I am vair vair grateful to the fans: Nutz Nina, fifespice, DCoD, Eternally-Blackrose-Yours, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, and weirdlyyours.

Ah, I think this might be the longest chapter yet. Woot. Someone has told me it's probably wise to not put author's notes at the bottom, so I'll give that a try. Enjoy…

Chapter Thirteen: Smart

Hermione was having a harrowing day.

In double Potions with the Hufflepuffs—dim lot, she'd thought—she'd been paired with the redhead boy she'd seen in Flitwick's class some time ago. Her potion was finished halfway through class, so she occupied herself by watching the boy fumble with his own. He noticed and glared back at her, his ears reddening. "Something funny? Think you're smarter than me, do you?"

She started, but then replied just as nastily, "Of course I do—your potion's supposed to be purple. Not," she added as she glanced into his cauldron, "yellow."

The redhead threw up his hands in exasperation and dumped the potion into his flagon in defeat. "Maybe next time, you could make yourself helpful instead of being a snot," he snapped, and left to go hand in his work. Hermione had glared at his back.

I'm not a snot, she had wanted to shout. But the fact remained that the boy had made her angrier than she could remember.

After class, Hermione had skipped dinner and patrolled the corridors outside the Ravenclaw common room. She'd finished her rounds and was returning to her dormitory when Professor Flitwick ran into her and fell over with a squeak. She helped him up and asked, "Are you alright, Professor?"

He nodded and replied, "I was looking for you, Miss Granger. Someone's let off a lot of dungbombs near the Astronomy Tower and Mr. Filch has taken to bed rather early tonight. I was wondering if you could try to find the culprit…"

She frowned. Filch, going to sleep instead of prowling the castle for nighttime wanderers? "I can try, sir, but with all respect, they've probably left."

Flitwick smiled in a wrinkled way and said cheerfully, "There's no one else I could think of—I know how responsible to your duties you are, Miss Granger."

She couldn't help but smile. "I'll go, Professor. Do get some sleep."

The halls were already dark. Much as she wouldn't admit it, the shadows made her nervous. Something about this was fishy. Most mischief-makers let off dungbombs in crowded places, not in halls that were surely deserted at this time of night. She brandished her wand, and the woody texture of it in her hand promised power and safety. Hermione relaxed.

The next moment, a hand was covering her mouth and someone was holding her in place. "Mmf!" she squealed.

'Sorry about this, but I didn't really know how else I'd get you to listen, er…Hermione." Her captor's voice was unfamiliar, and his grip was blocking her use of her wand. Now Hermione was panicking.

"Listen, this is a pretty brutal way to go about things. If I let you go, do you promise not to scream or hex me or something?"

She nodded. He let her mouth go and she opened it to scream, but he apparently knew she'd lied and clapped his hand back where it had been. She heard him chuckle. "Now now, you promised. I don't want anything from you except a little help. Shall we try this again?"

She sighed and nodded again. He let her go altogether now and she turned to face him, rubbing her wrist and making sure he could see her wand.

He was of medium build and had messy dark hair that stood randomly. His eyes behind his glasses were bright green and very…alive. "Don't worry," he said. "I know you're the smartest in the year. I'm not going to try anything stupid. I just need your help on something."

Hermione gulped and nodded. "What is it?"

"I—I have this…Have you ever heard of a book that swallows what you write on it?"

Hermione fiddled with her sleeve. "The different enchantments you can put on a book are infinite. I'm sure there are books out there like that…"

He stepped closer to her. "What about books that talk back?"

She was startled. "Er…well, I'm sure it's possible, but it must be very difficult to enchant a book that way. I don't think a fifth year could—"

He waved his hand in dismissal. "I didn't do it. That part doesn't matter…I just need to know if it's possible…"

"Well," she said, then hesitated. "Yes. Yes, it's possible. The ability it takes to enchant something of this nature all depends on how smart it is."

The boy wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "What d'you mean, smart?"

"Er…how much willpower it has. You know. How much it can think for itself. Like a calculator, that's not very smart—it only does what it's told."

He was even more confused than before. "Calculator?" Hermione decided he definitely didn't have much Muggle exposure.

"It's a little machine that adds up the numbers you put in it," she explained, as simply as possible. "What I'm saying is, the smarter it is, the harder it would have been to make it that way. If it says things like 'today is whateversday' or 'there are twenty three species of whatsits in Africa', it's not very—"

"What if…" The boy's voice broke off, and he licked his lips. "What if it asks you about yourself?"

"Er…it all depends on what it says after you tell it, I suppose," Hermione offered. This had to be the strangest conversation she'd ever had, even if she counted all the talks on magical theory.

The boy nodded. His eyes were distant now, as if he were thinking hard. Then his head snapped up and she started.

"Listen," he said urgently. "D'you think you could…help me with something?"

Hermione raised her eyebrow. "I thought that's what I've been doing the whole time."

The boy laughed for the first time, and suddenly Hermione recognized him. For a second she was plunged into her first embarrassing memory of Hogwarts, when she'd asked two boys about a flying turtle of theirs. The boy hadn't been mean to her directly, but he had enjoyed watching her humiliate herself along with his friend. Hermione was suddenly more cautious.

"I mean, would you look at something for me? With me?" The boy smiled shyly at her, but Hermione felt it was rather staged. He hadn't seemed so shy when he'd grabbed her in the dark. Still, the small piece in her that she kept in a dark and dusty place, the piece that yearned for friendship—even a little camaraderie—scolded her into a pleasing response.

"All right," she said uncertainly.

The boy grinned. "Great. You have no idea what a hassle it was slipping Sleeping Draught into that barmy old Filch's goblet."

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