Reality returned in a rush of bodies. Hermione heard the thunderous hum of footsteps coming from below and was on her feet by the time what felt like every single Gryffindor charged into the common room at once. After so many days of an empty castle, it was several minutes before her brain caught up; abruptly, she found herself on a sofa with Harry and Ron, both bursting to catch up on the last fortnight apart. She evaded most of their questions and gave bland answers for the rest, but there was no need to worry. Harry and Ron were too caught up in their own excitement at returning to Hogwarts that they didn't pay her too much attention after ascertaining she was alright.

She wondered what they would say if they knew the truth of it. They'd find out, eventually; it was inevitable. There was no turning back. She was going to be the person who knew Draco Malfoy had a Dark Mark and didn't tell anyone.

Looking at Harry and Ron passing Bertie Botts' beans between themselves, Hermione decided she was alright with that. They would understand eventually, but now was not the time.

Until then, she had to make sure Harry was prepared for what was to come.

The opportunity arose sooner than she anticipated, on a cool January afternoon on the Quidditch pitch. Harry was pleased to see the team hadn't deteriorated after so many weeks of holiday sweets and, as they trudged back to the castle, Hermione thought she hadn't seen him look so bright in a while. Sweat shone on his forehead while she still shivered beneath her coat, scarf, hat, gloves, and several warming charms. It was as good a chance as any.

"I'm thinking we might move Katie near the right-hand ring for the start — like we tried earlier? Seemed to work really well, Ron."

"Yeah — especially when we play Hufflepuff —"

"Right! Next practice, we'll run a few drills —"

Hermione slowed until she came to a gentle stop on the grass and let a frown settle across her features, waiting. It was several moments before the boys realised she was no longer beside them and turned around, confused. "Hermione?"

She jumped. "Oh! Sorry. I was just… thinking."

"Sorry, Hermione," said Harry sheepishly as she caught them up. "Didn't mean to leave you behind."

"What're you thinking about?" asked Ron. "Something wrong?"

Perfect. Thank you, Ron. She shook her head and worried her lip. "No, it's just… Well, have you noticed Dumbledore recently?"

"Dumbledore?" Harry repeated. "What about him?"

"Well, maybe it's because I was here all Christmas, but he… He doesn't look well, does he?"

"You mean his hand? He told me it was nothing," said Harry with a dismissive wave.

Hermione was momentarily lost for words; she hadn't expected Harry to have deluded himself that much. "I… I don't think it's nothing, Harry."

"What are you saying?" There was a hostility in his voice which immediately set her on edge.

"I'm not saying anything, not really. I'm just… concerned. I mean, without Dumbledore, things would be very different…" It was a lame way to finish, but Harry's footsteps had got heavy, and he was leaving deep tracks in the mud. Had she said too much too soon?

"Dumbledore can't die," he insisted. "He's Dumbledore. He's the strongest wizard of all time, isn't he? He wouldn't leave now. Not until Voldemort's gone."

Harry's declaration was met with chilly silence and the sound of their trek across the grounds. Hermione said nothing.

Beside her, Ron seemed thoughtful. "Y'know, he's not immortal, mate," was all he said.

The moment didn't last. By the time they reached the castle and Hermione excused herself to tend the Wolfsbane, Quidditch was once again the topic of passionate conversation. The chilly defensiveness had left Harry's demeanour, but there was a pensiveness which had not been there before she'd mentioned Dumbledore's name.

The seed had been planted. For now, it was all she could do.

To be back in the laboratory again was different, knowing all the other students had returned. Like it wasn't entirely private anymore, despite the charm on the door and the secluded little space, untouched by anyone but them.

Hermione told herself not to think too hard about it and instead to focus on separating the lavender seeds with the little silver tweezers. Beside her, Draco hunched over the benchtop as he worked, chin propped on his hand.

"Fuck." He set down the tweezers and covered his face with both his hands. Hermione waited until she'd finished counting her batch of four before turning to him.

"What's wrong?"

"Lost count." He rubbed his bleary eyes, picked up his tweezers, and began again. "One… two… three…"

Hermione watched him for a long moment. He looked like he hadn't slept at all, but term had barely started. She waited for him to finish a batch before she asked, "Why are you so tired?"

"Went out last night," he snorted. When she didn't respond to the joke, he glanced at her. "Snape and I. We… were out for a few hours. Didn't get to bed until around four o'clock."

Fury rose in her faster than she could catch it. "Four o'clock?" she demanded. "And what on Earth could Voldemort" — Draco flinched — "need with you two at four o'clock in the morning on a Thursday?" Besides the fatigue, he looked physically fine, but Hermione couldn't quell the rising terror, the knowledge that while she'd been safe in bed last night, he'd been with Death Eaters —Voldemort — and who knew what could have happened? And she would have known nothing about it — "Why didn't you tell me?"

He seemed genuinely taken aback by her reaction. "I didn't know myself until two hours before we left, and by then it was already nine o'clock! How was I supposed to tell you? Besides, if your plan is to stay up and watch your map every time I leave the castle, that's a waste of time. Then we'll both be losing sleep." His gaze softened, then, and his look morphed from frustration to something like pity. "There's nothing you can do."

Hermione scowled and resumed her tweezing with vigour. "I still want to know you're alright."

"And I am, see?" He stood back from the bench, arms open in demonstration. He really did seem fine. "It was just a meeting. Nobody even talks to me, really. And I don't think they'll invite me much anymore, now that term's started."

"Good." He reached for his tweezers, but she swatted him out of the way. "You're exhausted. Let me do it."

"That's not fair —"

"You need to rest. Besides, if you're that tired, you're a liability. Go sit over there."

If he wanted to argue, he gave up before he could open his mouth. The rest of the time was spent in contemplative silence while she finished arranging the lavender seeds and preparing the Moonwater solution. Draco watched, occasionally offering minute help by stabilising the dish while she poured, but she didn't miss the way his eyelids fluttered. He was as good as asleep on his feet.

When they were finished, he dropped a kiss on her temple and went off to bed. Hermione went back to her tower feeling frustrated. There were just too many moving parts; she couldn't keep track of them all, which meant she couldn't make sure everyone was alright, and that would not do.

Dumbledore was dying. Draco was, too. The former she couldn't do much about, but the latter… She needed a better way to keep track of him. If she couldn't make sure he was okay, she would lose her mind, and keeping her nose glued to the map all the time wasn't a solution.

And then there was Harry, and all those puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit. Slughorn. Tom Riddle. Dumbledore's mortality, and the Invisibility Cloak. In light of everything else, it had slipped her mind, but it was just as perplexing as when Draco had told her about the mythos attached to The Tale of the Three Brothers.

She slipped into her darkened dormitory with exhausted resignation. She could help Harry. She would find a way to help Draco. And the rest… Well, she'd work that out, too.

Unfortunately, Harry seemed to have no interest in cooperating with the plan in her head. When she casually suggested that, as his cloak was apparently a family heirloom, its past may unlock some fascinating Potter family history, she'd anticipated far more intrigue than he displayed. For someone who attached so much value to the family he'd never known, he didn't seem to care much for the prospect of unveiling his ancestry beyond one or two generations back. And when she suggested he ask Dumbledore about it (because if anyone were to know anything about ancient and extraordinary magical relics, it would be the headmaster), Harry's lukewarm agreement had been followed by the most dispassionate "Sorry, Hermione, he just said my dad wanted me to have it," that she wondered if he'd actually bothered to ask at all.

She bit her tongue and glared at her lunch, trying to conceal her frustration. She didn't believe in the Deathly Hallows, not exactly, but there was something important to be gleaned from Harry's cloak and its history. She could feel it. But if Harry wanted to attach more significance to a battered old textbook than an exceptionally powerful magical object with a dubious history — well, there was nothing she could do about that.

Hermione ticked it off her mental checklist. For now.

Suddenly, the hum of the Great Hall surged into an anxious rush. Hermione sat up, heart lurching, alert for danger—

"Oi! What's wrong with Dumbledore?"

Sure enough, at the head table, the headmaster sat hunched over his place setting, Professor McGonagall standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder. It seemed he'd tried to stand and hadn't quite mustered the strength for it.

"Is he alright?"

"Did you see — he nearly went down, I swear!"

Hermione watched anxiously as the old man took steadying breaths and finally sat up. He gave the student body a slight smile and a gentle wave of his healthy hand, which did little, if anything, to soothe anybody. Beside him, Professor McGonagall did not seem at all appeased; she still hadn't let go of his shoulder, and she didn't release him for a second as she escorted him from the High Table and out the Great Hall.

Her eyes sought Draco's without thinking. He was looking at her with desperate terror written in his eyes. I didn't do it, they insisted. It wasn't me! Hermione wondered if he wished he had.

"Blimey," breathed Ron.

"Is the headmaster okay?" asked a first year a few seats down.

Hermione swallowed. "Of course; he's fine," she said. "He'll be alright."

Beside her, Harry's expression had gone stony.

Dumbledore's public display of frailty set the whole school on edge for the rest of the day. While Hermione had been glad to have a day off from brewing, she found herself wishing she had a cauldron to distract her. The common room was not a peaceful place to do her reading, and the subject matter hardly soothed her.

When she'd been younger, she'd resented the notion of the Restricted Section in the library. Knowledge should be universally accessible, after all. But now, she was glad for it. Even as an of-age witch, she had difficulty stomaching some of what she found there. It was for the best that younger students couldn't stumble upon such things.

"Dark curses, hm?" Hermione flinched as Ginny dropped herself next to her on the loveseat and instinctively closed the book. Apparently, her attempt at discretion hadn't been discreet enough.

"Oh — I was just curious about something. Light research, you know."

Ginny hummed. "What is it?"

"Just — er — the nature of the intent versus the — the result," stammered Hermione, but before she could extricate herself from the sofa, Ginny had propped her feet up on the ottoman and adopted a pensive look.

"What do you want to know?"

"Oh — doesn't matter, really —"

"I know you, Hermione. Of course, it matters. Now, I may not be a murderous psychopath, but I know what it's like to be one." She tapped her temple. "I had You-Know-Who in my head for a year. So, what do you want to know?"

Hermione was speechless. "I — I'm so sorry, Ginny. I forgot —"

Ginny shrugged, but it was obviously forced. "I get it. If you were anyone else, I'd probably be upset about that, but that year wasn't great for you either. You know, I, erm," she fiddled with a bit of her hair, "I was scared of you for a little bit, afterwards. Of talking to you, I mean. I thought you'd blame me. That you were petrified. I'm so, so sorry, Hermione —"

"No! No — of course I don't blame you. How could I? None of it was your fault. It was just as horrible for you — probably worse!"

Ginny smiled weakly. "Thanks." She shifted and cleared her throat. "So…" With her index finger, she opened the book in Hermione's lap and read the heading. "Unforgivables, yeah?"

Hermione looked to the page, the way the ink had begun to bleed on the parchment. This book wasn't the oldest thing in the library by far, but it felt ancient. "I was wondering about the Killing Curse. Everything we know about it indicates it's instant, painless… far more humane than a Dementor's Kiss… So why isn't it used as a form of euthanasia? I mean, if I were terminally ill with some horribly painful disease, this seems like… well, like a decent option."

Ginny shook her head. "It was used for that, once, but you probably know that."

"Yes, but I can't figure out exactly why they stopped."

"It's… it's hard to describe if you haven't experienced it. You know why the Unforgivables are, well, unforgivable, right?"

"It's Dark magic, and to take away someone's consent, or to cause them pain, that's horrific —"

"Yeah, but there's loads of other curses that do the same thing, or worse. I mean, think of what they lobbed at us at the Department of Mysteries." Hermione's scar twinged. "These curses… it's really about how you feel about it. Which is what makes the Dark Arts, Dark. You can't cast them without real malice. It's like the opposite of a Patronus. You really have to find the worst part of yourself. And then it, like… gets inside you. It's weird. So when it was used by Healers, it worked well for a little while, but it's so unstable that eventually you basically go mad after a bit. Even if you have the best intentions. I mean, where's the line between a mercy killing and… not?"

Hermione watched the firelight reflect in Ginny's eyes. "How do you know all this?"

She shrugged. "After everything that happened, I had a lot of… weird shit in my head. My mum spoke to McGonagall about it. They let me ask all the questions I had and gave me information like this, to help me understand." She smirked. "I'm going to do really well on my Defence O.W.L."

Hermione laughed. Ginny smiled.

"So, yeah, the Healers who were using the Killing Curse eventually lost the ability to distinguish between benevolence and malice. Bit hard to do your job when you get off on hurting people. It's addicting too, you know. So, the Wizengamot decided it couldn't be used. For anything. Ever."

Hermione glanced at the pages of the book and closed it. "That… makes a lot of sense."

Ginny shrugged again. "Dark magic is ruled by emotion more than any other kind. That's what makes it so powerful and so unpredictable, even if you're, like, the most stable person on the planet."

Hermione thought of Occlumency and its discipline, the Dark Lord and the scar running across her body, the way it seemed to feed on her anger and fear.

She sighed. So, the Killing Curse could not be used on Dumbledore. She doubted Draco would have the requisite malevolence to cast it, and it wasn't worth the risk to his sanity. She certainly wouldn't count him as the most stable person on the planet, regardless of his apparent Occlumency skill.

"Did that answer your questions?"

"Yeah, Ginny. Thank you. Really."

"No worries. And if you ever have any other questions about Dark magic… I have a whole bunch of specialised knowledge in my head. May as well put it to good use."

"Thank you, actually."

Ginny gave a happy shrug. Hermione wondered how often she got to talk about her experience from four years ago; she seemed lighter, now.

Heavy footsteps came down the spiral staircase from the girls' dormitory, and Hermione turned to find Lavender approaching her with a paper-wrapped parcel.

"Hey, Hermione? There's been an owl pecking on our window for the last twenty minutes. This is for you."

"Oh, thanks, Lavender!" Hermione took the rectangular parcel with her name neatly written on the top. Lavender disappeared back up the stairs whilst Ginny peered into Hermione's lap.

"Secret admirer?"

"Ha, hardly. Just something I ordered from Flourish & Blotts…" She carefully unwrapped the paper and found two plain, bound diaries.

"Merlin, don't tell me you're into dodgy books now, too."

"They're not dodgy. I just… get tired of using parchment sheets for everything. This is much neater."

"Whatever you say, Hermione."

Just then, the portrait hole opened, and Harry came clambering through looking invigorated. She saw sweat on his brow and wondered if he'd run all the way from Dumbledore's office.

"I've got it," he declared once he, Ron, and Hermione had all gathered in the quiet corner of the common room. "I know what I have to get from Slughorn."

"And? What is it?" urged Ron.

"It's a memory." His eyes twinkled ferociously. "A memory about something called a Horcrux."