The Gaunt ring remained hidden in her nightstand, next to the Malfoy copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. She didn't look at it. She didn't touch it. The mere knowledge of its nearness kept her up at night, but she didn't dare take it out. It was a former Horcrux, for one, and who knew what sort of residual Dark magic could be lingering? And if it really was the Resurrection Stone, there was no way of predicting its behaviour. What if she summoned the dead to her dormitory merely by holding it in her hand for a minute?

She would study it, she told herself, when the time was right. But there was just so much. Between Wolfsbane and apparition lessons and Quidditch matches and homework…

To say nothing of the constant, nauseating terror that Dumbledore might know what she'd done. She avoided walking down the second-floor corridor or looking at the High Table at mealtimes. If he hadn't noticed the ring's absence already, he would do when he next spoke to Harry and realised one of the Horcruxes was missing. But if she went now to return it — well, what if he hadn't noticed? She couldn't incriminate herself. The risk was too great. And what if he told Harry?

So, she hid it away and kept her mouth shut. Dumbledore was hardly around often enough to even send a knowing glance her way at lunchtime, and when he next summoned Harry for a private lesson, Harry did not return furious at his best friend for her betrayal.

Draco was just as jumpy, though for an entirely different reason. As spring wore on, his time continued to run out. Though he promised Voldemort had not called him home or, indeed, communicated anything at all to him personally, it did nothing to ease the pressure. Hermione saw the resignation in the way he held his shoulders, the ashy complexion of his face. He couldn't do it. He was not a killer, and he would rather wait out the clock and see what awaited him than try to force himself into a monster.

Hermione couldn't tell if she admired him for it or not; it was unbearable to witness, and she spent more time than she would care to admit scrambling for an answer, a solution to an impossible ultimatum that carefully sealed him in, airtight. His only hope, it seemed, was that Professor Snape would sort it out, though Hermione had no idea what that could entail or whom that would benefit, exactly. Her scar tingled more often than not.

It didn't help when Harry came back from Dumbledore, newly equipped with information about a cup once belonging to Helga Hufflepuff and vague allusions to something attributed to Rowena Ravenclaw. When he admitted that Dumbledore had no inkling of what that might be, Hermione threw up her hands and spent the whole weekend in the library (apparition lesson and Wolfsbane notwithstanding). She returned Sunday night with absolutely nothing to show for it. Accounts of Ravenclaw's life and surviving possessions were patchy at best; it was impossible to know what was fact or fable. She went to bed in despair, frustrated by the dead end and terrified of being trapped, alone, and with no-one to guide them to the next solution.

The free day she sought came the following Saturday. Despite brewing in the evening, she had no obligations, and so she slipped the ring into her pocket with trembling hands and set off to the Entrance Hall. This would be done outside, she had decided, away from prying eyes and where any potential consequences could be swiftly dealt with and concealed, whatever that may mean.

Some accounts said the stone merely had to be held, others that there was an incantation. Not that she wanted to try it, though. And then, of course, there was the possibility that it didn't exist at all, and she was about to make a spectacular fool of herself. And wasn't that what she wanted? The alternative was almost too much to contemplate.

Cloak around her shoulders, she strode to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Spring had truly come; the sun sparkled on the lake and there was a moisture in the air that spoke of fresh blooms, not the chilly, hollowness of winter which had lingered for far too long. Her breaths echoed in her ear as she made her way through the damp grounds, a testament to the exertion and how anxious she was.

She would test it, she told herself, and then she would — she would give it back, somehow. Maybe slip it in Harry's robes? But what if he got in trouble for stealing it?

She'd work it out later. For weeks, ever since she'd made the connection between the ring and the Hallows, this thing had been in her head, robbing her of sleep and making her all but impossible to be around. She wanted it dealt with, her curiosity sated, so she could move on.

If she could just have a proper look at it, confirm that she was right or wrong, she'd be content.

She wandered along the edge of the tree line, peering into the forest. If she came along here, out of view of most of the castle or where students on the grounds might spot her, and moved in just a few paces so that she might be covered by the shadow of the trees —

She stopped, her final footsteps crunching against the earth. Sounds of woodland creatures and the breeze rustling against the branches came from every side. She felt truly alone, and so she reached into her pocket and pulled out the ring.

She hadn't looked at it since she'd spotted it in Dumbledore's desk drawer. It was just as ugly as it was then, and she wondered when it had been set, because surely the gold was not as old as the stone itself (assuming it was the Stone, of course). She couldn't name the style, other than that it was very bulky and ugly. A man's ring, perhaps, fitted for someone with big fingers, the sort that was worn to catch the light and impart his important-ness.

By the sounds of it, that was exactly what Voldemort's father had done with it. The thought chilled her, and she wondered how anyone could look at this thing without feeling revulsion. It was contaminated, not just by the Dark magic of a Horcrux but by association with some of the most horrible people Hermione could conceive. And if this really was the stone in the story, then it had its own, haunted, miserable past…

She peered at it. The Stone was black like night and shimmered like liquid. Despite the gash in the middle, she could clearly see the mark of the Hallows carved in the top, exactly as Agrius Malfoy had copied it into his book. Her heart thrummed, her blood rushing heavily through her body.

It looks right. It fits all the descriptions, matches all the patterns…

What was left to do but test it? How else could she be certain?

She swallowed audibly, her fist clenching around the metal which had turned moist from her clammy skin. Eyes unfocused, she searched the trees in front of her as though they would have the answer. Did she want to summon the dead? Who would even come? She hadn't lost anyone — not like Harry had. Her heart didn't ache for someone who would never return. Perhaps the closest would be Sirius. He was the only person she'd ever seen die, and the only person she'd known well before it happened. Would he come? Like a ghost, or something more? What would he say to her? How would she be able to keep it from Harry if he did?

Maybe no-one wanted to speak with her. Maybe the stupid thing didn't work at all. It was just a children's story, Draco had said. And he ought to know. He knew all these things better than she ever would.

I'll just try. Just once, she promised herself. One time. Any more and she'd go mad.

Opening her fist, she peered at the ring in her hand, the enthralling stone set in conspicuous gold.

She turned it over in her hand, breath held.

She turned it over again, and —

Crunch.

"Hermione?"

Her scream got caught in the trembling gasp in her throat — but when she whirled around, she found a big, hulking, and very much alive shape looking down at her. "Hagrid?"

He smiled at her, eyes tired and watery, and Hermione slipped the ring back into her pocket without thinking. "Aye, it's good to see ye, Hermione." He blew his nose on a handkerchief the size of Hermione's duvet. "Thank ye fer comin'. I wasn't even sure you got my note. I know you lot are busy these days, bein' sixth years and all…"

For a bewildering moment, Hermione could only blink up at him. He looked tired, and much older than she'd seen him last, which had been…?

When had any of them last gone to Hagrid's?

Oh no.

"Anyway," he sniffled, "I s'pose Harry an' Ron weren't able to make it?"

"Oh — er — Quidditch," she lied. She knew very well they were in the common room, progressing through a pile of sandwiches whilst attempting to put together their Transfiguration essays.

Hagrid nodded, believing her without question, and Hermione felt reality creep back in a rush of guilt and sympathy. "Good fer them," he said more to himself than to her. "Well, it means a lot that yer here, Hermione. Y'know, fer support. I'm sure he'll appreciate it." Hagrid's eyes welled up again and Hermione watched with despair as he nodded into the darkness of the woods. "Shall we?"

What on Earth this could be about, Hermione hadn't a clue. If Hagrid had sent a note, she hadn't been the recipient, and Harry had failed to mention it. But it was too late to ask now, and so she followed him quietly, listening to the sound of his sniffles and longing for the little clearing where she'd been so close to knowing, finally —

"So, how are ye, Hermione?"

"Oh — erm — alright. I've been brewing a lot, for Professor Lupin. That's why I haven't been able to come down and see you as much."

"Aye, he's a good man. I'm glad he gets the potion he needs, and yer a good girl for making it for 'im. You know me; I'll be okay." He shot her a grin which was countered by the tears dribbling down his cheeks. "There's no potion the brilliant Hermione can't brew! And it means all the more to me that ye could come with me today."

"Of course, Hagrid," she nodded. "This is important." Whatever it is.

They walked on for several more minutes, making small talk while Hagrid sniffled and the darkness got heavier around them. Hermione tried very hard to focus on Hagrid's presence; she would never come this far into the Forbidden Forest on her own. There were all sorts of creatures who didn't take kindly to wizards lurking, and though she adamantly supported centaur rights, she wasn't sure they'd wait to hear her political opinions before firing their arrows.

She heard and felt something horrible scuttle across her foot and screeched, jumping so violently Hagrid grabbed the back of her cloak in his huge fist to keep her upright.

"Oi, s'alright! She's a friend, don't you worry. She's here to pay her respects, just like me."

It took a moment of delirium before Hermione realised Hagrid wasn't speaking to her, but to the endless line of fat spiders on the ground, marching along. She held back a scream and was grateful that Hagrid didn't let go of her. She wasn't afraid of spiders like Ron, but this — this was something else. There were endless streams of them, the sort of image that brought to mind horror stories of people being devoured alive by swarms of insects and rodents.

A few more shaking paces and Hermione found herself in a clearing, at the centre of which was the largest spider she'd ever seen. She stared in horror, torn between the urge to run or vomit, while Hagrid let out a wail beside her. "Aragog!"

So, this was the creature Harry and Ron had met in second year. Hermione was too stunned to move; she'd thought they'd been exaggerating when they described his size. No spider could be that big.

But it was, and it was awful and grotesque, and the smell of earth and something putrid hung heavily in the air. The urge to run was overwhelming, yet she knew that to do so would be an insult to all present and she wasn't keen on finding out the consequences.

Hagrid sobbed while Hermione stood silently beside him, pulling her wand to clean his handkerchief when he needed it and trying to be the support he desperately wanted. When she got back to the castle, she would make sure Harry and Ron knew exactly how much they owed her for this.

Hagrid continued to ramble, though Hermione wasn't sure if he was talking to himself, the spiders, her, or anyone at all. She half-listened, otherwise focusing on the wave of arachnids around them, and the unbearable temptation in her pocket.

"Hermione?"

"Y-yes?"

Hagrid sniffled and gestured to the rotting spider. "Would ye like to say a few words?"

Hermione could not think of anything she'd like to do less, but the clearing was filled with an expectant silence and would not accept refusal.

"Oh… well…" Aragog's body looked heavy, sagging into the earth, his legs bent unnaturally. What a horrible way to die, Hermione thought, though she told herself she was probably one of the few people alive to have seen an Acromantula in the flesh, dead or not. "What a… magnificent creature. I'm sure, Aragog, erm, was a very — very powerful spider."

"Aye, he was, he was, but such a sweet one, too…"

"Right. And… Well, it's an honour to be in the presence of something — someone who was so great. Even though — even though he's dead, now. Acromantula are very rare, powerful beings. It's said their venom is one of the most precious natural ingredients, almost as potent as that of a Basilisk."

"Aye, is that so? Go on, then!" Hagrid gestured to the corpse and Hermione paled.

"Hagrid, I can't —"

"Eh, why not? He doesn't need it anymore, and I'm sure he'd be flattered, y'know, that you thought so highly of him…" Hagrid sobbed again, and though Hermione couldn't think of a more insulting thing than to rob this grave, she sensed a hostility in the spiders which demanded she do it anyway.

With hesitant footsteps, she crept nearer. She'd never done this before, not even from normal-sized spiders, though she knew in theory where the venom sacs would be found. Thousands of tiny eyes watched her while Hagrid's cries echoed off the trees and she slowly made her way underneath one gigantic leg. Keeping her movements slow, predictable, she drew her wand, conjured a glass vial, and knelt down into the earth. The damp dirt soaked through her knee instantly, but she didn't move as she carefully aimed her wand at the sac and let its contents drain into the vial. When she'd finished, she stood and returned to Hagrid's side, as blank-faced as she imagined Professor Snape might be in her position. Clinical.

Aragog's funeral, such that it was, continued on far too long and Hermione regretfully accepted Hagrid's invitation to tea. She couldn't very well say no, and so she sat at his large table with a huge mug and listened to him tell stories of spiders, all the while the dirt and grime of Aragog's lair clung to every bit of her. The venom sat on the table in its carefully sealed vial, a symbolic representation of the dead, like she imagined an urn would do.

I wonder if the Stone would have summoned a massive spider. Perhaps he'd tell me off for defiling his corpse.

The sun was setting; she couldn't study the Stone anymore today. Hagrid had kept her too long and she had to go to the laboratory soon to brew, and she refused to do so covered in dirt. No, she needed to hide the Stone, and wash herself, and go to see Draco and tell him how ridiculous her afternoon had been.

She bid Hagrid farewell with condolences and promises to come back soon, Harry and Ron in tow.

The castle was torturously far away, and she huffed up the hill to the Entrance Hall in a storm of irritation. For weeks she'd been yearning to have a proper look at the thing, and her only opportunity had been thwarted by a farce of a funeral!

As soon as her foot hit stone and the sun disappeared behind the door of the Entrance Hall, she called, "Dobby!"

"Dobby is h —"

"I need you to take this to the ingredients cupboard — you know the one? In the laboratory I use —"

Dobby took the vial in her hand and vanished in the same second.

She took the stairs two at a time; by the time she reached Gryffindor Tower, she was winded and sweaty. She paid no attention to anyone in the common room and strode to her dormitory as quickly as she could. She had to put the Stone away.

Nobody else was there, just the setting sun across the bedposts. Hermione tried to catch her breath, all the confusing emotions of the day tangling up in each other.

Hide the Stone. Wash. Change. Go to Draco.

She pulled open her bedside drawer, where the heavy Malfoy volume looked back at her with its ancient pages. Her hands were sweaty and dirty as she reached into her cloak pocket —

— and found nothing.

Everything turned still and cold. She groped her pocket, then checked the other, then ripped her cloak off entirely and searched everything else —

It was no good. Had she been anyone else, she might have laughed. There was nothing to be done.

The Stone was gone.