AN: I do not own Harry Potter.

Winter has now arrived! With the snow from the last few days, and the cold now, it actually feels like winter, not a weird mix of winter and fall. I actually wore my parka for the first time this winter today.

Explorations Of Libraries

Theo Nott knew the layout of the library within his father's house. He knew the squeaky board that ran the length of room in specifically two inches to the right of the end of the window, the worn and sharp corners on each shelf, the various drawers of the desk in front of the window, the area where his favorite books resided. He also knew the placement of each genre of book and where they were located on the shelves. It was because of how well he thought he knew this library that he was absolutely stunned one day when he got a sliver, pulled it out, held his shirt tightly to it to form a scab if there was any bleeding, and not believing it was bleeding seeing he didn't see any in the few seconds he watched the wound aft, and touched one of the sides of the bookshelf, and things changed.

The library shifted, lengthening to double the size. It wasn't any less crowded, as more bookshelves with more books, another window with another desk, and nothing was doubled. There were books here he had never heard of before, never mind seen. The second desk was clearly abandoned after an intensive amount of study, as the books piled on the desk were clearly on a specific subject and one of the rough drafts of whatever assignment it was was sitting there on the floor, clearly abandoned. A crumpled ball of paper lay beside it, assumably another previous draft that the wording would not work. The light of the window had bleached the cover of the books where they were in the rays of light coming from the window. It lacked, however, any dust. It was dusted as well as the library had been before the shift.

Whoever the previous writer was, the house elves knew not to touch whatever they were working on, even so many years later.

It made Theo curious. He wanted to know what was so important that the writer wouldn't let the house elves clean it up.

He picked up both papers, smoothed them out on the desk before him, and skimmed them to see if he could tell who the writer was. The assignment wasn't in his father's handwriting, but it either had to be a trusted classmate of his father's, given that it looked to be an essay in the same style as he himself was currently using in his assignments, or that it was his mother's, or his father's handwriting had significantly changed. It also had corrections done in different handwriting, another one that he didn't recognize. The nature of the assignment was intriguing, however.

He reached out to the top book, and when there was no reaction, picked it up and put it on top of the other one he was wanting to take to his room to read, and tucked the two pages he had picked off the floor between the books. The second page he had roughly smoothed out while skimming the first one.

He was decided to head out, to start studying what the mystery writer was writing about, and to see if based on what he knew and the literature he had, if he came up with the same conclusion as the mystery writer.

He had reached the creaky board that he knew so well when he felt the library shift around him again. The library shrunk to it's previous state, hiding what had been hidden before.

Theo looked for that spot where he had touched the bookshelf when everything moved, and found the tiny blood spot. He looked his hands over, saw the slow dribble, and the spot on the book he was holding, and wrapped the tiny bloody injury within his robe, and used his other sleeve to rub the spot off.

His father was very persnickety over not getting blood on the furniture, so Theo had been overly zealous of not getting any of that fluid on any of the furniture as young boy. He had thought there was no bleeding, that was why he had made the mistake in the first place. Now he had a mystery.

First off, he was taking his small pile of treasure to his room, to put nicely on his bedside table. After that, he had to be at the dining room for supper, and only after the small evening routine was over that he allowed himself to relax and act on the excitement of a new mystery. First off, he was going into his keep sake box to find the last letter he had from his mother, to compare handwriting.

Then he wrote a note.

Draco Malfoy knew about the hidden library at his manor. Unlike Nott's, his was hidden behind a false wall that all family members were keyed into once they reached a certain age. Nott had sent him a note, and he was going to research what he could in his own library.

Hermione watched her best friend scrub the mold off the windowsill. It was messy, and Harry was having to rinse his rag thoroughly after each use to avoid spreading the brown gunk that was surprisingly water solvent. It just spread everywhere like a gross paint. Not that it was any worse or better than cleaning up Dudley's room when Aunt Petunia got tired of the state her son left his room and dumped the job onto her nephew.

"Harry, have you noticed that the attack pajamas have been easily taken care of since we fed the house?"

"Huh?"

"It's just, it may just be me, but I think last time I triggered a pair of those pajamas that they didn't hold long, and didn't require multiple people to keep them from choking me. I mean, part of it could be skill by now, but I think part of it isn't."

"Hmmm."

"Harry, sometimes I really wonder why on earth Voldemort attacked you. I get him trying to kill you since you survived him attacking you multiple times, but why did he attack you in the first place? Did anyone tell you why?"

"No, why are you asking?"

"I'm just saying that, yes, the Death Eaters took out strategic people who were good at fighting them back, such as Ron's uncles and Neville's parents, but those were adults. Why in the world would a person who goes after known fighters and strategic hits suddenly veer sideways and try to kill you? I mean, they didn't kill Susan, and Neville's not in St. Mungo's in the same condition of his parents. Do you see what I'm asking?"

"Cedric? Why do you think he tried to kill him?"

"He's a seventeen year old wizard who knew enough for the Cup to count him a viable contestant against the other schools, including Durmstrang who has a darker atmosphere."

"You think he was trying to keep himself safe from someone that he couldn't go against in that state yet. Cedric probably would have killed him if he just came across a gross looking baby Voldemort."

"Do you understand?"

"I guess so. Maybe Sirius knows? I would assume, since dementors take the happy memories, that he would remember a sad one. Unless, relief would count as a happy memory and he lost it for the same reason that I am assuming he remembered. Should we go bug him after this room?"

"Sure, I'm sure we both need to stretch after this anyway."