"James."

"Hm?"

"Would you mind?"

The table stopped wobbling as James ceased jogging his leg up and down.

She sighed. "If you don't want to study …"

They were in the library on Sunday morning and Hermione was working on her Divinations essay.

And she was struggling. The prescribed 'textbook' was a journal written by an 18th century Seer. The word 'divine' was patently overused and she had been gritting her teeth for the past half hour through a particularly aggravating passage regarding the effects of the full moon on reading tea leaves (…was there an observable effect? Were the variables controlled? What was the method of measurement, other than fancy?)

James was also struggling … to concentrate.

He sat much too close and seemed content to peer up at her every few seconds instead of writing his Potions essay, which hadn't progressed more than a few lines since they'd sat down an hour ago. He was also wearing the same blue jumper as yesterday, the one she'd complimented.

James released a long sigh also. "Not that I don't enjoy it –"

Hermione rolled her eyes slightly, her mouth quirking upwards in amusement.

He caught her expression and grinned. "Oi, I do enjoy being with you but –"

"You want to play Quidditch," she guessed.

"Sort of, yeah." He scrunched his nose, as if awaiting her disappointment.

"Well, go on then."

"Really?"

Claire, who had been fiddling with her Mindekar whilst sketching a diagram of what appeared to be a Fly Agaric mushroom, looked up. "Just as long as you don't make Hermione write your essay for you."

He looked affronted. "I would never."

"You did it last time."

"I asked for some help. There's a difference."

"You know Hermione. She can't stand to see something half-arsed. She re-wrote almost all of it. I watched her right eye twitch the entire time she was crossing out whole sentences."

James turned to her, embarrassed. "You don't have to do that. I don't want you to – I just – tell me next time and I'll–"

"You leave it to the last minute. Perhaps try not doing that," said Claire, although without any real malice. She resumed sketching.

At his wounded expression, Hermione had to muffle her laugh, mindful of the librarian who was just a few metres away, dusting the shelves.

"Just go. I know you have to practice for the match."

James gave her a grin and stood up, packing his parchment away. She noticed that he didn't roll it up properly, squashing it into his bag where it would undoubtedly get crumpled and torn.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek – he had done it a few times now, once after they had gotten back to the castle from Hogsmeade yesterday, pressing a Honeydukes sweet into her hand and making her blush, and once this morning at breakfast, to the uproar of the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team, which had made him blush.

The novelty hadn't worn off yet.

"You're the best Hermione. See you at lunch!"

Hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, James had just begun to move away when, all of a sudden, he tripped.

The sound was deafening in the quiet library.

James bounded back up, face crimson, his hair somehow even more dishevelled. Several nearby Slytherins guffawed.

Waving away her concerns, he left with a hasty "See you later."

Hermione turned to the group of Slytherins and spotted the pale hair of Malfoy. He was mimicking James ("You're the best Hermione!") to Parkinson's evident delight. Avery chuckled and then, as if he sensed her glaring, he turned and smirked darkly over his shoulder. Nott and Riddle were also there, sitting at the same table - they were the only ones who appeared to be actually studying. Zabini was leaning back in his chair, examining his nails, looking supremely bored.

She hadn't taken them to be the type to go to the library on a Sunday, with the exception of Riddle. And he seemed to be the type to prefer studying alone (and taking up prime study spots for himself).

"Why doesn't Madam Pince ever shush them? Honestly. And I thought you said you weren't going to date anyone in OWL year?" Claire asked. "What happened to that declaration, hm?"

"Oh shush. We aren't exactly - I'm not sure if we're dating."

At Claire's incredulous look, she clarified. "I told him about how I want to focus on my OWLs, they're only four months away, you know –"

"Oh really? I had no idea, you've never mentioned –"

Hermione ignored the sarcasm. "He understands. He's asked me to come watch the game next week, though."

"Sirius asked me too." Claire wrinkled her nose. "I don't know if Quidditch is really my idea of a fun time but oh well."

Hermione wiggled her eyebrows teasingly. "You and Sirius, hm? How serious are we talking–"

"We're supposed to be studying. Our OWLs are only four months away, Hermione, do keep up."

Scotland was still in the throes of winter. Though it didn't snow, it remained bitterly cold and dreary. Rain was a near constant companion and as a result the common room had become overcrowded after classes. People huddled together, playing Gobstones and sipping mugs of hot chocolate or tea. Hermione, of course, chose to spend most of her time in the library but on other occasions found herself sandwiched between her housemates on one of the couches in front of the fire. The eagerly anticipated match between Gryffindor and Slytherin the coming Saturday was a frequent topic of conversation.

"Prongs, mate. Ten Galleons if you knock Malfoy off his broom," exclaimed Sirius one night.

"I'll double it if Malfoy says, 'My Father will hear about this!'" added Charlie, affecting a high-pitched drawl that was rather spot on. His brother Eddie hooted loudly nearby, having just won a round of Exploding Snap.

Hermione was sitting next to Remus who seemed quieter than usual. She glanced at him when he didn't laugh and noticed his tired expression. Remus was often quiet but Hermione had always thought that was because Sirius and James were so loud by comparison. Rather thoughtful by nature, and bookish like her, Remus was an odd match for the boisterous energy of his best friends. His hair had also grown rather long recently. She studied him further and saw that his skin was pale and there were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept.

Remus was staring into his lap, absently twisting the hem of his robes between his fingers, while James acted out a mid-air tackle on Sirius.

"Are you alright, Remus?" she asked quietly.

He looked up then and met her concerned gaze. "Oh, I'm fine," he replied, giving her a smile that was meant to be reassuring but seemed strained instead.

"The Slytherins aren't bothering you still, are they?"

He shook his head.

"Oi, what are you two whispering about?" asked Sirius.

"Nothing," she said easily. "Just thought Remus looked a bit tired is all."

Briefly, Sirius exchanged glances with James.

"You alright Remus? You do look a bit peaky there, mate," said Charlie.

"I'm fine, I really am. Maybe a little tired but I did stay up all night listening to you lot going on about the top ten Wronski Feints in Quidditch history."

Sirius grinned. "I still maintain that it was Carlos Feinbar's in 1908."

"Well, if any of the Slytherins give you trouble, let me know," said Hermione, folding her legs underneath herself on the couch, drawing out her book. "I know quite a few hexes."

"Grindelwald's trial is happening soon," said Remus the next day. The dark circles under his eyes remained. He was reading the newspaper and his plate of food sat beside it, untouched.

He really needed a haircut, Hermione thought absently.

"Yes. I suppose Professor Dumbledore will be testifying," she replied, reaching over for the butter dish.

"Will you have to testify too? You and Riddle both," asked Ruben, who was still in his Quidditch robes. The boy was as avid a Quidditch fan as Sirius and James and had been practising all week.

She shrugged as she began buttering her bread roll. "As far as I'm aware, the trial will be focused on his crimes in Europe. I don't expect the trial to be very long."

"They still haven't found the werewolf, Fenrir Greyback, have they?" said Sirius.

The scraping of the butter knife paused.

James looked up. "They'll catch him, I'm sure. The Aurors almost caught him recently in Madrid with a tracking spell - he'd left some things behind in Nurmengard. They'll find him and put him away," he said confidently. Remus beside him had grown rather pale. He pushed away the newspaper and frowned into his eggs.

Hermione didn't reply, merely nodded.

On Wednesdays, Hermione had Divinations first thing in the morning.

"I look forward to reading your contributions, dear ones," rasped Professor Trelawney.

'Contributions' was Trelawney-speak for 'essays'. For some inexplicable reason, she refused to call them that.

Hermione had had a hard time writing hers. She retrieved her essay from her bag with a frown. It was the first time she'd ever written one without having actually read the entire textbook. (She'd given up after 'Chapter Six: Tea Leaves and Female Pheromones'; the pages of that chapter had begun to smoulder in her hands and really, she'd had to stop reading in order to save the book, she'd had no choice.) It was the first time she'd had to 'wing it', so to speak – she made up some nonsense about reading her own tea leaves a week before the full moon, made some notes about the shapes and figures she 'saw' and further made some conjectures as to how the reading might change as the moon waned.

Trelawney waved her wand and was nearly bowled over by flying pieces of parchment.

Their professor was a frail old woman with long grey hair that reached her waist and enormous watery eyes that were further magnified behind a pair of thick glasses. She wore a tattered black cape marked with strange symbols, the same one, all year round.

It was rumoured that she was the last remaining descendant of a renowned Seer; however, Hermione rather suspected that Trelawney had propagated those rumours herself. Perhaps all the incense-waving and tapping of crystal balls helped to disguise the woman's apparent lack of skill with a wand.

(Or perhaps that was a little mean.)

Ever the helpful student, Riddle stood up to help compile the papers into a neat stack and was rewarded with a warm smile from Trelawney. As he sat back down, a dark lock of hair fell over his brow.

Hermione was strangely reminded of the time she had run her fingers through those locks, wondering at its softness. He had been a mystery to her, someone who'd been a source of great agitation and confusion, and ill-timed revelations (such as the one in Dunnottar's great library) … until she'd discovered the truth.

The blank look on his face as she lay bound on the floor beside him. The flash of greed in his eyes, when promised power by a madman …

The mystery was no longer. The shroud of secrets she thought he'd possessed had been merely darkness, a shadowed corner. An empty space.

And yet, just like now, her mind constantly recalled other moments when he'd been …

"Thank you most graciously my dear boy. Ahem - today we will move on to another form of divining - the art of chiromancy, or palmistry. Open heart, open palm, as I always say." Trelawney looked around the class with a toothy smile.

Hermione's hatred of the subject (she needed eleven Outstandings, not ten - eleven, eleven) flared as they were each assigned partners. Scrolls full of diagrams of the human hand marked with symbols appeared at their tables.

Her partner approached.

"Granger."

She put on a decidedly unfriendly expression on her face. "Lucky me. Have a seat, Nott."

He remained unmoving for a moment before drawing out the spindly chair. Nott sat with a fluid ease that Hermione despised.

Then, as insolent as you can be, Nott extended his hand, palm up.

"Ladies first."

Hermione looked at his palm and then back at him. His eyes were always so startlingly cold. She had once seen a picture of Nott Senior in the Daily Prophet after he had just been re-elected into the Wizengamot. Fair hair and the same cold eyes - he had had a stern, almost cruel-looking face, rigid and unmoving in the doorway of the courtroom amidst the flurry of photographers.

Nott Senior had been instrumental in the passing of legislation which had banned Ministry employment of 'half-breeds'. In Wizarding Britain, the Wizengamot was both the judiciary and the legislature; those in power stayed in power for centuries.

Her lip curled faintly.

She aimed her wand. "Scourgify."

Nott's glare was glacial.

"You had dirt on your hand," she said primly.

Even though Trelawney was hovering nearby, Nott leaned closer and whispered:

"You're one to talk."

"From a genetic perspective, my blood is purer than yours, Nott. Advantages of not marrying one's own kin –"

"A genetic perspective?" He was frowning.

"A gene is the basic physical and functional unit of heredity," she recited automatically. "It's responsible for things like hair colour, eye colour, et cetera. Your parents passed down their genes to you, as their parents did so to them. It's widely thought that - well, let's put it this way: variety is to be preferred." She sniffed and looked down at his palm.

Nott didn't reply and only watched as she examined the so called 'life line', which ran from between the thumb and forefinger to the base of the palm.

"Congratulations, you shall live a long life," she said dryly.

"Splendid," he replied. If he hadn't been so posh, he might have rolled his eyes.

"Unfortunately, your 'heart line' is rather short. Which means …" she turned to consult the chart. "Hm. You're either severely emotionally stunted or you'll have a loveless life … presumably because you'll be forced to marry a cousin –"

He withdrew his hand. "My turn."

Surprisingly, he wasn't petty enough to Scourgify her hand, though that might have been because Trelawney was now at the table right next to them. Parkinson was drawing lines on Malfoy's palm with her wand, teasingly, whispering something in his ear.

Revolting.

Eleven O's, Hermione, she reminded herself, yet again.

She cast her eyes back to Nott who was still examining her palm, without touching it.

"Well?"

He paused before looking up. "You will die young," he said simply, as if he were announcing the weather.

Hermione snorted. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. Your fate line is broken cleanly in two."

"How soon is my death? Any moment now? Should I start writing my own epitaph before it's too late? 'Slain by severe boredom and noxious fumes of burning sage in the Hogwarts Divination classroom, I, Hermione Jean Granger, shall hereto –"

"If you think this subject is a joke, why take it?"

"You honestly don't believe that a few wrinkly lines can help you read the future do you? The future isn't set in stone - otherwise we'd have no agency. So forgive me if I take your prediction of my early death with just a pinch of salt."

"Didn't you say - what was it - genes - they're responsible for the colour of your hair, your eyes? If your parents' 'genes' decide your own, then by your Muggle reckoning, you had no say in it, didn't you? You had no 'agency'. How is this any different?"

Hermione was astounded that Nott had picked up on her passing comment on genetics and even more astounded that he had proceeded to use it to put forward a statement of such alarming illogicality.

"The future has infinitely more variables, Nott. It's not written in the stars, or on our hands. Everything involves chance - even whether or not I have my father's curly hair or my mother's admittedly wonderful straight hair. Genes are only a starting point."

Nott leaned back in his chair. "Then where is the agency if everything is ruled by chance?"

She groaned.

He paused before saying quietly, though his expression remained cold and disdainful, "There is an entire room full of prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. Almost half have already come true."

Her mouth fell open.

Then she narrowed her eyes. "Visitors aren't allowed in the Department of Mysteries."

Nott gave her a bored look. "You fear what you can't see and what you don't know. How stupefyingly … mundane. Perhaps you should drop this subject before you get your first Troll."

At that moment, Trelawney arrived at their table.

"My dears, what is all this chit-chat? I'm always in favour of inter-house camaraderie but please, we have a task at hand!" Trelawney seemed unaware of her inadvertent pun. "What have we discovered so far?"

"Well, professor," said Hermione dryly, "we've discovered that Nott here will have a long loveless life and that I will have a very short one."

At that, the chatter around the room stilled. She saw Riddle's head turn slightly towards them.

Perhaps she'd said it too loudly.

Trelawney tutted. "Let's have a look. Mr Nott, if you please."

Nott extended his hand once more, palm up. Hermione could almost picture him holding out his hand in the same manner at home in his manor, a house-elf scrambling to hand him his napkin, sitting at a long empty dining table with his father at the other end.

"Hm. I see. Miss Granger seems to have given a rather succinct, if unsympathetic, summary - your heart line is indeed quite, ah, well - I see you have suffered much, my dear." She smiled tremulously at him, though he did not return it. "Now, Miss Granger, your hand. Yes, thank you - let's begin at the fate line - oh! But what is this? My dear, I –" Trelawney stopped, her lips wobbling. She looked as if she would burst into tears.

(Eleven O's, eleven, eleven, eleven …)

Hermione really tried to disguise her scorn. She really did.

"How long do I have left, Professor? Should I arrange for my funeral before or after the OWLs?"

"I - I do not know. But it is far too soon, for such a young child. Such an abrupt break in the line - But, perhaps, the continuation of it … it may mean you may survive whatever it is, yes. No heart palpitations? No dizziness? Fainting spells?"

She felt the curious eyes of the entire class on her as she struggled to control the furious blush that was rising up her neck. "I'm fine, professor. Truly."

But Trelawney was not convinced. At the end of the lesson, she beckoned Hermione over and pressed into her hand a small cloth pouch. "For protection," she said, her eyes wide, her lips trembling.

Hermione distantly thought that perhaps this meant that she could squeeze a few sympathetic marks on her latest 'contribution'.

She would not get a Troll. Ever.

After lunch the next day, James walked with her to her Defence classroom. He had Charms, which was on the other side of the castle, but the boy was stubborn.

"You'll be late," she huffed.

"Not if I run," he replied. He leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, in full view of the entire Slytherin cohort and then dashed away.

She had sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement, until she looked up and caught Riddle's gaze.

They both looked away at the same time.

Professor Volanthen appeared at that moment, a cloud of smoke trailing after him. His dragonwing cloak was smouldering.

"In you go, come on, quick. We have a lot to get through today." He held open the classroom door and waved them in.

"Sir, why is your cloak doing that?" asked Ophelia.

"It does that when I'm impatient. Come in, the lot of you. Pick up your feet!"

The students filed in obediently. However, the classroom was empty. The desks had vanished and in their place was a long flat mat that stretched the entire width of the classroom.

Hermione's heart picked up in excitement.

"Now, today we will resume our lessons on duelling. We've dipped our toes in it before, but now we will begin formal instruction. In our final lesson we will attend the grand finals of the seventh years' duelling competition. That will be held in the Great Hall - more details on that when we get to it. Now, I shall assign you each a partner. They will be your partner for the next few weeks. You know how this goes - alphabetical order, first and last - Allsworth, you'll be with Zabini. Avery, Yaxley. Bulstrode, Vaughn."

He continued until he got to her name. He pursed his lips. "I suppose, given what we witnessed last time, I shall have to pair you with Riddle. Either of you could take on a seventh-year and I'm not certain they would win. No lethal spells this time, or I shall put you in detention for the rest of the year. Understood?"

Hermione looked at the floor, her excitement suddenly quashed. "Yes, sir."

Riddle responded in the affirmative, though she thought she had heard a trace of something hard in his voice. She looked up then and saw that his face was perfectly composed and polite - as usual.

Though she had tried her best to ignore Riddle since their argument, he was always in her periphery, a presence that could not be ignored. She walked past him in corridors, sometimes brushed his arm accidentally when collecting ingredients from the Potions cupboard, watched him flash his charming smile at Victoria Swindle, who seemed to follow him everywhere.

(The fact that she couldn't tell anyone…)

By the time Volanthen had finished going through the list of names, his cloak had stopped smouldering.

"Now, last time, we went through the rules. They are up there on the board in case you wish to refresh your memories. Today, we will be practising the art of distraction. Your goal is to distract your opponent in order to disarm them. Distractions can be visual or auditory. No hexes, jinxes or curses are to be cast, only shields or defensive spells and of course, Expelliarmus. That is it. Any questions? No? Right. Peter Allsworth, Blaise Zabini. Step forward."

The boys took up their positions on opposite ends of the mat. Per the rules, they bowed formally to each other before Allsworth cast the first spell.

Hermione stood next to Ophelia as she watched. Allsworth, a round-faced, pompous-looking boy in Ravenclaw, let off a series of fireworks from the end of his wand, charming them to dance in front of Zabini's face. Zabini's lips twitched in repressed contempt; he timed his Expelliarmus on the next loud bang. Allsworth's face fell as his wand flew from his hand.

"Clever. It seems Peter has succeeded in only distracting himself. Next!" Volanthen barked.

As the students took turns, Hermione observed this pattern continuing - the Ravenclaws tended to cast more elaborate spells, like smokescreens, a cloud of heavy rain, or a bright flash of light, but in the end they were more often disarmed than the Slytherins: not by distraction but by timing. The Slytherins weren't afraid to use underhand tactics, either. Alecto Carrow, a thin weedy looking boy, conjured several spiders against Eleanor Tillbury, who was deathly arachnophobic; she had screamed and screamed before falling in a dead faint. Volanthen had pursed his lips but allowed it, as it hadn't been against the rules.

When it was her turn, she felt a curious shift in the room. The few that had been at the back of the classroom, chatting quietly instead of watching, fell silent. She supposed it was because last time she had duelled against Riddle, both of them had ended up in the Infirmary.

"I trust you both to remember the rules," warned Volanthen.

They both nodded, not taking their eyes off each other.

Riddle (had he grown taller?) gave her a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes and bowed gracefully. She followed suit.

His body was relaxed, his feet shoulder-width apart, arms hanging loosely by his sides.

Hermione wasn't fooled. Her own posture was the same. A few months ago, she would have been standing en guarde. Any competent duellist would have been able to read her oncoming attacks like a book. But standing this way, it was harder to predict what she'd do next.

"You're supposed to begin. Any moment now," said Volanthen in amusement.

She cast the first spell.

On herself.

It felt like a cold egg had been cracked on her head, as the spell took hold. She knew she appeared completely invisible; there was no tell-tale rippling of the edges of her form.

As soon as she had become invisible, she'd repositioned to the left side of the mat and shot an Expelliarmus straight at Riddle. There was a chorus of quiet gasps from her classmates.

He blocked it almost immediately. She noted with suspicion and surprise how swiftly and precisely he moved, slashing downwards with his wand. There was something about his movement that was different. Deadly.

Hermione felt her Disillusionment slide away and narrowed her eyes when she realised he'd also cast a non-verbal Finite.

She dodged his Expelliarmus without needing to think. All those drills in the Room of Requirement were now paying off.

Perhaps she hadn't been the only one who'd been training since their encounter with Grindelwald. She recalled the way Riddle had gripped his wand when it had been returned to him that night in Dumbledore's office, as if he would never again let it go.

From the look in his eyes, he seemed to have realised the same about her.

They resumed staring at each other, bodies relaxed yet alert, neither wanting to show their hand more than was necessary.

Volanthen had forbidden any of them to attack. Yet half a dozen curses leapt to the forefront of her mind.

The very millisecond Riddle's hand twitched, she put up her shield on instinct.

But he'd only conjured a balloon. It flew from his wand and whizzed around her, emitting a high pitched squeeeeee that caused their audience to giggle. The balloon looped around her twice and when it began to run out of air, proclaimed so in a flatulent manner that would have put Peeves to shame, before it finally spiralled to the ground and flopped limply at her feet. He flicked a lazy Expelliarmus at her when it did and she dodged it again as she'd done before. Simply. Effortlessly.

He cocked his head, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards, as if to say, your turn.

He had switched tactics, aiming for levity rather than to truly distract. Because they both knew now that it was a fruitless exercise for them: they'd never in seven hells ever be distracted enough to be disarmed by the other.

Perhaps she'd have a little fun, too.

A long black snake, as thick as her arm, shot out of her wand and landed in an angry coil between them. For a moment, she had a sense of déja vu from their first duel. But this time, she didn't send it off to attack him.

Instead, she stepped forward and put her foot down firmly on its neck, just below its flat, triangular head, pinning it to the ground. It immediately began to hiss and thrash angrily.

She wasn't hurting the snake, but Riddle didn't know that.

The snake's hissing grew louder.

"Expelliarmus."

Riddle uttered the spell out loud for the first time, his eyes flashing.

She deflected it and sent her own back to him, which he slashed away. He strode forward, his gaze fixed on her.

She sent another.

He blocked and tried to disarm her again; this time the spell was sent with such force that she rocked back slightly.

"Don't hurt him." It was an order. A warning, that was as tense and coiled as the snake before him.

She lifted her wand and on cue, the snake thrashed even more, its tongue flickering out to taste the air. It hissed and hissed - as though it were screaming for help, begging Riddle to save him…

She ended the spell and the illusion faded.

In the stunned silence of the classroom, both their wands flew from their hands and clattered to the floor. They had disarmed each other, but Hermione felt a quiet sense of satisfaction as Riddle stared at her, his brows furrowed, his chest rising and falling slightly faster than normal. He smoothed away his expression a moment later.

Volanthen started to clap slowly. "Well done. A bit sneaky, that one. I'm impressed. Even I believed the illusion to be real. Ten points each. Next!"

Hermione picked up her wand and as she straightened, she found that Riddle had stepped closer.

"That was unnecessary."

"It was a distraction," she replied. "I would never let another soul be harmed for my own ends." Unlike you.

Something flickered across his face, like rippling water, before he turned abruptly from her and joined their classmates, who were staring at them wide-eyed.

Ah, so the Riddle she knew was still there, hidden away behind his mask. It was almost cathartic, witnessing the cracks finally begin to form after weeks of unerringly perfect civility. Proof that she hadn't imagined it all.

She was bound by blood to never reveal the truth about Myrtle Warren's death. But that didn't mean she would let either of them forget.

Throughout that entire week, James was in an unshakeably good mood. His initial bashfulness had faded and morphed into a sort of dizzied happiness; her face was the first he sought wherever he went, and when he saw her, his eyes lit up in a way that made her smile back. His joyfulness was catching.

But that good mood unfortunately meant that he and Sirius had become more unruly. The two were career pranksters, they were usually behind the mostly harmless acts of mischief that occurred during the school year, like the time Filch's cat had been turned pink - that had resulted in a furious caretaker storming into the Great Hall one evening, threatening everyone including Dippet if the culprit wasn't found and hung by their ankles in the dungeons; or the time they'd jinxed Malfoy so that he kept hiccuping bubbles for an entire week; and in third year, they'd sent Howlers to several students at random. Once opened, the Howlers had promptly begun to scream obscenities about male appendages over the breakfast table until Dumbledore had calmly incendio'd each one.

But still, despite their reputation, they somehow managed to avoid getting caught ninety per cent of the time. The boys had a knack for avoiding the prefects and professors on patrol or just vanishing from the scene of the crime, straight into thin air it seemed.

These days, they seemed to have a fixation on the vast willow tree that had recently been planted, just beyond the greenhouses. The tree was as large as a house, with thick knotted limbs that thrashed anyone who dared to stray too close. The Headmaster had issued a stern warning to the student body over dinner.

"Students are not to go near it, for any reason whatsoever. The Salix Praesulia is an endangered species and Hogwarts is honoured to have been given such a gift. Any student who is found to have ventured within ten metres of the tree will suffer an immediate deduction of fifty house points and, possibly, a good whomping from the willow itself. You have been warned."

Thus, the name was born. The Whomping Willow. It was rather strange that such a dangerous tree had been planted on school grounds - Hermione wondered if it had been gifted to the school so that Professor Whittle, who had been a renowned conservationist prior to teaching, would look after it.

Hermione's reminder about the stiff penalties for approaching the tree fell on deaf ears.

"Of course we wouldn't go near it, Hermione," said Sirius, winking at James. "Wouldn't dream of it would we, Prongs?"

James, to his credit, did not make such a promise. Hermione narrowed her eyes, certain they were up to something.

The next day, she'd had to suffer through Potions paired with Riddle once again. Slughorn always insisted.

She didn't hate him. In fact, much of her dislike was born out of shame. She'd analysed this, teased apart the knotted threads of this shame, and had come to the unfortunate conclusion that she must have had felt something towards Riddle. (What that was, she didn't care to pinpoint. Call it curiosity, fascination, an unwilling attraction born out of inexperience.) He'd distracted her - he'd played her well; all it took was some mistletoe and fireworks and she'd almost gone over, almost forgotten the boy who'd tried to Obliviate her the first time they'd crossed paths. How predictable.

Slughorn cleared his throat and then beamed down at Hermione and Riddle before beginning the lesson.

If it had ever been unclear whether Hermione and Riddle were his favourites, there was no doubt about it now. In his eyes, they could do no wrong.

At the start of term, he had called them into his office and apologised profusely for what had happened, that they had disappeared under his watch. He had gone on to praise them for coming to the aid of Vernadsky, ("Such bravery! Hector has been meaning to send you a formal apology as well, you might want to look out for his owl–") before inviting them to another one of his dinner parties ("Celestina Warbeck will be there!")

And now that she was applying what she had learned from the conference to her potion-making, perfecting them beyond the instructions of the textbooks, he acted as though she hung the very stars in the sky. He invited her to his club dinners whenever he could (she always turned him down, citing various excuses which were now running thin).

Today, they were brewing a Calming Draught as part of their topic on medicinal potions. As usual, Hermione gathered the ingredients from the cupboard with Riddle. He had not said a word to her yet and instead steadily maintained his mask of civility, despite the fact that it had slipped momentarily yesterday.

The incongruity made her moody.

He opened the door and held it for her, so that she could enter first. She did so, scowling. When she couldn't find the Asprog wart, he reached up and plucked it from the shelf and held it out to her with a pleasant smile. She snatched it from him with a muttered, "Thanks." At their desk, he politely passed her the knife before she had even requested it. Hermione ignored it and instead passed him the warts so that he could chop them himself

She was so rattled by his continued charade, especially after yesterday's duel, and so distracted by Slughorn's attempt to pass her yet another invitation after class, that she didn't notice something being slipped into her bag as she hurried out.

Hermione discovered it later when she was unpacking her bag before dinner.

It was a Ministry brochure.

She didn't recall putting such a thing in her bag and wondered how it had gotten there. Perhaps it had been tucked between the stack of books she'd borrowed the other day.

WEREWOLVES AND HOW TO SPOT THEM

Werewolves are dangerous (Class XXXXX) creatures that are utterly beholden to the moon. Consequently, their bodies are influenced by the entire lunar cycle, not just when the moon is at its fullest. Here are some ways you can spot a werewolf before it is too late.

1. A few days before the full moon, you may notice excessive tiredness and even a sickly pallor. However, their physical strength in human form is increased - you may notice quills or cups being broken more frequently as they overestimate their strength.

2. Self-imposed isolation or social withdrawal is also common …

Hermione frowned. If this was some sort of sick joke – she didn't need a brochure to recognise Greyback the next time she saw him.

Scoffing, she Vanished the brochure and resumed unpacking her bag.

On the way to dinner, she heard something from a Prefect that made her vexed her so much, she saw red. Those boys had gone too far.

"JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER!"

The nearby cutlery jumped. So did the boy in question who turned to give Hermione a cheeky grin which promptly faltered when he saw the look on her face.

"It was an accident, I swear! If Peeves hadn't–"

"And you!" she said, turning to Sirius who leaned back in alarm.

"Both of you! I can't believe you – you just decided to test out an unknown spell in the library – now the whole Magical History section is swamped – it'll take weeks – I don't know how or why the professors can't fix it –"

She was going red in the face, she could feel it. The collar of her uniform was tight around her flushed neck; her pumpkin juice had started to boil again and the napkin beside her fist which she had just used to pound on the table was now quietly smouldering. Ruben was observing this with an amused smile, which he hastily smothered when she glanced at him, irate.

The napkin was perilously close to catching fire. Sirius seemed unable to tear his eyes from it.

She continued. "Honestly, have you no respect for books? For school property?"

James held up his hands placatingly.

"Hermione, it was an honest mistake. We've already been given a month of detention and I'm sure it won't take that long to fix it. It's Magical History anyway, no one goes there –"

Ruben shook his head in belated warning.

The napkin went up in blue flames, only to be extinguished a second later by a tired voice: "Aguamenti."

Remus, who up until now had not said a single word, tucked his wand back in his robes and resumed staring at his porridge. Hermione felt her anger extinguish in much the same way as the napkin when she suddenly noted the dark circles under his eyes. They were worse than before.

"Are you alright Remus?" she asked.

He lifted his head and caught her concerned gaze. His eyes flicked to James and the rest before he nodded. "Just didn't get much sleep, that's all."

The boy's fair brown hair was stringy and lank. His skin seemed to have an almost sweaty sheen, like he had a fever. His lips were chapped and he was sitting hunched over, like he was in pain.

"Perhaps you should go to Madam Pomfrey? You don't look fine. Might have a cold, it has been rather chilly – does it hurt anywhere?"

"I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me, I'll grab a potion after dinner." He gave her another tired smile before he stood up and left.

She stared at his retreating form until he disappeared out the doors.

"We'll look after him, Hermione."

She turned her attention back to James, her annoyance forgotten for the moment. "He really doesn't look well."

Seemingly relieved that no more items were in danger of catching fire, the others resumed eating.

Hermione cut into her roast chicken, her mind wandering. Excessive tiredness … sickly pallor…

She was still thinking as she made her way to the Room after dinner for her nightly training session.

There was something not quite right about it all. The timing of discovering that brochure and Remus' symptoms was oddly coincidental. And, tonight was a full moon. She knew this because she'd had to write an essay about it for Divinations. Another coincidence.

Hermione didn't like the odds.

And yet, the thought that Remus, someone she'd known for five years, might secretly be a werewolf was just preposterous. First of all, what happened when he transformed? He most certainly did not do so in the castle. Which meant that if he was a werewolf, he'd have to sneak out. But where to? And there was curfew … and patrols … how had he not been caught once out of bed? Hermione knew he had never broken a rule, had never had a single detention.

Which meant that the professors knew. If he was a werewolf, that was.

But if the professors knew, then how were they taking care of him when he transformed? Werewolves on the night of a full moon were dangerous, murderous even. They did not have the ability to recognise their friends nor family nor even their own lovers - the human consciousness was subsumed entirely by the wolf.

(But come to think of it, she'd sometimes heard howls in the middle of the night. Most recently at Slughorn's party last year in the courtyard where Riddle had –)

Then she stopped abruptly, as another thought came to her.

Wasn't Remus' nickname 'Moony'? James and Sirius sometimes called him that, when they thought no one else was around. They called each other Prongs and Padfoot too. Hermione had never paid any attention to it, other than that it was odd, but boys were odd creatures anyway …

She rounded the corner and into the courtyard, her heart racing.

Then she stopped again when she heard the sound of familiar voices, whispering furtively.

"–I'm telling you, that's where they're going to go. My father told me there was a passageway under it, it was the whole reason it's been planted there –"

It was Malfoy. He sounded excited.

"Right. So if that's true, how do we catch them then? We've never been able to see them leave, it's as if they Apparate, which I know is bloody impossible."

This sounded like Avery, though she wasn't sure.

"And I have a feeling they know we know."

"That's because Carrow can't keep his mouth shut," Malfoy whispered angrily. "He got beat for it, though. Black is a brute but Carrow shouldn't have mentioned him at all. Then the idiot mentioned his younger brother and, well, you saw what happened to his face. Pomfrey had a fit."

Avery sighed. "So it's the tree. You better be sure about it or we'll both end up far worse than Carrow."

"I'm sure. We just need to watch the tree tonight. I don't know how they plan on not getting whomped by it, but we'll be able to watch if it does because I think that'll just about make my year."

"And then?"

"We get visual confirmation and then we leave. Submit our memories to the Ministry and my father will get that half-breed out of Hogwarts faster than you can say 'Mudblood'."

"Speaking of Mudbloods, what was that the other day?"

"I don't know. Nott tells me she's mental. Was rather hoping Tom would snap and curse her to oblivion. Anyway, Father was so disgusted by the whole situation with the half-breed, he said that if we can get evidence, he'll be able to move against the Board and sack anyone who knew about it, including that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore."

Avery sighed again. "We should have gone to Durmstrang."

Hermione's mouth had suddenly gone very dry. She hid behind the corner until she was sure they had left and then turned to run.

She had to warn them before it was too late.