Hermione bent with her nose inches from her reading material, shoulders hunched, bushy hair trailing the parchment. The hazy glow of her lantern was an island of light amid the dark, deserted library. Every few moments, the quill in her hand twitched readily, an interesting tidbit or promising fact rising up from the tiny type of the old Prophet before her -- only to settle back down, as Hermione scrunched her nose in disappointment and moved on to the next box of archival documents.
She rustled agitatedly in her seat, disgruntled that her weeks of searching for the identity of this so-called 'Half-Blood Prince' had resulted in the most unpromising leads: a self-proclaimed Romanian troll whisperer and an obscure 3rd-century Gobstones champion. Hermione had resorted to combing through old records of the Daily Prophet, hoping someone by the name of Prince and a connection to Hogwarts would turn up somewhere.
Piled up at the edges of Hermione's lamp light, recently rifled through and thrown hastily to the side, lay a mountain of Hermione's school textbooks, a well-thumbed copy of Hogwarts: A History, and a sizable selection from the Restricted Section: books about dark magic, horrible things. Hermione had been switching between research subjects all afternoon, thoughts of this dangerous Prince's true identity, looming end-of-term exams, and Horcruxes buzzing through her mind. A thorough session at the library usually made frightening things less scary. Turned them orderly, made her feel armed against what was coming. But amid all this stress... the war against Voldemort... Hermione's dark circles and frantically tapping leg were evidence enough that the stress was getting to her.
Was it past curfew? She wondered idly, rifling through to the next page of the Prophet and hunching over it, so close her nose almost touched the parchment. Hermione usually told time in the library by how badly her back ached, and god, did hers; but she still snatched feverishly for the next folder in the box. The lantern beside her sputtered, low in its wick... she'd be in quite some trouble if anyone found her out here at this time of night...
She rustled agitatedly in her seat, disgruntled that her weeks of searching for the identity of this so-called 'Half-Blood Prince' had resulted in the most unpromising leads: a self-proclaimed Romanian troll whisperer and an obscure 3rd-century Gobstones champion. Hermione had resorted to combing through old records of the Daily Prophet, hoping someone by the name of Prince and a connection to Hogwarts would turn up somewhere.
Piled up at the edges of Hermione's lamp light, recently rifled through and thrown hastily to the side, lay a mountain of Hermione's school textbooks, a well-thumbed copy of Hogwarts: A History, and a sizable selection from the Restricted Section: books about dark magic, horrible things. Hermione had been switching between research subjects all afternoon, thoughts of this dangerous Prince's true identity, looming end-of-term exams, and Horcruxes buzzing through her mind. A thorough session at the library usually made frightening things less scary. Turned them orderly, made her feel armed against what was coming. But amid all this stress... the war against Voldemort... Hermione's dark circles and frantically tapping leg were evidence enough that the stress was getting to her.
Was it past curfew? She wondered idly, rifling through to the next page of the Prophet and hunching over it, so close her nose almost touched the parchment. Hermione usually told time in the library by how badly her back ached, and god, did hers; but she still snatched feverishly for the next folder in the box. The lantern beside her sputtered, low in its wick... she'd be in quite some trouble if anyone found her out here at this time of night...