A Conspiracy of Books

Chapter 8 The Invisibility Cloak

A hand gripped her arm. A cobweb-weight, gossamer something fluttered down over her head. Too surprised to even struggle, she was dragged into the stacks.

"What the hell?" Hermione snapped, twisting her arm in a vain attempt to free it.

"Language," a cool voice reminded her, barely above a whisper. Stubbornly, she gave one last yank. Her forehead grazed the soft fabric of a t-shirt. Draco held on steadily, his slender form rather close under the invisibility cloak. Hermione should have been used to this, since she'd been sneaking around under Harry's for years. Unfortunately, being under here reminded her for various reasons of tangled white sheets, black velvety comforters--and daggers.

And it definitely didn't smell like Harry. It smelled a little of the stone tower room above the dungeons--a bit dank and faintly aromatic, like dried herbs and cedar. Probably he stored it with his potions ingredients in that trunk at the foot of his bed. And something else, too. Something unaccountably good--boyish, and oddly calming.

Realizing she was actually in danger of becoming comfortable, she let her arm go slack and gingerly leaned away. His fingers loosened. "So that's why I didn't see you around Goyle. What took you so long?" she whispered irritably.

"Over here," Draco murmured with an urgency that refused argument. He kept hold of her arm, but only to guide her farther into the row as the first-year hastened for the door. "Stop," he instructed when they reached the opposite end, unseen. He let go and stepped aside to create a slim distance between them. She experienced the slightest feeling of disappointment.

Draco focused very hard on keeping a lookout. "Well?" Hermione demanded after several moments of silence.

He muttered evasively, "I had to go and see a man about a dog."

"That dog wouldn't be why you took off so fast this afternoon, would it?"

"Shh!" he warned. Madame Pince was pushing in chairs around the study tables. They watched her walking along the stacks, inspecting each row to ensure all was in order. Hermione held her breath. The librarian peered down their row, then moved on to the next. The cloak shifted slightly as Draco soundlessly exhaled.

An eternity later, Madame Pince reached the exit. "Nox," she said firmly. Shadows sprang to life. The library door shut with a thud; the key clicked with finality in the lock. Hermione tensed.

"Don't worry, Granger," Draco drawled in a normal tone. "We'll be out of here soon. Unless you fancy staying the night?"

The darkness made her uneasy. Hermione had forgotten the library like this at night. She was glad for the tall shelves stuffed with volumes. Some of the leather covers were so dark that their colors matched the surrounding shadows, appearing formless, yet solid. Their barrier gave the illusion of protection against the vaulted space, which minus the friendly lights, seemed especially vast and full of unsettling possibilities. She felt just exactly the way people must have when barricaded in those coastal fortresses under a Saxon siege--a captive who couldn't quite discern whether escape lay inside, or out. At least it wasn't totally dark; the stained glass windows at the end of the rows let in an eerie light. "Really, no," she said, shrugging out from beneath the cloak.

"You never do," Draco sighed mockingly. He pulled the cloak the rest of the way off his shoulders, mussing his hair. The light turned it silver.

Hermione let that pass. He folded the cloak over and peered at the outline of the shelves for an empty spot to stow it. She said, "McGonagall and Snape know we're meeting, by the way." It was difficult to see, but she could have sworn Draco rolled his eyes.

"So," he said, giving the cloak a final shove. "About Potter."

"Right. Harry was just in when he heard the alarm. He came by to see what was going on."

"Fine. 'Just in' from where?" Hermione hesitated. "Look here," Draco jumped in, absently running a hand through his luminous hair. His gesture was mimicked by a long shadow. "We aren't exactly making any progress, are we? Clearly, we can checkmate each other all night."

Hermione couldn't resist. She said coyly, "You've left me the perfect opportunity . . ." A slight curve appeared at the edge of Draco's impossibly smooth mouth. What the bloody hell am I thinking? I'm with Draco Malfoy in the dark, locked library. "Nevermind," she said before he could reply. "Let's bargain. You want the truth. What may I expect from you?"

"The same," he replied. "And confidentiality, relatively speaking." That's it? No betrayals? No bashing of brains?

"And why should I trust you to tell the truth?"

"Well, I already know you trust me not to," he said flippantly. When she didn't reply, he spoke again, low, pained. "Granger, has it occurred to you that I have plenty to lose?"

"You'd put yourself in that sort of position?" she inquired archly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Were we speaking of opportunities?" Hermione ruefully smiled. Not to be deterred, Draco said, "What makes you think I have a choice?" The last word carried bitterness.

Hermione surveyed him silently. Draco looked away, studying the darkened floor with his hands shoved in his pockets dejectedly. His stance reminded her so much of Harry's when they'd argued in the common room that she found herself gathering her resolve. "All right. We'll answer each question honestly. At some point there'll be conflicts of interest, so if we can't disclose, we'll just have to pass. And you can't kill me."

Draco looked genuinely hurt, if only for an instant. "Kill you?"

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, Thomas a Becket at the ready, when he cut her off. "Fine. Fine, no killing. Honestly. And this falls strictly under the top secret spy category--no sharing with Potter or that lump of a Weasely."

"Fine."

"I have a reputation to maintain."

Hermione grinned to herself. He has no idea. "Okay, here goes. Harry went to Hogsmead. He only waited in the corridor to make sure I got back safely. That's when he saw you." Draco blinked, startled. Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You weren't wearing your cloak outside the library, only in it, before Goyle died. Why?"

"I was wearing it," he replied, confused.

"Honesty!" Hermione reminded him.

"I'm being honest," he said indignantly. "I didn't take it off. Not even Crabbe knew I was there."

Hermione discovered she was disposed to believe him. At some point, which she couldn't identify exactly, she had begun to really think he wasn't guilty. She studied him, exasperated. "You know what, Malfoy? Maybe I'm not sophisticated enough for this sort of thing. But how did you know that Harry was outside the library?"

"He was lurking about the doorway listening." Hermione stared, the implication, if what he said was true, finally dawning.

"Yes. And he was wearing one of these," she concluded, reaching over his shoulder and yanking the invisibility cloak off the shelf. I'm surprised I didn't think of it before.

Draco's mind worked fast. "Like a double negative?"

"I think it must be. And both of you thought you were safe."

Draco immediately got cagey, glancing behind, then through the stacks on either side. He stepped toward Hermione, lifting a corner of the cloak from where it dangled in her hand. "Quick."

They pulled it over their heads, the base of Hermione's neck prickling in warning. "Check around," he whispered, turning to repeat his earlier motions. After a moment, Hermione shook her head. "Good. Me neither."

"But if someone else in a cloak sees us, it won't matter," she hissed.

"Good point," he conceded. "Let's get out of here."

* * * *

Harry took the dormitory stairs two at a time, pressing his shoulder blades up against the cold stones at the last minute to allow Lavender and Pavarti, coming down, to pass him on the landing. They were chattering aimlessly and didn't notice anything amiss in the empty air. He waited a moment just to be safe before continuing up the steep spiral.

Reaching the prefect landing, he stopped outside the closed door nearest the top of the stair. It was nine forty-five, and he'd been watching the clock ever since the library closed. Hermione ought to have been back by now. Catching his breath, he listened for sounds from within. Light crept from the stony crevices under all the doors, and he could hear subdued voices and laughter from a couple of the other rooms, but Hermione's seemed oddly silent. He quietly knocked. There was no answer.

He cautiously tried again, a little louder. A door opened on the next level down, spilling light onto the landing. Carefully, he eased down two narrow steps, peering around the central column. Luna stood in her doorway, checking up and down.

"Who is it?" her roommate asked. Apparently Neville was elsewhere.

"Nobody. Guess I'm hearing things again." Luna sounded genuinely perturbed. She went back inside, leaving the door open.

Harry returned to Hermione's door. He scratched at its surface. When that elicited no response, he tried the curved handle. The latch clicked. The door swung open a few inches. Guiltily, Harry paused. He'd never been in Hermione's room uninvited. It felt like grand treachery.

Using his fingertips, he cautiously pushed until the door was ever so slightly ajar. Her bed was neatly made, the coverlet smooth and tucked under, the pillow perkily fluffed. He slowly widened the crack, poking his head inside. The curtains above the desk were open, the glow from the small lamp burning in the dark glass like an unanswered question. A sweater had been left draped over the back of the chair. Her parchment, books and scrolls were all stacked in piles on the desk. The ink-stained quill lay dry on the blotter.

Where is she? Harry slipped into the room, feeling the invisibility cloak catch slightly, as always, on the doorframe's rough spot. He held the latch on the handle until it clicked softly back into place. Then he began a slow search around the room. Harry wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, or even why he was looking.

The room felt strange without her. On the sill sat several familiar photos. He and Ron had stayed with Hermione in Folkestone before the end of summer holiday, taking along a new camera as an early birthday present. The three of them waved at Harry from in front of the Canterbury Cathedral and atop the cliffs at Dover. The last two pictures he recognized from her bedside table. She hadn't traded them for moving images, preferring, he supposed, to keep a few things the way they were at home. In one, her smiling, still father held a small Hermione on his lap; in the other her parents posed, heads touching, on their wedding day. They looked very happy. When had she brought them to Hogwarts?

Despite the fact that the photos weren't magic, the adult Grangers' eyes seemed to follow Harry as he moved around the room. Uncomfortable, he quickly checked the wardrobe, which was as neatly organized as the desk. The faded scent of lavender emanated from it. Harry shut the doors and pulled out the top desk drawer. It was filled with quills, ink, and letter-writing parchment. The second drawer contained more parchment; underneath was the hand-bound copy of The Warlock's Guide to Turtledove Oil she'd been reading the other day. Frowning, he noticed it was overdue. There were also some small scraps, one a note in his handwriting which he'd passed her last week in History of Magic.

Harry immediately felt remorseful. He returned the scrap to the drawer, closing it. On his way out, he shot a last, apologetic glance at the still photographs on the window sill. He wished he'd gone to meet her at the library, wished he knew she'd get back safe. Musing, he made sure the door was latched. There were too many questions, too many things to worry over. Harry had to remind himself that this was normal, given the circumstances. Hermione was pretty good at taking care of herself. But her absence bothered him, and Harry had never enjoyed feeling helpless.

That was when he saw it. It was lodged in the corner of the threshold where the wood met stone, as if it had caught on the hinge and then gotten crammed down when the door shut again. He tugged at it, gently loosening it. It was a small, crumpled feather, a black one. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, turning it slightly. Had Hermione dropped it? Had someone else been here?

Harry forced down a rising feeling of panic. Suddenly feeling very angry, he stuffed the feather into his pocket. His face felt stony as he stepped toward the stairs.

* * * *

Draco wasn't as good at shuffling with two people under the cloak as Harry. Hermione stifled a giggle. Perhaps his Slytherin comrades hadn't fit so well.

"What's funny?" he hissed.

"Nothing."

"Right. I don't care if it's dark, I can feel you smirking at me. A little gratitude, Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes. It was beginning to be doubtful that any of those comrades had been female. "You're stepping all over my feet. You need practice, Malfoy."

"What is this, kissing?" he snorted.

"Like you'd know," she returned as they passed an unfamiliar corridor. "When are you planning to tell me about the dirk?

Draco stopped.

"What is it? Do you hear something?" she breathed when he didn't respond.

"No. I was just wondering . . . how often does Harry go to Hogsmead?"

"Not that often, I don't think. Why?"

Draco seemed to be deliberating. He drew Hermione back a few yards to the corner they had just passed, deftly slipped in front to check things out. Annoyed, Hermione stepped out beside him. He seemed momentarily taken aback, then shrugged.

The corridor was empty, but partway down, Hermione noticed a wall-length, ancient-looking tapestry. It seemed familiar. I should check the Marauder's Map, she thought. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what it was called. Its faded length was embroidered with what appeared to be a huge, branching tree. Draco didn't volunteer any information, just stood there, as if trying to remember something himself. Finally, Hermione asked, exasperated, "Exactly what does this have to do with the dirk?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he took her by the wrist and made a beeline for the tapestry. "Patience, Granger. I was just going to show you."

* * * *

"What's wrong?" Ron asked from the safety of the doorway.

Just moments before, he'd been sitting comfortably at a study table contemplating doing that star chart--after he finished his butter beer. He'd been rudely interrupted when Harry had stormed by and stomped up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. There had been the inevitable sound of a door slamming. Exchanging a significant glance across the study table, Ginny and Seamus sent highly sympathetic smiles Ron's way. Sighing, he'd handed Seamus the unfinished bottle. There was nothing for it but to follow him.

As Ron watched, Harry vehemently threw the invisibility cloak into his trunk and kicked it so hard the lid crashed shut. He turned to face his friend, fists clenched. "She's not there!"

Ron sighed unhappily. "Harry, do you think maybe you're going a bit far? I'm sure she's fine." This was the wrong thing to say.

Harry gestured widely, yelling now. "Going a bit far! How long's it been since she talked to your mum? Or Dumbledore?"

Ron stared at him. "I thought she was going to in the morning, but I really don't know," he admitted. "Sorry, mate."

"Nevermind." Harry glared.

"Look--" Ron started to protest. Harry angrily shook his head, grabbed his school bag out from under the bed and unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the covers. Chewed quills, spell books, and crumpled parchment spilled everywhere. Keeping his back to Ron, Harry searched through them for something. Then he yanked the invisibility cloak back out of the trunk and stuffed it, along with the unidentified object, into the bag.

When he turned around, he was calm, if tense. "Sorry," he said, shouldering it. "It's not your fault. I'm just not sure what's going on." He took a deep breath.

Ron wondered precisely how many times per day he was going to have to witness the major meltdown of one of his friends. He was beginning to think he might have to request they draw up a schedule and stick to it. "Harry, obviously, I don't know this for sure, but she's likely fine."

"Yeah, of course she is," Harry grumbled.

"Look, Harry . . ." Harry sulkily averted his gaze and readjusted his backpack. When he didn't offer any further objections, Ron continued. "This wouldn't have anything to do with something you've heard, would it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well--you haven't been hearing anything lately, that's got you fretful? Like . . . well, just rumors. You know, things people say that don't mean anything."

"Like there's a murderer in Slytherin House?"

"Umm, well, yeah, there's that. No, I meant stuff like 'Lavender's dating Terry Boot' or something."

Harry looked puzzled. "Really? I thought Cho was dating him."

Ron tried very hard not to roll his eyes. Slowly he said, "Yeah, she is. That was just an example."

"Oh. No, I haven't heard anything."

"Oh, okay. Just wondering. Listen, maybe I should . . . oh, I don't know." Thinking better of it, Ron edged a bit out the door.

"Tell me what?" Harry said, irritated. "What do I care who Terry's dating?" His green eyes suddenly flashed. "Are you saying Hermione's dating Terry?"

"No!" Ron quickly assured him. "No, Hermione's not dating anyone," he said. "But I heard overheard one of Ginny's batty friends earlier saying that she thought maybe Malfoy liked her or something. Or that they'd been seen together. . . Totally ridiculous, of course."

Harry gave Ron a decidedly unfriendly scowl. "And someone's actually repeating this stuff?"

"Sorry." Ron's face had gone somewhat splotchy. "I just thought maybe it'd be best if . . . if I said something. Before you heard it from Lavender or someone. It's totally ridiculous," Ron repeated.

"Yeah, it is," Harry replied. He stood there, thinking. After a minute he said, "Does Hermione know?"

"I haven't asked her yet," Ron said. "You know how she is about gossip. Prob'ly not."

Harry nodded, a bit abstractedly. "Well, good. Probably not, then." He looked at Ron, more disgusted at the turn of events than at him personally. "I hate to upset her, but I guess we'd better tell her."

Ron nodded. "She's not seeing Malfoy," he said gently.

"Of course she's not!" Harry looked surprised that Ron would even suggest it. "We'll talk to her tomorrow. I can't think where she is now, she should've been back already. I'm sorry I've been such a pill." He started for the door. Ron half-blocked it.

"You're leaving?"

"I'm going to see Dumbledore, just . . . to make sure everything's okay. I won't look for her," he assured Ron, whose disbelief clearly showed. "I'm sorry," Harry said again. He remained motionless.

Ron finally shrugged distantly. "Listen, you are alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine now."

"Right. Well, best of luck," Ron said, stepping aside. He ruefully watched Harry walk past him and disappear down the stairs. He sincerely hoped, for all of their sakes, that Hermione knew what she was doing.