A Conspiracy of Books

Chapter 2 The Usual Suspects

The alarms ceased. In the abrupt silence, Hermione desperately waited for someone to arrive. She wanted to run. Instead, she forced herself to remain kneeling beside Goyle's prone body. It was the only logical thing she could think of to do.

Unfortunately, the longer she waited, the less sensible it seemed. Several more nightmarish seconds ticked by before she realized that blood was still seeping from the corpse, encroaching steadily towards her knees where the floor dipped slightly. As her sense of suspended reality began to fragment and dissolve she fought back nausea and panic. Get up.

She rose shakily. Halfway up she nearly lost her balance, but was afraid to grab onto the nearest bookshelf in case it too was unstable. Her nerves really couldn't take any more surprises.

For good measure, she edged away from Goyle and pressed her back against the wall several feet away. That still felt too exposed, so she shifted right, out of the dim illumination from the sconces. It was as eerily silent as the moment before she'd discovered his body.

Why isn't anyone coming? her mind wailed. As soon as she got up the courage to move again, she'd have to go for help. Right now the thought of miles of dark corridor between her and aid was more than she could handle. Hermione tried to take a firmer grip on her wand and found that she couldn't. Her fingers were already locked around it, white with the strain.

She heard a noise like a shuffle in the aisle and wordlessly swung toward the right in terror, stomach knotting swiftly, pulse pounding in her ears. Nobody was there. Maybe it was just the tapestry, stirred by some current, bumping the wall. She stood stock still for what seemed like hours. Silence.

Finally, Hermione forced herself to take a very deep breath. She let her head rest against the solid stone. Her motion shifted a slight weight around her neck. The time turner.

Briefly, she considered. I could turn it back. She wouldn't have to be the one to find Goyle. All it would take was a few minutes. Or perhaps twenty--enough time to find Madame Pince and check out her books properly. Leave the library and go straight to Professor McGonagal. No, what am I thinking? That doesn't make sense. . . Or she could hide beneath the table in the alcove--

To her relief she heard voices in the hallway. The cacophony in her head ceased. She put out a foot to ease down the end aisle, back still to the wall.

"Miss Granger!" shrieked Madame Pince, appearing suddenly at the opposite end of the alcove.

Hermione let out an answering scream and then stood shaking, pale and shocked.

* * * *

Really, it was all too much, what with Madame Pince staring at her, stunned and accusatory across Goyle's still form. Hermione did what she'd sworn she wouldn't do, and letting go of her last scrap of dignity, burst into tears.

"Oh, Miss Granger, I'm so sorry! So sorry. I didn't think to startle you. Only, just-- Oh! Horrible!" Madame Pince uttered, scurrying to Goyle's side.

Too Late, Hermione thought, tearfully taking a handkerchief that was pressed into her hand.

"There, there, my dear," said Dumbledore gently. Hermione barely noticed him-- just sniffled pathetically in relief. It wasn't until she saw Snape stride in the door towards the aisle, alerted by Madame Pince's outburst, that she was able to get control of herself. She quieted. Dumbledore gave her shoulder another pat that was both approving and comforting.

He called out calmly, "Well, Irma, what is it?"

Madame Pince now shook her head at Hermione despondently. "Oh, it's no use--no use at all--"

Dumbledore gently moved Hermione aside and moved into the alcove, betraying his surprise only by a momentary intake of breath. Then he stood so that he deliberately blocked Snape's view.

"Irma, take a deep breath, and then tell me what has happened."

Hermione cautiously looked behind Dumbledore at Snape, who was neatly stuck in the aisle between them and the last section of shelves. His beady black eyes were on her; he looked extremely impatient, but said nothing. Hermione looked away. Madame Pince apparently was too distraught to respond. She just held out her hands uselessly, palms up. Hermione thought she appeared shell-shocked.

Dumbledore turned imperceptibly, still not allowing Snape out of the aisle, and redirected his question to Hermione. "How long have you been standing here, my dear?"

Despite her best attempt at composure, her voice wavered. "I--I'm not sure, professor." Then she blurted out, " I didn't do it!" She unsuccessfully tried to stifle a tide of sobs.

"No." Dumbledore replied with a firm shake of his head. "Nobody thinks that you did." He gave Madame Pince a very stern look.

"Oh," Hermione breathed tearfully. Dumbledore let her finish wiping her nose. She realized he was waiting for her to finish answering and wadded up the handkerchief. "P'raps ten minutes?" she ventured. Then for some reason she felt the need to clarify, "Since I discovered him. . .I mean. . ." she foundered, then finished, "it felt like it, anyway."

"Mmm," he replied, deep in thought.

"Him who?" Snape spoke at last, icily, directing his narrowed gaze at Hermione.

Dumbledore patted Hermione's arm absently and folded his arms behind him as he moved forward, only to be brought up short. "Severus, do you mind?" he asked mildly.

"Sorry!" Snape jumped back awkwardly, having the grace to look embarrassed. His foot had left a large, chalky print on the back of Dumbledore's scarlet nightrobe.

"Severus, it appears that you must prepare yourself. Have a care--" But Snape had already pushed past Hermione and Dumbledore, stumbling slightly over Goyle's outstretched leg. Dumbledore diplomatically steadied him. Snape stood up as stiffly as if Madame Pince had rushed at him for comfort, and then glared, for little apparent reason, at Hermione. She quickly pretended to bury her nose in Dumbedore's handkerchief.

For this reason, she missed Snape's reaction when he at last recognized Goyle. After a long moment, Dumbledore spoke evenly. "Irma. Please alert Poppy and Minerva. Oh, and we will, I think, require Argus."

"Yes, at once," Madame Pince replied rather too loudly, clearly in a rush to be engaged as far as possible from the grotesque shape lying on the floor of her library. She disappeared down the row and Hermione could hear her hurried steps scuffing the ancient floor.

"Severus," Dumbledore began quietly. Snape made no reply, but as Hermione slipped forward, she was surprised to see that his grim face was as blanched as the footprint on Dumbledore's hem.

Dumbledore measured Hermione out of the corner of his eye, then began again. "Severus, I realize that you perhaps have certain concerns. However, you must keep in mind that not even the boy's father-- or Lucius, for that matter-- will dispute that you were in my office when this occurred. Knott, for instance--"

"Yes," Snape said shortly. He gave a single, curt nod and then stepped forward briskly. Hermione noted that his white hands only trembled slightly as he knelt and reached out to examine the body.

"Miss Granger," he said curtly, the way he did when demanding an answer in Potions class--the kind that she could tell he suspected even she didn't know, "Can you describe for me what happened?"

"Well," she began shakily, her mind skipping rapidly through the details-- quickly editing the part where she had checked out her own library books. She told it as succinctly as possible. Her voice sounded clipped and cold, and she thought with remorse that her disgust for Goyle and his cohorts earlier had been so inappropriate, now that he was--

"And how long did you wait for Irma before finding. . . him," Snape finished.

"At least five minutes--no. More like ten."

"Oh?" he inquired.

Dumbledore also knelt now, his right knee resting on the wet floor, scarlet against cerise. Hermione swallowed. "I assume this item is responsible?" he said to her, gently picking up the blood-stained leather volume of Hogwarts, A History. Snape's mouth thinned perceptibly.

She nodded. "I'm sorry I moved it. I wasn't sure otherwise--who it is. Was."

"That's fine, Miss Granger. And how much time do you estimate until we arrived?"

Unconsciously she fiddled with the time turner. Professor McGonagal had placed a disguising charm on it so that to everyone else it looked like a pendant with a clear, colorless stone. "Eight minutes or so until Madam Pince found me. Us," she corrected herself. Could it really have been so short a time?

"He can't have been dead long," Snape concluded, his pained expression stating the obviousness of his observation. "And you're sure there was nobody else?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Hermione allowed. "I never actually saw any of the others leave--I--was a bit pre-occupied," she confessed.

Snape nodded again once. He didn't press her. "They'd be long gone by now."

As he and Dumbledore began gathering up the scattered books, Hermione screwed up her courage. "Professor."

Dumbledore turned inquisitively to find her considering Snape. When Hermione didn't continue, Snape also turned and blinked, surprised. He lifted an eyebrow eloquently.

"I think it's strange, don't you. . . that that book would cause such a mess. I mean, I know it's a hardback, and there's a--erm--dent--"

"Yes, Miss Granger," Snape confirmed, low and rapidly.

"I thought so," she whispered. She looked away quickly. Snape considered her for a moment. He was thinking that she looked altogether too pale.

Dumbledore balanced one more book on top of a stack and with a deft wave of his hand directed them back onto the half-empty top shelf. "Six volumes is quite a lot of weight to fall on a person," he observed delicately. Volume VII rose into his outstretched palm. "I daresay this one will need considerable repair, especially the top corner."

They heard rapid footsteps in the entrance. Dumbledore swiftly tucked the heavy book into a hidden pocket of his nightrobe. Prudently, Hermione faded into the background and let the flurry of activity that commenced blur around her. Later she would recall Madame Pomfrey, stony-faced, patting Snape's shoulder as she gently levitated Goyle's dangling form. Snape remained motionless. But he didn't pull away, though there was never any love lost between the stern witch who ran the infirmary and most of the members of his house.

Finally, Dumbledore approached her. "I would suggest that you go back to your dormitory," he said. From his post next to the aisle, Snape looked as if he might protest, but the headmaster continued firmly, "I will call you in the morning. After breakfast," he added, waving dismissively. He took Professor McGonagal by the arm and led her away to one side of the alcove.

"Minerva, allow me to fill you in. Severus," he said, turning for a moment, "under the circumstances, I must ask you to escort Miss Granger to the second stairwell--"

"Right," Snape said. Hermione winced but didn't have time to argue. He was gone before she came to. She followed him down the adjacent aisle, suddenly very tired. It was all she could do to keep up. For a moment in the corridor she wondered which was worse--being led by the potions master through the dark castle--after finding a dead Slytherin--or going back to the Gryffindor Tower alone. Well, she thought resignedly, since the situation hardly calls for eating or drinking anything. . .

Snape remained absolutely silent. The ghosts had thinned out, mostly patrolling the corridors adjoining the library. They came to the bottom of the unlit stair. Hermione glanced up to the empty, shadowy landing. It was so quiet--unusual, since the curfew had been rather lax of late. The thin, shivery feeling she'd been trying to suppress on her way through the halls returned, the one she'd had just before discovering Goyle--the feeling of being watched. It reminded her of the day she'd crept around each corner using her mirror after she discovered a basilisk was loose in the school.

Oh, honestly, she thought, squaring her shoulders. At last, Snape seemed to sense her disquiet. "If you prefer, I could continue from here." Caught off guard, Hermione didn't immediately respond. He spoke with a stiff formality that she recognized not as dislike, but awkwardness. As if he cared in some bizarre manner what she, a student, thought of him now that he wasn't standing at the head of a classroom or questioning her about dead bodies in the library. How ridiculous, she thought, and for a blinding moment considered what Harry'd seen of Snape's memories in the pensieve--how James and Sirius had heckled him mercilessly.

"Or, not," he concluded and spun haughtily.

He was three echoing steps down the corridor when Hermione interjected boldly, "Professor Snape! I--Thank you. And I'm sorry," she said hurriedly as he halted, feeling surprised at the levelness in her voice as she finished, "about Goyle."

His head inclined once. Then he departed, his feet still moving rapidly. It was hard to tell whether or not the bite in the echoes was less. Left in the dimness she wondered at herself. Likely, it made no difference. Hermione took a deep breath and reached for the banister.

* * * *

On the third stair, she paused wearily. "Harry, you can come out now. I know you're there."

"Sorry," he said, pulling the invisibility cloak down so that she could see his face. The friction made his hair stick up, she could see it even in the dim light. "I didn't want to scare you."

"I know. You were swishing the entire way. I'm surprised Snape didn't hear you."

"Oh." His tone was subdued.

She turned to face him. "Harry, how long were you at the library?"

"Not long. I was by the Great Hall when the alarm went." He couldn't resist a grin. "I went to Hogsmead to test some of Fred and George's new stuff," he said, patting an invisible pocket. "Ron's in for a surprise."

She almost smiled, then remembered she was frustrated with him. Then remembered that Goyle was dead.

"I saw him, you know," he told her swiftly, as if reading her thoughts. "When Madame Pomfrey took him to the infirmary." He carefully watched Hermione's expression. "He's dead, isn't he."

"Yeah," she said quietly.

Harry nodded. After a second he said, "The first time seeing it--when it's someone you know. . . and I'd imagine, even when you don't like them. . . " Finally, he said, slowly, "Hermione, I'm really sorry about earlier. I --"

"I know." Hermione wanted to say more, but wasn't sure at the moment if she was up to it. But this was Harry. Do something, she reminded herself.

She reached out and tugged at the corner of his sleeve. "Listen, let's get back. We'll have to tell Ron anyway." She accepted his faint smile of gratitude. As they continued up the stairs she spoke once more, "I'm glad you're here."

* * * *

"Whadd'ya mean, Goyle's dead?" Mrs. Weasely's horrified shriek was fortunately muffled; she inhaled a mouthful of ashes.

"Mum!" Ron hushed her.

"I know, sorry," she managed to get out between gasps. "My poor dear," she said to Hermione, "tell us. . . cough. . .all about it."

Harry watched Mrs. Weasely's sooty face crease with concern as Hermione relayed the details. His friend looked even more worn out in the faint green glow of the fireplace. They'd had to wait until everyone was asleep--not easily done, especially since Neville and Luna had recently begun keeping very late hours. It had been hard not to fall asleep himself, even though he still felt unsettled. It didn't help that he and Hermione had yet to discuss their fight earlier. Now, however, didn't seem like the best time.

Nice going, Potter, he thought. Got a real keen knack for the obvious. She's right, you know. He hated that little voice of self-criticism. It always managed to sound somehow like Malfoy.

Mrs. Weasely leaned out of the fireplace and gave Hermione a faint, greenish hug from the Burrow's kitchen. Now that she had told the entire story, the pale Gryffindor collapsed on the couch. Hermione had insisted they tell Mrs. Weasely. She had to tell someone, and she wasn't ready to face her parents. They'd be far too worried, and also bemused-- they weren't really up on Wizarding politics. Not that Molly Weasely wasn't a worrier. But she at least understood this world. And was aware of Hermione's extra-curricular activities, the least of which were suggesting an entirely frightening set of possibilities for Goyle's death.

"But that's crazy," Ron said. "I can't believe it."

"There are plenty of reasons why somebody might hurt any of you," his mother pointed out.

"But a Slytherin?" he protested.

Hermione looked up to discover Harry staring at her, a faraway expression on his pale face. She thought of how he'd looked in the stairwell when he started to apologize, and how he'd looked earlier that afternoon-- apologetic, still pale from arguing. The dark smudges beneath Harry's eyes reminded her of what had started the fight in the first place--her reaction to the purplish bruises on Draco Malfoy's nearly translucent neck, which he'd taken no trouble to conceal jostling his way in from Herbology.

"Harry, have you no subtlety?"

What's that supposed to mean?" he said, genuinely hurt.

Hermione let out a long sigh. "Oh, Harry. I can't be a diplomat right now. Draco's been wearing you down since the moment we boarded the train this year. Has it even occurred to you that he might have a reason?"

Ron snorted. "Because he's a wanker prat?"

Hermione couldn't help it. The smile crept out from the corners of her lips.

"Yes," she finally agreed. And you let him get away with it. Not," she added quickly, "that he doesn't deserve being called that. But, maybe, we should find a way to take better advantage of it, not react so easily the way he wants you to."

Harry just looked at her. He raised his hands, helplessly. "Hermione, do you think it's easy to deal with the things he does? Do you think I want to--well--yeah, I want to hit him all the time. Every day-- every day would be about right."

Hermione relented. Then she thought of the boiling inside her when she saw those marks on Draco's neck--like the rage inside Harry that he threw against anything he could in order to just breathe.

"Harry. I think. . ." she said carefully, "that there's more here than just Draco finding a way to rile you."

Ron shifted uncomfortably on the sofa beside Harry and placed his heavy astronomy book upright on his knees.

"What, did you come up with this brilliant idea in the library?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me, Hermione. You're in there--all the time--I didn't even see you yesterday after Potions. What makes you think you know? Do you have any clue how I've been? This star chart is due tomorrow--I've been in Dumbledore's office for more hours in the past twenty-four than I care to count--with Draco Malfoy--," the last he spat out viciously, rising.

"Harry, I know--" she began.

"NO HERMIONE! You don't," he finished more quietly, all the anger now gone from his voice. He stood there, thin hands hanging by his slender sides, lax. Not clenched. Empty. Not even resisting.

At last she said, "I only wanted to say I know--that it's really easy to see things so simply--one side is good, the other evil. But I guess I don't have to tell you that. It sounds like you already understand." She looked him in the face. "It just seems--what he's doing to you--really boring. . .

"For you," he interjected.

Hermione let the guilt wash over her, searching for her point, "That's the wrong word. I meant incredibly. . . predictable. Easy. Like he's counting on it, the way they all do. . .on what we won't see." She stopped, unprepared to finish her line of thinking. She let it swirl away in the jumble of angry, sad, frightened colors and images and words that unraveled through her mind of late. "I'm going to the library. So you'll know where I am, if you decide you need me," she ended lamely. She could almost hear Ron holding his breath.

"That's not predictable," Harry stated icily. For a fleeting instant, his green eyes flickered, as if relenting. Then they became agates again.

She watched him now, as distant and remote as the colorless pendant of the time-turner flaring briefly in the light from the floo.

"Didn't you want any, dear?" Mrs. Weasely prompted Hermione, holding out a steaming mug of chamomile tea from the fireplace.

"Oh, right. Thanks," she said, as Ron uncurled from the chair to get it.

Mrs. Weasely concluded to Ron, "All I'm suggesting, dear, is that you all be a little more on your toes. There's no telling what the Slytherin's will invent. We know Hermione had nothing to do with it. Dumbledore's contacted the Order already."

Harry's eyes focused suddenly. "Well," he said decisively, and Hermione felt a rush of gladness as she saw the old fierceness flare up in them, "there's no way Hermione's going anywhere without one of us. At least not 'til this clears up."

* * * *

Twenty minutes after Ron went to bed, Hermione sat next to Harry on the couch. They hadn't looked at each other much. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

Harry was relieved that most of the apology seemed to be over. He hated fighting with Hermione. It was like chopping off his own hand out of spite. "You know," he said, "I don't really know if I feel sorry for Goyle. Or Crabbe. Definitely not Malfoy. I s'pose I should."

Hermione smiled tiredly. "Or Snape."

"Snape?"

"I think he took it a bit hard, losing a student like that. And Harry, I think he was worried, too."

"Yeah. The Order."

"Exactly." Hermione twisted the string of the teabag.

They sat for several more moments while Harry thought it over. Finally, he spoke. "I think," he said very quietly, "that when you talk to Dumbledore tomorrow, you should tell him something else I saw, outside the library."

"What's that?"

Harry turned to face her, green eyes intent. "I think Snape's got another problem. Guess whose name I saw on the Marauder's Map? I noticed just after Madame Pince left for the infirmary.

"Who?"

"Draco Malfoy. He was in the right-hand corridor, just round the corner. I actually saw him--he had to walk right by me. It was too dark to tell, but I think-- I think he left footprints."