Hermione walked purposely down Diagon Alley, her feet leading her body down the familiar route to her second favourite place. Normally, she would stop and admire the goods on sale outside each of the old shops, but today she had somewhere to be on time.
Upon reaching the end of the Alley, Hermione turned right and then left down a dark, narrow, passageway, littered with old sweet wrappers and pumpkin juice bottles, which she looked disdainfully at and whispered a quick charm to clear them. As she came out of the alleyway, the woman turned again to see a small building made from ageing wood slanting towards her, standing precariously lopsided.
Hermione breathed in the homely scent of old books as she opened the door, a small smile on her lips as she moved forward of the threshold to see numerous wizards and witches balancing books in mid-air as they walked from a bookshelf to a table, or rows of books opened in front of them as they studied with a quill in their mouth as they uttered the words on the page to themselves. There was even a children's corner, where tales of Harry Potter stood out in bright colours with fraying edges. Hermione could remember the day her own books about Harry had come out. She'd wrote seven novels condensing the adventures of Harry into words-there had been a giant ceremony in the tiny library, people queuing up on the streets, young children getting pictures with Harry. They'd never imagined them to go down that well; there was talk of them reaching the muggle world, under a different author's name. Admittedly, Hermione hadn't wrote Draco in the best of light, but she had done what she could with the characters she had-and both Harry and Ron had been influential editors on a certain few Death Eaters-not that she doubted Draco even having a copy. Of course, Hermione had all proceeds go to the refurbishment of Hogwarts, that had been left more than scarred after The Battle.
And now, every time she walked in here, a giant poster with herself standing next to Harry and Ron, three of the books held tightly in their hands as they all smiled with glee, reminded her of the friendship she had lost in the years to follow. Turning her eyes away from her own books, this always gave her a burst of pride to see, Hermione walked towards the Muggle book section.
The woman searched the top of the tall shelves until reaching the "medical" stack of dusted, fraying books.
"C...C...Conjunctivitis...Cold...Claustrophobia..." Hermione read the names out load as her eyes scanned the shelves, her feet leading her down the path of book spines,
"ah-ha," The woman announced as she found her destination, "Cancer," she almost smiled as her hand reached out to grab the book in front of her, which she was half surprised to find there.
Hermione lifted the heavy book into her arms and set towards one of the secluded tables at the back of the library, where she usually sat to avoid the noise. She heaved the book down with a small groan before straightening out her skirt and sitting down and opening the book.
On the front page was a list of every different type of cancer, handwritten notes from various witches and wizards, healers and alchemists alike, adding to the never ending list of names of where a human can get the deadly disease.
Scrolling through the list with her index finger, Hermione found the long name of what Draco had described, and turned to the correct page near the middle of the huge book. The book was fairly new, in comparison to most, but even so, the pages had illegible scribbles from previous owners dotted all around the page, explaining or expanding on the muggle version, or crossing that out and adding their own findings in. And of course, there was no doubt in Hermione's mind that any of the inscriptions were wrong-typed or otherwise.
Taking great care she allowed her finger to glide down the page, taking in the words and being vigilant with what clues could be hidden between the scribbles. She wasn't exactly sure what she was looking for, but all she knew was that there must be something in here that would lead her to helping Draco. A cure or a symptom blocker, she didn't care, as long as she found a way to help somehow.

She promised herself she'd sit there for hours if she had to, even return to the library as much as possible until she found something. All it took was one small detail - Hermione knew that. If she learned anything at Hogwarts it was the smallest of clues that could lead to great things. She never had the chance to do that for Draco, not that she had ever thought she would have. Her eyes sharpened onto the lettering, small print reading how the "patient" would feel with this deadly disease, describing in detail the harsh reality that anyone like Draco would have to face: constant headaches, ringing in the ears, loss of balance, uncontrollable nose bleeds, unconsciousness, spasms..the list went on. Basically, Draco was a ticking time bomb as a little worm wriggled it's way around his brain, eating but by bit until there was nothing left. There was a sharp intake of breath. A moment caught off guard. Hermione had read many graphic details during her time at the Ministry but this was different. She had seen parts of his suffering, been there when he was weak. Now she was looking for something with no guarantee of saving him. It was inevitable. If she failed then the suffering she witnessed would get worse until...no. The thought couldn't cross her mind, not now. Pressing on she read the side notes: potions that had been attempted, herbs that had been crushed into drinks but no solid evidence. Nothing to say this was the definite answer to survival.
But she had to find this cure and she couldn't be lead astray by false information, or misleading thoughts added by other curious minds who dared add to the words on the paper. Maybe there were more books? More libraries? Somewhere there must be someone who knows what it's like to survive this deadly disease?
Turning over the page her finger fell under the title: Treatment. A list followed of muggle procedures; surgery, radiotherapy, chemotherapy and more drugs than she could count with her fingers alone. Each a guiding step to increasing his chances of survival but as for a definite cure, there was no guarantee. Only hope. Right now she needed much more than hope.

"Sometimes brain tumours are diagnosed too advanced to be cured with treatment. Treatment may shrink the tumour, slowing down its progress and giving the patient a longer term of life. However this depends on how the patient responds to the treatment and the growth of the tumour. Some patients may respond well to treatment but have the tumour return some time later."
Hermione read down the page, each time reading every paragraph that offered any hint two or three times until she fully understood. It was a difficult subject for someone without Healing talents, but as always, she managed to wrap her head around it and understand.
Some pages where quick and easy-filled with facts and percentages, survival rates and drug dosages. Others where not so promising. Some even horrifying. One page had been scratched with ink, clearly written by a witch or wizard who had lost someone-the words screaming out to muggles who had failed to save their beloved one.
One message above all struck Hermione's nerves-her eyes narrowing at the message written in thick jet blank ink, the quill having once threatened to tear the page having written:
"The carrier of this demon will have been one who led a life following death, chasing evil as he grew surrounded by sin and vermin. It is only those who have wished to kill that shall be killed in such a manner. Only the small act of bravery once hidden in his life will save him from death."
Hermione's hands gripped tightly at the pages. Her stomach was knotted; her chest tight, she could feel herself wanting to slam the book shut. To stop now and find another solution or somewhere else to go. Only she had two more pages. This witch or wizard was just angry; she had to remind herself of that. And even if it were true, that it was evil that had latched onto Draco-hadn't he tried to save Harry? He had lied once to save a life, and it had worked.
Hermione sighed and shook her head; she couldn't be fooled into such folly when the pressing matter was at hand.
Turning once more the scribbles didn't stop but neither did the information. Another's handwriting, one more much gentle was flickering beneath the angry storm of hatred that had stained the final few pages of this chapter. Pulling it closer she edged past the anger and towards that one clue she was looking for.
"Alchemists have found one element that has been known to work on few witches and wizards. While difficult to find the..." The blue ink read, pushed in between the harsh words of the previous owner, the last lines having to be forced onto the next page.
This was it. The answer she was looking for. Her eyes scanned across, her heart beating with excitement until she was greeted by a torn page. Moving her eyes across to read the final details, Hermione was greeted to more print. Odd. Surely these notes should have continued to the next page?
She looked down. Page 132 was next greeted by 135. Where was 133? Alchemists had found what? What did she have to look for? She searched back and forth, opening the front of the book again and even looking beneath her pile of notes to see if the page had fallen from her long hours of research. Looking back one final time the angry letters returned on page 135 saying;
"You're too late."

The note stopped so abruptly. She had no interest for what was on page 135, only a brief outline on another cancer she had no interest in. But what was it she had to find? What had been known to cure witches and wizards? Then, as she followed the words again she stared into the centre of the book-the remains of the page that had been torn out were left in the centre. Someone had taken it. Or had she misplaced it?
In quick haste she started to search through the piles of books that surrounded her, madly lifting up notes and even pulling lose notes from her pockets-she was one page away from the answers she had been looking for! One little sentence!

"I'm sorry Miss. The library has just closed. We should be asking you to-"
Hermione's head dropped into the book as her heart plummeted, she hadn't even heard the bell toll to signal the closing.
"Do you have any more books on cancer?" She asked, running her hand through her hair and sitting back up straight.
"Excuse me?"
"Please, just anything else?" Hermione looked up to the stern librarian in front of her, a pleading look on her face as she registered her old friend.
Her desperation was growing. She knew the answers existed; she just had to spend a bit more time finding them.
With a sigh the manager rubbed his brow and shook his head,
"Just for you, Miss Granger." The plump man's face softened as he pointed towards the same case she had started with, "Over there, middle shelf. However the library has closed."
"Thank you, Michael." She cut in, and before being sure to grab the book, Hermione rushed over to the shelves she was directed to.

Almost blindly, Hermione grabbed at the spines of random books to check their covers, looking for any familiar name. After grabbing three, labelled with various puns involving cancer, the woman balanced the books on her knee, each opened out on the contents page, which she scanned with a pointed finger for any indication of brain tumours. These books were just like the first, if not more modern. They all still had noted writing inside the front, but she couldn't be sure about the actual pages.
Collapsing onto the floor, Hermione kneeled down with all four books spread open on the now correct pages as she anxiously skimmed each one for any indication of the same handwriting. For the end if the sentence.
Her eyes kept meeting that little "the" that was littered haphazardly at the very edge of the page of the first book-she wasn't even trying to compare handwriting, her eyes just kept moving to the tiny letters, as if trying to bore into them as to get that all important end of the sentence from the ink itself.
But there was nothing, not even a tiny miniscule of indication that that sentence finished. The only thing to show for the missing puzzle was the fragments of torn page left by the owner who had disembodied it. Hermione ignored the "you're too late" and poured through each book laid out in front of her to find any piece of scrap paper-even going as far as lifting them by their spines and shaking them upside down, ruffling the pages as to get the missing 113rd page.

"Come on Miss Granger, I'm closing now." Michael was stood over hear, his heel to her cheek.
Hermione lifted her face off the floor and pulled her arm from underneath the shelf, "Are you sure?"
"Yes…" He wasn't sure if she was joking, but he was growing impatient, "And you can't take them with you, you know." He nudged one of the still open books with the side of his shoe.
"I know, I know." Hermione dropped her head again, stood up off the floor, replacing the books back on their shelves before dusting herself off.
"Any luck?" The man asked, waving his wand silently at the lights above Hermione's head.
"What does it look like?"
"I'm sorry, miss-you'll just have to come back tomorrow," The man told her as he led them through the eerily dark and empty library, before adding, "You're presence here is always most welcome."
"Thankyou, Michael." She managed a little smile before dropping her shoulders in forlornness and exiting the building onto the now equally dark street.