Is it possible to have withdrawal from someone's touch? With preparations for the Triwizard tournament, and the looming knowledge that tomorrow morning would be the day of the Third Task, I didn't have much time to spare for freedom and sneaking out.

So I've been antsy recently, and I'd accidentally snap at someone for a minor inconvenience. I was in a bad mood. I just wanted to see him.

"For Godric's sake," I mumbled under my breath, watching as the bottom of my quill ran out of ink, "not again."

Yeah, I get that the Wizard World was slightly behind the muggle world, but why weren't we allowed to use pencils? Or pens? Just because we had to fulfill an academic aesthetic, doesn't mean the students have to suffer through itchy quills! Argh!

Oh. Right.

Sorry, you see what I mean? I'm on the edge. I can't believe I just started freaking out over a simple choice of inscribers.

"[y/n]?" a voice said, their figure appearing in front of the library table, "is now a good time?"

I snapped my head up from my book, remembering where I was. I was doing research surrounding Moody and the Polyjuice Potion. I must have zoned out.

Neville Longbottom was standing wearily in front of me, a potted plant in his hand, and a nervous expression on his face. He must have come from Herbology, but I didn't know why he was in the library (considering dinner started soon and his class was on the other side of the school).

"Hey Nev," I smiled, nodding to the empty chair in front of me, "what's on your mind?"

He gulped, plopping down cautiously, "you're Pansy Parkinson, aren't you?"

Uh...what?

I blinked, scrunching my forehead in complete confusion. I was a little concerned about Neville's nervous tone, but he seemed dead-set on the question he just laid out on the table.

"No, I'm not Pansy Parkinson," I blinked, "Neville, are you alright?"

He shook his head, "no, I mean Pansy Parkinson."

"I know what you said."

"No, no, no," he said again, this time raising his hands to make fake quotation marks "Pansy Parkinson."

"Nevile what are you—"

"I meant the girl Cedric said Malfoy was snogging in the bathroom!" He blurted out, "are you the girl?"

I was thankful we were the only ones in the library, otherwise bystanders would have probably heard what just came out of his mouth.

But this was not good.

Ron found out last week, and now Neville too? Was I letting something slip? Why was everything becoming unraveled so quickly?

"Neville, how did you find out?" I said, my voice lowering, "who told you?"

He shook his head, "no one told me."

"Then how did you know?"

"Well, you know the day before the second task?" he explained, biting his lip anxiously, "Malfoy told me to give Harry some gillyweed, and I mean, at first I thought Malfoy was trying to poison Harry, but then I realized you were the treasure, and I kind of put it all together from there."

I blinked.

"Draco did what?" I mumbled.

"Helped Harry save you."

I paused, my mouth hanging slack open.

In the weeks since that day, my boyfriend had failed to mention that he had anything to do with it, and now I wanted to wrap him into a hug and tell him how damn grateful I was. I could feel all these emotions start to swell up into my stomach and out of my throat.

I really owed him my life, didn't I?

"Thank you for telling me, Neville," I smiled, "I mean it."

"So you really are the girl Cedric was talking about?"

I nodded slowly, "yes, but please don't tell anyone else."

"I won't."

"Good."

Seeing as that was the only reason why he went out of his way to find me, the boy got up from his chair to presumably head to the Great Hall for dinner. Yet as he began to leave, he stopped himself, turning around with a smile on his face.

"I think you guys are a lovely pair," he said sheepishly, "not that my opinion matters that much."

And with that, he spun on his heels, walking out of the library and into the corridor outside.

Awe.

The next time I saw Draco, I'd have to tell him about what Neville confessed, and maybe even tease him for worrying about me to the point where he'd swallow his pride to help his nemesis. Gosh, I really found myself growing more and more fond of him each day, even though I thought it wasn't possible.

But, where was I?

OH, I was doing research, that's right. Tilting my head back down to the table, I flipped the page of my book and began to read where I left off. Something to do with Polyjuice potions and ways to detect users of it.

While the polyjuice potions create such a flawless copy of the target, the book read, the user's own traits are an easy tell.

If 'Moody' wasn't Moody at all, there had to be something he let slip. His eye was fine, his hair seemed normally ragged, and his tongue would always flick out like a snake (which was gross but pretty normal for someone as spooky as him).

But how was I supposed to find traits that belong to a person I don't even know?

I needed another approach.

Think about the motive. If someone wanted to impersonate Moody, why would they do it? What does Moody have access to? Who does Moody have relations with? Hm...now would be a great time to drink some Felix Felicis.

Think [y/n], think, think, think, think—

I was cut off by the sound of an owl fluttering through the window, its wings smacking against the side of the open flap. It was one of the school's owls, which I found incredibly strange, considering how near to the evening it was becoming.

Not many people dispatched mail this late.

Inside the barn owl's talon was a small white note, a few scratches of ink on the front and a few words. Surprisingly, it seemed to have been written with a self-writing quill—the penmanship was too perfect to be handwritten.

And I would have questioned further about it, but I had already found interested in the three words written: