Hermione dropped the diaries onto the benchtop next to the simmering cauldron. Draco jolted, nearly spilling eagle eyes across the table. "What in Merlin's soggy underpants are you doing?"

"These are for you," she huffed. "Well, that one is. This one's mine. I made them, like Parvati and Padma's, except these ones have privacy charms. You can erase anything from both diaries with your wand, but any writing will just look like gibberish to anyone else who tries to read it, anyway." Her eyes narrowed at him in an expression of exasperated grumpiness. "Now you can tell me when you're about to go to one of Voldemort's demented dinner parties from the comfort of your bed. Happy?"

For a second, Draco was speechless, looking between the diaries, her, and the jar of eagle eyes still in his left hand. Then, he said, "Yes. You're brilliant. These are… brilliant."

Hermione huffed again and grabbed the salt. "Good. Then let's get started, shall we?"

"Harry, I don't think directly asking Slughorn is going to work. You saw how he reacted when you tried to mention Tom Riddle at the dinner party, and that wasn't even about — about Horcruxes. Which, by the way, I can't find anything about in the library."

Ginny hadn't had any useful information about it, either. Tom Riddle's residence in her head had resulted more so in shared emotions rather than information, much to Hermione's frustration.

"Well, what do you suggest? I've never had to ask someone for a memory before, Hermione."

"It's not like I have, either!"

"Could you trick him into it?" wondered Ron.

Harry shook his head. "Pretty sure memories need to be freely given. Can you imagine how much you could fuck up someone's head trying to take it by force?"

Ron shrugged. "Isn't that what memory charms do?"

"Memory charms erase memories, not extract them," said Hermione. "And from what I've read, they're very delicate. You can do real damage if not done correctly. I mean, you saw what happened to Lockhart…" Despite the research she'd done, she still didn't feel fully comfortable casting it yet. The risk was just too great.

"Well, whatever I do, it's got to be done in private, so should I get myself a detention or something?"

"I doubt Slughorn would give you detention; he likes you too much. And besides, lowering his esteem for you won't make this any easier."

"Fair enough."

"What about his parties?" suggested Ron. "It's only ever, what, a dozen of you? Can't you just… get him alone at the end?"

"And then what, Ron?"

"Ask really nicely?"

"'Hello, professor. Lovely supper! Mind if you tell me about this thing you don't even want Dumbledore to know about it? Oh, and could you put it in this little jar for me? Ta!'"

"Alright, maybe not like that, but —"

Hermione made a noise of frustration. "Stop it, you two. This isn't productive."

"I'm surprised Dumbledore didn't give you any advice," remarked Ron. Hermione agreed. "I mean, does he really expect you to just work this out? What if Slughorn really won't give it to you?"

Harry shrugged. "How should I know? He seems to think Slughorn will just hand it over if I say the right thing."

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was late, and she hadn't got as much of her Transfiguration notes done as she'd hoped to. The issue of Harry's little assignment was just too bothersome.

"You alright, Hermione?"

"I'm just tired, Harry. I think I'm going to go to bed."

Ron sat back in his chair, balancing on its back legs. "Me too. I'm knackered."

"We've still got that Charms essay," reminded Harry.

"Shit. Is that due tomorrow?"

Harry and Hermione nodded.

"Shit."

"Well, you two have fun with that." Hermione stood and packed away her school things. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

They knew better than to ask her for help and bid her good night.

But despite her exhaustion, she couldn't sleep. Harry and Ron were right: They needed a plan, and if Dumbledore wasn't going to offer advice, they needed to work one out on their own. Quickly.

But how?

With a huff, Hermione sat up in bed and reached for her wand. "Accio diary!" The little bound book emerged from her bag and came to rest in her lap. "Accio quill and ink!" When she'd situated her things, she closed the curtains of her four-poster with a jerk of her wand. "Lumos!" Then, as an afterthought, "Muffliato!"

She wasn't even sure Draco was awake or if he kept the diary close enough to notice when the stitching on the cover changed colour, as she'd designed it to when its twin was open. The idea of him neglecting her gift like that sent an unexpected wave of hurt; she was sure her scar shifted colour as it rejoiced in her self-consciousness and shame.

Merlin, but she was so tired.

Nevertheless, with the inkpot and her wand carefully balanced, she opened the cover and dipped her quill in ink.

Hello.

For several long moments, there was nothing. Her greeting remained sadly alone near the top of the page. Perhaps he was asleep.

But then —

Hi. There was a pause before the ink continued. Can't sleep?

She smiled and closed her eyes, all the nervousness fading into the darkness. She imagined him similarly in bed, hidden behind the curtains as he talked to her. She hoped he was smiling, too.

Not really, she wrote, careful to keep her handwriting neat. I have a question for you, actually, Mr Slytherin.

She held her breath and imagined him laughing.

Mr Slytherin? he quoted beneath her writing. Is that why you keep me around? For my marvellous cunning?

Shut up, she wrote hastily.

Rude. What can I do for you, madam?

She took a breath. He'd been so keen to offer his advice before, back when Umbridge had been a thorn in everybody's sides. But this… this was a different beast. She needed to choose her phrasing very carefully.

Are you still there? he wrote. His handwriting took on an odd slant.

Sorry, just thinking. If you had to get some information from somebody, how would you do it?

A pause, then, That depends on the person. And the information.

Hermione let out of a gust of air. This was incredibly frustrating, and she had difficulty weighing how much to tell him without giving everything away entirely.

If you had to get someone to admit to something they were ashamed of, but without them realising what you're doing. She wasn't even sure that made sense.

Draco, however, seemed to understand. And the person? he queried.

"Sod it," she muttered, and wrote, Somebody like Professor Slughorn.

For several seconds, she stared at the narrow space beneath her writing, but instead of words, an arrow appeared, pointing to the right. She turned the page and found ink already waiting for her.

He's easy. Flattery. Tell him what he wants to hear, and he'll tell you anything you want in return. As long as there's something in it for him, that is.

Hermione pondered that. It wasn't anything she hadn't thought of before, but it was the logistical part of it which troubled her. What sort of thing would persuade him to confess to something he doesn't want anybody to know, though?

Honestly, pineapple might do it. But between you and Potter, you've got enough name recognition and influence to get just about anything from him. Just being around you two makes him feel important.

"Make him feel important…" repeated Hermione out loud.

Draco's writing continued, A little alcohol wouldn't go amiss, either.

Hermione had already thought of that. But would it be enough?

There's always Veritaserum.

Hermione grabbed her quill. That's illegal.

I'm sure whatever you did last year to get Skeeter to write that article wasn't exactly endorsed by the Wizengamot, either.

Fair enough, but Veritaserum was so much more difficult to pull off without detection, wasn't it?

She'd waited too long.

Are you still there?

Yes, sorry.

Was that all you needed?

Yes, thank you. She considered thanking him for not asking too many questions but decided against it.

Are you going to go to sleep now?

Hermione bit her lip. She was tired, but sleep didn't feel right yet, and she didn't want to say goodbye. Not at the moment, she wrote slowly. You?

No. There was a long pause and she wondered who would be the first to break it. I like nighttime, he wrote, his letters long and thin. I like how quiet it is.

She imagined him again, reclined against his headboard, more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. Suddenly, she missed him so much it hurt.

Are the Slytherin dormitories loud during the day? You don't seem like a particularly bombastic lot. She hoped he could tell she was teasing. How was she meant to convey her tone with just ink?

Hardly. But I'm sure the Gryffindor common room is a veritable zoo at all hours.

Hermione scoffed. You're not wrong, she conceded.

They'd reached the end of the second page. She watched the top of the next one, waiting, wondering where this conversation would go. Her heart thrummed; she wanted him to tell her he missed her. She wanted to know he thought of her during those dark, peaceful moments he sought in the middle of the night. She wanted him to tell her that he wanted her there, just as much as she wanted him, because she couldn't stop imagining him next to her, arms around her while they just lay in the dark, together —

The paper was still blank, so she dipped her quill in ink before she could think twice and scribbled, I miss you.

The response was nearly instantaneous.

I miss you too.

She smiled so hard it hurt.

You know, he wrote, just because the potion doesn't need us for the next three days doesn't mean we can't go to the lab anyway. Who's going to know?

You don't know that. Snape or Slughorn might have charms on the door to make sure we're coming when we're supposed to. If they see we're there on the wrong day, they might think we've fouled up the potion and intervene.

I suppose you wouldn't want them to find me snogging you on the table.

The image winded her; her, sitting on the benchtop, Draco standing between her legs, kissing the daylights out of her while his hands — one splayed across her back, one cupping her neck — kept her close —

Pity, he wrote. I suppose I'll have to wait until Monday.

Hermione squirmed, now hyperaware of every inch of her own skin.

You're unbelievable, she wrote in what she hoped he would take as a teasing scold.

And yet you like me.

Hermione's blood tingled. She did like him. So much. If it weren't so late, she might have told him to meet her in the prefect's bathroom. The idea made her heart thrum. Honestly, if they kept this up, neither of them would get any sleep at all.

I should go to bed now, she wrote with regret.

There is a very obvious response here, you know.

And what's that?

Of course you should go to bed. With me.

Hermione couldn't breathe. Every part of her was charged, and if she still had Harry's cloak she wasn't sure she'd have resisted the urge to go to the dungeons then and there.

Good night, Draco, she wrote before she could convince herself to carry on with this any longer.

Good night, Hermione. Sweet dreams.

He must have tapped his wand against the page, because the ink began to fade back into the grain of the paper. Hermione flipped back through the several pages they'd covered, watching their conversation disappear as though it had never happened at all. Then, the binding dulled from a gold-like thread to a more muted red. Draco had closed his diary.

Hermione gently closed the cover and placed it in her bedside drawer alongside the quill and inkpot. "Nox," she whispered, and her wand followed.

Entombed by the bed curtains and alone in the heavy darkness, Hermione attempted to steady her breathing. The last time she'd felt so wired had been Christmas, when Draco had left her in the bath. Then, she'd dealt with it the only way she knew how, and she couldn't think of an alternative now, either.

Nestled beneath her bedding, her right hand crept beneath her shirt, flattening across the soft flesh of her abdomen. She imagined it was his hand, all pale skin and long fingers. Would they be cold? Or warm, like they had been in the hot water, and as they sometimes were after brewing?

Her fingertips skimmed across her skin, raising the hairs and making her gasp at the tingling chill it brought. They crept lower, down to the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and slipping underneath the elastic. The feeling of her own hand skimming over her knickers made her shiver. She'd never been as sensitive as she got when it came to him. The first time he'd snuck into her mind, she'd been appalled that she'd sunk low enough to get off to the likes of Draco Malfoy. Now, she couldn't help herself. It was the way he kissed her, the way he'd touched her bare skin, like he was desperate for her —

Her fingers met slick skin and it wasn't long before she was shaking and gasping, arching against her bedding whilst she clapped her other hand over her mouth.

Her heart beat so heavily she could hear it.

With a sigh, she pulled her hand from her pants and stared at the ceiling. She was so tired. It was still January. Slughorn presented an impossible task, to say nothing of Draco's precarious state.

But for now, at least, she would sleep.