Hermione Granger was not an insomniac. At least, that's what she'd say to anyone who had the gall to accuse her of such a thing. She had absolutely no issues with crawling into her bed and embracing Morpheus.

Staying asleep, on the other hand…

Well, her ability to continuously sleep, or lack thereof, does not matter. What did matter, was what she discovered upon creeping into the common room.

Sitting at a table in the corner, with the map spread out, though dormant, and surrounded by tomes and texts, sat Harry Potter. Her best and first friend in the wizarding world. Actually, the more she thought of it, he was her first friend, full stop!

"Harry?"

The mere whisper of his name sent the boy skyward, as well as causing a book or five to slide about the table.

She couldn't keep herself from giggling as he hissed and rubbed his knee, having apparently acquainted it with the desk.

"'Mione! You gave me a fright."

"Sorry. What are you doing up? It's Three in the morning."

As she spoke, she walked over to the table, carefully examining the books.

Ancient runes, inscriptions, wards, potions, all sorts of different magics.

"I'm trying to figure it out."

"The map?"

"Yeah. It almost… feels alive, but… at the same time it doesn't. Like, when it was made, it was supposed to act a certain way."

Hermione paled at the description. She must have gasped as well, as Harry looked up from his work. Seeing her expression caused him to panic and shake his hands and head as he talked.

"No, no, I know what you're thinking, and it's not that. The Diary had living responses. You'd write, and it wrote back. The map… it's like an imitation. The only messages I've seen from it were when I first had it, and when we were all together in the library. Other than that, it's just a map."

She opened her mouth to protest before he cut her off.

"Well, I say 'just a map.' In truth it is a remarkable thing. I want to know how it works."

"Is that what all this is?"

Harry nodded, still darting his head back and forth between the map and the books around him. He pulled up a magnifying glass.

"Come look! See it for yourself!"

And so she did. She laid her hand over his to steady it, adjusting the angle to see more clearly.

"Look at the ink of the walls!"

At first, the lines of the walls looked like just that, lines. But as she kept looking, she saw what he did. The lines weren't lines.

"Runes!"

"Yeah! I've been trying to translate them for hours, but they aren't written in a single language!"

"I see celtic, sacndinavian, welsh, latin, greek, even hints of sanskrit! Why do you think that is?"

"My best guess is a sort of natural warding. Certain spells use mixes of different languages in order to make them more focused and potent, so maybe it's something like that? I know revelio doesn't work on it."

If she were perfectly honest with herself, Hermione would have to admit that she'd never seen Harry so… enthralled by anything before. He always seemed so lackadaisical in his studies and classes. It was strange to see him so studious. But it wasn't at all unpleasant…

"Right then, may I see your notes?"

"Why?"

"Because only one of us is actually taking ancient runes as a class, and I can help you understand."

"I don't want you to have to translate it for me, though, that wouldn't be fair."

She smiled at his consideration.

"I said I'd help you, not do it for you. Now let's get to work!"

The two delved into the tomes, speaking softly to one another whenever they noticed a new detail. About an hour had passed before Hermione began to yawn, prompting Harry to fold up the map and tuck it into his pocket.

"What are you…"

She cut herself off with a yawn.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, it's about four in the morning, I haven't slept at all, and you haven't slept much, so I think it best if we tuck in for the night… or at least the few hours until morning."

In her sleep deprived mind, Hermione just nodded before leaning against his side and resting her head on his shoulders.

Indeed, Harry was very grateful that she seemed too tired to register what she was doing, otherwise she might also see his face lit like a beacon. Twice over, once she wrapped her arms around his.

Try as he might, he couldn't extract his arm from her embrace, though that isn't to say he found it unpleasant. He only worried for her sake, as he knew, he absolutely knew, that if the others found the two like this, they'd never hear the end of it. On the other hand, her small, quiet moans of protest whenever he tried to pull his arm loose were… rather cute. From a purely platonic, friendly, not-at-all crush forming, breath stealing, heartwarming way.

"Accio: Blanket."

And with a whisper (and a bit of finagling), he managed to wrap the blanket about both of them, and settled into the couch.

Within moments, both were softly snoring, Hermione on his shoulder, Harry on her hair. And they slept soundly… at least until-

"Are you two absolutely mental?!"

With such a shout, the two snapped awake. And by snapped, they truly did snap upwards, causing their heads to collide.

Hermione rubbed the top of her head, as Harry rubbed his chin. He was vaguely aware of a pain in his cheek, and was rather sure of the coppery taste in his mouth.

"Ronald Weasley, what has possessed you to be shouting at this hour?"

"What's possessed the two of you to be working on homework? What even is all this anyway?"

Harry looked at him incredulously.

"Ron, it's runes. Have you seriously not looked at anything beyond our classes?"

Ron, had he any idea of the meaning of the word, would have felt "scandalized" fit his facial expression best.

"Not bloody likely! Oh don't give me that look, no one's as much a bookworm as you, 'Mione!"

Hermione herself had a frown firmly planted upon her brow - partly from the language, somewhat for the lack of initiative, but somehow (she truly had no idea why) she was most offended by the shortening of her name.

Though, it didn't make much sense, did it? She reminded herself that Harry had called her the exact same way when she had started him. So, she had to wonder, what was so different between the two boys?

While these thoughts flitted through the wrinkles of her cranium's contents, a… more heated wave overtook Harry's.

Harry was a 14 year old boy, who had grown up in a home where raised belts and voices were a common reaction, and though he had absolutely no desire to ever intentionally perform such harshities against anyone else, (the kindness and respect he held for others being nothing short of miraculous in that sense), he was still a 14 year old boy from a vocal and violent household. And like any a 14 year old boy, he was wont to act without thinking or intention. Only feeling.

And seeing this girl, this remarkably brilliant girl who actually bothered to see more than his scar, being upset by the thoughtless insults of a red haired pig…

"Bugger off, Ron. Hermione was helping me figure out something that I actually found interesting. She was much better about it than, say, pressing me to keep playing Wizard Chess, or even prattling on and on about quidditch! Honestly, Ron, I play the sport, but it's certainly not the only thing I want to talk about!"

Ronald Billius Weasley was left doing a rather marvelous impression of a fish, crossed with a ripening tomato. Indeed, any onlooker would have been forgiven for believing he might've sipped a pepperup potion, before he moodily turned about face and stomped off - presumably to the great hall, where he could be found most free hours of the day.

After a moment of deep breaths, however, Harry felt a crushing guilt weighing upon his shoulders. Not for defending Hermione and himself, mind you dear reader, but rather in the manner with which he did so.

He did not relish in any anger, nor in anger's release. But he knew that he had his limits. He had his temper.

"Harry?"

Her voice seemed smaller. He felt his own shame seem to double in weight. He really didn't want to turn and look at her… he didn't want to see those round, doe-like, cognac eyes. He was absolutely certain they'd be filled to the brim with disappointment.

But, he couldn't help looking to her, not after so long apart.

Indeed, she looked at him, and there was a hint of sadness in her eyes, but remarkably, he felt none of the cold and bitter disappointment he was used to finding in peoples' eyes.

"Are you okay?"

Bloody hell, he goes off on an angry rant and she's the one who asks if he's okay. He just felt more guilty looking into her eyes.

Though, it did fill him with a sort of warm, jittery, fluttering feeling. He might have to go see Madame Pomfrey about that.

He was broken from his errant thoughts by a touch on his arm, and he realized he hadn't yet answered.

"Yeah, I just… Ron… and I just… I didn't want… but… he said that and…"

He looked down, ashamed of himself.

"Every year so far, he's been like this. Every year, he's been lazy, and sloppy, and just downright unpleasant. And every year, hell, almost every day, he has something cruel to say about you. And I've never stopped him. I've been an awful friend to you, Hermione. And… I could probably rein in my temper."

"Harry James Potter, you are a prat, a git, and sometimes a scoundrel. But you are certainly not an awful friend. Yes, Ron can be annoying. Yes, he has continued to belittle me for working hard. And yes, you could stand to rein in your temper. I know that I can be bossy. I know that sometimes I can be a bit of a know-it-all. And you can be-"

"Broody? Angsty? Insufferable? Incorrigible?"

She cut him off by smacking his chest, then kissing his cheek.

Noting his brilliant cheeks and scarlet ears, as well as forcing down her own blush, she cleared her throat.

"The first is for interrupting me. The second was for expanding your vocabulary. Yes, you can be all of those. But, I want to tell you a secret. Something that I know about you that you seem to miss."

She pulled him into a hug, far gentler than what she did the day before.

"You are brave, heroic, selfless… and humble. And I think that's the best thing about you. But you can be infuriatingly humble. To the point of self deprecation. And I wish you wouldn't be."

He wrapped his arms around her, and settled his head onto her shoulder. Her mane of wild curls danced across his face at his slightest breath, his proximity lifting the scent of cinnamon baked apples to his awareness.

The warmth that filled him was oddly fitting.

Warmth filled his chest as he drank deeply from the broth of stewed rabbit. The forest around Hogwarts was ripe with game such as this, and it would serve him well enough until he regained enough strength to hunt a buck.

James may have been his brother, but venison was simply too damn good to pass up.

His time in the shack was well spent, in his own opinion. Sneaking into the greenhouses of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade was child's play, and oft rewarded him with both spices needed for his meals, and ingredients for potions.

The nutritional potion was… troublesome, to say the least. He was certainly no Lily Evans, or even - he shuddered to compare - Severus Snape.

Liquid sunlight, dragon heartscale, and holly berries, as well as the terribly specific, "North falling snow of the borealis."

He thought the name "dragon heartscale" was a bit of a misnomer… thankfully. He couldn't imagine having to face down a dragon alone.

His feelings regarding the potions aside, he could not deny their effectiveness. His joints and muscles moved smoothly, his skin was filling out again, gaining color, and even his teeth were improving. He didn't think it would be long before he was back to his old strength.

The soft beat of wings caught his attention, as an owl he had… procured… settled itself before him, two packages gripped by its talons. The Gringotts seal on the message was likely a good sign.

The small pair of scissors and some soaps coming out of the other were also appreciated.

Amelia Bones was a busy woman. Aside from the usual operations of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she had a myriad of aurors, both reserve and active duty, pulling extra weight with the guards at Azkaban being relocated to Hogwarts (something she dreaded as her dear Susan was among the student body) and searching for the first reported escapee from said prison. And of course, the cherry on top, was the unsigned correspondence she had received, instructing her to look into the Black case.

She was skeptical, but she did so, only to add unbridled fury to the cocktail of emotions swirling about her head. What the hell was this? No witness statements, no wand analysis, no interrogation, and no trial? The only things in the damn thing were a few photographs and descriptions of the crime scene, and a written account of what Black was heard mumbling to himself between sobbing and laughing.

"I'm sorry… all my fault… I killed them… I'm sorry…"

Pulling his wand from evidence, she performed the analysis that should have been done.

Apparation. No bombarda. Not even a reducto.

She scanned the photos of the scene, wracking her brain to find what was wrong there…

Blood. Viscera. Bone fragments. Hair. There was nothing! There was NOTHING.

The ONLY thing found of Peter Pettigrew was his severed finger. And it WAS severed. A clean cut.

But then, what does it mean? Black was still the Secret-Keeper for the Potters, wasn't he? But, why go after Pettigrew anyway? Why confront him in the streets? The running theory was that Pettigrew chased after Black… but they were practically on Pettigrew's doorstep.

So, Pettigrew was presumed dead, but likely alive, after Black confronted him near his home. Black did not cast the blasting curse. Black did not cut off Pettigrew's finger. Black blamed himself for the deaths. Black and James Potter were famously close. Black escapes Azkaban, but makes no other visible moves.

Black… was innocent.