Haunted

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting a faint amber glow that flickered over the soft folds of the bedspread. The room was still, the kind of silence that clung to pre-dawn hours, suspended between sleep and wakefulness.

Draco stirred, blinking into the warm shadows. The first thing he became aware of was the weight of Hermione pressed against his side, her head resting lightly on his chest, curls fanned out across his collarbone. Her breathing was slow and even, one hand curled loosely near her face.

He didn't move at first—just watched her. There was something about her when she slept—unguarded, peaceful. A far cry from the girl who had once glared at him across classroom aisles. He let the quiet settle over him like a blanket, drinking her in.

His gaze drifted across the room, scanning absently… until he frowned.

The notebook.

It wasn’t where he’d left it.

Draco shifted carefully, making sure not to wake her. The journal was no longer stacked neatly beneath the pile of texts on his desk. It sat apart now—angled slightly, its cover closed but not quite aligned.

His heartbeat quickened.

No one else had entered the room. That only left…

He glanced down at Hermione, her lashes still resting against her cheeks.

Draco hesitated, unsure if he should wait or wake her. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Granger?”

She stirred slightly, her brow twitching. “Hmm?”

“I need to ask you something,” he murmured, keeping his voice soft. “Did you… did you touch the notebook last night?”

That woke her.

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking away sleep as her mind caught up with his words. She didn’t look guilty—just tired. And then, almost before he could brace for it, she nodded.

“I did,” she said quietly, sitting up a little.

Draco sat up beside her, watching her carefully. “Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Hermione said, brushing her hair back from her face. “Something about it kept calling to me. I… I opened it. I wrote in the margins.”

He felt a pulse of alarm but said nothing, letting her speak.

“And it responded, Draco,” she continued, her voice low and measured. “It’s not just enchanted. It’s… it’s aware. It replied. Not like a cursed object—nothing like the diary. It felt different. Warm. Familiar, even. I asked it questions.”

Draco’s blood chilled. “You spoke to it?”

“Yes. And it answered. It knew who Lily Evans was. It knew it had been hidden. It thought I was a prisoner at first. But when I said the war was over, that he—Voldemort—was gone, it responded with…” She hesitated. “It said it was created from pain. Not death. A horcrux, but not the same. A soul echo, maybe. It called itself a memory built from love.”

Draco stared at her, stunned into silence. The idea was preposterous… and yet.

“And you didn’t feel anything wrong?” he asked quietly. “No pain? No cold, no pull?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing. Just a presence. Sad. Gentle. But… brilliant. It feels like him.”

Draco let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. “You should have told me last night.”

“I didn’t want to hide it,” she said at once. “I was going to. I promise. I just… I needed to make sure it wasn’t dangerous. And I needed a moment with it—alone.”

There was no accusation in her voice, only truth. That made it worse somehow.

Draco looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once. “Okay. You’re telling me now. That’s what matters.”

Hermione reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “We need to understand what this is, Draco. I don’t think it’s evil. But I don’t think it’s simple either.”

He tightened his grip slightly. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

They were still in bed—Hermione sitting cross-legged now, parchment spread across the duvet between them, hair a wild halo around her face. She scribbled notes furiously, the corners of her mouth tucked in that way she did when her brain was moving faster than her quill.

“For someone who didn’t sleep,” Draco muttered, sipping his tea, “you’re disgustingly energetic.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Adrenaline. And possibly existential dread. Hard to tell.”

Draco huffed a laugh, setting the cup back on the nightstand. “So. Let’s assume what you talked to last night was some kind of soul echo—Snape’s version of a horcrux, but not Dark in the traditional sense.”

Hermione nodded, flipping the parchment toward him. “Exactly. It’s not sentient in the way a true horcrux is. It’s intelligent, yes, responsive—but it didn’t feel malicious. It felt… purposeful.”

He scanned the parchment, taking in her precise script and layered notes. “And you think this purpose is helping us?”

“I think it wants to be understood,” Hermione said. “It’s not a trap. It reads like a legacy. Something he wanted someone to find. Someone who could understand it.”

Hermione smirked. “Well. I am the best.”

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh and stepped back with a sweeping bow, one arm crossed dramatically over his chest. “All hail Hermione Granger, Supreme Overlord of Knowing Everything.”

She snorted. “You forgot ‘modest.’”

“Ah yes,” he said, straightening. “And humbler than Merlin himself.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her book, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the page.

“We need more information,” she said. “About soul-bound magical artifacts. Memory preservation. Non-horcrux soul magic. I want to look into ancient magical binding theory too—maybe even cross-reference with alchemy. And for that, we need—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—the Hogwarts library.”

Draco groaned theatrically. “You mean the library where Madame Pince guards the Restricted Section like a fire-breathing basilisk in tweed?”

“She’ll have to let us in,” Hermione said firmly. “We’re still students, and this is part of our advanced potions research. But just to be safe, we’ll go to McGonagall first. If we get her approval, Pince won’t argue.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re certain she’ll give it?”

Hermione gave him a look. “This is a potentially groundbreaking enhancement to Wolfsbane. I’ll make the case. McGonagall respects that kind of initiative.”

Draco muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “you mean she knows better than to argue with a walking library,” but wisely said no more.

“Besides,” Hermione added with a sly smile, “we’ve already gotten this far. You really think Madame Pince is where I draw the line?”

“Merlin, no. I think if Pince refused you entry, she’d vanish under mysterious circumstances and the Restricted Section would mysteriously unlock itself.”

Hermione shrugged innocently. “Funny how magic works sometimes.”

He gave her a dry look. “You’re terrifying.”

“And yet here you are,” she quipped, patting his hand. “We should tell your parents we’re leaving early. I don’t want Narcissa thinking we’ve disappeared under suspicious circumstances.”

Draco grinned. “You’re assuming my father hasn’t already cast a discreet tracking charm on you.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, he would dare, but he wouldn’t succeed,” Draco corrected and grinned at her. “Which is worse or better, depending on how you look at it.”

Hermione laughed, standing and stretching. “Come on. Let’s tell them, then pack.”

Draco paused, going serious for a moment and glanced once more at the notebook on the desk. “You really think we’re safe, following this?”

“I think,” Hermione said, “we can’t afford not to. If there’s a piece of Snape’s mind preserved in that book… we’d be fools to ignore it.”

Draco nodded, standing to join her. “Then let’s go chase ghosts and ask impossible questions.”

Hermione slipped her hand into his. “Come on, Malfoy. Let’s go meddle like kids in a haunted castle.”

Draco gave her a sideways glance. “That sounded suspiciously rehearsed.”

She smirked. “Muggle reference. There’s a group of teenagers who solve mysteries. They always say, ‘We would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for those meddling kids!’”

Draco blinked. “So we’re the meddling kids?”

“Obviously,” Hermione said, squeezing his hand. “And the library is the haunted castle.”

Draco sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Brilliant. I’ve become a Muggle mystery cliché.”

“An attractive one,” she said sweetly, tugging him toward the door.

The dining room was quieter than the night before. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the polished silver teapots and untouched breakfast platters like they were artifacts in a museum.

Narcissa was seated at the head of the table, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. Lucius sat beside her, reading the Prophet again, as though it hadn’t bored him to tears yesterday.

Draco cleared his throat as he and Hermione entered. “Good morning.”

Narcissa glanced up. “You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question.

Hermione blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Yes, actually. We were going to tell you—”

Narcissa set her napkin down with careful precision. “You’re returning to Hogwarts.”

Draco raised a brow. “You knew?”

Lucius didn’t look up from the paper. “You’re both still students. It was inevitable.”

Draco exchanged a quick glance with Hermione. “Well, yes. But we’re leaving early. Today.”

“We’ve… discovered something in the library,” Hermione added, her voice measured. “Something that could be useful in our Wolfsbane work. But it’s not enough. We need to access Hogwarts’s Restricted Section and begin corresponding with international resources. We’ll be going to see Professor McGonagall first thing.”

Narcissa regarded her coolly. “And this discovery… is related to the notebook?”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Lucius finally folded the newspaper and set it aside, his gaze sharp. “And you believe it to be safe?”

Draco bristled slightly, but Hermione answered evenly, “Cautiously so. It’s not a Horcrux. It’s… different. More like a legacy. We believe it holds the preserved consciousness of Professor Snape—limited, but real. He created it to preserve knowledge in case… well, in case the worst happened.”

A silence fell over the table. The only sound was the faint clink of Narcissa’s teacup being set down.

“Severus always was… meticulous,” she said softly. “And paranoid.”

“Understandably,” Lucius added, voice unreadable.

Draco stepped forward, his tone firm. “We’re not being reckless. We’re going through proper channels. And Hermione’s right—we can’t ignore this. If we’re careful, this could change everything.”

Narcissa studied her son for a long moment, then turned her gaze to Hermione. “You’ll keep him safe.”

Hermione nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

Lucius, surprisingly, gave a faint nod. “Then go. But should anything feel… off, you’ll come to us.”

Hermione gave a small, grateful smile. “We will. Thank you.”

Draco exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Well. That went better than expected.”

Narcissa arched one delicate brow. “Don’t be foolish, Draco. I didn’t say I approved—I said I understood.”

Lucius smirked faintly. “Approval is rare. Use understanding wisely.”

Draco took Hermione’s hand as they turned to leave. “We will.”

As they walked out of the dining room, Draco leaned close and murmured, “I think that was my mother’s version of saying she’ll miss you.”

Hermione snorted. “Then next time I’ll leave her a handwritten note and a muffin basket.”

“She’ll treasure it,” Draco deadpanned. “Right after she tests it for poisons, hexes, and emotional manipulation—all of which, incidentally, my mother mastered decades ago.”

The Hogwarts gates loomed in the distance, wrapped in morning mist that clung to the stone like old ghosts. Draco stood beside Hermione just outside the wards, her gloved hand tucked into his. The familiar, comforting magic of the castle tingled faintly against his skin as they crossed the threshold.

He glanced at her, watching the way her eyes softened as she looked up at the towers piercing the clouds. “It’s strange,” he murmured, “how this place still feels like home.”

Hermione smiled slightly. “It is home. Even with everything that happened, it always will be.”

They climbed the steps in companionable silence, winding their way through the corridors that had once been battlegrounds and sanctuaries alike. When they reached the stone gargoyle outside McGonagall’s office, Draco hesitated.

“Do you remember the password?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck.

Hermione raised a brow. “Of course I do.”

She stepped forward confidently and said, “Truth and Tradition.”

The gargoyle leapt aside with a low rumble, revealing the spiral staircase beyond.

Draco tilted his head. “That’s new.”

Hermione smirked. “It changes each term. I borrowed the Marauder’s Map from Harry before break. Just in case.”

Draco gave her a look of mock admiration. “You really do plan for everything.”

She arched a brow. “And yet you’re always surprised.”

They ascended in silence, the soft whir of enchanted gears beneath their feet. At the top, the door opened before they could knock.

“Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy,” came McGonagall’s crisp, unmistakable voice. “Do come in.”

The office looked as it always had—books, charts, portraits of past headmasters (several of whom were snoring softly), and Fawkes’s old perch now repurposed as a hanging garden of magical herbs.

McGonagall gestured them toward the chairs before her desk. “To what do I owe this early return?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “We’re working on a refinement of the Wolfsbane Potion as part of our Advanced Potions project. We believe we’ve found something… significant. But we need access to the Restricted Section to validate it.”

Draco added, “And we’d like to request use of one of the private workrooms. We expect this will go beyond a typical term assignment.”

McGonagall steepled her fingers. “And what, precisely, have you found?”

Hermione glanced at Draco briefly, then leaned forward. “A previously unpublished collection of Professor Snape’s notes. There are experimental brewing methods, alternate stabilization theories—most of which we haven’t seen documented anywhere else. But it’s more than that.”

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

Hermione exhaled slowly. “We believe a portion of Professor Snape’s… consciousness was preserved in one of the journals. It’s not a Horcrux—not Dark. It’s closer to a memory charm or an enchanted journal, like Tom Riddle’s diary but fundamentally different. There’s no sense of corruption. No pull.”

Draco nodded. “We’ve tested it. Whatever magic it contains is passive—reactive to inquiries. Almost like a conversation. It’s not sentient, but it responds.”

The headmistress sat back, regarding them both. “You’re certain?”

“We’re cautious,” Hermione said. “Which is why we’re here. We need more context. We’re not planning to engage further until we’ve read more on soul magic and magical preservation.”

A long pause. Then McGonagall rose and walked to a cabinet in the corner, unlocking it with a whispered incantation. She pulled out a parchment and dipped her quill.

“I’m authorizing your access to the Restricted Section,” she said as she wrote. “And assigning you Workroom Three in the dungeons—formerly used by Professor Snape. You’re both of age and top of your class, and frankly, I trust you more than most of the faculty.”

Hermione blinked. “Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall handed her the parchment with a small, almost fond smile. “You’ve earned it. But proceed with caution. The more brilliant a mind, the more dangerous its legacy.”

Draco stood, nodding his head in understanding. “Understood, Headmistress.”

As they turned to leave, McGonagall added, “Miss Granger?”

Hermione paused at the door.

“If you do manage to improve the Wolfsbane Potion… let me know. There are people who could benefit immediately.”

Hermione nodded. “We will.”

They stepped into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind them.

Draco glanced down at her. “So. Restricted Section?”

Hermione grinned. “Restricted Section.”

The Hogwarts library carried a different kind of stillness in the early morning—one that hummed with restrained anticipation. By the time they reached the rope leading to the Restricted Section, Madam Pince was already stalking down the aisles, mid-lecture, as she escorted a student out by the collar of their robe.

“If you treat a book like that again,” she hissed, “you’ll be banned from this library until your grandchildren attend.”

The student muttered something unintelligible and fled. Hermione watched with a quiet wince.

Draco leaned closer. “Remind me never to sneeze in here.”

“Let’s just go,” Hermione whispered, flashing McGonagall’s signed note of permission as they slipped past the barrier. The enchanted rope shimmered and let them through.

The moment they stepped into the Restricted Section, the air thickened. It wasn’t just the dust—it was the feeling of being watched by centuries of carefully guarded magic. Books trembled faintly on their shelves, as if recognizing them as intruders—or, perhaps, kindred spirits.

Draco cast a wary glance toward a tome wrapped in silver chains. “That one moved.”

Hermione didn’t even look up. “Don’t make eye contact with Malformations of the Mind. It gets excited.”

He blinked. “How do you—actually, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

She smirked as they walked further into the Restricted Section.

They split up, each searching for material related to their latest question: what was the notebook Snape had left behind, and how could it exist without the cold signature of dark magic?

Hermione was the first to return to the table, arms full of books with titles like Binding the Intangible: Magical Legacy Preservation and Spells of the Soul: A Study in Magical Imprint Theory. She set them down carefully and then pulled a familiar leather journal from her bag.

Draco looked up from his own reading, his quill dangling idly between his fingers. “You're writing to Basil Sarros, then?”

Hermione nodded, already uncapping her ink. “He might have insight beyond what we can find here. If anyone understands soul-bound magic, it’s him.”

Draco gave a slow smirk. “You mean the man who declared he’d adopt you after ten minutes of conversation?”

Hermione smiled, unbothered. “He appreciates curious minds.”

Draco leaned forward, mock serious. “No, Granger. He was ready to legally disown a bloodline and claim you as his own. I’ve never seen a man fall so hard for academic rigor.”

She snorted. “Jealous?”

He grinned. “A little. But mostly flattered by association.”

Hermione smirked as she began writing.

To Basil Sarros, Archivist of the Alexandrian Magical Library,
My dear Basil,
I hope the new year has arrived gently and that the preservation wards are behaving themselves for once. I’m writing because I’ve encountered something unusual—something I think you’d find fascinating.

While researching potion enhancements, I came across a notebook that seems to hold more than just text. It exhibits signs of magical consciousness—not in the manner of a Horcrux, and not tainted by dark magic. In fact, it feels… warm. Present. Protective.

I believe it to be a soul-bound imprint of Professor Severus Snape, created not by violence or death, but through profound grief and intentionality. We’re currently researching the nature of this kind of magical preservation—how it was done, and what it means.

Have you ever come across records—either in canon or whispers—that reference this kind of magic? Any leads or sources you could point me to would be deeply appreciated.

As always, sending warm regards from a very cold Scotland,
Hermione Granger

Hermione tapped the seal with her wand, and the letter shimmered once, then vanished with a quiet pop.

Draco blinked. “Okay... what kind of magic was that?”

Hermione’s lips curved into a small smile. “Priority binding charm with a trace anchor. It’s faster, more secure… and Basil appreciates a bit of flair.”

Draco leaned forward, eyes still on the space where the letter had vanished. “You trust him.”

“I do,” she said softly, her fingers lingering in the empty air. “He once told me that magic remembers kindness, even when people forget. He’s one of the good ones.”

A quiet settled between them—comfortable, thoughtful.

Then Draco said, “Think he’ll write back?”

Hermione looked up, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Oh, I bet he won’t just write back. He’ll deliver something that smells like ancient ink, coffee, and absolutely no respect for copyright law.”

Draco chuckled. “Can’t wait.”

It didn’t take long.

Just after lunch, as they returned to their spot in the Restricted Section, a sudden gust of warm, jasmine-scented air fluttered through the windowless library.

A scroll appeared midair, wrapped in a deep blue ribbon and floating with unmistakable dignity. The magic around it pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of something very old.

Hermione reached out instinctively, catching it as if she’d been expecting it the whole time.

Draco blinked. “Did that just arrive on a breeze?”

Hermione smiled softly. “Told you. Basil has a bit of flair—and according to him, owls are far too pedestrian.”

She unwrapped the ribbon, which shimmered briefly before slithering into the shape of a cat. It stretched, flicked its tail, and darted across the desk before disappearing with a faint pop.

Draco raised a brow. “Ah, a side of flair with a dash of mad, got it.”

She grinned and began reading aloud.

Miss Hermione Granger,
You know I have a fondness for your letters—but this one, my dear, has set the dust mites in the scroll chamber dancing.
A sentient magical record, forged not in hate or murder, but through grief and devotion? Now that is a theory worthy of the stars. You are correct—it is not a Horcrux. But it is not a simple imprint either.
There is a theory, buried in the fifth circle of Socratic Memorycraft, of the “Anima Reliqua” — the Soul Remainder. A phenomenon where the sheer emotional force of a dying wizard, combined with unfinished intent and a powerful enough magical conduit (such as a personal grimoire), can result in the preservation of will. Not sentience in the full sense—not truly a ghost, nor a Horcrux—but something between.
It is magic formed not from death, but from unspent purpose. Love, guilt, obsession—these leave residue. Especially in men like Severus Snape.
You must tread carefully, child. Such remnants are often confused. They do not know they are echoes. They believe they are alive. And worse—some grow stronger when acknowledged.
Find the work of Calvis Eridanus—specifically his treatise "Echoes of the Mind: Magic’s Unfinished Conversations." There may be a copy in Hogwarts’ northern annex—hidden behind the fourth false shelf in the Astronomy spillover collection. (Tell Madam Pince you’re inspecting war-era mildew for the Board of Magical Preservation. She’ll scowl, but let you pass.)
And Hermione… be kind. If this is Snape—he was a man bound more tightly by love than hate. And he may not know he’s already gone.

Ever your dusty champion,
Basil Sarros
Curator of Rare and Forbidden Texts, Alexandrian Magical Library

Hermione lowered the scroll slowly, her heart pounding with reverence and a flicker of unease.

Draco leaned back in his chair, the shadows of the Restricted Section playing across his features. “Well. That’s... unsettling. And very on brand.”

She nodded, her fingers tightening around the parchment. “But we finally have a name. Anima Reliqua. And a direction.”

Draco stood, grabbing his wand. “Alright, Granger. Let’s go inspect some mildew.”

Hermione’s eyes met his, the glint of determination already lighting them from within. “To the Astronomy spillover it is.”

They stepped out of the library, the massive doors swinging shut behind them with a soft thud. The castle was quiet—still cloaked in that post-holiday lull, where only the diehard researchers and lost first-years wandered the halls.

Draco walked beside her, matching her stride, the parchment from Basil folded neatly and tucked inside Hermione’s beaded bag. He could feel her thoughts whirring like clockwork beside him, silent and electric.

He let the silence stretch between them, but not uncomfortably.

Until finally—

"You're too quiet," Hermione said, glancing sideways. “That’s suspicious.”

Draco smirked. “Can’t a man contemplate his own mortality in peace?”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth quirked. “You’re not dying.”

“Not yet,” he said lightly, then sobered. “But you have to admit—whatever this thing is, it’s not harmless. It’s talking. It’s thinking. What if it changes?”

Hermione slowed her steps, her brow furrowing. “I’ve thought about that. But I also think… it’s Snape. He wasn’t kind, or gentle, or particularly sane—but he was brilliant. And he protected us. All of us.”

“And yet,” Draco said, his voice lower now, “it called to you.”

Hermione stopped completely.

Her expression wasn’t angry. Just… surprised.

“You think I’d hide something from you?” she asked, softly but directly.

Draco cursed under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “No. No, I don’t. Not really. It’s just—bloody hell, Granger, it talks. And I woke up, and the book was moved, and my brain decided you’d been lured away by some creepy ink-souled specter, and—”

“And you panicked.”

He froze. Then slowly nodded.

Hermione stepped closer, the corridor around them still and full of soft, slanting winter light. “Draco,” she said, voice gentler now. “I’ll never keep things from you. Not if we’re going to do this right.”

He looked at her then—really looked. And something inside him eased. Not fully, not permanently—but enough.

“Alright,” he said softly. “No secrets.”

Hermione’s smile was small but full of steel. “No secrets.”

Then, with absolutely no warning, she rose up on tiptoe and kissed him.

It wasn’t passionate or desperate. It was slow, and deliberate, and grounding. Like she was anchoring both of them back to the present. To them.

When she pulled back, her gaze still locked with his, she said, “You’re allowed to worry. But don’t let it make you doubt me.”

“I don’t,” Draco murmured. “Not really.”

She nodded once, then turned, taking his hand as they started walking again.

He followed, heart still thrumming.

They were heading toward something they didn’t understand. Something ancient. And possibly dangerous.

But he wasn’t going in alone.

The northern annex of the library was the coldest part of the castle. Even with warming charms and the sun slanting in through tall, narrow windows, the air held the stillness of a room forgotten by time. Dust floated like motes of memory, and the silence was reverent.

Draco ran his fingers along the shelves as they walked—each tome older and more fragile than the last. This section was curated not for casual readers but for scholars, archivists, and the brave few who sought truths most would rather leave buried.

Hermione stopped in front of a shelf lined with cracked leather volumes. She pulled one down, flipping through brittle pages until her brow furrowed. “These are catalogues of magical imprinting rituals,” she whispered. “Some of them go back to early Celtic soul-binding theory.”

Draco blinked. “Why do we not study this in class?”

“Because it’s soul magic,” she said flatly. “It terrifies people. They think it’s all dark and dangerous, and sometimes it is—but it’s also… ancient. And beautiful. It’s magic tied to emotion, memory, truth. That’s what makes it so powerful.”

She carefully set the book on the table behind them, already reaching for another. Draco watched her work, the steady calm of her hands, the spark of intensity in her eyes. There was no hesitation in her movements, only precision and purpose.

It should have comforted him.

But as he turned to scan a nearby shelf, something tugged at his senses. A thread of energy—not dark, not light. Just… old.

He followed it to the far corner of the annex where the shelves curved inward, forming a narrow alcove hidden from the main path. There, nestled between two volumes on arcane convergence theory, was a book without a title.

It wasn’t dusty. It hadn’t been forgotten. If anything, it looked deliberately placed.

Draco hesitated—then glanced back at Hermione, still deep in her research.

He reached out and pulled the book free.

It was heavier than he expected. The cover was smooth, the leather impossibly dark. When he opened it, the pages were blank.

Except one.

In careful, angular script across the center of the first page, it read:

"Only truth will open what lies hidden."

A whisper—not a voice, but a pressure in his mind—unfolded behind his thoughts like smoke:

Do you seek the truth, Draco Malfoy? Even if it costs you everything?

Draco’s breath caught. He wasn’t sure if it had been the book… or himself.

But then he felt a hand on his arm—warm, steady.

Hermione had joined him in the alcove, her gaze fixed on the book. “What is it?” she asked, voice low.

“I don’t know,” Draco said honestly. “But I think… it’s calling to us.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed the page, and as soon as she touched the ink, it shifted—new words blooming across the parchment in a soft gold script:

"Two bound by truth may unlock what one alone cannot."

Their eyes met. The space between them pulsed with something unspoken, something ancient and waiting.

Hermione closed the book gently. “We’ll come back to this,” she said, her voice calm but determined. “We’re not ready yet.”

Draco nodded, his heart still thudding in his chest. “But soon.”

She slipped the book into her bag with care. And together, they stepped out of the alcove.

The library didn’t feel colder anymore. Just… aware.