Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
/-/
The tip of her quill hovered over the parchment, the house around her silent in a stark contrast to her mind. Conveying her suspicions about Kingsley – in a plausible manner – had proved itself…challenging. Her unease made for a feeble argument. Had it been Harry to come forth accusing the Auror based on a job offer, a few unanswered questions, and the man's ability to wear his smile as a weapon, Hermione would have laughed. As it was, however, disquiet grew the more she dwelled upon their meeting, a whirling mass knotting itself at the bottom of her empty stomach. And yet the girl who could write a 30 inches paper on the inception of wands in Ancient Greece off the top of her head while also listing and comparing the existing bibliographical references gnawed on the end of the sugar quill rather than writing a paragraph-long calling an Order member a traitor. She had done it before – they all had – and the most unsavory lesson in humility had lacked snarls and silkily voiced insults. It had been permeated by Professor Snape's tears.
The blackened tip had yet to touch the paper when her bedroom door swung open and slammed against the wall, making her heart jump inside her chest as a hurricane of long red hair stormed inside, "Hermione, you're late!"
"Ginny!" She exhaled air she didn't know she had drawn in – these surges of adrenaline, both war and Weasley-induced, would certainly take a toll on her life expectancy, "For what?"
"Hogwarts' duty. We've been assigned," and without taking a breath she continued, "I'll explain there, Madam Pince is fuming."
And then both the quill and the parchment had lain forgotten, the former dropped haphazardly over the latter as Ginny grabbed Hermione's wrist and apparated them away.
Hermione steadied her feet on the hardwood floors, watching as books floated upwards in a reverse flowed rain. Concrete dust tinged the air, masking the scent of old books as a few scattered people worked on walls, windows, and bookcases, their wandwork constant as they disregarded the purple coloring of Madam Pince's face. She seethed at their carelessness, perched at the top of the spiral stairs, screeching commands they were likely to ignore. Commands the two girls set out to follow, as her gaze narrowed in on them.
Either out of breathlessness or the inability to find fault in their work, the screaming stopped. It was not long before her reprimands echoed from a different library floor and it was only then that Hermione had dared to look at the youngest Weasley for an explanation.
Ginny's lips tugged with what should've passed for a reassuring smile, were it not so close to a grimace, "In her defense, someone did let a wall crumble over a stack of books earlier."
Hermione winced. "And we're here because…?"
"We volunteered. Or we were expected to volunteer. Professor McGonagall's letter didn't say much," Ginny smiled as if she recalled something amusing, "We barely had time to read it, anyway."
"And we were assigned here?"
"Just you, the others are outside. I should be working bathrooms, but Myrtle saw Harry and I kiss," the girl shuddered, removing a volume from the bookcase in front of them. The moment her fingers let go of it, the book joined the others in their switched gravity, "We were just moving past the time I threw Riddle's diary across her…"
"That happened years ago!"
Ginny snickered, "She's a ghost, Hermione. Grudges have no expiration date."
Madam Pince's brisk footsteps – under any other circumstances cautious and muffled – grated on their ears as she patrolled their aisle. They turned to their damaged bookcase, their wands flicking in the familiar motions of the Repairing Charm as Hermione's mind dwelled on Myrtle. She would be weeping now, brokenhearted and vindictive, forever trapped as an adolescent emotional wreck. The loneliness…The loneliness of it would be unbearable. It would consume her, like fast-burning fire and death, until her raw being craved for it to end. It would, only to start all over again, and nobody would care about the open wounds and the pain.
And the blood, she thought, although ghosts didn't bleed.
Werewolves did.
Her stomach sunk. Open sinks and inundated floors gave way to pools of blood and broken furniture.
And a lost werewolf – willing to poison himself to numb either the wolf or the man or them all. And she had yet to do anything to prevent him.
Hermione pressed her lips together and lowered her wand, tightening her hold on it.
"Ginny, will you cover for me?"
"Sure."
Hermione scanned the room and edged her way around the Library, listening in for any signs of Madam Pince. The dress she had chosen for her lunch with Kingsley was not uncomfortable, although unfit for her current work. Her shoes, on the other hand… The reasonably heeled sandals would clip the wood floors regardless, defeating the purpose of being sneaky, so she balanced herself on the balls of her feet and made her way to the Restricted Section as bits of concrete exploded under her soles threatening to make her slip.
Looks of commiseration followed her as the remaining 'volunteers' likely assumed she would attempt an escape. Hermione stepped over the rope dividing the section from the rest of the Library and bit down a smile. She walked along the lined bookcases, coming to a stop before the Phineas Bourne's Moste Potente Potions volume. She searched her mind for the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, her gaze traveling over the titles – Budge's Book of Potions, Jigger's Potion Opuscule, Tugwood's Beauty in a cauldron…
And the name came to her: Belby.
Her eyes traveled backward, until they settled once again on Bourne's. Hermione closed her eyes and lowered her forehead against the shelf with a thud – the book to its left started a different segment. Her efforts had been for naught.
It was when she opened her eyes to leave that she spotted it. A blend between a booklet and a journal squeezed between the two tomes, the leather spine so thin, the title of the volume was excluded altogether. A symbol of sorts shone in its place, engraved in faded gold ink at the very bottom. She didn't recognize it at first, the diminutive triangle and the already inkless B enclosed inside of it, but she slid her index finger over the top of the spine and pulled nonetheless.
"Δαμοξλες βελβψ," read the cover.
Which, rather presumptuously for a 1970's – and, by no means, Greek – wizard, meant Damocles Belby.
"What do you think you're doing, Miss Granger?" Madam Pince's voice sounded at her back.
It was possible Hermione had overrated her furtiveness.
She turned to face the witch, feeling rather small despite her heeled shoes. "I-I was hoping I could borrow—"
"Don't THINK I don't know what Mr. Potter and you did. Snatching books from an off-limits Library and stacking them on the floors, for Circe's sake!"
Hermione cringed and lowered her gaze. Again, how did they manage to win the war?
"And yet," the witch continued, "every single volume was returned and Mr. Lupin's life was saved, I believe?"
Hermione tipped her chin to one side, her mouth opening, closing, and opening yet again, "Does that mean—"
"It would be careless of me to grant access to a Restricted Section book to a student without a note. However," the librarian drawled and punctuated the word with a tilt of her head, "I couldn't very well control it amidst this mayhem, could I?"
Hermione knew she was staring. She also knew it to be rude. "I don't think you could, Madam Pince."
The older witch nodded, and her dark-brown eyes fixated on Hermione's, "As long as the copies are returned, Ms. Granger. In their pristine condition."
Later that day, Hermione excused herself from meeting the others at the Hog's Head for a well-deserved butter beer. Instead, she apparated outside Vine Grove's cottage, bearing her recent discovery and her earlier disquiet – both credible excuses for seeing Remus. And, if she were to be honest, both exactly that – excuses.
She knocked – once, twice. The curtains on the windows were drawn and no light seeped from inside.
And still, she could have sworn… Nevermind.
/-/
A/N: Sorry for the delay! July was an unforgiving month :(
I couldn't answer the reviews (doing so right now, so wait for it!), but I can't thank you guys enough! Honestly, this story wouldn't have made it this far without all of the encouragement you give me :)
And I know you can't wait for the moment of truth about Remus and Hermione's bond, but we're almost there!
An entire Honeydukes to…
My reviewers: Journalism13, Anoriel Thiliedis, wayfaring stranger go, SereniteRose,Ardentlyadmired, and Calimocho.
To traceytree, ravenmorrigan, enolufituaeb, Chibified-chan, Francesca Valentini, Mcclellane18, Goddess Cure Mystic, country96chick 2016, AMV1999, and ClownDoll1868 for adding the story to their favorites.
And to traceytree, LoveSpock, ravenmorrigan, littledreamowl, SlytherClaw56, smfphoto, enolufituaeb, Nikki0130, roon0, DarkChaosWolf, Science Queen, Ardentlyadmired, Francesca Valentini, Mcclellane18, sandragalusic, nightangel1200, imaginesakura, country96chick 2016, AMV1999, kwdc, everything-is-black-and-white, and Calimocho for following the story.
Thank you all! Please review :)