DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".

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Snow gleamed in the bright mid-morning sunlight, and Hermione squinted against its harsh whiteness. Still, it was a clear day and she fancied a stroll – she so rarely got long breaks between classes. Pulling her hat low on her head, and wrapping her thick muffler tightly around her neck, she sauntered out onto the courtyard with an air of content purposelessness.
She had barely covered a few meters when she heard her name being called out from behind her.

"Hermione," Harry panted once he had jogged over to her side, "Hi. I just..." and he held up his hand, begging for a moment to catch his breath.

Hermione grinned at him in all his red faced, skewed glasses glory.

"My. You're quite the athlete."
"Oh, shut up," he wheezed, "You try... running... through ankle... deep... snow."

Ten minutes later, they were taking slow circles around the yard while Harry gave an account of his latest lesson with Dumbledore. Hermione had to grapple with a twinge of untimely envy; oh, but how could she not want to be a part of such a fascinating investigation into the mind of a psychopath? Dumbledore's approach was nothing short of an adventure. She could only imagine what it must be like to see firsthand, and through various memories and perspectives, the burgeoning evil blooming forth in a young Tom Riddle.

"…and then he showed me a memory of Slughorn's where he was sitting in his office surrounded by admiring students… as always," Harry rolled his eyes, "Riddle asked him about something called Horcruxes –"
"Hor… what?"
"Horcruxes. So anyway, suddenly there was this dense white fog that obscured everything, and Slughorn's voice yelled through it, telling Riddle he knows bugger all about these horcruxes, and he should just fuck off. Er, in different words of course."
"That's… odd."
"Yeah," said Harry, "Dumbledore said it means that the memory has been tampered with. Said that Slughorn's obviously ashamed of what he said, so he hid it. And now I'm supposed to get the real memory from him. It's my 'homework' apparently," he finished wryly.

Hermione frowned. She knew immediately that Harry was going to struggle with this task.

"He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him," she said slowly.

And what irked her even more was the fact that she hadn't even the slightest inkling of what Slughorn was trying to conceal.

"Horcruxes… Horcruxes… I've never even heard of them…" she muttered irately.
"You haven't?" Harry's disappointment was palpable, and it made her feel ten times worse – she didn't have an answer ready and waiting… she had let him down.
"They must be really advanced Dark Magic; why else would Voldemort have wanted to know about them?" she tried desperately to make her speculation seem substantial, "I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy…"
"Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon…"

As if her frustration and regret wasn't enough. Lately Harry had picked up the habit of dropping Ron's name in every bloody conversation they had. Hermione felt her temper flare up like it had been given a dose of rocket fuel.

"Oh, well," she retorted angrily, "if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it! After all, when has Won-Won's judgment ever been faulty?"
"Hermione, can't you — ?"
"No!"

She marched away from him before he could make any more preposterous requests. Had he ever asked this of Ron? She seriously doubted it – too unnecessary and uncomfortable, she thought. She didn't like throwing tantrums, stalking off all petulant-like, but… but…
But she missed her mum.
The sudden pain of it hit her like a sledgehammer. The last time she had seen her had been nearly six month ago, and Hermione longed to see her smile, feel her embrace, and relive those lovely days in summer when they'd go explore secondhand bookstores while sipping refreshingly chilled lemonade.

A bezoar. A fucking bezoar.

Hermione charged out of the potion's classroom with a head full of brain-melting fury. There were beads of sweat dripping down the back of her neck, her hands were sooty, she was missing a lock of her hair (not that it made a dent in its overall volume), and Slughorn hadn't even looked into her cauldron. She was perhaps the only person in the room who understood Golpalott's Third Law, and definitely the only one who had implemented it correctly, yet Harry and his stupid goat stone had won the day. If only Snape had still been teaching them… he would have given Harry three weeks of detention for pulling something so audacious. Slughorn had been so thoroughly tickled.

This was it. She'd had enough. She was going to steal that blasted textbook and throw it into the lake. She was going to tell Slughorn exactly where Harry's inspired potion making skills where coming from. She was going to tell Theo, who would tell Malfoy, who would tell Snape, who would confiscate the book and give Harry lots and lots of dirty cauldrons to scrub, sans magic.

But really, she was just going to mutter angrily to herself while she stomped up the stairs to get to her next class.

There were exactly two hundred and fifty books on Dark Magic in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. Hermione had zipped through seventy-three so far, and she hadn't found a single mention of Horcruxes. In addition to having to deal with the acute aggravation of failure, she now had to live with the knowledge that there existed a potion that could turn a person's veins into tapeworms, and one that could cause a breakout of large and painful pus-filled boils on a person's entire body… eyeballs included. She knew of spells that could recreate the symptoms of leprosy and anthrax simultaneously, spells that caused organs to rupture, spells that made schizophrenia seem tame… holy shit, magic was capable of inflicting all sorts of horrors.

She chucked aside useless book number seventy-four.

Book number seventy-five let out the most frightful wail the moment she touched it. Then it erupted with a stream of horrible blood-slurs that would have impressed Walburga Black. Hermione silenced it with a sneer.

After she'd slammed useless book number ninety one shut, she rested her head on the table in front her. She felt feverish, exhausted, and defeated; A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear... A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief... In word, or sigh, or tear -

"Hi, Hermione."

Just the sight of Theo smiling down at her improved her mood drastically.

"Hi," she croaked due to her underused voice box.

He took the seat across from her, and raised a brow at all the towers of books with dodgy titles that lay between them.

"Interesting choice of literature," he remarked.
Hermione shrugged dismissively. "How've you been?" she asked.
"Undoubtedly better than you. You looked like an angry little Erinys after potions yesterday afternoon."

Hermione simply shrugged again.

"Righto," said Theo, give her an odd look, "Well, speaking of interesting literature, that book you gave me... it's quite something, eh?"
Hermione smiled tightly, "I hope it's giving you much to think about..."

He smirked and eyed her calculatingly for a couple of seconds. Then-

"You know full well I'm not the one reading it. I knew the moment I saw the title that I wasn't the one it was meant for. You'll be happy to know that it's doing quite the number on your intended target."

Hermione huffed angrily and looked away from Theo's self-satisfied expression. Yes, she knew exactly whose hands the book was going to land up in... but couldn't he afford her the dignity of pretending like she didn't know? What was his problem? When she looked back at him, he was grinning hugely, and Hermione quite nearly threw useless book number forty-nine (it had a scorpion tail for a bookmark) at him.

"Have you finished translating the runes on page seventeen of –"
"No, not yet." He was still grinning as he placed his books, parchment, and inkpot on the table. "Shall we get started?"

It was like every boy she knew had secretly come together and made a pact to annoy the life out of her.

Thus, a couple of days later, when Ginny asked if she'd like to join her on a nettle collecting expedition, Hermione agreed with great enthusiasm.

"I'm really worried about mum," Ginny said morosely, kicking a small clump of frost, "She'd only just come to terms with Fred and George quitting school, and then this whole fiasco with Percy happened. And she's so bloody scared for Harry…"

Hermione sighed sympathetically as they delved into the edge of the forbidden forest.

"And then there's Tonks," she continued, "I don't know what's happened to her."
"I don't think it's because of Sirius anymore," said Hermione quietly, "Maybe she's worried about her parents too…"
"Maybe. But… I don't know. It can't just be that. It's like she's been drained of life and colour and… well, it's a little alarming."

Ginny sat on her haunches in front of a bush, and took out a small pair of clippers from her cloak pocket.

"How are things with Dean?" Hermione asked.
"Shit," Ginny answered glumly, "I need to end it… it isn't fair. I just don't know how. I think he knows it's coming too, so he's started being overly attentive. It's driving me mad, but I can hardly dump him for being sweet…"
"You're really sure you want to end it, though…?"
"I am. I…" she sighed, looking up at Hermione, "I can't stop thinking about Harry. I know what you said about loosening up and all that," she waved the clippers about expressively, "but I can't do it anymore. If Harry doesn't want me, he doesn't want me –" (Hermione rolled her eyes. Ginny couldn't possibly be that blind) "– I just can't seem to stop… bleh." she finished with a gloomy scowl.
"Yes," Hermione laughed sombrely, "I know how that…"
"Oh no. Harry at least treats me like I'm a person worthy of respect. You have no excuse."
Hermione grumbled. "I know that too."

She looked up through a mesh of barren twigs and branches at the jigsaw sky above. Blackbirds streaked across in a flurry; just enough in number to bake in a dainty pie to set before a king.

Ginny stood up, her pouch full of thorny leaves, and she looped her arm around one of Hermione's.

"Let's go back in. It's too damn cold," she said.

They began walking back to the castle, arm in arm.

"Ron accosted me during the hols, you know. He ordered me to tell him what the deal was between you and Nott. I don't know why he didn't just ask Harry… I bet he thought he could bully proper answers out of me. Ha! The idiot."
Hermione swallowed the uncomfortable lump in her throat. "What did you tell him?"
"Oh, I told him it's none of his business. Then, predictably, he began ranting about evil gits, Death Eaters, and betrayal. Worry not, fair maiden; I defended your honour… was proper indignant on your behalf. He was gaping like a buffoon by the time I was through with him."
Like a slow ripple, Hermione felt a smile unfurl across her face. "You are an invincible Valkyrie goddess, Ginevra Weasley."
Ginny was torn between a grin and a glare. "Thanks ever so much, Herms."

Harry was waiting for them at the entrance hall, looking agitated and malcontent.

"Hi, Ginny... Hermione."

Things between Hermione and Harry had remained a bit strained. Her anger over the bezoar episode still felt raw, and he had no patience for it.

Ginny's eyes darted curiously between the two of them. "What's up, Harry?"
"I was just wondering if either of you had got an invitation to one of those Slug club parties recently."
"Not me," said Ginny, and her inquisitive expression intensified.
"No," said Hermione, curtly.
"Oh. Alright."
Six beats of silence later, Ginny let out a low whistle. "Ooookay then. I've a class to get to..."

She smiled at both of them before departing.

Harry watched her go with a flustered blush on his face. Then he turned to Hermione. "Er, we've got transfiguration, yeah? Shall we...?" he trailed off uncertainly.
"Okay."
"So, um... I really hope Slughorn will have one of his little suppers soon. It might give me another chance to... to attack. Have you had any luck finding out what Horcruxes are?"

Oh, Harry knew her too well. Of course she couldn't keep up the silent treatment when he chose that line of conversation.

"I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do! Not a single one!" she was promptly reminded of her frustration with the library, "I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions - nothing! All I could find was this –" she pulled useless book number hundred and sixty one out of her bag, "–in the introduction to Magick Moste Evile – listen – 'Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction…' I mean, why mention it then?" she slammed the tattered old tome shut and stowed it away.

Harry got lost in thought, frowning down at the stone floor.

She had conquered wandless, non-verbal conjuring.

When she was younger, she'd sometimes (only when she was really, really idle) watch those outlandish Japanese cartoons on the telly. She remembered one in particular, which had a brawny, glowing man with radiant golden hair who could summon balls of intense energy between his palms and send them shooting off wherever he pleased.

Hermione had a big swirling ball of light cupped in her hands, and she gazed at it with wide-eyed wonder. A second later, she pulled her arms back over her left shoulder and threw the ball into the lake, where it hissed as it was extinguished, and sunk.

Padma had managed to double Hermione's Arithmancy notes. She hugged her in delight when she saw the books on cardiovascular medicine that Hermione was holding... and then stepped back immediately.

"Oh, thanks, thank you, cool," and then she scarpered away.

Hermione watched her bolt with amusement. Honestly, Padma was one of the last people she'd expect to have difficulty in letting go of awkwardness.

"Maybe something a little more cheerful the next time?" Theo said jauntily, as he tapped Hermione on the head with The Rebel, before placing in her hand. "Tara."

She looked daggers at his retreating back, at his merry little strut. She could almost imagine him in a top hat and coattails, swinging a cane and whistling.

Late at night when she had buried herself in bed, she flipped through the book at random, reading passages she had forgotten, and some that she remembered vividly. She encountered no dog-ears, no smears or smudges... her book had been well cared for. There was nothing about it that said it had been in the possession of an utterly vile...

There was a piece of folded parchment on page seventy, placed directly under the line, 'The dilemma at this stage is not to be free or to die, but to kill or to enslave'. Hermione gently pulled it open, and gasped as a small spiral of ash lifted off the sheet and hovered a few centimeters above it. Beneath this floating spiral, written in moderately neat cursive was the first stanza of Shakespeare's the Phoenix and the Turtle:

"Beauty, truth, and rarity.
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos'd in cinders lie."

Hermione folded the parchment shut and placed it carefully back into the book, too bewildered to know what to think.

The month of January had gone by so fast. Snowfall had all but ceased, yet the sixth year students were caught in the deluge of another form of precipitation – a relentless torrent of homework assignments.

There was a large table by a window in the common room, and Hermione, Harry, Neville, Parvati, and Seamus sat around it, working on various essays.
Dean was sitting a short distance away, drawing them as they worked. Ginny sat by his feet on the carpet, constructing increasingly complicated obstacle courses for her pygmy puff. Seamus' gramophone was softly playing the best of Louis Armstrong.

It was all so normal, so unremarkable and comfortable that Hermione nearly cried.