Azael's Chains

September

It was the first and Hermione was overseeing the last of her work on the library before the students arrived. Her heart was boxed in tightly as she ignored the rising anticipation associated with this place and this day, but it was an ever-present phantom breathing on the back of her neck.

Antonin was in and out of meetings; he was expected for the feast as well. Hermione suspected she would remain here until fetched for the evening, only the reluctant Draco Malfoy for company.

"It looks fine, Granger." He glanced at her from behind the thick volume in hand.

She worried at her lip and considered the books still to be sorted; there were only two and a half trolleys full, but she had wanted to get them finished. As it was, she wanted to further differentiate subsections, but had prioritized separation into the main genre. As Snape had so readily reminded her a week past, the finer details could come with time. Which Hermione had so long as Dolohov remained amenable to the current arrangement.

The reduced Restricted Section was most troubling. The Dark Lord insisted only the most advanced volumes, those that could create calamity, were set aside. However, seventh years were exempt. As though seventeen-year-old budding Death Eaters would resist creating havoc. Alas, there was little she could do except stretch the limits to include as many dangerous texts as she could.

It wasn't that Hermione believed in ridding the world of Dark literature; she only wanted to ensure it wasn't in the hands of children. And this collection... The castle had been raided for every hidden tome and others had been procured to better stock subjects on the Dark Arts. There were volumes Draco had to handle for her lest they set off a curse to poison her dirty blood.

She longed to read even those, her mind whirling with ideas on how to dismantle their wards and traps, how she could read them without any of that mess triggering. Had she her wand perhaps Hermione could levitate them and flick through the pages magically. Or had they set them so that even her dirty, stolen magic would set off curses? Hermione would not put that past any of the bigots, though she wondered how such a feat could be accomplished.

Perhaps she ought to set aside the cursed tomes, lest any be set off by a student. She could label them with a warning. It wasn't difficult to suss out cursed books; there was a certain aura that lingered on the bindings, and often those bound with what she suspected was human skin were among their number. What horrid secrets whispered through those wrinkled pages, between those leathery covers? It was certainly not magic she would perform, but it was knowledge nonetheless. And Hermione thirsted.

There was too much to be done for her to immerse herself in written word, pseudo-librarian though she may be. Organization was the heart of a good library. Students could find what they sought rather than get lost in the stacks (unless that was their intention, which was entirely possible in even the tidiest of repositories).

When not physically present, Hermione worked through her lists of books and updated the card catalogue, which was sorely in need of care after the mayhem of the summer. Madam Pince, for whom library sciences were a sacred duty, had kept immaculate records, but there was much to amend. As she carded through the crisp cards, her fingers allowed her a glimpse of the titles. Most remained in their places, but occasionally there was one that no longer belonged.

Those neat little cards sent a twitch through her heart as she pulled them. They were the lost, the disappeared, the destroyed, the sacrificed, and they made a neat little pile on the arm of her chair. And when she finished her perusal they were tucked into her side table drawer.

They weren't subversive books, per se, though some of them were decidedly against the Dark. Works by both Nicolas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore had vanished; where the lost books went, Hermione did not know. Perhaps Voldemort reduced them to ash, or spirited them somewhere only he could read them, cackling over the supposed inanity of Light wizards.