AN: Well, now that I've got past Act Four, I believe there is no chance of me taking the story down for a re-work. I know there were a few misunderstandings regarding my previous A/N in that people thought I might abandon the fic. I assure you, this was not my intention in placing the A/N. I don't plan on abandoning Well Roared, Lion at all. I meant the previous A/N as a warning that I will come back and fix grammar mistakes and tidy up the piece. XD.

Enough blathering though. On to the story!

xx Jess

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any characters therein. They are entirely J.K. Rowling's, and I'm kinda happy about that since I'm not stuck with shipper zealots. Cue evil laughter.

"Be careful when reading health books. You may die of a misprint."

Mark Twain

If someone had asked her that morning if she would be contemplating burning a book, she would have gasped then slapped the offender, then given them a lecture on how heinous burning knowledge was. And if she had her prefect's badge — which, unfortunately, she didn't — she would have given them a detention.

Now, she was only wondering how big of flames she could get.

Nine hundred and thirty-nine pages. Admittedly, it was a fairly large book -- although she had read and seen bigger. The problem with this leather bound book was that all the pages -- all nine hundred and thirty-nine of them -- were blank.

It was disconcerting. It was frustrating. It was painful.

And her nerves were almost frayed to the end.

It was unlike any other book she had ever seen. Bound in the smoothest, blackest leather, the book nearly glowed with the knowledge it contained inside. The book held an ethereal, otherworldly aura that begged to be basked in. The pages were thin with age, but not wear and crackled like thunder as she flipped them; the smell of them euphoric. Her fingers itched to caress the worn pages, her eyes yearned to read the ancient words; her body had ached for action of the scholarly sort ever since she had found it hidden in a hole at the bottom of the marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw in Ravenclaw Tower.

But, out of all the pleasing aesthetic reasons of her need to read the book, the emblem on the spine that replaced the title sealed it for her. A small silver circle, complete with four fading stars in four different colors.

The elusive Founders emblem had only been seen once before -- as noted by Hogwarts, A History -- when they had sent the requisite forms to the Ministry of Magic that officially opened the school to students. It was the first, believed to be the last, time it had ever been used.

And she held this piece of real, groundbreaking history in her hands and it was blank.

Hermione had always believed Fate had a sick, sick sense of humor but this was a new low.

Especially since her life seemed to be getting back on track.

The Dark Lord was dead, along with most of the more dangerous and fanatical of the Death Eaters, and the destroyed Hogwarts was slowly being restored. She even had a chance of apprenticing under Professor McGonagall for a year until she took her spot as Transfiguration professor.

Now, her life was being screwed by a book. Ron would have a ball with that one.

Not that she would tell him, for that matter.

After trying to speak to him numerous times after the Final Battle to sort out the troubles they had during the Horcrux hunt, Hermione had to admit defeat of ever having their old friendship back. Ron could not stand that she had stayed with Harry on the hunt rather than abandon him for creature comforts — like edible food and a warm bed. She had also known that it was the piece of Voldemort's soul in the locket making him irrational, which was another reason he was sore. She had figured it out and stayed with Harry while he had left.

Of course, he and Harry were as right as rain, she mused sullenly, immediately feeling bad when she remembered the stress it was putting on Harry to have his two best friends not on speaking terms. She would feel bad for that too, but she knew for a fact that it was Ron's fault and not hers.

She hadn't abandoned the Boy-Who-Lived when he was on a mission to rid the Earth of the most evil wizard only seconded by Grindewald and expect all to be forgiven with a muttered, "Sorry mate," and then snube the person who had stayed with Harry.

Hermione sighed. She must really be getting disturbed by the book if she was thinking about that again. Though she should write that down so she would have sufficient defense to throw at him when he finally did blow, which she knew he would.

"Finally going round the bend, Granger? Or is working with Lovegood getting to you?"

Despite herself, Hermione grinned at the sound of the drawling voice on the other side of the library table. She knew Malfoy's apology was due to his and his parents' trials and need of at least one of the Golden Trio's support and not because of any guilt he felt. However, his sarcastic and witty humour was appreciated when he had just caught her muttering to herself and glaring daggers at a book. It was easy to forget everything and fall into his witty banter and dry humour that would leave the normal war veterans cringing with distaste. And she definitely needed that release now.

"I would think you'd know something about that, Malfoy, seeing as Death Eaters generally require a certain mental derangement."

"One point to Granger," he said, sitting down across from her and smiling congenially. It was a wonder how a simple smile could transform a face usually cloaked in a sneer. Resting his chin on his hand, he eyed her questioningly, letting the table lapse into a brief silence. "You okay? You're looking a bit peaky."

Probably from the blood loss. She had never been too fond of losing it.

Of course she would ignore the connotations of Dark Magic she had delved into when she had donated her blood to the ancient book.

And she would certainly never tell Harry that.

And she would definitely leave out the part about her writing in it. Even if it was just runes and not words. Well… not many words.

"Fine, thank you. Is there any reason you're here, other than to try charming Madam Pince into letting you into the Restricted Section?" she asked, languidly tracing the natural curves and lines of the leather on the book to distract him from looking at the spine.

Malfoy wrinkled his nose, apparently satisfied -- and distracted -- by her change of subject and let his arms fall to the table, resting his head on them and looking to her pityingly.

"I accepted long ago that Pince will never again let me into the Restricted Section." He sighed, still looking like a dog begging for a treat. She had the insane urge to pat his head. "Granger, would you --"

"And risk my access to the Restricted Section?" Hermione interrupted haughtily. "I think not. It was hard enough getting into the library itself after the damage done to it and even harder getting permission from Professor McGonagall. You'll just have to try with Professor Slughorn."

He frowned across from her, contemplating. It was ridiculously easy sometimes to figure out what he was thinking. His face was too expressive and she had a hard time not snickering when his grey eyes lit up and he pushed his now shaggy blond hair out of his eyes.

"Professor Sprout would surely be more susceptible to my pleas."

"Your charms, you mean," Hermione corrected absently. She shrugged, mulling the idea of the junior Death Eater asking the down to earth witch to get into the Restricted Section where thousands of books were Dark magic personified and the rest were, at the very least, morally ambiguous.

"I think you would have more luck with Professor Slughorn. He's been pining for someone to fawn over since Harry hides from him and I never go down to the dungeons. Might take a lot of compliments, but at least you wouldn't have to worry about your dismal past regarding Neville with Professor Sprout."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her, though the small quirk of amusement in his lips gave him away. "Or you could get me the book I need."

Hermione smiled mischievously as she stood up, and picked up the book from the table along with her small purse -- still filled with her 'tools of survival' as she called it -- and looked down at Malfoy. He really was still eleven years old in some respects, as witnessed as his lower lip jutted out.

"And miss your next attempt at charming me? Never." She didn't wait for him to respond but headed for the exit, waving mockingly over her shoulder for good measure.

Hermione sighed. There were a lot of things in the world she could handle. Murderous professors, celebrity best-friends, rude ex-best-friends, and an E on her Defense O.W.L.

What she could not handle was defeat.

She had spent seven years fighting against her Muggleborn-lineage to be accepted in this world -- her rightful world if there ever was one -- and never had she let one foul, loathsome smear from Malfoy or one of the other pureblood Slytherins get to her. She had fought, kicking and screaming, to prove she could be just as good -- if not better -- than them. She could recite laws and rules off the top of her head and could throw a mean Stinging Hex that lasted for hours, as proved by one Death Eater, still shouting and screaming as they dragged him off to Azkaban in the aftermath of the Final Battle.

She had worked hard to rise above prejudice. And not just against her blood either, as proven by Ron's many slurs that boiled down to her inability to do anything womanly. She had thought, after proving herself in the war, that prejudice would be over, that she could spend the rest of her life being accepted and admired for her intelligence and not her womanly curves -- or lack thereof -- and blood.

But now this one book threatened to ruin her hard-won win. If anyone found out that she had failed to make a single word appear -- she could live with just the Table of Contents! -- then all her hard work and seven years were wasted. People would only see this failure and not her many accomplishments or deeds. A double-edged sword that would wound her either way it struck.

It was a bloody book, for Merlin's sake! It shouldn't be this hard to read!

Alas, it was.

Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her bare shoulders, the warm sun disappearing below the horizon leaving a slight chill to the September air. Her white sundress did little to lessen the coldness of the green grass underneath her, but she sat down just the same. The grim picture of the ruined castle across the lake made her feel small and insignificant in comparison. She held tightly to that image, as tightly as she held the book, because she knew if she imagined the perfect Hogwarts, whole and not needing her help to restore it, she would be lost. It seemed like it was the only thing she had left these days; the cold ruin of Hogwarts.

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her knees, the smell of grass, her jasmine perfume, and ancient parchment mingling together perfectly for the background of the senseless pain she was feeling. She could feel the potential for tears in her eyes, but blinked a few times to mute the possibility. She didn't want to cry. She wasn't that desperate yet.

The ridges of the leather bound book were indented on her palm, her grip making the tendons on her arms stand out, white in comparison to her dark skin; in comparison to her desperation.

"Just…" She breathed in, not liking the way her voice cracked. She swallowed and continued. "Just let me read you. Please."

He gasped and blinked a few times, staring hard at the spot beside the lake as if the force of his stare could take back what he had just witnessed.

No, it couldn't be. His eyes were playing tricks. Maybe she had just…

His eyes scanned around the scene, taking in every detail of the idyllic picture of the serene lake and the sunset behind it but not seeing -- not finding -- the one he needed to find most.

Hermione Granger had disappeared in the blink of an eye. His eye, to be precise.

Draco Malfoy started to run.

Minerva McGonagall had to be the second scariest person in the world. But with Voldemort killed by the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Pain-In-His-Arse, she had just ascended the scariest person in the world throne and was looking down on him, the order for him to be castrated, shaved, and cut into pieces and thrown to the Giant Squid as Draco Malfoy lollipops on the edge of her tongue.

He looked at the grim set to the Headmistress's lips.

Surely the Dark Lord would be more merciful.

"And you say she just…"

"Disappeared, yes," he finished when she let the sentence linger, like a manticore contemplating the eternal question. To bite or not to bite.

Or in McGonagall's case: To kill or not to kill.

"Are you saying she Disapparated?" asked the title holder for most wasted space.

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate on the grounds of Hogwarts!" came two separate outbursts, one cold and glaring and one crisp and scathing. McGonagall and Draco eyed each other in the silence that descended over the room before promptly ignoring what had occurred.

"Then she just…"

"Disappeared, yes," Draco repeated, feeling as if he were a recording on one of those sappy cards Pansy gave him for Valentine's the year before.

At least he wasn't saying, "I love you, Drakey-poo". There was at least one silver lining to this dark cloud.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley both had identical, confused frowns on their faces but still managed to glare at him suspiciously. Seven years had the two boys in tandem, it seemed.

If only they had latched onto some of Granger's brains.

"How do we know you're not in on…" Weasley waved his arm vaguely, searching for a word that would undoubtedly never come to him.

"How do we know this isn't some trick?" Potter asked as Weasley floundered, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at him.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Gryffindor blunder, but only because their staunch defender was eyeing him from behind her desk and Draco didn't need to wonder if kitty still had her claws.

She did.

"And just why would I risk my comfortable life restoring the castle for a nice stay in Azkaban for a trick, Potty?" he asked, wondering how any words at all escaped his fiercely gritted teeth. "Really, it's no wonder you two decided to skip seventh year to go straight into Auror training. Your astuteness is astounding."

Potter and Weasley immediately bristled, their hands clenching into fists so tight that he contemplated that maybe that was where all the blood was going instead of their brains.

Draco personally thought he had a great aptitude for alliteration.

"Enough," said McGonagall before they could continue sniping -- or in Weasley's case, start punching. Draco looked back to her, and though her sharp eyes were narrowed, he could tell she believed him. Thank Merlin for the few and rare intelligent Gryffindors.

The witch clasped her hands in front of her, and Draco tried to not notice how they had been shaking but still felt the clench of his insides. If even McGonagall was scared…

"We shall notify the Aurors immediately. Mr. Weasley, if you would use the Floo in the entrance hall to contact your father, things would progress much quicker."

"She could have just run off somewhere," said Weasley instead of moving to do as told. "Could be she's just doing this to get attention or --"

He stopped abruptly, face reddening to puce when he felt the ferocity of all three glares upon him. He closed his gaping mouth and shot a sullen look at his best friend before leaving. Draco could feel the blood rushing to his head as his jaw clenched and he fought not to shoot a curse at the blood-traitor's back.

He turned instead to the only other intelligent person in the room and was instantly surprised to see the same look on her face as the Headmistress's office closed behind the redhead.

"Sorry about that, Professor," Potter muttered, pulling his bangs down over his forehead with a sharp tug. "He's been a little… upset with Hermione."

"As in, ignoring her?" Draco drawled, sneering at the nitwit. How could anyone be so thick to desert Hermione for that piece of redhead filth?

He glared at him. "It's none of your business, Malfoy."

"I said enough!" shouted McGonagall, breaking them from their glaring contest. Her hands were shaking harder than ever.

Draco sighed, moving over to one of the chairs and sitting down, and running a tired hand over his hair. Hermione had been the only person willing to tolerate him at the castle he was basically imprisoned in and to not have her here to bounce ideas off of or just talk to was disconcerting. Sure, they had only just started being friendly toward one another but he didn't have to dumb down his thoughts like he did with most of his Slytherin friends -- if he could still call them friends -- and she had been a great source of comfort when both his parents were in prison and waiting for their trials.

To top it off, she had been easy to talk to and, surprisingly, nonjudgmental.

He didn't know how he would survive staying in the ruin of Hogwarts without her to buffer the pang of loneliness and the hatred the rest of the inhabitants felt for him.

He could already feel her absence, which he would never admit to anyone on pain of Cruciartus.

Potter similarly settled down, sitting in the chair beside him in front of the Headmistress's desk and looking at her intently. Probably waiting for a plan, the hero Gryffindor to the grave.

Draco inwardly scoffed at the thought. Of course McGonagall wouldn't have a plan. She couldn't even get over the fact Hermione had just disappeared. Not even a pop of Apparition or whoosh of displaced air. Just… gone. Draco was on much the same brainwave and felt his spirit diminish rapidly as he looked at the continued subtle tremor of her hands.

"Did you see Miss Granger at any other time today?" she asked, her voice shaking as much as her hands on 'other'.

Draco nodded. "We had breakfast together on the lawn. Lovegood came to collect her around ten, I think. They were both working in Ravenclaw Tower today and Granger mentioned something about going to collect her parents next weekend."

"She didn't tell me that!" Potter interrupted with a fierce scowl. "Why would she tell you something like that?"

"So personal, you mean?" Draco said instead of answering, gleeful that she hadn't told wonder boy.

"Boys," warned McGonagall, but her tone and her vehement glare alone suggested what she meant to say was something not as kosher for the ears of the innocent former Headmasters on the wall -- that were all listening intently. One portrait even had an ear trumpet.

Potter settled for a glare at Draco's satisfied smirk.

"Now," McGonagall rifled through the papers on her desk, probably more to do with busying her hands rather than rearranging them and Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to scream at her to do something, but he knew she couldn't. They didn't even know what caused her to disappear, much less where she was and if she was in trouble.

"Now," she repeated, "the rest, Mr. Malfoy. I would appreciate no interruptions, Mr. Potter."

Even though Potter nodded next to him he knew it would be a cold day in hell before he would let Draco speak uninterrupted.

"Before lunchtime, she said she was going to her dorm for something and met me in the Great Hall where she seemed excited but didn't tell me what for and I didn't ask. Afterwards, I went to the seventh floor classrooms to work on the destroyed wing. Around three or so, I found her in the library. She was still preoccupied, pale, and looked like she had been in there for hours."

"What was she doing in the library?" asked Professor Snape, his portrait beside Dumbledore's behind McGonagall's desk. Every eye turned to him and he frowned in his luxurious chair he was painted with and swirled the red liquor in his right hand. Never-ending, he had told Draco once. A good life for a portrait. "Did she have her teachers manual or any Transfiguration texts?"

Draco straightened in his seat at his godfather's question, feeling confused as he remembered exactly what had happened that afternoon. "No. Just a book. When I came in, she was glaring at it and muttering something about the height of flames."

"And you saw the title, young Mister Malfoy?" asked Dumbledore in his somber voice from beside Snape's portrait.

"I --" He frowned, looking at his hands. "There wasn't one, I don't think. Just some sort of symbol."

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair. "A silver circle with four multi-coloured stars inside, I suppose?"

Draco's mouth dropped open. "Y-Yes! But how -- how did you know?"

"Will someone tell me what's going on and how we're going to get Hermione back?!" Potter finally burst out, his face colouring with anger.

But Dumbledore just sat back in his chair, popping a candy into his mouth as everyone watched him, including the portraits and Snape with an almost fierce scowl. McGonagall frowned at him.

"Albus, we do not have time for games. Miss Granger may be in danger," she said, her voice identifying her inner struggle between waterproof flames or normal ones.

The former Headmaster merely smiled at them. Draco resisted the urge to hex the geezer.

"Tell me, Minerva, do you remember my niece? She came to Hogwarts during your seventh year."

Professor McGonagall's frown deepened at the change of topic but she answered anyway. "Yes. We became friends quickly, even though she was a Slyth --"

Her face paled and the quill in her hand dropped to the desk. Dumbledore looked quite happy at the turn of events.

"No. It… it couldn't be." Her voice shook more heavily than before and she appeared ten times older in those two seconds.

"Am I missing something or are we being ignored?" Draco drawled loudly after the Headmistress went into her own little world and they were left without an explanation for her strange behavior and still wondering how they were going to find Hermione.

"I have a niece," Dumbledore said simply, smiling at him. "A very bright girl. Ten Outstandings on her N.E.W.T.s and I believe her Transfiguration mark was half a percent over your Headmistress's, not to brag, Minerva dear."

'Minerva dear' looked positively sick.

"She would have made a fine Gryffindor." Dumbledore sighed, a faraway look in his eye. "She was a Slytherin, however. They took to her immediately, of course. I believe your grandfather, Mister Malfoy, even had a crush on the girl."

"Really?" he asked despite himself. That was interesting. He could have been related to Dumbledore if his grandmother wasn't a Kinsworth.

Oh, the places he could get to with Dumbledore as his great-uncle.

Dumbledore nodded, delighted. "Best friend's with your mother's father also. They were inseparable after she was Sorted. I daresay she would tell you that you take after him personality wise. You're both very collected and have a sharp humour."

"Not to interrupt this fascinating walk down memory lane, but I believe we have a student -- future professor -- and war hero missing," Snape said, glaring at Dumbledore out of the side of his frame.

"Now, now, Severus," came Phineas Nigellus from the other side of the room. "I would like to hear more about this niece of Albus's. A Slytherin, you say?"

"WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH HERMIONE?" yelled Harry suddenly, making every one -- including half the portraits -- jump. He had stood up, pointing to Dumbledore with dire predictions of a portrait burning on his tongue.

"Mister Potter, if you will please calm down, I will tell you what this has to do with Miss Granger," McGonagall said, shocked out of her reverie and nostrils flaring at his impudence. She glared up at him, not rising from her chair, then waited until he sat down, still brooding like the fallen hero, before speaking again, though she still looked terribly shaken.

"Miss Dumbledore, Albus's niece, was a very close friend of mine even though she took a chance of becoming a stigma in her House for befriending the Gryffindor Head Girl. I remember Cygnus especially didn't want her seen with me." She shook her head as if shaking off cobwebs, and continued with a frown, staring at a bookshelf. "Like Albus said, she was very bright. We started studying for N.E.W.T.s the second day of school. I was amazed at her rounded knowledge. It seemed like she knew something about everything. We even started training to become Anamagi together."

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes suddenly, pained. "Miss Dumbledore was also very pretty. I believe there were nine offers for her hand in marriage in the first term alone. We used to giggle over some of the contracts her father sent her."

Draco involuntarily looked over at Potter. Neither could imagine Professor McGonagall giggling.

Unless she were drunk.

"Of course, she sent them all back unsigned. She thought the ritual old-fashioned and didn't want to be 'shipped off like a cow to slaughter', as she put it. Or it may have been because of Riddle's influence --"

"Riddle?"

Professor McGonagall looked at Harry. Her eyes were sad but knowing. "Yes, Mister Potter. Tom Riddle. From the beginning, he took quite an interest in her. In retrospect, it was most likely because she was Albus's niece --"

"And Riddle wanted to use her for revenge," Harry finished darkly.

McGonagall nodded and was about to continue before Draco broke in.

"Who's Riddle?"

"Tom Riddle," said Potter without looking at him, staring at the Gryffindor sword on the wall, "is Lord Voldemort."

Draco blanched at the name but soldiered on. He had become used to Hermione saying it but still couldn't say it himself. "And he was--what?--interested in this girl?"

"Very much so," said McGonagall with a scowl at the memory. "At one point, he had her sitting at his right side at the Slytherin table. H-Miss Dumbledore was quite upset when she told me of its significance. She wasn't terribly fond of Riddle -- a feeling we shared, but for different reasons."

"So she was one of the first Death Eaters," Potter said, that dark scowl still on his face as he looked up at Dumbledore's portrait.

"Oh, yes," he said jovially, to everyone's surprise. Even Snape looked shocked at his flippant tone and stared out of his portrait at Dumbledore as if he were running around naked singing show tunes.

Which Draco never, ever, wanted to visualize again, thank you very much.

"Your niece was a Death Eater, Albus?" said Snape, a frown of concentration slowly sliding over his usually inexpressive features. "Why did the Dark Lord never mention her? That would have been a valuable bargaining chip when you were alive."

"Maybe he was hiding her," suggested Draco, frowning and trying to remember all of his conversations with his father and everything that had been said when the Dark Lord stayed at the manor. She had never been mentioned. He would have remembered such a thing. The great Albus Dumbledore's niece being a Death Eater would have been a powerful tool during the war. It would have probably garnered a load of support after his death.

"Or maybe she defected," said Potter with a shrug.

"Or maybe we could ask Albus what happened to his niece," Phineas Nigellus's snide tone carried over.

Everyone, sans McGonagall, looked at Dumbledore's portrait.

"She disappeared from Hogwarts right after N.E.W.T.s," he said, his airy tone belying the dark words he spoke. "Tom was understandably upset at the disappearance. He suspected foul play--as did Cygnus and Abraxas--whom she was with that night, but in the end it could not be verified."

In the silence of those words, something occurred to Draco.

"What does this have to do with Hermione?"