Haunted

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains of Draco’s bedroom, casting a golden glow over the room’s elegant furnishings. Hermione stirred first, her eyes fluttering open to the warmth of Draco’s body beside her. His arm was lazily draped over her waist, his hair a tousled mess from sleep, a few strands falling into his peaceful face. She allowed herself a moment to simply watch him—how the usual sharpness of his features softened in slumber, his expression unguarded.

When she shifted slightly, Draco instinctively tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer with a sleepy grumble, his face nuzzling the curve of her neck.

A knock at the door interrupted the quiet.

"Master Draco," Mimsy’s voice came hesitantly from the other side. "Breakfast will be ready in half an hour."

Draco groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow—and into her hair. "Tell them we’re dead," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

Hermione chuckled softly, pushing at his shoulder. "Come on, we should get up. We already stayed longer than we planned, and I can only imagine what your parents think about us sharing a room last night…"

Draco cracked one eye open, smirking. "If they have a problem with it, they’re welcome to keep that opinion to themselves. Besides, how am I supposed to get up when you’re right here? It’s hardly fair. We could just stay in bed all day. Problem solved."

Hermione rolled her eyes, tugging the blanket off him with a dramatic flourish. "Yes, and how lovely would it be to have your mother or father knocking next, instead of Mimsy?"

With a resigned sigh, he flopped onto his back, stretching like a lazy cat. "Fine, fine. But only because I’d like to witness the rare spectacle of my mother attempting civility two meals in a row. It’s like spotting a unicorn."

Hermione snorted, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him. "You’re terrible."

He caught it effortlessly with one hand, grinning. "And yet, here you are. Sharing my bed. Clearly, I’m doing something right."

The dining room was just as formal as it had been the night before, though the morning light made it seem a little less imposing. The long mahogany table gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted sconces, and the faint aroma of fresh bread and tea lingered in the air. Narcissa and Lucius were already seated when Draco and Hermione arrived, their expressions composed but not unkind.

"Good morning," Narcissa greeted, her gaze lingering on Hermione for just a moment longer than necessary. "I trust you slept well."

"Very well, thank you," Hermione replied quickly, as Draco pulled out her chair.

Not missing a beat, Draco smirked and said, "Exceptionally well, thank you. Though I think Hermione stole all the covers."

Hermione arched a brow, sliding into her seat with an amused smirk. "I wouldn’t have needed them if someone hadn’t insisted on sleeping in a room the same degree as the Arctic Circle."

Lucius lowered his Daily Prophet slightly, his brow arching just enough to convey his disapproval—or curiosity—but he said nothing.

Narcissa’s expression remained impeccably neutral, though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested she was more amused than she’d admit.

Draco reached for a cup of tea, clearly pleased with himself. "It’s a delicate balance, really. But we managed."

Hermione nudged him under the table, fighting back a laugh. "Barely."

Lucius folded the paper with deliberate precision and set it aside. His gaze drifted over them, cool and assessing, as if cataloguing more than merely observing. "I see your brief visit has become… less brief."

Draco reached for his cup of tea, entirely unfazed. "Yes, well, the library tends to be rather captivating—much like the company."

Hermione bit back a smile, stirring her tea with deliberate calm. Narcissa’s lips twitched in faint amusement as she spread butter across a scone with precise, practiced strokes. "I expected as much," she said smoothly. "The library holds more than knowledge—it holds intention. Some of it reveals itself only to those who know how to look."

Lucius tapped the folded newspaper with a single finger, the sound sharp against the polished table. "On the subject of knowledge," he drawled, his gaze flicking briefly to Hermione, "there was an interesting article in the Prophet this morning—discussing recent developments in potion-making. It appears Wolfsbane has attracted renewed interest. Remarkable timing, wouldn’t you agree?"

Hermione set her cup down carefully, her curiosity sharpening. "I recall reading something similar a few months ago. There’s been ongoing speculation about refining the potion, but consistent breakthroughs have been… elusive."

Narcissa’s interest sharpened, her cool gaze lingering. "And is that what you and Draco are working on?"

Hermione nodded, her posture straightening slightly with the familiar comfort of academic discussion. "Yes, actually. Our goal is to refine its composition—enhancing both its stability and efficacy. We’ve developed several hypotheses regarding ingredient interactions, particularly concerning the wolfsbane’s volatile properties. The research we’ve uncovered in the library has provided invaluable context, especially in cross-referencing potion stabilization techniques from older, less conventional sources."

Lucius arched a brow at Draco, his tone faintly mocking. "Diversifying your interests, are you? I suppose even potion projects can be… strategic investments. Some pay dividends beyond the cauldron."

Draco smirked, unbothered, reaching for his tea with deliberate ease. "Not all investments can be saved in a vault. Sometimes it’s an investment in your fellow man, your mind…" He cast a sideways glance at Hermione, his smirk deepening. "And occasionally, in exceptionally brilliant company. Returns are promising so far."

Hermione felt heat rise to her cheeks, though she masked it with a sip of tea and an arched brow that dared Draco to keep talking.

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened slightly, the faintest hint of a knowing smile ghosting at the corner of her lips before she composed herself. "If you truly wish to understand Wolfsbane, you will need more than Severus’s notes. His knowledge was extensive, yes, but potion-making requires intuition as well. Precision alone is rarely enough."

Draco arched an eyebrow, his smirk lingering. "Are you implying I lack intuition, Mother?"

Narcissa didn’t miss a beat. "I’m merely suggesting that Hermione’s contributions may prove invaluable in more ways than one."

Hermione met Narcissa’s gaze without flinching, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I do think Draco’s intuition is spot on, but he does lack… creativity sometimes." She cast Draco a sideways glance, her smirk widening. "And I agree. That’s often where the breakthroughs happen—beyond the textbook."

Draco let out a soft scoff, feigning offense. "I’ll have you know, my creativity is simply selective. I prefer to save it for truly worthy endeavors."

"Like charming your way through breakfast?" Hermione quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Narcissa gave a slight nod, the faintest glimmer of approval flickering in her eyes as she reached for her tea. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice cool and measured. She paused, fingers delicately resting on the cup’s rim. "I may have something that could aid you—an old correspondence of Severus’s. Unpublished theories, notes he didn’t include in his formal journals. I’ll have Mimsy retrieve it after breakfast."

Lucius, who had been quietly observing with a faint air of detachment, set down his cup with a soft clink. "Severus rarely shared his more… experimental work. If he entrusted it to you, it must be significant."

"Or dangerous," Draco muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from his mother.

Hermione’s curiosity piqued, her mind already racing through possibilities. She whispered back to him, "Dangerous or not, it could be the missing piece we’ve been looking for."

Draco’s smirk returned, his voice laced with amusement. "Granger’s idea of fun—risking life and limb for academic glory."

Hermione shot him a wry smile. "Well, bravery is a Gryffindor requirement. Someone has to balance out all that Slytherin self-preservation."

Narcissa sipped her tea, her gaze cool but sharp as she spoke directly to Hermione. "Bravery without wisdom is just recklessness. Fortunately, you seem to possess both—or at least enough to manage my son."

Her eyes lingered on Draco for the briefest moment—a flicker of something softer beneath her composed exterior. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced once more by her practiced elegance, but Hermione didn’t miss it.

Lucius gave a faint hum of disapproval, swirling his tea lazily. "Bravery and recklessness often wear the same face—until the consequences arrive."

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh. "Is this a coordinated effort?"

Hermione bit back a grin. "I’d say it’s more of a natural consequence."

As his mother returned her attention to breakfast, Draco leaned closer to Hermione, his voice low and conspiratorial. "We are officially in my mother’s good graces. Try not to get used to it."

Hermione nudged him under the table, her lips twitching with a barely contained smile. "Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it," she whispered back, her smile sharp. "But I’ll be sure to add it to the list of my accomplishments—right under ‘survived seven years of Draco Malfoy’s ego.’"

Draco stood, offering his hand to Hermione with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, Granger? Time to risk life and limb—academically, of course."

Hermione rolled her eyes but took his hand anyway, her fingers warm against his. "Lead the way, Malfoy. Try not to trip over your own ego."

Back in the library, Narcissa guided them to a lesser-known section—one Hermione hadn’t yet explored. She pulled a slim volume from the shelf and handed it to her.

"This book details alchemical stabilization techniques," Narcissa explained. "It is not widely known, but stabilization is one of the key weaknesses in the Wolfsbane Potion."

Hermione flipped through the pages, eyes lighting up. "This—this could help. Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa inclined her head. "Knowledge should not be wasted."

Draco, standing beside Hermione, smirked as his mother left them to their work. "So, should we be concerned that my mother is helping you improve a potion designed to control werewolves?"

Hermione snorted. "I think it’s sweet."

Draco’s expression turned mockingly horrified. "You did not just call my mother sweet."

Hermione grinned. "She’s been very helpful."

Draco narrowed his eyes playfully. "That’s it. I’m revoking your Malfoy library privileges."

"You wouldn’t dare."

"Try me."

Laughter echoed through the shelves.

The day had passed in a blur of research, ink-stained fingers, and quiet conversations. By the time they looked up from their notes, it was well past dinner. Narcissa had invited them to stay another night, and neither Draco nor Hermione had the energy to refuse.

After they lay down, Draco slipped into sleep almost immediately. But Hermione found herself restless, her mind unwilling to quiet its murmurs.

A strange pull drew her attention to the nightstand, where the ink-resistant notebook lay undisturbed since they’d found it. Hesitantly, she reached for it, her fingers grazing its cover as if sensing a hidden secret.

There was something about it—something waiting.

Glancing at Draco’s sleeping form, she sat up and cast a faint Lumos. The soft light revealed the opening pages of Snape’s notes. A shiver ran down her spine.

If this were a horcrux, its magical signature would radiate a cold, alien energy. She remembered all too well the distinct discomfort those dark objects had imparted on her—an icy, unnerving detachment. Yet as her fingers touched this notebook, it exuded warmth and familiarity, the opposite of what she had felt before. It didn’t feel evil... if she were honest with herself, it almost felt like home.

Driven by a mixture of curiosity and an inexplicable need for connection, Hermione picked up a quill and carefully added a note in the margin—a subtle observation about the brewing method Snape had detailed. Almost immediately, ink bloomed across the page in sharp, deliberate strokes:

"Clever."

Her breath caught in her throat. She paused, heart pounding, then added:

"Who are you?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment—when had corresponding with a book ever worked out? But also, the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward:

"Someone who found your notes."

A long pause, then she added another query:

"And how did you come across them?"

After a tense pause, she scrawled:

"The Malfoy library."

At that, the ink shifted as though Snape himself were considering her words:

"Ah. So a Black or a Malfoy then..."

Hermione frowned and quickly wrote:

"No."

Silence fell over the page again. Then, slowly, more words emerged:

"Interesting... which house?"

Her hand trembled as she paused, then continued:

"Not a house you’d be familiar with—I am muggleborn."

The notebook’s tone shifted abruptly:

"Not what I was expecting... this journal was written in December 1981. What is the year?"

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her quill. After a moment’s reflection, she inscribed:

"The year is 1999. It’s been nearly twenty years since Lily Potter died."

Almost instantly, fresh ink appeared:

"Lily Evans."

Hermione’s breath hitched as conflicting thoughts swirled in her mind—she began writing, "Yes, but eventually Lily Potter..."—when the notebook continued, its tone growing somber:

"Irrelevant... if you are muggleborn, I assume one of two things occurred: either the Dark Lord rose to power and you are being held prisoner (which seems unlikely, given your access to the Malfoy library), or... he is gone?"

Her heart pounded as she recalled: "Tom Riddle rose again a few years ago. Dumbledore sent some of us on a mission to destroy him. We succeeded... so he is gone now."

Then the notebook grew raw, its words bleeding with a familiar anguish:

"I feared for so long that no one would never figure it out. That’s why I poured myself into this notebook. I knew he would eventually kill me—which, I assume, has happened—but there needed to be a record, a resource to ensure that his Achilles’ heel was known..."

Hermione’s mind raced and quickly wrote back: "Yes, he did kill you, and without your help, we might never have succeeded. But this cannot be a horcrux—I know what those feel like, yet this acts so differently. How is that possible?"

The ink darkened further, as if echoing an unbearable sorrow:

"Do you know what it’s like... to have your heart shattered? To lose the will to live, yet survive to ensure that the one you loved most is avenged?"

Hermione’s fingers stilled. She had known pain, but never this type of soul-crushing heartache. With a trembling sigh, she wrote in response:

"No... I have not experienced that kind of pain."

Almost immediately, the notebook replied with a mix of bitter resolve and sorrow:

"Most haven't. It is a unique agony—when it comes, it tears you apart. I fashioned my own kind of horcrux from that pain, not born of death, but of love. So yes, this would feel different from the ones the Dark Lord created."

With a final, decisive snap, Hermione closed the notebook. The only sound in the room was the quiet crackle of the fire. Her heart thrummed in her ears as she set the journal aside and slipped back beneath the covers, drawing close to Draco’s warmth.

Tomorrow, she would decide whether to open it again. For now, she needed sleep.

And she would pretend she hadn’t just spoken to a ghost.