Hermione tucked the slip of paper under her plate so it couldn't taunt her anymore. Its artificial whiteness stood out against the table, the parchment of Harry's letter, and everything else around it. It didn't belong.

The Great Hall was quiet, perhaps more so than she'd ever known. Every other time she'd stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays, there had been a quiet energy about the castle. Though not many children (with the exception of Harry) wanted to stay at school for Christmas, the disappointment could never quite quash the excitement of the holiday, or the relief at having finished exams.

Not this year, not quite. Those who stayed behind mostly skewed young. The novelty of time with friends was not quite enough to soothe the pain of being away from home, and besides, no-one could ignore the miserable truth at the heart of it: It wasn't safe for them to leave.

Despite all her evasions, her parents had worked it out, too.

We've had your room made up for days, wrote her mother in wobbly cursive. How are we supposed to feel when your professor rings us mere hours before we're to pick you up from the station, to tell us that you've suddenly decided not to come home at all?

Hermione added another splash of milk to her coffee, taking deep breaths as she stirred. It was too late, now. The Hogwarts Express had made its way to London and back last night.

For years we've accepted your decisions, even the ones we don't understand. We trust you. But how are we supposed to feel when you cast us aside like this? You can't imagine what it's like to hear your daughter doesn't want to spend Christmas at home from her teacher. You couldn't even tell us yourself…

She'd only skimmed it once, but the guilt still lapped at her insides. She imagined it would do for days.

We're your parents, but it feels like we hardly know you. Something is clearly going on and honestly, we can't understand why you would behave like this. This isn't the Hermione we know. We may be 'Muggles' but we have a right to know if our daughter is in trouble. It's our job, as your parents, to protect you…

What a contrast from the letter Hedwig had dropped on her plate this morning.

Hermione,

Are you alright?! We got your note when we got to the Burrow (Ron wants me to point out that we did save you a spot on the train, even when you didn't show up) so obviously you're safe at Hogwarts and everything. I hope your family and everything's alright? I thought you were looking forward to going home…

Harry, to his credit, did not pry, and for that she was grateful. She toyed with the Chocolate Frog he'd attached to the letter, watching the way the packaging caught the morning sunlight.

We got it for you, since we figured maybe you were in a different carriage, or McGonagall had you go by Floo or something.

Bugger it. Who was there to scold her for eating chocolate for breakfast? It was Christmas holidays!

She wished she'd brought her schoolbag with her; she settled for tucking both letters into her pocket instead.

The Great Hall made her jittery and she was too nauseous to eat anymore, so she jogged up to Gryffindor Tower. She needed parchment, and ink, and some quills; and maybe the Marauder's Map, since Harry had given her permission to use it in his letter.

Hermione had told Professor McGonagall that she wanted to stay at Hogwarts out of an abundance of caution, seeing as her parents were already in danger and her being home might very well make it worse. Professor McGonagall had agreed (quite sympathetically, too), and Hermione wondered if the Deputy Headmistress would have signed off on the sudden change of plans if she knew that Hermione was more interested in some sneaky investigating than anything else.

Harry had hardly done anything about the issue of Slughorn's memory. It seemed he hadn't put much thought into what the ones he already had meant at all. Hermione, not so much. There were clues there; big, important clues, and she was going to find them out.

So she went to the library, but instead of ducking in the direction of the Restricted Section, she turned to a corner she'd never bothered to look before: the children's section.

It was a single shelf against the wall, only reaching up to head-height as opposed to the seemingly never-ending towers of books that dominated the rest of the library. The nearby window cast it all in bright, clear light, and a handful of ancient-looking armchairs made it feel more like a grandparents' sitting room than a school.

As a first-year, Hermione had turned up her nose at the prospect of setting foot here. After all, she'd surpassed this sort of reading material long before she arrived at Hogwarts. There had been more important things to learn and catching up on a childhood's worth of magical fairy tales had simply not made the cut. What worse way to paint herself as an outsider than by reading children's tales with fresh eyes?

But she was starting to think she'd been wrong. No amount of magical prowess would ever make up for this missed culture, and she imagined Tom Riddle had felt the same. It was exactly the sort of thing he'd overlook.

She pulled a book off the shelf.

It was colourful and whimsical; when she opened it, the pictures assembled themselves not unlike a Muggle pop-up book, except instead of folded paper, it was the page itself that built up into the shape of a cottage. It was beautiful, and magical, and she imagined her childhood self would have been enchanted by it. She pictured herself sitting in bed, her mother beside her, reading the lines in character voices as the paper-people acted out the scenes…

But the thought of her mother brought more pain than she could handle at the moment and this book looked too new, anyway. Riddle had been a student fifty year ago. Anything relevant would be much older than that…

She started going through the older-looking books, the ones bound in leather and with thick pages that didn't amuse you with frolicking parchment geese. They were a bit more morbid, the sort of Brothers Grimm cautionary tales that featured cursed mirrors and malicious potions. She picked at random; it had been so long since she'd lost herself in fiction. And these stories weren't foreign at all; the morals were the same, even if the magical elements were no longer allegorical. It felt like coming home. She'd been afraid that uncovering what she'd missed out on would only make her feel more like an outsider, more undeserving, but that fear was put to rest with quiet relief.

She forgot where she was, who she was, and when she caught a figure in her peripheral vision, she jumped so violently the book she'd halfway pulled from the shelf fell to the ground with a smack.

"Sorry," said Draco, leaning against the shelves (with his hands in his pockets, of all things), and looking very hesitant. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine!" she insisted, heart still hammering, and quickly picked up the book. It was very old-looking; she smoothed over the cover, checking the binding hadn't broken.

"I looked all over the library… I didn't expect to find you here."

"Oh. Yes — erm — I'm just… doing some research," stammered Hermione. "Since I got told Muggle stories, as a child. I was… curious." Stop explaining!

But Draco just nodded. He looked exhausted, still, and stood like he was afraid of being looked at. "That one's a classic."

Her gaze dropped to where he was looking, to the book held against her chest. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard… I'll make sure to read it, then."

"Babbity Rabbity's ridiculous, of course, but some of the others are alright…"

There was nothing to say to that, and they both knew it, and so there was nothing else to do but stare at each other until Draco stammered, "I — I came to tell you that — since you're staying, now, Snape still wants us to brew."

"Oh! Of course. I hadn't thought of that." She did a quick calculation in her head, sorting out the past forty-eight hours. "But the potion doesn't need anything until tomorrow, right?"

"Right…" He swallowed and worked his jaw a moment. "You didn't tell anyone." A statement, not a question.

"No, I didn't."

His eyes closed and if Hermione didn't know any better, she'd think he was relieved. Instead, he looked like he was about to cry. He didn't need to say the words; she knew he was grateful, and ashamed, and all sorts of miserable feelings. But for better or for worse, she'd decided to help him. God help her.

"I — I shouldn't tell you, but… fuck…" He blinked, his fearful eyes locking with hers, and spoke so lowly she barely heard. "Snape is taking me away tonight, to — to see him."

It seemed nothing could faze her anymore. Yes, her blood went cold and some deep part of her twisted painfully, but this was just another thing, wasn't it? Add it to the list, she thought, as she guided him to one of the sofas by the window, casting a Notice-Me-Not Charm in case of any bored students looking for trouble.

"Muffliato!"

"I didn't know you knew that spell," remarked Draco, far away. "I only learned it from Snape. I'd never seen it in a book — but I suppose I should know better than to think you wouldn't…"

She pulled the map from her bag and spread it across the small side table. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." The ink was sparse; most of the castle's population was concentrated around the Great Hall or common rooms. No-one else was in the library. No-one else was even on the same floor.

Nevertheless, she kept it in the corner of her eye as she turned to face Draco, who sat before her in the armchair, looking very small, and instructed, "Tell me everything."

"What is there to tell?" Draco retorted with a sullen defiance. "Snape's taking me tonight. For some sort of meeting."

"Why?"

"It's not like he gives a reason," scoffed Draco. "Probably to — to check my progress. Make sure I've not… gone astray."

Hermione paced. "And what will you tell him?"

"I'll say — I'll say I'm working on an idea — that it takes time, which is why I haven't tried anything yet —"

Hermione didn't need to ask what his "idea" would be; Draco was already hyperventilating, overwhelmed by the fact he really had no satisfactory explanation for anything he had or hadn't done since the start of term. His skin had turned even paler, though his eyes were blotchy, and as Hermione looked at him, she was struck by the fact that very few people were equipped to endure such things as this. And Draco most certainly was not one of them.

Before he could convince himself of his own impending execution, Hermione knelt before him and found his eyes. "Come on." She tried to be as gentle as she could. "It's not even midday yet. We'll come up with a plausible plan you can tell them."

"But if he thinks I'm lying —"

"Then we'll make sure he won't. Do you know any Occlumency?" Hermione hoped he did, since she didn't know how to teach him, and wouldn't be able to keep her mind still even if she did. So far, pragmatism was keeping panic at bay, but she knew from experience it would not last.

"I know a little, but it doesn't matter," answered Draco with more composure this time. "He's never bothered to use it on me. Probably thinks I'm not worth the trouble. Legilimency is exhausting… He only uses it on important people, people he needs to be absolutely sure of, like Snape…"

Snape. Would he be an obstacle? Had he caught on to Draco's hesitancy, and would he be willing to expose his pupil? But how would that help the Order?

Enough.

"That map… is it Potter's?"

Hermione nodded.

"Merlin, no wonder he gets away with everything."

Hermione agreed. She scanned it and, when she found they were still alone in the library, picked up her bag.

"Where are you going?" asked Draco anxiously, still in the armchair as if he were not allowed to leave it. Hermione reached for his hand.

"We are going to the Restricted Section. I reckon if there's a plausible way for a student to unsuccessfully assassinate a headmaster, that's where we'll find it. Don't you agree?"

For a long moment, Draco just looked at her. She let him, watched as he persuaded himself to give in and take her hand. His fingers were cold and sweaty and clenched so tightly it hurt a little. With a gentle tug, she brought him to his feet, and he followed her without a word, winding through the stacks, never letting go.

It took ages until they found the right alibi. Draco dutifully watched the map in case a student or professor decided to do some holiday research, or Madame Pince felt the need to check for mischief, though Hermione was confident their status as prefects (not to mention her being of age) would protect them from any serious trouble.

Hermione decided that a poison was likely to be the simplest option, and so they picked through the most foul-looking volumes for a strong candidate. Something untraceable, but complex and requiring lots of time to brew, and strong enough to take down one of the most powerful wizards, though Hermione wasn't sure if Dumbledore could be called that anymore.

She drilled Draco until he knew the recipe instinctively and could answer any question without thinking. He had to look like he'd been agonising over it for months, mulling over the finer points of its preparation even while he slept.

As for allowing Death Eaters in, he could not be blamed for the Vanishing Cabinet's destruction. He could say a student had found it and destroyed it by accident, which wasn't so far from the truth; Voldemort could not very well complain about that, given it was in a school and the Room of Requirement was a common secret. And, as it had happened so recently, it would not be suspicious that Draco hadn't come up with an alternative yet. Perhaps Dumbledore's death would create a vulnerability in the apparition wards. That could merit investigation.

The sun had set, giving the library a cosy yet unsettling atmosphere, and Hermione insisted on going to the Great Hall for dinner. He didn't need to eat much, but he would need strength, and Hermione was careful not to look away from him very long whilst she picked at her potatoes. Eventually, he left the hall, chin high, and Hermione waited four whole minutes before she too dashed to her dormitory.

She nearly shredded the map when she threw it onto her bed. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good! Come on!"

The ink didn't appear fast enough. But there—there! Draco's name made its way down one of the dungeon corridors, its pace steady, and she saw it wait outside Professor Snape's office. She watched Snape's footsteps move to the door, and then two pairs walked into the room. They stayed there together for more than twenty minutes, all the while Hermione watched, not moving even when her neck began to hurt. She saw them move around a little, imagined they might be sitting on chairs or sharing a drink of some sort. Then, suddenly, they moved together to the fireplace and faded away.

Hermione blinked to make sure she hadn't imagined it, that they'd really gone.

Then she sat back.

All she could do now was wait.