Thanks so much to Galavantian, Nerys, Vinwin, Gonewiththerain09, and Claire Reno for your reviews.
Speechwriter
The first rays of sunrise through Hermione's window woke her gently, shimmering just a little more than was normal.
Hermione groaned, brushing her hair from her eyes and rolling out of bed. Someone was banging on the door. "Merlin's beard, Ronald, shut up."
Then she opened the door and was surprised, because she was jolted into remembering that it was not, and would never be again, Ron or Harry at her door. "Oh. Sorry, Mina. Thought you were... never mind."
Mina frowned. "Who's Ronald?"
"Friend from... back home," Hermione said, waving a hand vaguely.
Mina's face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry... do you want to talk about it?" she asked awkwardly, her cheerful smile dropping from her face to be replaced with careful concern.
Hermione didn't feel like she would ever want to talk about it with anyone, at risk of bursting into angry tears. So she just said, "Don't worry about it."
"All right, well, breakfast's on the table. R.J. and Godric were wondering if you were coming down to eat with us. We can announce your arrival to the school."
"Yeah, I just woke up. Give me ten minutes?"
"Sure, sure," Mina said. "See you."
Hermione shut the door and looked in the mirror with a groan. Everything was far more beautiful here, but that happy blessing seemed to have skipped her face in the morning. She restrained a snicker as she observed the way her hair stuck out at strange angles. Taking out her wand, she flicked it back into place and combed out the tangles and knots with a twitch of the thin piece of wood.
Yawning, Hermione threw on her robes and hurried down the stairs, blinking the sleep from her eyes.
Bizarrely, she already felt used to this happy, peaceful Hogwarts, despite her endless months of creeping around in the shadows, terrified for her life. The walk down to the Great Hall, down the moving staircases, through the glowing hallways, was serene. The conversation was sparse, perhaps because R.J. and Godric were half-asleep. They only perked up when they entered the Great Hall and smelled the scents of breakfast.
The Hall seemed fuller than it had last night. Looking around, Hermione guessed that there were about seventy-five people total – the fewest Hufflepuffs, with only ten or so at most, closely followed by Gryffindor. Ravenclaw and Slytherin by far dominated the Great Hall in numbers. Apparently, House rivalries lasted long after death, because there was no shortage of hostile glares in the Hall.
Hermione was mortified when Mina stood up, looked around, and banged the lid of a dish with a metal spoon. The Great Hall fell silent.
"Everyone, this is Hermione Granger," Mina said loudly. "She just got here yesterday. She's a Gryffindor."
At that word, there were jeers and hissing from the Slytherin table. Hermione shot a nervous look over there and found that her eyes were drawn immediately to Tom Riddle, as if his face were a magnet for her stare. She felt a cold shock hit her body as he looked up and met her gaze with dark, shielded eyes. He was not making any noise, no booing, no hissing—just observing, sitting straight, tall, calm. He blinked slowly, breaking the spell, and Hermione swallowed, looking back to Mina.
"Shut up, you stupid gits," Mina called to the Slytherins. There was some general chuckling from the Gryffindors. "So, that's it. Yet another person from 1998."
The Hogwarts students were quiet for a moment. There were some puzzled mutters before the usual clatter and clamor of breakfast resumed. Mina and sat back down. "The Slytherins will probably give you a hard time for a while. Don't worry about them. They'll calm down eventually."
"That's reassuring," Hermione muttered.
Godric grinned. "Hey, if they try to jump out at you from behind a suit of armor or something you'll be able to smell their greasy hair product from miles away," he said. Hermione laughed, surprised that Godric was so up-to-date on relatively modern trends.
"How do you know about hair gel?" she spluttered.
Godric shrugged. "I have my sources," he said, with a glance over to R.J., who was too busy stuffing his face to pay much attention. "This guy takes far too good care of his hair," he whispered loudly to Hermione, and at that, R.J. looked up and scowled.
"Just 'cause I have a sense of appearance, Godric," he said pointedly, "doesn't make me effeminate."
"Hey, no one here questioned your masculinity," Mina replied. "Unless someone's a little defensive..." She waggled her thin black eyebrows and grinned that sharp grin at Hermione, who couldn't help but smile at the I'm-far-too-used-to-this look on R.J.'s face.
Hermione looked around. "So, if you don't have classes, what exactly do you... you know, what do you do around here?" She couldn't imagine a life at Hogwarts without classes. Hermione was so devoted to every subject she took – even History of Magic, which she secretly found almost as dull as Harry and Ron found it – that she couldn't picture having nothing to do, nothing assigned.
The other three looked at each other and shrugged. "There's a lot to discover around Hogwarts," said R.J., his low voice nearly secretive. "A lot of the time, we go sneaking around, looking for hidden places. It's not bad."
"I, personally, would rather take classes," Hermione said, an unintentional note of superiority coloring her light voice. "Are there any?"
Godric chuckled. "So you're the Miranda type. There aren't any classes, no, but the library is always open."
R.J. added, "Also, most of the people here are really phenomenal witches and wizards. You can ask a lot of them if you'd like a lesson in something or other. Myself excepted, of course."
Mina elbowed him. "R.J. is such a liar," she scoffed. "He's really great at a lot of things. Like Transfiguration. And Ancient Runes."
"Oh, I adore runes!" exclaimed Hermione, her eyes brightening. Of course, everyone here would be exceptionally advanced, otherwise they wouldn't have any strong magical ties to earth to bring them here in the first place. The things she could learn...
Of course, she shouldn't be focusing on herself. She should be trying to get back to Earth, trying to get back to help the resistance. Assuming it was even still going. The food seemed to dry up in Hermione's mouth as she considered the possibilities.
Godric broke her concentration. "We also have Quidditch matches every so often. They get sort of bloody, though."
"Sort of?" laughed Mina. She turned to Hermione. "The last one that happened, every player except three broke some limb or other. No teachers to keep control, see."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "No one steps up to make sure people stay safe? Don't we, you know, feel pain here?"
R.J. reached over and pinched her arm. "Ow!" she hissed.
He shrugged. "I guess you can feel pain, then," he said, and brushed back his dark hair with an easy smile. Hermione sighed. He really was a lot like Harry, in appearance and demeanor, while Godric was strangely like Ron—in looks, at least...
Hermione's mind flickered back on track. Neither of her two best friends could ever be replaced. Hopefully, though, Hermione could join them on Earth…there had to be some way to get back; she was alive enough to be here, right?
A tenor voice interrupted her thoughts as Albus scooted over with Miranda Goshawk to join the conversation. "Are we telling Hermione about this Hogwarts?" Albus asked serenely.
"I'm Miranda Goshawk," Miranda said. She had a light, airy voice.
"I've read all your books," Hermione told her excitedly, and Miranda smiled absentmindedly, her light brown hair shining in the long rays of sun.
Hermione looked up, suddenly missing the flood of owls that used to arrive during breakfast – but of course, that wouldn't happen here. She never used to get much mail, anyway. The Daily Prophet, for a while, but that consisted the bulk of her mail. A small smile quirked the corner of her lips as she remembered how Harry had received the Nimbus 2000 through mail, their very first year...
"Also, if you're really at a loss for activity, there are a few students that just make up things for us to do," Godric said. "A few Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, I think. Games, et cetera."
Hermione nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. No frivolity. She had a mission. She had a home, and it wasn't here.
She dug back into breakfast, relieved to find that the eggs were just as delicious here as they had been back home.
After breakfast, Miranda loudly announced that she was going to the common room to work on her essay, and left.
"She's been working on that damn essay for two weeks now," Mina said. "More like a novel, if you ask me." She stood. "I'm off to the pitch." She grabbed her bag.
"I'm coming, hold on," said Godric, standing too. "I'll see you later, Hermione."
R.J. looked at their retreating backs. "Well, sorry, but I'm going to have to desert you too. I told Dickins I'd help him with some rune translations."
"No, no, it's fine," Hermione reassured, waving him on. She needed time to think, anyway. After she had arrived, she had hardly had an uninterrupted second to consider options.
The library. Her refuge – that was where she would go.
She reached for her bag, usually stuffed full of books, quills, parchment, ink, but her hand met only air, and she remembered that she didn't have a bag anymore. Feeling very empty-handed, Hermione stood and walked briskly out of the Great Hall.
The leisurely journey to the library was a familiar one that she hadn't taken in a long time. With no Madam Pince to suppress the freedoms of students, Hermione almost expected there to be people inside chattering loudly, but she was relieved to find that it was stone silent and practically empty, except for a solemn-looking, plump Ravenclaw boy sitting at a table, reading about Animagi. She gave him a quick, awkward smile and quickly moved into the aisles.
Though she tried only to look at the familiar tomes on the brightly-lit shelves, her gaze kept straying backwards to the door that read, 'Restricted Section'. Those books are restricted for a reason. I don't need them. So why did she keep glancing that way?
Oh, to hell with it. She had never delved extensively into the Restricted Section, but surely there would be something useful in there about the afterlife. After all, who knew more about death than those who were skilled in the Dark Arts?
She moved into the darker stacks. There was a different smell to the books back here – older; more dangerous. She moved down one aisle, and turned the corner, slightly distracted by a brown book on the last shelf with a nasty sort of stain on it—
As she turned, her shoulder knocked into a tall body which was standing in front of a bookshelf. Hermione let out a small 'oh' of surprise, her heart racing as she realized who she had just knocked into. She had drawn her wand out of instinct, holding it up like a participant in a duel.
The body turned. "Sorry," he said quietly, and his gaze flickered onto her vine wand as she put it away quickly. His voice was low and sweet, strangely innocent-sounding, nothing like the high cackle of the later Dark Lord. As his eyes met hers again, Hermione couldn't keep her heart from racing in fear. The last time she had looked into these eyes, she had been tortured mercilessly. They were red, then, though – red, without a shred of humanity in them. This boy was just that – a boy. Are they really the same person? How did this person turn into that – that... thing?
Hermione opened her mouth. "Oh, no, I'm sorry," she squeaked, all in a rush, mentally kicking herself. If she wanted to stay under his radar, getting unnecessarily flustered was possibly the worst way to go about it – although, with his looks, he couldn't have been unused to girls acting strangely around him.
She thought she saw a flicker of mild confusion pass over his face, but he suppressed it masterfully. Tom Riddle was shielding himself completely. "Are you alright?" he asked. That sleek voice, like oil and silk, with just a hint of boyishness – it gave away nothing he didn't want to reveal.
Hermione calmed herself. "Fine. Just... startled," she replied, with a small smile.
He raised an eyebrow, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Thinking that he was attractive was a repulsive notion in and of itself, but it was undeniable. Strong features combined with his strangely delicate nose and lips gave him an aristocratic air. It was more than upheld by his ramrod-straight posture. "Are you looking for something in particular?"
He's trying to get information out of me, Hermione deduced instantly.
Then she took a deep breath. She was being paranoid. He probably didn't suspect a thing. "No, nothing in particular," she said. "I just never really went in here back in the real world. Not much, anyway, and I figured they might have some useful books."
Hermione panicked inwardly. Why had she said useful? He would read into that, think she was up to something.
Paranoia! Calm down!
His dark gaze was calm, unbroken. Feeling self-conscious, Hermione brushed her hair back. "How about you?" she asked, and a smirk appeared on Tom Riddle's face, as if he were surprised anyone would dare to question his motives.
"Same as yourself," he responded quietly. There was something fascinating in the sinuous way his lips moved, especially since Hermione knew that every word from his mouth was probably a lie. "Just browsing," he murmured, looking back at the bookshelves. "There are some fascinating things in here..."
Hermione nodded. "I'm sure," she said. "Anything you'd recommend?"
He looked back at her quickly, as if surprised, and smiled disbelievingly. It was a dazzling smile. His remarkably dark eyes lingered on her face a little too long, and then he shook his head a little and blinked. "Pardon me," he said. "Just—not many Gryffindors bother coming back here."
"Oh," Hermione said. "Well, I – ah – no."
What am I doing? She was too flustered to know what to say or do. Apparently, she had attracted his attention simply by being here—she had to drag herself back into the ranks of normalcy somehow. How? What would most girls do when confronted with a Tom Riddle they didn't know a thing about?
Well, they'd probably swoon, but Hermione couldn't even think about that without feeling nauseated.
"I'm Tom Riddle," he finally said, breaking the silence, holding out a hand.
"Hermione Granger," Hermione said, relieved. She took his hand and shook it. He had soft, warm, disturbingly human hands, and a steady, sure grip.
"Yes, I know. I heard at breakfast," said Riddle, turning away from the books and leaning against the bookshelf to engage more fully in conversation. "So, 1998," he continued. "How did that work out for you?"
She shrugged. "Evidently, not too well," she said, earning a wry smile. "When are you from?"
He picked at a fingernail. "1945."
1945. The year of his first created horcrux. Perhaps, with every time the soul was torn, some of it made its way here—otherwise, Riddle would only have gotten here when Harry had destroyed his diary back in the early 1990's... "Hm," she replied absentmindedly, as if slightly disinterested. "So, can you remember why?"
He would have to lie about this. Hermione kept her eyes peeled for any hint of usual signs of lying—moving jerkily, blinking a lot, touching the face – but he did nothing of the sort. His mouth tugged down a little at the edges, as if in thought. "As far as I can remember, I was helping work on a project in Magical Law Enforcement, and something went terribly wrong." He gave another wry, curling smile, making Hermione fidget. "And you, Ms. Granger?"
The way he said her name was so close to mocking that Hermione felt like he somehow already knew too much. "I created this book that would answer questions written in it." That was probably far less incriminating than being a Secret-Keeper. "Nothing bad," she added quickly, and then mentally slapped herself again. What am I doing?
"Yes," Riddle gave her that lazy, powerful stare. "Which charm did you use?"
"That would be telling." Hermione took a deep breath, drew herself up, and said, "I should probably go back to my common room, actually. Miranda's expecting me."
Riddle made a sudden, completely unanticipated motion, as if to move towards her, which startled her heart into a sprint. In the end, though, he just said, "I wouldn't object if you stayed."
"Oh, really?" Hermione spluttered. "Thank you, your Highness."
He smirked again. A weirdly endearing dimple appeared on his left cheek, and his eyes softened. Oh, what a liar. Everything about him is a lie. There is no softness there.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said. "I just... am rarely interested by people."
"Why?"
"I don't know," replied Riddle calmly, and left it without a reason. Hermione had a split-second debate. If she fled now, he might try to approach her later under the pretense of acquaintanceship. If she stayed, she would have no choice but to continue talking to him—Lord Voldemort at seventeen. And she was woefully unprepared for more of this.
So she said, "I'm sorry, I really do have to leave. Miranda said she'd like me to read over her essay. I guess... I'll see you later." He gave her a slight nod of a goodbye. With her best attempt at an apologetic glance, she walked away, feeling his eyes on her practically until she said, "Venomous Tentacula" to the Fat Lady.
"Well, someone's looking tired." Mina eyed her. "What'd you do, run a marathon?"
"Might as well have," snorted Hermione, slumping into an armchair. "Just talked with Tom Riddle."
Mina suddenly looked interested. She strode over and plopped down next to Hermione. "Oh, really! Do tell."
"He seemed... nice." She practically choked on the word. "Really intimidating. I felt like I was on the spot when he talked to me."
Mina nodded. "Yeah, I talked with him once. He's got great eyes. So... mysterious." You have no idea what he's hiding. "Nice and dark, too."
Too dark, in Hermione's opinion. If eyes were the windows to the soul, Tom Riddle's were completely shuttered. Hermione made a noncommittal 'meh' noise in response.
"How was Quidditch practice?" Hermione asked. "How was the weather?"
"Weather never changes here," Mina said moodily. "It gets a bit boring after a while, so sometimes we cast charms to change the weather and stuff. This Ravenclaw girl Melia Trueblood, she's a weather witch. But anyway – we need a new beater. Anderson Prewett is really overenthusiastic... Do you play any Quidditch?"
Hermione shook her head. "My best friends played Quidditch. Keeper and Seeker. I used to just watch. Or do my homework," she mused, with a chuckle. Now that she thought about it, she wished she had watched more practices, been more supportive of Ron. She had always been wrapped up in learning more, doing more, for the eventual good. Harry had understood that just a little more than Ron, although neither of them had really fundamentally believed in the only thing she believed in. Knowledge. The source of all power. The only way to advance.
Well, that was a very Slytherin thought to think. Hermione sighed and stretched. "Maybe I'll come and watch you next time," she told Mina, who smiled.
"That'd be nice. Godric could use some cheering from the sidelines. Now there's a terrible Chaser if I ever saw one..."
Hermione laughed. Thinking about the founder of Gryffindor House having any faults at all was amusing at the very least.
The rest of the day, Hermione read over some earlier parts of Miranda's incredibly long essay. It was eight full rolls of parchment – twenty-four feet in all – and Miranda was working on a ninth roll as Hermione read, her hazel eyes moving so quickly they were practically blurred. It was absolutely fascinating. Miranda's almost theological view of magic had a reverential touch to it that Hermione adored reading. It was how she herself felt about magic.
Back when Hermione was young, her parents had always praised her for her intelligence. Hermione had prided herself on that intelligence, quickly eating up works of famous Muggle literature. She had read War and Peace by the time she was nine. In fact, she had often found that when she went a day without some sort of book, strange things had happened around her—things that had made her only friend, Emily, wary of her. Then, the letter. And everything had changed.
With magic, a whole new door opened. She finally started getting books to read that challenged her young mind. She understood everything in theory, of course, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that she could also execute a few simple spells while she was sitting alone in her compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Immensely pleased, she had continued to work her way through half of the Hogwarts Library—that had been back in the days before she had any friends at all at Hogwarts. Every book was her Bible.
Books' contents were so beautiful, organized in a manner that channeled all these decades of patient magical research into her. How could she not remember all the information books contained? They had been, after all, her closest friends for the first eleven and a half years of her life.
Miranda wrote with fervor and the same enthusiasm that Hermione experienced when she read. The essay was about the slow decline of the first Dark Wizard and the fine line that separated Dark magics from others.
Godric had been patiently sitting behind Hermione, waiting for her to finish reading, for nearly ten minutes. As soon as she rolled up the last scroll, he exclaimed, "How do you get through all that?" Hermione shrugged, and Miranda shot Godric a glare. "What?" he said defensively. "It's not like it's exactly light reading."
"I find it fascinating," Hermione sniffed, handing the last scroll back to Miranda, who gave her a conspiratorial smile.
Godric rolled his eyes. "You bookworms... honestly..."
Hermione shrugged.
"So, Hermione," Godric asked, with a glint of dark mischief in his eyes, "do you do any dueling?"
Godric Gryffindor had famously been the best duelist of all time. Hermione's gaze lit up. "You're famous for dueling!" she exclaimed. "I've read so much about your duels."
Godric put a hand on his chest proudly and looked dramatically into the distance. "I am rather good, yes," he said. "Dueling Club, anyway, meets three nights a week – interested in joining?"
"Oh, Merlin," Hermione said. The last time she had attended a Dueling Club, Gilderoy Lockhart had managed to launch Draco Malfoy's angry snake twenty feet into the air, and Harry had discovered he was a Parselmouth. Great.
"No?" Godric looked a little disappointed.
"Oh, no, no, of course I'd like to!" Hermione answered enthusiastically. She'd get to see Godric Gryffindor in action. Perhaps even Dumbledore, as well.
xXxXxXxXx
After dinner, Hermione stayed in the common room until everyone else had gone to bed. She had every intention of returning to the Restricted Section under the shield of night.
Grabbing a lantern, she set off through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady said, "I hope you know what you're doing, sneaking out this time of night!" Hermione turned back and made a face at her.
Okay. What she needed was any book that mentioned this place. If even one author had theorized about this...island existing, then surely they would also have a theory to get out –either to Life or Death. She couldn't waste time hanging around, not when Harry and Ron's lives were in danger. Harry would surely leave his hiding place, would surely get Ron and go and look for Hermione, risking their safety for a dead girl—would they be able even to find where she was in the Room of Requirement? They wouldn't know to ask for a dead Hermione.
Dead. She was dead.
Hermione swallowed, feeling ashen. If death was just another life, then why did it matter that anyone ever died in the first place? Surely she could find Harry and Ron in death, at the very least – apologize to Ron, tell him she still loved him... A lump stuck in her throat as she pictured his freckled face, a torrent of memories harassing her. She suddenly wished she had the Invisibility Cloak – she could just sit in the library and have a secret cry. But no – it was nearly midnight, and she had a job to do. She had to hunt through all those ominous Restricted books to find the one. Just one. Any one.
The door creaked as it opened. Hermione slipped inside, going back to the end of that bookcase with the stained book. She swore she had seen something with Death in the title very near it, or perhaps around that corner…though Death wasn't exactly a taboo subject in this section—
She backed around the corner again, holding the lantern high so she could see up the rows of books—
And she backed right into someone. The same someone. For the second time that day.
She let out a tiny scream before she turned and saw him. Then she shut her mouth and swallowed her fear, her eyes wide and accusatory. What were the odds? What were the damn odds that he would still be here? After...thirteen or so hours?
"Back so soon?" his soft voice said, a hint of a smile at its edge.
"Why are you still here?" Hermione snapped, her heart pounding. "What do you do, live here?" Voldemort would live in the Restricted Section...
He shrugged. "Would you hold it against me?" he asked as Hermione set the lantern down on a bare shelf. "I adore the written word. Hardly a sin."
Then Hermione became very disturbed, because she saw in his face the same greedy, excited look that she so often got when looking at rows and rows of books. "Yes," she muttered. "Books are my favorite thing in the world."
"They are mine, too," said Riddle softly. "My eventual goal is to know... everything."
Including the secret to eternal life. Hermione was alarmed that a love for knowledge – her same love for knowledge – could be turned into Voldemort's thirst to defy death, live forever.
She looked around at the dark books. "So did you find what you were looking for?" she asked, gesturing at a dark pile of literature sitting on the ground. She glanced at the cover of one of them and looked away, then did a double take. She could have sworn that it said something along the lines of Upon Pain of Death: Hexes for the Creative, but when she looked back, it read An Ancient History of Dragons. So Riddle cared about who knew that he was a Dark wizard. She knew more than he could have guessed, but apparently he was trying to conceal his image.
Why? He had played the perfect Prefect and Head Boy back in his days at Hogwarts, of course—but those days were over.
"What I was looking for..." Riddle repeated slowly, leaning back against a shelf, observing her. "I wasn't really looking for anything in particular." His body was long and perfectly poised, like a panther's.
"Oh."
There was nothing, really, to say, so Hermione lifted the lantern again and poked through the books on the shelves. She kept her right hand on her wand in her pocket, flicking it slightly to change all the covers of the books she pulled out. Death and its Intricacies turned to Goblin Wars and Prisons; The Quiescence of the Afterlife changed into Atop the Mountain: Advanced Weather Magic for Tactical Warfare. No reason that she shouldn't conceal what she was reading, if he was doing the same.
"Why the sudden desire to get those books of yours?" his voice asked quietly. "A matter of urgency, is it?"
Hermione invented something quickly and turned back to face him. "Well, I—I've been having just a bit of trouble sleeping, so I figured I would just get something to read in the meantime." Riddle nodded, his pale face illuminated softly by the flickering lantern. A few strands of soft, dark hair fell onto his forehead, brushing the top of his serious brow. Hermione bit her tongue, detesting animal instinct. Voldemort. Seventy-one years old, bald, evil, paper-white skin, red eyes, soulless...not attractive.
"Why can't you sleep?" he asked, and she flinched visibly. If only he would stop asking her these damned questions, perhaps she could regain her composure.
"Nightmares."
She tugged a few more books off the shelf and turned back to him. It was unnerving when he spoke, but even more so when he didn't. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you," he yawned, stretching. Tom Riddle probably wasn't used to apologizing to anyone. Be normal. Be normal. Act like you don't know him, like he's a nice, normal guy –
"It's fine," Hermione answered, smiling. She had been told she had a disarming smile, and she hoped that he was disarmed.
"No, really, I'm sorry," he replied, and took a small step towards her. "You must think I'm terribly strange, spending all my time here." Another small step. He was within a foot of her now.
Close proximity. Hermione's breaths quickened, coming shallow and fast, giddy with terror. She couldn't stop herself. Tom Riddle's six-foot-tall body, pale, menacing. Spidery fingers tucking his black hair back into place, then back into his pocket, as if to draw a wand, as if to place it to her throat – the moon echoing through the window in soft radiance, casting an alien glow onto his alabaster skin, dark liquid eyes very close and very near and—Crucio Crucio CRUCIO—
"Get away from me!" Hermione burst out. She snatched up her books and fled. Oh, Merlin. Oh God. You idiot, Hermione Granger, what did you just—
She very nearly didn't care that she had made herself suspicious. As long as she was out of his presence.
Deep breaths, Hermione. Deep breaths.
Once back in her dormitory, Hermione looked at her face in the mirror, illuminated by the same moon that had lit that scene in the library, and her breath caught. She looked as if she had seen the Bloody Baron. She was pale and flustered. Oh God. Hermione took a deep, calming breath, turned to the books on her bed, and lay down next to them, falling asleep nearly before she could get her head onto her pillow.
Do not let that happen again.