Hermione did not sleep well that night. Now that she remembered the name — Voldemort's name — she could think of little else. If his family had had the Resurrection Stone (assuming it was real at all), had he known? Had he cared? And was there anybody else in the world who knew this, besides Hermione?

Agrius Malfoy's research had been painstaking and entirely dependent on his access to unparalleled resources. Could it be possible that the Malfoy edition of Beedle the Bard was the only place in the world where knowledge of Voldemort's connection to the Stone was held?

She'd known, somehow, that the hallows were relevant, but she'd never guessed this. And now that she had this information, what was she meant to do with it? Did Dumbledore know?

She hardly heard any of the conversation around her at breakfast and followed the rest of her year to Charms in a stupor.

If Voldemort could bring back the dead, would he? And who would he choose? Does the Stone even let you decide, or does it bring back who it thinks you need to see — or maybe it's the dead themselves! Maybe it just gives them the opportunity to speak to you, and they only come if they want to…

She dutifully copied down Professor Flitwick's lecture, but kept her eye on the parchment tucked underneath, sticking out from her textbook just enough for her to see the list she'd copied from the back of the book. Maybe if she stared at it long enough, she'd work it out, whatever it was.

"I've seen that before."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

Harry tapped her parchment with the feathery end of his quill, in the top right-hand corner where she'd copied the triangular symbol Agrius had drawn over and over again in the book. "This thing," whispered Harry, "in the memory Dumbledore showed me. It was carved into the ring. I saw it in real life, too, actually. When he showed me, in his office." Harry leaned nearer, reading the list of names, and Hermione was too stunned to stop him. "Here — Peverell." Harry nodded sagely. "I remember now: Marvolo Gaunt said it was the Peverell coat of arms. Said he was a descendant, which made him practically royal, according to him. Where'd you find all this?"

"Oh — er — just in a book. I was reading about — magical history. Lineages, that sort of thing." She tucked the list away, obscuring it completely. "Just thought it might be useful, you know, since Dumbledore's been teaching you so much about Tom Riddle's family. I haven't found anything we don't already know, though, so I think it's just been a waste of time."

Harry accepted that, though he still looked thoughtful. Hermione's head would not stop spinning, even when Professor Flitwick had them pick up their wands to practise.

So, the Gaunts were definitely direct descendants of the Peverells. Why else would they have the heirloom? But that symbol — it wasn't a coat of arms or a crest. At least, not according to Agrius Malfoy. It represented the hallows. So why would it be carved onto a ring?

"Harry," she murmured as the lecture finished and they packed away their things, "the ring you mentioned earlier — that's what cursed Dumbledore's hand, isn't it?"

"Yep. He smashed it with the Sword of Gryffindor. He showed me. It's got this big gash in the middle of the jewel — I dunno, obsidian or something — but you can still see that crest carved in it. It's really ugly, to be honest. Even before Dumbledore destroyed it."

Hermione felt her heart race and tried very hard to stay nonchalant as she gently swept her books into her schoolbag. "Jewel? Like a precious stone? I thought it was just — just metal."

"Oh — nah, it's got this big shiny gem. It's black, but that might be because of the curses."

There were too many contrasting accounts of the Resurrection Stone to be certain of its appearance, but some alleged it was a dark-coloured gem which never lost its shine. It would make sense, then, to set it in jewellery, wouldn't it?

"Did Dumbledore keep it?"

Harry looked scandalised. "Of course he did. It was a" — he lowered his voice — "Horcrux. He keeps it in his office, with the diary."

"Are you two coming to History of Magic or shall we tell Binns you've more important things to do?" called Neville with a grin. Harry laughed and Hermione realised they had fallen behind the rest of the group.

"And if you have got better things to do," moaned Ron, "can I come? If I have to hear about another goblin rebellion, I'm going to start a revolution."

"Yeah?" said Dean. "What would you revolt for?"

"More time for Quidditch practice!"

"More time for lunch!"

Hermione followed a few paces behind, struggling to keep her thoughts in the present. The weather was warming, and the longer days seemed to be doing everyone some good. She hadn't seen Harry so energised in a long time.

So then why couldn't she stop thinking about the dead?

If the Resurrection Stone was real, and it was in Hogwarts…

She couldn't fathom it. Ghosts were one thing. Professor Binns' luminous, non-corporeal form hovering near the centre of the room was unsettling, yes, especially as she'd grown up thinking such things were pretend, but to truly revisit the dead?

It felt… wrong. Perverse. But she couldn't shake the hungry need to see it. Just to make sure.

Did Dumbledore know? Had he tried it? Was he sat in his office, chatting with old friends? Would they be depressed, like the story said? Who would he choose to see again?

It doesn't matter, she told herself over and over throughout the day. During Potions, she forgot about it entirely for the blissful hour her attention was consumed by brewing, and during dinner, too, when she chatted with Ginny. Then, it was time to go to the laboratory, which was an easy distraction when she reminded herself Draco would be there, and making the blood and plum solution meant her attention would be occupied entirely by him and the recipe.

It turned out she wouldn't have to try hard to forget at all, not when she opened the ingredient cupboard. "Oh my God."

"What is i— Oh, Merlin's soggy pants. Where did all this come from?"

Hermione looked at the shelves, neatly stacked with triple the number of ingredients they needed, all pristinely organised. And clean.

"Dobby."

"What?"

"I — I told Professor Slughorn we were lacking some ingredients, and so he called Dobby, and I told him we needed some plums, and…" Hermione glanced at the tidy pile of a dozen green plums. He had certainly gone out of his way to oblige her. She would have to thank him, and then work out how to tell him to stick to the prescribed ratios next time. "Wait a second… Dobby?"

Pop!

"Hello!" cried Dobby, who had materialised directly in front of her. He was shrouded in knitwear, though she saw his big eyes, and the way they turned wide, and his body began to tremble when he saw Draco.

For a second, Hermione wondered about his reaction before her memory came rushing back. Dobby had been the Malfoys' elf! Of course, he would be traumatised. He was glaring at Draco with an admirable combination of terror and defiance. Draco, for his part, was looking at Dobby as though he were a leftover puzzle piece, implausible and baffling.

Hermione crossed her arms. "Dobby, Draco isn't going to hurt you. Right, Draco?"

"Are those… are those socks on his ears?"

They were, but that was beside the point.

"Draco?"

"What? No, of course I'm not going to hurt him."

"Or tell him to hurt himself —"

"No!"

"No Malfoy can tell Dobby to hurt himself!" sniffed Dobby as he puffed out his chest. "Dobby is free."

"Exactly, Dobby. Actually, Draco has something he'd like to say to you."

"I — I do?"

"Yes. He'd like to apologise."

Draco opened his mouth and swiftly closed it. Dobby and Hermione both glared at him, expectant, Dobby's little body trembling with righteous fury. "I'm sorry," he said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And..?"

"And what would you like to apologise for?"

"I…"

Hermione jerked her head and was satisfied when Draco finally turned his gaze from her to Dobby, who listened to his every word with desperate glee.

"Erm, I want to apologise, Dobby, to you, for — for everything that happened to you i-in my house. You didn't deserve it. Actually, you were always very good to me, from when I was a baby and — and I'm very sorry."

Hermione saw Draco's throat bob as he swallowed, uncertainty and discomfort written across his face. Dobby, however, remained stiff and trembling.

"Dobby, is there anything you would like to say to Draco?"

"Yes!" he screeched, and suddenly all the movement returned to his body as he cried and waved his fist. "Young Master Malfoy must not be cruel to any other elf ever again! And he must never say terrible things about Harry Potter and his friends" — Dobby pointed to Hermione — "or try to hurt them! And if ever tries to harm Miss Granger, or call her foul names" — Dobby turned to Hermione, a serious look on his small face, and whispered, "she must promise to tell Dobby, so Dobby can put something nasty in his tea!"

Draco looked stricken and Hermione had to hold back a laugh. "Thank you, Dobby. I will, I promise."

Dobby huffed, but his anger seemed to have faded entirely, and he looked up at her with a smile. "Why did miss call for Dobby? Dobby is here to help!"

"Oh — right, well — I just wanted to thank you for stocking the cupboard so well."

Dobby nodded proudly.

"And I just wanted to see if — if you were authorised, so to speak, to bring any ingredients here in future? Without having to ask a Potions Master first?"

"Oh, yes! Professor Slughorn said so, so Dobby will come to bring anything miss needs for her potion brewing!"

"Really? Anything at all?"

Dobby nodded.

"And… what about potions from other places in the castle that I might need?"

"Dobby has permission to bring everything!"

Hermione pressed her lips together in thought. "Thank you, Dobby. That's very good to know."

"Dobby is happy to help Harry Potter and his friends!"

"That's really sweet, Dobby, thank you." When Dobby continued to stare at her with his big, earnest eyes, she wrung her hands. "Er, that's all for now, though —"

"Dobby understands!" And with a final glare at Draco, Dobby popped out of existence. Draco stared at the spot he'd been, looking alarmed yet pensive.

"I meant it, you know," said Hermione. "I really will tell him if you break your promise."

"Oh, I don't doubt it." He cocked his head in the direction of the plums. "Shall we?"

They went about the brewing together, the complex steps of the blood and plum solution second nature now. Hermione found the monotony of it soothing, and she took the time to make a mental list of things she'd ask Dobby to fetch. She'd been worried about their lack of healing potions for some time. It seemed like the sort of thing one ought to have on hand, and now she would.

When they'd finished their work, they tidied up as usual. Draco's hand swept up the back of her arm, smoothing over her shoulder blade; Hermione sighed and leaned into him. "Are you alright?" he asked softly. "You seemed agitated during lessons all day."

"Agitated?"

Draco shrugged. "At least, that's how it looked to me."

Hermione sighed and pulled her cloak from the hook. "I'm fine. Thank you, though." She gave him a weak smile. "Let's go."

With a nod, Draco hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and followed her to the door. It gave way easily as she pulled it open —

— and found herself face-to-face with Professor Snape.

"Oh!" She came to such an abrupt halt that Draco bumped into her.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he greeted her lowly; she felt Draco go stiff. "I trust all is well with the Wolfsbane?" Professor Snape's dark eyes swept across the two of them and Hermione frantically wondered what on Earth could have brought him here.

"Yes, sir. No problems whatsoever."

Professor Snape blinked. "Very well. If I might have a word with Mr Malfoy?"

She was hyperaware of Draco's presence as she nodded and stepped out of their way. Draco didn't want to speak with Professor Snape, she was certain, but she couldn't very well get in their way, so she bid them both good night with an awkward wave and set off down the corridor.

It wasn't worth trying to eavesdrop.

She watched the portraits as she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower, waving at the ones that acknowledged her. Many of them had been alive once. Would they choose to revisit the dead if they could? Who did they miss the most? Would it be worth the pain?

And if there was strength in self-denial, in resisting temptation, then it wasn't very fair, was it? She would be far less tempted to use the Resurrection Stone than Harry would, for example…

She couldn't get it out of her head. Not truly. If it had really been lost to history, maybe she wouldn't have cared so much. But if she was right, and the stone was here, in the castle, close enough that Harry had touched it, even without knowing what it was…

Hermione sighed. She wouldn't be able to let this go. Not until she'd held it in her hands and confirmed it was real, that she'd put it all together.

So close.