Notes

"I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift would be curiosity."

~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Chapter One

The night was devilishly cold, winds howling a loud cry that bore perturbing similarities to the many mourning, echoing laments heard from the familiar from ghosts of the castle. Hermione involuntarily shivered at the comparison. Those winds were incessant and distinct enough to distract her from her book, which she had made little progression in. She resituated herself in the armchair, and glanced across at her companions. Harry was angrily scribbling something out on his paper - no doubt divination homework, Hermione supposed. Quite placated at the thought, she observed Ron. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing wizard's chess by himself. He was winning, she gathered from the smug look on his face.

The fire was divinely warm, a world apart from the wailing winds outside the common room. She sighed and shut her book. She could accomplish little tonight - except, that is, reveling in the heat of the fire.

Harry cursed loudly. Hermione threw him a look of distaste and decided to make the inquiry she had been trying to resist.

"When is that due?" she asked pointedly.

Harry glared at her.

"Tomorrow."

She returned the glare.

"What is the essay on?"

"I'll handle it."

"Suit yourself."

The clock chimed, and Hermione jumped up. "Ron! It's nine! We have to make our rounds tonight. Oh, how could I have forgotten..." She hastily packed up her books. So much for a peaceful night by the common room fire.

Ron frowned. "I was this far away from checkmate!" He gestured, holding his thumb and index fingers closely together to emphasize. The white king chess piece shook his fist triumphantly at Ron, who promptly flicked the gesticulating king over with a well-aimed finger.

"You're a prefect," Hermione reminded.

"I believe I liked it better when I didn't have all of this responsibility," he sniffed affectedly, standing up and stretching. "We never catch anyone anyway."

"Ron, it's an honor," she retaliated, eyes flashing as she laid her book bag next to Harry's to retrieve later.

Ron mumbled something incoherent, clearly not agreeing with Hermione's opinion of their duties.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said distractedly, scowling at Ron.

"Erm, yeah," Harry responded, looking uncomfortable.

"Mate, would you mind clearing this up - " Ron began, nodding towards the chess board.

"Sure, sure. Go on," Harry said, waving him off, intent upon finishing his work without witnessing a row.

Hermione stuck her nose in the air and walked agitatedly over to the portrait hole, and exited. Ron followed.

"Which way?" he questioned, stepping out after her.

"You take the left corridor down to the trophy room. I take the right to the library."

"How appropriate," Ron said, raising his eyebrow at library.

"Those were the instructions given to me by the Head - " she was fuming.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted before she could gather steam. "I'll see you at nine." He nodded awkwardly at her and ventured off into the dark left hall.

"Hmph." All of her current feelings expressed, she began her rounds.

Hermione estimated that she had been walking the corridor for fifteen minutes or so, when, for the first time in her approximate three months and eleven days as prefect, she encountered a suspicious noise.

"Lumos," she whispered, casting a faint luminescence.

She was a few yards away from the library entrance - where the sound seemed to have issued from. Purposefully she traveled around the curve of the hall, quite prepared to deduct points and escort a baffled second-year back to his or her house.

However, it was no second-year whom she found. It was a fifth year, just as she was. Blaise Zabini stood there, fiddling with the lock on the library door.

The small light from her wand, which wasn't enough to alert him to her, was enough to illuminate his face, looking pale in the night despite his normally dark-colored skin. His thick, black hair was haphazard, she noted, as if he had only just gotten out of bed.

"Alohomora," he whispered, pointing his own wand at the lock. To Hermione's surprise, it clicked open.

"Wait," she spoke up, before he could enter the library. Hermione was unsure of what she was going to say to Zabini, who was just as old as she was, in order to prevent him from breaking the rules. Furthermore, he was a Slytherin and perhaps even one of Malfoy's companions, though she could not recall seeing Zabini in his company. And he was taller than she, not to mention extremely imposing. But this was wrong, she couldn't let it bother her; she was a prefect and was certainly not about to allow any abuse of school rules to take place under her nose. 'Certainly not.'

He whipped around, and stared at her wide-eyed.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice higher than usual.

Zabini's face contorted into a frown - then a scowl.

"I -" he began, searching for words. "I left a note in the library and wanted to retrieve it. There's a test tomorrow," he added, tone growing contemptuous. "Surely there isn't a problem with getting your study notes back."

"No," Hermione, walking a few steps forward. "But at this hour, yes."

He fidgeted.

"I need those notes," he said, looking at the door almost longingly. "I'll fail without them."

"Which test is it?" she asked impertinently.

Zabini glanced up at her. "History of Magic. For the life of me, I'm not able to remember the year of the third goblin rebellion."

She smiled despite herself.

"Yes, they do rebel rather a lot, don't they?"

"Yes," he agreed, and regarded her warily, but with noticeably less scorn. The concurrence surprised Hermione. She blinked. "And I'm something awful with dates," he continued.

"It was 1607. And the rebellion was lead by Uldrod the Uncouth," Hermione informed him.

He released a long breath. "1607," he recited in a relieved voice.

She nodded. It was decidedly odd speaking with him - she hadn't before, except for perhaps a few mumbled words. In fact, she couldn't remember one time she had had even the simplest of conversations with a Slytherin without hateful remarks about her muggle heritage being catapulted at her at the opening and close of every sentence.

"Are you going to report me?" Zabini asked suddenly.

Hermione wasn't sure what she should do. She was most determinedly against going against any of the school rules, but hadn't she herself broken some of them? Only for an important cause, she reminded herself. Only to prevent something bad from happening. But wasn't Zabini's cause to prevent something damaging too? He would get a low grade without those dates - something she personally feared. How could she punish him for that? Would she have not done the same?

"No," Hermione said decisively. "But try to remember your notes next time - and don't tell anyone I saw you."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, and locked the library door once more. "I truly appreciate it."

"Now, go straight back to your house," she commanded, making sure he knew her sympathy only extended so far. In response to the defiant look he paid her, she included, "Or I will report you." Zabini cocked a presumably disbelieving eyebrow at her threat, and appeared to be completely decided to remain where he was. But after a moment, he must have reconsidered; he nodded at her - and if she was not mistaken, with a hint of mocking obedience. He started walking down the corridor.

"Good luck on your test," Hermione added in a lukewarm tone before he was out of earshot.

"1607," Zabini dutifully cited, moments away.

She smiled slightly and continued her rounds.