It was her own fault, Hermione thought dully as she lay motionless on the floor of the library, trapped in a full Body-Bind. She had been in the library without a chaperone, without her usual buffer of Neville or Lavender, following the thread of an odd research question about wandlore. The  Tales of Beedle the Bard  had been bothering her, and she had wanted to look up the translation of a particular story—maybe it meant nothing at all, but it was a small curiosity, and so she’d slipped out of her Potions closet at quarter to four in the afternoon and hurried to the library, alone. 