Hermione accompanied Harry to the library after dinner that evening. Besides needing to complete her newest set of runic translations for Professor Babbling, she was still feeling guilty over her recent neglect towards anything non-Malfoy-related, most especially Harry and Ron.

She shouldn't have been surprised when they were quickly joined by Ginny and Luna. Luna could no longer freely wander about the Gryffindor common room and, as a result, Harry and Ginny had taken to spending a great deal more time in the library than usual. Hermione tried (unsuccessfully) not to feel overly offended by the circumstances.

She'd been lost in a particularly difficult translation when a snort from Ginny caused her to look up irritably from her syllabary. Her eyes immediately found the source of Ginny's amusement; Ron and Pansy were now occupying a table near the library's entrance, both bent studiously over the worktop where they sat side-by-side. Hips nearly touching, in fact. Facing the stacks as they were, Ron was oblivious to Hermione and the others, but as his head was turned slightly, Hermione could see his eyes tracking the movement of Pansy's pointer finger as it glided forcefully over the length of parchment in front of them.

"I think it's nice, you know," Luna said offhandedly, her gaze coming back to land somewhere north of Harry. "Them getting along."

She hummed thoughtfully, absently fingering the orange radishes dangling from her ears, then let out a strange little giggle. "They're not so different, I think. Loyal. Strong-willed. Stubborn and hot-headed, and a touch sensitive. And they can both be a little unkind sometimes, yes, but they're really just looking for acceptance in the end. And aren't we all?"

Hermione stared at her incredulously. Unbidden, Luna continued.

"It will be quite interesting to see how their relationship progresses."

Harry looked poleaxed, but Ginny's expression turned thoughtful.

"Are you talking about Ron and Pansy?" Harry asked tentatively, as if half-hoping Luna might still change her answer.

Luna met his eyes with a serene smile. "Of course. Don't you see it? It's very obvious."

"Er…"

Shaking her head, Hermione interrupted. "Ron's only pretending to like Pansy, remember?"

Luna's wide eyes snapped over, startlingly direct, but her expression remained placid.

"Because Pansy's on the Inquisitorial Squad?" Hermione tried again.

Luna tilted her head, sending her radishes swinging. "That seems irrelevant."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "Seems irrelevant…" she mouthed silently, unable to understand how Luna had possibly come to that conclusion. It was ludicrous.

Before Hermione could formulate a response, Harry winced and lifted a hand to his scar. Three sets of eyes turned towards him with concern.

"S'fine," he said, waving them off with his free hand while he continued to massage his scar with his fingertips. "Angry."

Ginny and Luna nodded and returned to their work, seemingly placated by that explanation. Hermione continued to watch Harry through narrowed eyes, but he pretended not to notice. When she was satisfied that he was back to normal, she returned to the syllabary open in front of her, determined to finish up the last few translations.

With the rest of her evening now unexpectedly free due to Malfoy's detainment by Snape and her homework nearly caught up, Hermione decided she was long overdue to make use of the second-best perk of being a prefect: the prefect's bath.

She packed up her materials, promising to see Harry and Ginny later that evening, and left the library for her dormitory. Pausing inside briefly to feed Crookshanks, she gathered her toiletries and dressing gown and padded down to the fifth floor, counting precisely four doors past the statue of Boris the Bewildered.

Murmuring the password ("Sea Foam", this year), she entered to find herself inside a large, softly lit chamber constructed entirely out of white marble. She gasped quietly at the size of the bath sunk into the middle of the floor; it was enormous, easily as large as the lido she'd visited on holiday in France three summers ago. It was even outfitted with a diving board. What made this bath distinctly different was what had to be at least a hundred golden taps surrounding the perimeter, each with a different coloured gem set into the handle.

Hermione wound her way around the edge of the room, past a portrait of a slumbering mermaid and over to the corner where a stack of white, fluffy towels awaited. Selecting one, she disrobed and wrapped it around herself before walking around to slowly inspect the taps.

She tested a few that struck her fancy, finally settling on the tap inlaid with a rounded amethyst and out of which poured frothy, lilac-scented bubbles. The bath filled in a surprisingly short amount of time given its size.

Hermione gathered her hair into a loose pile on the top of her head, then slid slowly into the gloriously heated water. Even slightly out of practice, she still enjoyed performing a few laps before settling back to relax with her eyes closed in the shallows. She was just beginning to think she could get used to this when an unexpected voice brought her harshly out of contentment.

"Forgotten all about me, haven't you?"

Hermione gasped, eyes flying open to land on the pale, pearly figure of a teenage girl floating nearby. Moaning Myrtle merely blinked at her behind a thick pair of spectacles.

"Myrtle!" she choked out, coughing out a mouthful of bubbles. "I'm having a bath!"

"It's because this bathroom's so much bigger isn't it," said Myrtle, completely nonplussed. "But you couldn't use it last year, right? Or the year before."

Hermione took a steadying breath, a hand over her still-racing heart. "I don't— I've only just decided to try it out tonight."

"I knew it," Myrtle replied miserably. "You've been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding you, Myrtle," Hermione lied, "it's just that I've been so busy, you know, and now with Umbridge here—"

"Ah, of course," Myrtle broke in gloomily, "the new Headmistress again. Why is that all anyone ever talks about now?"

"It's been a rather big adjustment this year, if you hadn't noticed," Hermione said dryly.

Myrtle only seemed thoughtful. "Yes… quite different from Professor Dumbledore, isn't she? I must say, everyone seems thoroughly miserable with her around," she said, the corners of her mouth pulling up into an incongruous smile. "Almost like having all those dementors around again. I've even taken to spending more time outside my toilet!"

Myrtle hadn't looked this cheerful since the time Hermione had Polyjuiced herself into a cat.

"Um, that's nice," Hermione replied carefully, absently running her knuckles over her presently whisker-free cheek. "Do, uh… do the other ghosts feel this way?"

Myrtle deflated. "How should I know? They don't talk to me, either."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

In lieu of replying, Myrtle sat on one of the taps, resting her chin on both fists and staring glumly down into the bath. Hermione began sweeping a few thick piles of bubbles towards herself just to be safe.

A few more minutes of awkward silence and it was painfully clear that Myrtle had no intent on moving from her spot on the tap. Not wanting to be outright rude but having rather lost the desire for a soak, Hermione cleared her throat.

"Um, Myrtle? I think I'm all finished here. Would you mind…?"

Myrtle's glasses flashed as she looked up. "Oh, yes. I'll close my eyes."

Not exactly what Hermione had been going for, but it would have to do. She hoisted herself over the edge and quickly wrapped the towel around her middle, fetching another towel to dry her face and extremities.

"Do you think Harry would come visit me in my bathroom again sometime?" Myrtle asked. "I haven't seen him in ages."

Hermione pretended to be busy cinching her dressing gown around herself while thinking of an acceptable response.

"I can ask him," she finally settled on, "but it's a girls' lavatory and things are pretty strict around here now… he could get in serious trouble with Umbridge."

Myrtle sighed. "I suppose. Maybe I'll try visiting some of the other toilets…"

Before Hermione could ask if Myrtle seriously meant to hide out in the boys' bathroom, there was a loud, insistent knock on the door. Myrtle zoomed up one of the taps and out of sight.

Hermione gathered the rest of her belongings and tucked her wand into the pocket of her dressing gown. Across the room, the door handle rattled violently, quickly followed by another series of knocks. She made her way over to open the door and came face to face with Pansy Parkinson (or rather, Pansy's upraised fist).

"Oh," Pansy said, rolling her eyes as she lowered her arm, "it's you."

"Were you expecting someone else?" Hermione said dryly.

Pansy sneered at her. "Anyone else would do."

Instead of answering, Hermione took in Pansy's appearance. She also wore a dressing gown, her sleek black hair twisted behind her head.

"Do the Inquisitorial Squad now have access to prefect amenities as well?" Hermione finally asked just as Pansy opened her mouth again.

Pansy smirked in response. "Now that's an idea, Granger. We curb the rule-breaking much more effectively, after all. I suppose you do occasionally think up a useful thing or two in that bushy head of yours."

Hermione sniffed, already feeling tetchy about the curls she hadn't had time to wash.

"It wouldn't hurt you to try out thinking for yourself for a change," she replied irritably. "Though, on second thought…"

Pansy's smirk froze in place, her eyes glittering. "Do go on."

"As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I really do need to be going," Hermione said in an overly sweet voice. "You see, Ron will probably need a great deal of cheering up after the library this evening."

Pansy bared her teeth and took a menacing step forward.

"And why is that?" she hissed.

"Why, from having to work on his Potions essay, of course," Hermione replied with the same tone of false sincerity. "Whatever did you think I meant?"

Pansy drew back abruptly, shaking her head. A small smile curved her lips and she clicked her tongue.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Granger. You see, it's only a matter of time before you slip up. I'm sure you've realised that the Headmistress already has it out for you — Merlin knows why she thinks you're worth the bother — but I've had more important things to do."

Impudence coursed through her, bolstered by a touch of curiosity, and Hermione couldn't resist asking, "Like seducing Ron?"

Pansy's smile turned knowing. "Something like that. But if you get in my way with Weasley, don't think I'll hesitate to make sure you never see the outside of Filch's office. Or worse, Umbridge's."

Hermione only tilted her head as she thought. Pansy had yet to follow through on any one of her threats, and something told her that Pansy wouldn't risk her… friendship... relationship... wardenship?... her whatever-it-was with Ron by starting now. Besides, Luna's comments earlier, however ridiculous, had started Hermione thinking about Pansy's part in all this.

"Why are you so fixated on Ron, anyway?" Hermione asked, genuine curiosity winning out as she began to postulate out loud. "I should think if you only wanted your chores done and your homework finished, you would do the same as the other Squad members and harass whomever happens to be nearby at the time. But it's different with Ron, isn't it? Do you actually fancy him?"

Pansy's smile deepened. "Does he think I fancy him?"

Hermione ignored her. "That would make the most sense, I suppose… you seemed fairly miffed about Lavender sniffing around. Yet despite having Ron at your beck and call, you still seem to enjoy riling him up, keeping him off balance so that he never knows—"

"Are you done?" Pansy interrupted.

"—what you're going to do next," Hermione finished, folding her arms and leaning against the door frame. "Same as he does to you, I expect."

"And what is it exactly that Weasley thinks he can do to me?" Pansy asked coolly. "In case he's forgotten, I'm the one with the authority around here."

"Yes, you are," Hermione said matter-of-factly, "which means he really doesn't have a choice in the matter. Whatever time he's spending with you, anything he's doing for you, it's out of obligation and nothing more."

Pansy lifted a haughty brow, but Hermione didn't miss the way her posture stiffened fractionally.

"And he's said that, has he?" Pansy asked evenly, inspecting her nails as if the answer made no difference.

"Well… no," Hermione allowed, "he's never said it outright. But he's playing the game as best he can with the cards he's been dealt. I suspect he believes you'll eventually grow bored of tormenting him and set him free."

Pansy's head snapped up. "Set him free?" she repeated scathingly. "Weasley should consider himself privileged for my company. Without me, he'd likely be in remedial Potions already, if not failed instead. You should have seen his essay on Befuddlement Draughts — even Goyle's looked better. You'd think spending so much time with Gryffindor's primo swot he'd have picked up a few better study habits."

Affronted, Hermione straightened up. "You think I haven't tried?" she asked, her voice pitching up an octave. "I've spent the better part of five years harping on Ron and Harry to actually crack open a textbook once in a while! But they're far more interested in skiving off homework and faffing about on broomsticks!"

Pansy nodded sympathetically. "Quidditch. It's all Draco, Graham, and the others want to talk about, too. I enjoy it and all, but it's not the only thing in the world." Then she sighed, a far off look in her eyes. "But in all fairness, those Quidditch kits really do something for the physique."

"They do," Hermione agreed, biting her lip as she pictured the way Malfoy had looked in his kit on match day. Even better to recall the way he had felt in it. "Something about them… yes, very fit," she mumbled dazedly.

Pansy's eyes suddenly lit up. "Ooh, I'll bet even Krum looked buff in his kit. It's a shame he never had the chance to play while Durmstrang were visiting last year. Nice bloke, though, even so…"

"He is quite sweet," Hermione agreed absently, still lost in her mental slideshow of Malfoy. "Viktor was always a perfect gentleman—"

"Having a nice chat, you two?" came Daphne's voice from behind Pansy.

Hermione and Pansy both jumped at the unexpected company. Or perhaps not so unexpected — Daphne and the two girls behind her each had a swimming costume draped over one arm. Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode looked between Hermione and Pansy wearing mixed expressions of shock and disbelief. Daphne, on the other hand, looked between them with obvious delight, a shameless grin splitting her features.

Hermione immediately deduced the cause of their reactions as she came back to herself. In the brief moment she met Pansy's eyes, she knew Pansy had drawn the same conclusion, for the horror reflected there perfectly mirrored her own.

Pansy recovered faster. "Of course not," she scoffed, her expression slipping into a scowl. "If Granger here would just get out of the way—"

"Oh, hush," Daphne said with a jovial wave of her hand. "We're all friends here." Tracey snorted, but Daphne ignored her.

"We planned on having a late-night swim," Daphne explained, holding up the arm with her swimming costume. "I didn't think it would be a problem seeing as they're with me, but I apologise if we've interrupted your bath. Would you care to join us? There's plenty of room for everyone and we would love your company."

She asked so earnestly that Hermione almost hated to disappoint her. Behind Daphne, Millicent and Tracey exchanged incredulous looks while Pansy glared as if Hermione had personally bewitched her into civilised conversation.

"Um, thank you, but no," Hermione responded politely, affecting not to notice the decidedly unpleasant looks from three out of four Slytherins. "I was just on my way back to the common room."

Daphne's answering smile was understanding. "Of course. Have a good night, Hermione."

"Ah… thank you. You as well," Hermione said, careful to maintain eye contact with only Daphne. Then she stepped out of the doorway and hurried down the corridor without looking back.

After changing into her pyjamas, Hermione decided a bit of knitting ought to take her mind off of her strange encounter this evening. She grabbed her supplies and settled into one of the squashy armchairs in front of the crackling fire, still cosy despite the unwelcome watcher on the far wall. Crookshanks obviously agreed, curling up in her lap as she set the needles to work.

"Whatcha makin' there, Hermione?" Ron asked, dropping onto the sofa next to her. Harry and Ginny sat on either side of him. They must have all come back from the library together.

"Scarf," she replied, keeping her eyes on the needles. She flicked her wand slightly to adjust the size of her stitches as she turned over a new row. "I thought it'd be nice to send Arabella something homemade for Christmas."

"If you're taking requests, I could use a new scarf, too," Ron said. "Mine's got essence of Parkinson all over it." He wrinkled his nose.

Hermione looked at him then. "I mean, you did give it to her, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah…"

"And she eventually returned it, which is more than you had a right to expect."

Ron shrugged. "I guess, but who knows where it's been. Though Parkinson's neck is probably the worst place I can think of…"

"You didn't seem to mind so much when she wore it to the first match," Harry grudgingly pointed out.

"Of course not," Ron said defensively, "how could I mind if she wants to make a complete fool of herself in front of her whole House? Especially with what she's been putting me through this year."

Ginny's lips quirked mischievously. "I guess you won't mind if I borrow it then? Of course, you'll have to fetch it from under your pillow first…"

"How did—" Ron broke off with a fierce blush. "Use your own," he snapped to Ginny, who was now doubled over with laughter. Harry watched her with a small smile.

Hermione eyebrows shot up. She was loath to admit that there could be truth in anything that came out of Luna's mouth, but there was definitely something odd about the whole situation. It certainly didn't change the fact that Pansy abused her position on the Inquisitorial Squad to control Ron.

Before Ginny had recovered, Harry took pity on Ron and changed the subject.

They passed a pleasant remainder of the evening, chatting and laughing while the common room slowly emptied around them. Hermione completed her scarf in record time. She inspected her work, overall satisfied with the finished product. At this rate, she might have time to make a few more as Christmas presents. She hadn't really considered it before, but there was plenty of time to owl order a few additional skeins of yarn, perhaps even a few in emerald and silver…

After the third yawn in a row cracked her jaw open, Hermione gave in to the pull of her four-poster. Sensing her intentions, Crookshanks hopped off of her lap to land lightly in front of the hearth. He immediately dropped low into a long, lazy stretch, bottlebrush tail held high and outstretched claws sinking deeply into the well-worn rug.

"I'm off to bed," Hermione announced thickly through a fourth yawn. She took a step towards the staircase before stopping to look over her shoulder. "By the way, you all might want to keep an eye out for Myrtle hiding in the other toilets throughout the castle. Especially you, Harry — Myrtle seemed particularly distraught that you haven't visited her recently. Anyway, good night, everyone."

She only caught a glimpse of Harry's horrified expression before retreating to her dormitory, but at least she'd remembered to warn him.

Hermione caught up with Malfoy after Arithmancy the next afternoon. He'd spent the lesson with his leg pressed against hers, smirking suggestively whenever she'd made eye contact. As soon as class dismissed, they pretended to go their separate ways, only to circle back into the now-empty classroom.

"You have got to let me pay attention," she scolded as she tapped her wand on the door handle to lock it. One of the handier spells she'd run across in her research on whatever held the vanishing cabinet closed. "Exams are coming up soon and ooomf—" Hermione had turned around only to be pressed back against the door, his lips crashing into hers.

Several minutes of relentless snogging left her rather breathless, but she finally remembered what she'd wanted to discuss.

"So what did—ahh—what did Snape want last night?"

Malfoy's nose grazed the underside of her jaw as he pulled back to look at her.

"Translation," he said. "Part of that Galpalott text was in French."

He promptly dove back to where he'd left off. She let her head fall back against the door, sighing with contentment.

"Couldn't he have used the translator in the library?" she asked a moment later.

He made an indistinct noise in his throat, bringing his mouth up to press several soft kisses against her lips before answering.

"I think…" he said, straightening up, "I think he probably doesn't want anyone else to know what he's doing, yeah?"

Hermione brushed a few fallen wisps of hair out of her eyes. "Why? What did you learn?"

Malfoy smiled thinly. "For one, he made it quite clear that I was not to repeat anything I heard or saw. I think his exact words were 'should this fall into the wrong hands, we will both be beyond help'. I swear, if he hadn't known I'd flat out refuse, he'd have probably asked for an Unbreakable Vow."

"Oh," Hermione said, nibbling her lip as she processed that information. She was burning with curiosity to discover whatever Snape was about, but this sounded serious. If Malfoy wasn't comfortable…

"Lathyrus sprigs," he said suddenly, watching her reaction carefully.

"What—" An ingredient. Hermione shook her head slowly. "Malfoy, you don't have to—"

"Ostrich feather," he continued, still watching her. "Boiled sneezewort. Eye of raven, harvested from a beast perishing of natural causes when Saturn is at its weakest position. Dried sage. Powdered valerian root. And lastly, there was something called black mirror. That's all I can remember of the recipe."

Hermione's brow furrowed. She recognised several of the ingredients, but she couldn't think of a single potion that used all of them.

"Did you research potential recipes that combine any of those?" she asked.

He dipped his head. "Naturally. Nothing I came across in our textbook used more than one or two. And it's not a complete list. As for instructions, I've got even less. Only that the final potion requires stewing under a new moon."

"That's still quite a lot to go on," she replied, smiling encouragingly. "Will Snape need you to translate again in the future?"

Malfoy was already shaking his head. "He barely needed my help this time — there was very little to translate. If I'd known it would take all of twenty minutes, I wouldn't have called off our practice session." He sighed. "If only I'd taken a good look through that book before handing it off yesterday…"

Hermione brushed her fingertips against the back of his hand. "You couldn't have known. We don't even know for sure that this has anything to do with Theo."

Malfoy's only response was a slight downturn of the lips. Seemingly lost in thought, he turned his palm up, catching her fingers and threading them through his own. She looked down at where their hands now joined and a different sort of warmth bloomed. Something slow and full and consuming. It began with their entwined fingers and moved steadily upwards, residing in her chest like some kind of molten talisman. Somehow this felt more personal… more intimate… than anything else yet between them.

Complacent to wait, she let the silence stretch.

"I just have a feeling," he said finally, worry still etching his brow. "This has something to do with Theo. He seems worse every day. And I can't not… I can't let him—" he broke off, jaw tightening as he cast his eyes to the floor.

Her heart clenched painfully at Malfoy's forlorn expression. She nodded sympathetically, squeezing his hand.

"I'm sure Snape has it under control," she replied softly, looking to put him at ease, "but we'll do whatever we can to help, even if that's just figuring out what's going on in the first place."

She hummed in thought, her mind beginning to turn over the possibilities. "I haven't heard of one or two of those ingredients, but I know of a few more places to check. Starting with the library, of course. There's bound to be something helpful in the Restricted Section if not elsewhere, but getting a signed note this year might prove next to impossible... Perhaps Professor Vector would be amenable. I know for a fact there's a text on alternative Hebraic numerology that was deemed too contentious when the Pardes Rimonim expounded on the existing—"

Hermione's rambling was cut short when Malfoy leaned in to capture her mouth once more, effectively silencing her. Keeping her hand locked in his, she enjoyed several seconds of languorous snogging before he pulled back with a smirk.

"If anyone can figure it out, it'll be you, Granger."

She smiled up at him easily, pleased to have achieved her goal.

"For now," he added, "might be best to be on time for dinner, yeah? Umbridge's got even more help around to 'keep the order' as she likes to say."

Then, under his breath he muttered, "Another sodding Weasley…"

She outright grinned at him.

Hermione picked at her dinner anyway, the usual dread curdling her stomach as it always did before Runcorn's class. Harry and Ron gave her apologetic looks as she stood to meet Dean for their trek to the fifth floor.

"Bets on today?" Dean asked with a wry laugh. "Nosh or tosh?"

It was their routine now to predict whether or not Runcorn would actually be teaching something of use, or if he would be back with more transparent attempts to study Muggleborns as part of the Ministry's schemes.

Hermione twisted her lips, dragging her feet up another staircase. "Considering the last few have been mildly useful, I'm betting on the latter."

It wasn't often that she hated to be right.

"Today," Runcorn said in that deep, booming voice of his, "we'll be working on a very important assignment, handed down from Madam Umbridge herself. We have discussed magical signatures in-depth, and special permission has been granted from the Minister so that you may have the privilege to study the properties of your own."

Runcorn clicked open the briefcase lying across his desk and removed several odd-looking instruments. As she watched, one of the golden, box-like devices began whirring, its tiny gears coming to life with a low-pitched hum. Another, a silver chalice of sorts, glittered faintly in the torchlight.

Hermione's growing unease over these unfamiliar instruments overpowered her usual desire to keep a low profile. Her hand shot into the air. "Sir, what exactly are—"

"All questions will be held until the end of class," Runcorn said without looking up. He continued to arrange several more identical golden boxes into a neat row behind the one that was already in motion. Enough for each person in the class, she'd wager. As the last box was placed, he stepped back to appreciate his work, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard between thick fingers.

"Wands out," he ordered curtly. "Form a line in front of my desk."

Chairs began scraping across the floor as most of the younger students jumped to comply. Hermione traded nervous looks with Dean and Justin on the other side of him before slowly following suit. She couldn't yet say why this was more frightening than the usual exercises, only that it was.

In her distracted state, she accidentally bumped into Roger Davies, who looked rather pale and appeared to motion her ahead without really seeing her. She, Dean, and Justin weren't the only ones on edge about this assignment, then.

Runcorn had them each perform a series of simple charms into the chalice — nothing above first-year level. Between each student, he paused to empty the contents of the chalice into one of the small boxes, only it didn't appear that anything came out at all.

When Hermione's turn arrived, she hesitated long enough that Runcorn smiled coldly.

"We are working on a limited schedule, Miss Granger."

She had to clear her throat three times before she could manage to force out a simple Lumos.

Feeling sick, she sloppily scribbled her signature on a scrap of parchment and placed it into the activated box as instructed before Runcorn tipped the chalice.

In the end, Hermione was unsurprised to find no time leftover for questions.

Anger built steadily within her as she walked out of the classroom. Anger at Runcorn and the Ministry. Anger at Umbridge. And a good deal of anger at herself. Why had she complied? Why hadn't she refused to participate at least until Runcorn answered her questions? Surely any punishment short of expulsion was worth preventing whatever study was to be made of the very essence of their magic. And depending on that answer, possibly even expulsion was a worthy sacrifice (and for Hermione, that was saying something).

She'd always considered herself a champion of just causes, whether it was for Buckbeak, or for House-Elf rights, or even Malfoy, but in this instance, she'd done nothing. She'd failed. Guilt wracked her as she thought of the younger Muggleborn students, unaware that they were just playing a part in some kind of Ministry-sanctioned experiment.

Regret suffused her rage, turning it sour.

Halfway to Gryffindor Tower, she ground to a halt. She didn't know what could be done at this point, but she had to try.

Her resolve dissipated into barely muted fear when she made it back to the classroom only to find that Runcorn had already packed up and gone. Sagging against the doorway, her fist crumpled the remains of the scrap parchment as she stared blankly at the empty desk.

In a last-ditch effort, Hermione nearly ran the entire way down to the Transfiguration office, feet pounding against the smooth flagstone. There was little chance Professor McGonagall would be able to do anything now, but it couldn't hurt to inform her. Several students eyed Hermione warily as she flew past, breathlessly skidding to halt in front of her destination.

Empty again.

Nothing for it, then. She'd deal with the consequences — they all would — and take this lesson to heart.

Defeated, Hermione returned to Gryffindor Tower, intent on turning in for the evening. Harry and Ron would still be out for Quidditch practice, and she wasn't much in the mood for anything else after her gallivant through the entire spectrum of unpleasant emotions.

Given the hour, the dormitory was still empty. Performing the barest of nighttime rituals, scrubbing her teeth and changing into pyjamas, she slid under the covers of her four-poster and shut her eyes.

Hermione dozed fitfully, and was once awakened unintentionally when Parvati accidentally knocked over a stand-lamp while she and Lavender fumbled in the dark for their bedclothes.

"Sorry, Hermione," she whispered. "We didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay," Hermione mumbled in reply, groggily turning over to her other side.

By the time Lavender's soft snores were filling the dormitory, Hermione was growing more and more certain that her efforts to return to sleep were in vain. With a sigh, she rolled onto her back, staring irascibly at the underside of the wooden tester.

She should probably be practising her Occlumency in preparation for Saturday. It had been so long since she and Malfoy last met for a lesson, her skills were bound to be rusty. She still needed to ask him about potentially teaching Harry, too.

Thoughts of Harry turned to thoughts of his Cloak and Map, still in her possession after her encounter with Malfoy in the changing rooms. She reached into her bedside table and drew out the Marauder's Map, plucking her wand off the nightstand to murmur the correct phrase.

Using the weak stream of moonlight falling across her lap, she scanned the wrinkled parchment. As predicted, Malfoy was in bed, as were Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Theo surrounding him. She traced a finger over Malfoy's dot, wondering if he was already asleep, or if he, too, was lying awake tonight. Wondering if he was also looking at her on Theo's map.

It was unexpectedly soothing, watching the tiny dots of ghosts gliding along the corridors and those of the professors still flitting about their quarters. Mrs. Norris was prowling the fourth floor. Filch hobbled jerkily around the second. Peeves' dot flashed briefly on the first floor before it disappeared again, the troublesome Poltergeist probably off to create mischief elsewhere in the castle.

Hermione felt a surge of irritation seeing Umbridge all tucked up in Moody's… Crouch's… old chambers, but it was quickly dispelled when her eyes next landed on the empty Headmaster's study. Except, it wasn't actually empty.

Her lips parted in shock. She blinked once, twice, three times. The name was still there in inky black script.

Albus Dumbledore.

Without hesitation, Hermione threw off her bed covers and snatched at the second item stashed in her drawer. She pulled Harry's cloak over her head and immediately made for the boys' dormitory, not slowing until she was crouching down next to Ron's slumbering form.

"Ow, gerroffme," Ron mumbled sleepily, swatting lazily at her hand as she poked him in the arm repeatedly.

"Ron," she whispered urgently. "It's me."

Several more rounds of shaking and he finally woke up with a yelp, presumably startled upon seeing Hermione's disembodied head floating next to his bed. She shushed him frantically, crawling over to repeat the process with Harry.

All three of them now crouching under the Cloak, she led them past the snoozing portrait in the common room and tiptoed out into the corridor towards the first private place she could manage. Hermione held her breath as Harry reached for the storeroom door, fervently hoping the hinges were still well-oiled.

She breathed a sigh of relief when it opened silently, if somewhat dustily.

Harry's untidy hair was tousled even worse than usual as he dragged the cloak back over their heads and bunched it under his arm. He and Ron watched her expectantly through bleary eyes.

Their exhaustion faded immediately when she showed them the Map.

"You're joking," Ron said, eyes widening to the size of galleons. "He's been here the whole time?"

Hermione shrugged lightly. "I don't know. I haven't seen him on here before, but then, I was never really looking…"

Harry's gaze was still transfixed on the Map, mouth hanging slightly agape.

"Barmy," Ron was saying, shaking his head slowly, "absolutely barmy…"

"I'll bet that's why Umbridge couldn't get inside," she said knowledgeably. "Dumbledore somehow sealed it from her. And everyone else, apparently."

Harry straightened at that, seemingly recovered. "Let's go."

"Let's go?" Hermione repeated. "Go where?"

Harry looked at her as if she were mad. "To Dumbledore."

"Harry, we can't even get inside," she explained patiently, "what's the point?"

"What was the point in waking us, then," he replied irritably.

He had her there.

They crushed themselves together back under the cloak once more, moving clunkily but steadily towards the Headmaster's office. At least Filch had finally gone to bed.

"Maybe Dumbledore'll sense us," Ron added helpfully as they approached the ugly stone gargoyle. "Or maybe if we tell it what we know, it'll let us by this once."

"Maybe…" she replied doubtfully, remembering her last encounter with the statue.

Harry wasted no time ducking out from under the cloak and approaching the gargoyle.

"Er… Cockroach Cluster?"

The gargoyle remained frozen.

"Tried it already," Hermione grumbled.

"Okay," Harry said slowly, "Lemon drop? Fizzing Whizbee? Sherbet lemon?"

Every old password he knew, and the gargoyle was immovable as ever.

"Look," Harry said, his temper starting to seep into his words, "we know Dumbledore's in there and we need to see him. Can't you let us in?"

"Bit late for sprogs, innit?" came the gargoyle's gravelly voice.

Harry made a noise of exasperation. "Come on! Only been here a dozen times in the past five years. Remember me? Harry Potter? Boy Who Lived and all that rubbish?" He kicked at the stone leg and the gargoyle shot him a malevolent glare before going still as stone again.

Ron reached for Harry's shoulder. "Relax, mate. I've got this."

Ron tugged the map gently from Hermione's hands, then sidled up to the gargoyle, slinging an arm over its winged shoulders.

"See here, mate?" He waved the parchment in the gargoyle's face. "Map never lies. Dumbledore's up there and he's waiting for us. Thing is, he forgot to mention the password. I'm sure he'd be most appreciative if you let us up, though, maybe find you a nice chunk of rock to chew on as repayment—"

"No password, no entrance," the gargoyle said stonily. Then, a moment later it added, "but I wouldn't say no to a bit of granite."

Making a face, Ron disentangled himself and retreated back to Harry and Hermione. They traded ideas for several more minutes before giving up the gig.

"I'll make a list of everything they've ever sold in Honeydukes," Ron whispered encouragingly on their way back to the common room. "We'll hit on the right one eventually."

Harry nodded, his expression turning hopeful once more. Hermione was just glad she didn't have to lead the charge, for once.

Dropping the boys off at the staircase to their dormitory where they'd be shielded from view (the Fat Lady's portrait closing unfortunately woke their renaissance-era watcher), Hermione crept back across the common room and up to her own dormitory, still using the cloak for cover. Yawning, she slipped silently back into bed, previous worries temporarily forgotten as she drifted off to sleep once more.