscientious of it, especially after recent… events. Last year, before she had finally found her tact, she might have told him. There was little he hated more than people staring at It, It, that ever-present reminder of the role he ought to be playing in the War.

But she followed a different philosophy now: let sleeping dogs lie, she thought, especially ones having a good dream.

It least he could smile now, when there wasn't blood on the air, and blood on the walls and blood on his clothes and blood on his hands—blood, blood, everywhere, always there, every night, every goddamn night he sees blood, in the Order and in his dreams—

She shuddered to herself; Harry, chattering amicably with Ron, took no notice. Harry was a different person these days, even if he didn't always show it. There was something strange behind those startling green eyes, something strange and foreign that she had never seen before…. yet somehow, she knew what it was; perhaps it wasn't as foreign as she told herself. Harry was as human as her.

She was a different person as well, different from the bushy-haired wonder of a mere four months ago. The reality of the War had finally sunk in, giving her a gravity she hadn't previously had. It was not the human cost of the War that brought this; rather, the realization that she was valuable:

Trainable. She could learn new tricks, even if she wasn't a true wolf. Those other bloodhounds were too set in their ways to try new tactics and spells. They were the Aurors of the previous generation; much of what they did no longer applied to these times.

Loyal to their cause. Snape had once put it, '…just the right mix of self-righteousness and reason, stubbornness and stupidity, for proper indoctrinating to Our Cause.' He had said this with his characteristic snarl and sarcasm; she had been too shocked to be insulted.

Practice. She was every bit as good at practical application as she was at the examinations. Though she shone as a schoolgirl more in previous years, the depth and breadth of her knowledge was beginning to make her shine all the brighter than those others, so quickly dimmed.

Connections. She was on a first-name basis with every major player in the War, from Order advisors to Ministry Aurors—besides the usual crowd, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Albus Dumbledore, the greatest Headmaster since Hogwart's conception, and so forth. These long friendships counted in the minds of many, for better or for worse depending entirely on the whim of The Daily Prophet.

She was still at Hogwarts, true, and would be for another year-and-a-half: but the War would not be won in a night. Whereas modern wars between Muggles lasted a decade, wars between Wizards spanned generations. Really, Voldemort's last defeat had just been a brief truce to mourn the dead and heal the wounded.

She remembered when, while looking for a Polyjuice Potion recipe, she had stumbled on a book whose title was incomprehensible, not in any recognizable language family. After staring at it for a few moments, it occurred to her that it was in a cipher. Her curiosity momentarily piqued, she wrote the title down and continued her search.

One thing had led to another; the Polyjuice Potion had had… negative effects. When she had moved into the Hospital Wing, she had requested Ginny bring her her books so she wouldn't die of combined boredom and shame. She did plenty of reading; it almost kept her mind from the humiliation of it all, and it more than delivered her from the boredom aspect. Eventually, she came across the parchment she had written the title on.

She had known a few things about cryptography when she saw this parchment—common sense things, really, but that's what most science was. Logic. And logic happened to be her specialty.

Most common ciphers falls into the 'Caesar Shift' category, where each letter is offset to the 'left' or 'right' by the same number to get the encoded equivalent in letters. A to B, B to C, etc., A to C, B to D, etc., etc. She tried these, even the more obnoxious ones where the offset was 12 or 15. Still, it came out as gibberish, nothing in any recognizable language or language family.

As with most revelations, it hit her. Hard. There was a mirror sitting next to her bed, cruelly bolted to the bedstand, where she would often stare into for hours on end feeling sorry for herself in a most irrational fashion. While in an especially deadly mood, where she seriously considered hacking her still cat-like ears with one of Madame Pomfrey's magical scalpels, her eye caught the parchment, half-in and half-out of her bookbag. Her mind connected two and two, and the thought emerged: What if it was backwards, as if in a mirror?

It was ironic to think it was the depths of despairing vanity that set her down the path of cryptography.

Excited, as well as somewhat relieved that she had been diverted from a… morbid line of thought, she tried reflecting the title backwards—without success. Not to be discouraged, she methodically tried applying each of the Caesar Shifts, one by one, to the message backwards, and then other shifts, Karsakov, Díamon, Relanovsky…

The Booke of the Reason

After she got over her 'sickness', as she told the other students, she eventually found an excuse to go back to the Restricted Section.

The Booke of the Reason turned out to be a dull, clichéd philosophy book on the classic battle of passion versus reason, and was hypocritical to the extent of using reason to argue deliberate idealism in life. It seemed rather pointless to put such a thing in a cipher—she assumed it was purely on the whim of whatever silly old man who had written it.

However she discovered that once her mind had registered the cipher, the rest of the book had simply clicked into place. Just like that. The code seemed to translate itself almost, like breathing, bringing in fresh air, holding it for a moment, then expelling it once more, old and translated… the steady breaths of meditation, of thought, as she read the book in the silence of the Hospital Wing.

In fact, she was so surprised at the speed she could translate, she checked to see if there was any magic involved—she could read it as if it was mere English, which seemed strange indeed, for that was the first cipher she had ever conquered.

But English… English had never given her this sense of… power.

She wasn't being idealistic when she said that. To know a code—to know what someone thought theirs and theirs alone—gave her a strange, indescribable thrill, not power, she was now sure… something else…

She didn't know what the thrill was, but she loved it.

After that, Hermione began to develop a deep background in cryptography. Mostly just snatches here and there while, captured between S.P.E.W. and school—but, as with most things, those snatches quickly added up when one would go a little out of the way to collect them.

So, when Snape locked her in that room so long ago, decoding and decursing the place had not been a burden. Quite the opposite. Decrypting a message was so similar to unraveling a curse, much the time they seemed the same in her head, for the same sort of logic was needed, and the same steady determination and application.

When she looked back now, she could only think of what a fool she had been—what a fool she still was—in not thinking. Yes, she could think, arguably better than many of the Aurors, but not about the right things. Sometimes, her own irrationality in the past disturbed her. She could be so… impulsive. Stupid.

It wasn't so much the painful, aching sort of regret: rather, embarrassment for herself and her past foolishness. When she looked back, she could see a thousand better ways she could have handled each and every moment—now, she saw that she should not have run off in shame at Ron's remarks, should not have gone to a public bathroom to cry like a little girl, should not have cowered before the troll… Second year, she could tally up her risks on dozen rolls of parchment, risks that should not have taken so she could have gone in with Harry to face Tom Riddle and the basilisk… She should have watched Snape better in the third year so he wouldn't have turned in Sirius, and Harry would have been so much happier, living with his redeemed godfather—

They built up. Some big, so simple and in the end so stupid, that she told herself that would stop making the such mistakes, treating stupidity like the bad habit it was and eliminating it entirely.

But the habit kept coming back. Little slips, here and there, of that old Hermione, who was so full of idealisms and fantastical notions that there seemed no end to her naïveté.

Stupid, stupid mistakes…

A common slip, even yesterday! She hadn't put a Warning Charm on the door, which could have been very bad indeed if Lupin wasn't so polite: caught red handed at the Pensieve, never to be trusted again. Even after that, she had handled Lupin terribly, making him question her word. She could see it in his eyes that he had suspected her of looking into the Pensieve. He knew she had the curiosity of a Ravenclaw.

Fortunately, he also thought she had the honesty of a Gryffindor.

Hermione still had it. Morals—idealisms, really—still remained, yet… they just weren't as important anymore. The thought that she was turning into a Slytherin often crossed her mind, bringing the familiar revulsion and fear that seemed to knot her stomach more than exams ever had—but part of her wondered what was so wrong with ambition. With being selfish.

With being great.

"You 'k?"

Hermione blinked, turning to face a concerned Harry. "Yes, yes of course." A pause. "Why?"

Harry indicated her loaded plate. "Well, you haven't eaten anything."

She smiled weakly, digging her fork into the fillet mignon. "Thinking about that Potions test tomorrow," she lied, and put the morsel squarely into her mouth so she had an excuse not to elaborate. Her stomach flopped about at her fallacy, and the bile rose in her throat. Internally, she told it to stop, and it did.

"Well, I think," Ron put in, chewing his steak vigorously, "that you're anorexic."

She swallowed her meat. "Ron, that's ridiculous!"

As with most of their little brawls, Harry elected to stay out. Hermione felt a flash of annoyance before settling into a mild resignation on the matter—if she made him chose sides, he wouldn't be on hers. Besides, both of them had no business nosing around in her nutritional regime.

Ron smirked, and began digging into a custard. He liked proving Hermione wrong, probably because the pleasure denied was the pleasure doubly desired. "You've been distant lately. How do we know you're not developing suicidal tendencies?"

Big words, Ronald Weasley.

Harry gave her pleading look; much to his surprise, she heeded it. At least, that's what the lack of Howleresque vocalizations led him to believe.

"Really," she said softly, raising her eyebrows. "Suicidal, am I now? Now, I suppose risking my life for the Order could be taken that way, since some people are less… shall we say… wasteful of their lives? Not giving their lives to themselves, but to a cause?"

Ah, what a hypocrite I've become! she cried out inside, but Ron couldn't hear—nor Harry.

No pleading this time; both of the boys' cheeks blood flushed as they recognized the truth in her words. "Hermione," Harry started angrily, "I don't know what's gotten into you lately—"

No, you don't, you don't you don't you don't—you can't, please, don't ever fall as I am—

"I know what it is," Ron cut in, his face roughly the hue of his hair. "She thinks she's too good for us, just because she does Order business!"

Hermione did not lose her cool somehow, the slippery cool of a snake. "Should be mocked for being useful? For giving my life to something I believe in?"

"We're no less useful than you!" Harry shouted, slipping into one of his moods.

"Yeah," Ron continued. "We know the value of a little something called friendship. Ever heard of it? It's when you care."

"Which you don't obviously do," Hermione replied. If not for Harry, who was now standing up in his rage, onlookers might have thought she was discussing where to eat at Hogsmeade. To clinch her phrase, she took another bite of the fillet mignon.

"Well," Ron said, "guess what. Maybe we don't."

Their rage could have suffocated her. Indeed, it had—Hermione, you're going too far, too far—"And I should care why…?"

Harry exploded—again. "You were our friend!"

By now, everyone in the Great Hall was staring. Funny how things like this erupt from the smallest things, she thought numbly.

Harry ploughed on. "You don't do anything with us anymore. You're selfish, self-absorbed. You're—you're—"

Lost for words, he backed down, perhaps coming to what senses he had. Abashed somewhat, he met Hermione's eyes for forgiveness, pleading with her to stop. A little wiser from last year, then, from other explosions, other fights—

"You're like one of them," he whispered. "Please, don't—"

"Don't come back," Ron finished nastily. "Death Eater."

Bile rose in her throat, but she somehow met his eyes steadily. "I assume you're referring to yourself?" she responded dryly. "Since I have this funny habit of actually fighting them." She reached for her goblet, sipped, and spooned out more potatoes onto her plate. It was a poor comeback—the proper term is 'lame'—but she was beyond caring.

Ron's fist clenched. He stood, knocking over the bench Harry had been sitting in earlier. "Come on, Harry. Let's go out to the Quidditch pitch."

Harry didn't move, torn. He had said his hurtful words, yes, more than his share, but he already regretted them, maybe his pride would finally go and he would stay—Oh Merlin, please let him stay—I'm so sorry, Harry, please understand, please—

Sorry, his eyes seemed to say, and he turned to Ron. "I'm out of practice anyways."

Hermione had the self-control to take her first bite of potatoes. By the time she swallowed, they were gone.

Why aren't I feeling any emotions? No… pain?

It's like every other fight, part of her answered. They'll make it up to you in a few days, a week at most. No sorry perhaps, but at least they'll come back.

Until next the fight.

Another voice spoke up. It seemed suspiciously like the mothering tones of Madame Pomfrey—it took what was left of her restraint not to look over her shoulder for the plump silhouette and dimpling smile. You're in shock, dear. Protecting you from what just happened, numbing it, so it won't hurt so much later—

—until wham! The voice had changed into Ron's. You'll be crying into your pillow with a razorblade in hand, and not even your precious House Elves will care about the blood on the sheets.

She brushed the accompanying image asides—cutting herself was such a silly, irrational thing to do—and continued with her potatoes. They managed to remind her of the unhealthy color of Harry's skin lately. He sleeps as little as I do… was I wrong to dismiss his uselessness in the Order? He tries so hard—

The bubbling chatter of the whole Hall had resumed; in the meantime, Gryffindors slipped her stolen, sympathetic glances, but no one comforted her openly—they, too, had noticed the change. And it wasn't worth another uproar, not when there was chocolate mousse to be consumed.

Still numb, she washed down the last of the caramelized carrots with an unladylike gulp of pumpkin juice. She would start crying tonight, just like that, without even the composure to put Silencing Charms on the drapes around her canopy bed, when the thought finally sank in that Ron had never even thought of her as a friend, and that Harry wasn't friend enough to stop him, for she had no friends in the world, no one even gave a damn—

No.

The force of her own thought stopped her. She would take this calmly, methodically, like a puzzle. Their words this evening were little different from previous ones—the resentful, almost pleading subconscious undertones remained the same. It was just the conscious justifications and rationalizations that differed.

This time, though, she would not take the blame for overworking, for being too devoted to the Order. They would finally take the blame, openly, consciously, publicly, for not understanding.

She wouldn't admit that her words were true, that she really had meant them, deep in her. Not yet. Not when they still could be proven lies, proven by remeasuring their worth as friends to her, their usefulness—

Gryffindors. They were Gryffindors. But she wanted good Gryffindors to wipe her tears when she was subjected to Crucio, good Gryffindors that could tell her the hard truth without the influence of Imperius or Vertiserum.

Ron… Ron wasn't so much a Gryffindor to his friends. He wouldn't show his loyalties when he should, and he was all too ready to take back his words with apologies made insincere with pride. And the truth should never be apologized for.

And Harry? Moody. As self-righteous as a Gryffindor, yes, but also as driven as a Slytherin—a Slytherin without the means, besides powerful friends. And she was one of those powerful friends. He was a liability—taking risks where he shouldn't—impatient—thirsty for Slytherin blood—arrogant—

Another wolf, she thought. As she stood, her plate and goblet disappeared, undoubtedly off to the House Elves' sinks. S.P.E.W. didn't even cross her mind. I want another wolf, one whom can run by my side on the hunt and I won't have to worry about him.

Artemis. Voldemort. They run together.

And I'm the only one who knows.

It seemed that the other students in the hallways parted for her, as if sensing her intense need for a purpose, or perhaps worried she might lose the cool she had kept so terribly close with Ron and Harry.

A pity there is only one Mozart per generation, she thought sadly. I wouldn't mind being the other.

:i:

She knew that reading was often considered an escapism, but those same people were the ones who held intellectuals in a strange sort of contempt, so she tended to disregard their comments. Besides; she knew better.

If the books were algorithms for the human computer, than the Hogwarts library was the blueprints for a million variations on the nuclear bomb.

Contrary to popular belief, she did not read by random selection, or by the dust-to-pages ratio, or even by the thickness of the spine. School projects usually elicited a quest for the proper reference materials, which could in itself lead to a few new interests. When a book did happen to fall completely into her possession, and her moral qualms didn't get the better of her, she would read it—and then return it to whomever had lost it, like a good little Gryffindor. Etc.

Hermione had always known she would have to be on good terms with the librarian. She didn't dare try menial things, like sweet-talking or small smiles. Indeed, for years, Madame Pince had seemed as cold-blooded to her as with the rest of the student body—untouchably cruel, lacking in the more human qualities that they could at least glimpse in the rest of the teachers. But since the events of last year—since the eerie quiet of the summer, the silence before Voldemort's storm—something had changed in Pince in regards to Hermione.

She was still a vulture, of course: she still fussed over her books like a mother dragon over her eggs, or an armorer over his swords. This subtle change had first been noted barely a month ago, late September. It had been one of those rare occasions where Hermione had bitten off more than she could chew—too many books, too much homework, and no Time-Turner to compensate—it had seemed that she would never see The Historical Significance of Necromancy or Variations on Alohamora for another month at least.

But once she had returned them, Pince had, yes, her normal grousing on the slight wear-and-tear the cover had taken, on the last-minute return, on how she should consider it late and punish Hermione for it anyways—but then she gave them back. For a second month! That was unheard of since, under normal circumstances, one couldn't check the same book out until another month had passed, assuming that other people hadn't borrowed it either—

Hermione was one to count her blessings, but she preferred to do that in the quiet gloom of her usual corner of the library. Not in front of the hard-lined, harsh-worded Pince, who in all likelihood would gladly sacrifice her eyes if only they could shoot literal daggers instead of the metaphoric ones.

Hermione kept counting them. After that, it was smaller, subtler things—another pillow in her usual library seat, worn leather chair, extra Sound-Dampening charms on the shelves surrounding her little enclave, a table for her books…

But the real blessing had come today. On the chair, there was a key.

She did not need telling that it was the key to the Restricted Section.

This was an honor not even the Head Girl received—the key to arguably the most interesting place in Hogwarts, for the Restricted Section made up a full two thirds of the Library, full of forbidden books and lore that Hogwarts had accumulated over the years, many Ministry cast offs from Minister regime to regime, things long forgotten by all…

The thought that this might have been an accident—or worse, a set-up by jealous Ravenclaws—briefly crossed her mind. Even at Hogwarts, she had her enemies, more than just those who cared either way about her heavy involvement in the Order, and more than just those who hadn't the means to undermine Pince….

No, no. She was overestimating the students again, all of them. Pince had given her a key, and that was all that mattered. She had been trusted with power, and she wouldn't abuse it, either: or at least, not what would constitute as abuse in their eyes. Not yet. Pince would watch her, to see if she used this gift wisely or not, and would take back the key without a qualm if Hermione showed a hint of fascination with the Dark Arts.

She hadn't grabbed it yet. As if fearing Pince would come out that very moment to snatch it back, Hermione leaned forward and clasped it firmly, burying the key deep within her robes. It felt warm beneath her touch, not at all the cold oiliness of metal, but the soft security of wood—ebony, if the coloration and relative weight were to judge.

But she didn't just sit there, marveling at this further turn of events. Oh no. The Restricted Section was on the other side of the library, which was a bit of a walk.

As she got up, she recalled her mental map she had made of the Restricted Section during her second year. Though Wizard genealogies would be in the first row, she suspected 'Artemis' wasn't a Pureblood—or at least, his name hadn't come up in any of the major Wizarding families, and certainly none of the reputedly Dark ones.

A bastard, perhaps? It wasn't uncommon, even with the simple contraceptive charms created by the magical equivalent of Margaret Sanger.

Yes, it was certainly plausible. Tom Riddle, after all, had come from a background of ill repute as well—an orphan, and a Mudblood at that. Though he retained an outward distaste of such things, he would certainly open his arms to an ignoble Amadeus, especially since being a bastard—or a Mudblood—were such temporary, human things…

That line of thought hardly narrowed the search. Indeed, it only seemed to broaden it, so she switched tracks, running through her observations made in her time within the Pensieve. Artemis had an Irish accent, which pointed to the obvious—he was Irish. Or at least, he had grown up there—precious few Irishmen had the dark look of the Welsh, or the sort of intellectual sophistication he must have, due to a rather subpar education system that did not do a good job of encouraging development for the sake of.

So, he was probably upper class, and his ancestors probably weren't natives. Probably privately schooled as well, which was especially needed if he hadn't gone to any of the major Wizarding schools: he had not been in the cream of the crop brought over during the Triwizard Tournament, which he surely would have been otherwise. Besides; his Irish accent would have stood out against the slurring Bulgarians and the equally incomprehensible Francophone students at the Triwizard Tournament.

He could be self-taught, part of her mind whispered.

She didn't take the above seriously, at first. He couldn't possibly be tutored unless his family was on the very edge of social society, let alone self-taught! Wizardry took time, guidance, materials, acceptance… even the most wealthy would send their children to school…

But he was Artemis. He could have very well have taught himself with little useful schooling at all, like Mozart or Einstein. After all, not all prodigies were like Yo-Yo Ma, guided by parents and tutors in hope of creating talent if they found none.

At this, her imagination generated a venerable library of thoughts—what if he was even a Muggle, adopted by Voldemort himself—faking that Irish accent; he could just be a bloody American—maybe Voldemort and him had just acted out that whole scene, manipulating her at yet another level—

The inner voices silenced as she reached the Restricted Section. Since Fred and George had broken the enchantments protecting it as part of their 'Grand Finale' last year, Pince had had a literal gate installed, and had rearranged the bookshelves so they formed a fence, rumored to have some nasty jinxes at the top serving as the magical substitute for barbed wire. This gate served as the only portal through this hedge of curses.

She knew it wasn't just for show, contrary to the more optimistic side of school gossip. It was strange—as she became more powerful, it was as if she could feel strong enchantments, like gravity tugging on a nebula. The enchantments on the gate shone like a quasar against the fierce blue-giant haze of the shelf-tops, blinding that unexplainable sixth sense.

Hermione pulled out the key, feeling, measuring the warm weight. Yes, it was ebony—few woods would be able to contain such a stable, long-lasting enchantment of this magnitude. Call it a white dwarf.

When she inserted it into the lock—shaped like, ironically enough, the gaping maw of a vulture—there were no satisfied clicks, no easing of the blinding enchantments. A thought flashed through her head: how did she know this was the key to the Restricted Section?—Pince, surely, could not be this benevolent even under orders—

But the gate didn't do anything else, either, lacking the librarian's customary sadistic twist. The vulture-lock didn't even spit the key out!

She would surelyget cursed for this one—but she tried the door, pushing firmly. Without the melodrama that the powerful spells implied, the gate opened soundlessly, giving her passage to the dusty labyrinth beyond.

She stepped through quickly, fearing it would close before she could get through, swallowing the key with it. When it didn't, she felt rather foolish—honestly, she was getting all irrational about this, like a schoolgirl before summer vacation in the last class of the year, wondering whether she should simply run out.

She pulled the key out, pocketing it. Now, in retrospect, there seemed to be a slight difference in the gate's spell, before and after. Of course, it was purely intuitive.

If this new 'sixth sense' wasn't just her imagination, it would pay to develop it. Such a skill would prove invaluable in facing the likes of Artemis and Voldemort. After all, she had precious few advantages over the greatest wolves in the Wizarding world.

But surely Voldemort didn't have the likes of this at his disposal! Hermione stared, as starry-eyed as she could get before turning anime, at the googolplex of books that stretched towards the questionable horizon of a doorway on each end—probably leading to more rooms, more books...

She leaned against the nearest bookshelf, careful not to touch anything that might hold a grudge against the living. This whole day she had been so sickeningly stupid, her thoughts trailing and looping like a ball of yarn Crookshanks had spotted. Now, now, she would think.

Hermione ran through her previous theorization on Artemis' background. He could be virtually anyone, anything; even his name could be some sort of mythological pun—Artemis the genius, Artemis the wolf, Artemis the hunter? And even beyond that: Voldemort could have simply acted out the whole thing, as she had briefly feared earlier, just to play God with an enemy's mind. Though she was already certain that he had left the Pensieve there to manipulate her, perhaps it was not just to tease and lure in the Order's brightest—

She closed her eyes against the books; if they leapt out of the shelves and opened their paper jaws to devour the bookworm alive, well, she would be had. She didn't particularly care anymore.

Artemis.

Her eyes opened.

Assume Artemis is real.

'Artemis' is not a common name.

Do a search for 'Artemis'…

She muttered a bibliographic spell, long since memorized. She heard a collective sigh as books escaped from their shelves, hundreds of them, beginning to slip from the shelves.

Wrong Artemis.

She changed the spell's parameters to exclude mentions of the Greek goddess and adjusted for gender—

She was patient; she waited for a time, watching the end of the infinite hallway for the flutter of some tome.

No books.

Hermione closed her eyes. Nothing in the genealogies, nothing in the school attendance records.

He was a Muggleborn.

It was as if a strange weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she stood up straight, staring around at the dust-gilded books. He was like her. A Muggleborn.

Like her.

She laughed at the shelves around her, laughed and laughed. Artemis was like her! Her thoughts were as triumphant as the dawn. All she had to do was search him out on a Muggle computer, and she could learn of this new wolf—

Paper fluttered in front of her, sealed with cherry-red wax. She plucked it out of the air.

She touched the wax sealing it. Still warm.

She opened it:

Ms Granger—

Please come to my office whenever convenient. The password is 'madeleine'.

Dumbledore wanted her.

Damnit.

He knows… he knows what I did…

Lead settled into her stomach, thick and hot—as if she was Chimera, and her thoughts Bellerophon, untouchable on his Pegasus, as he dropped the lead into her mouth and let it melt in the fires of her guilt, slowly killing her—

Oh stop it, Hermione Granger! she told herself, hitching her bookbag up onto one shoulder. You're a grown witch, not some gibbering child!

And with that, she hitched up her robes, and headed off to the Office.

:i:

Five points to whomever can see what shift was used on 'The Booke of Reason'.