Medusa's Heir - treeson - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Summer days could change everything. For Hermione, it changed as she watched Phil kiss her mum's cheek.

"Phil," she said, precocious at eight, "how come you sleep in bed with my mum and dad?"

They were outside on the patio with a light breeze, one of mum's 'fancy' colorful drinks sweating on the table across from Hermione's orange cola. It fizzied too much and contained far too much sugar for everyday, her parents said, but it was perfect for a treat on a hot summer day.

Her mum shared a look with Phil. From the open patio door, her dad called out, "What was that, love?"

"Your daughter wants to know about our..." Phil studied Hermione while mum slid her fingers over her mouth. "...slumber parties."

A crash of crockery came from the house. Phil looked to mum.

"Care to handle this, love?"

Mrs. Granger sighed, letting her hand fall. She tossed her long curls over her shoulder and held her hand out to Hermione. "I suppose it's time. Come, bunny."

Hermione's small hand found her mother's as they navigated around the glistening expanse of the pool, a mirror reflecting the azure sky above. The estate unfurled like a verdant carpet, lavish and rambling, boasting gardens that would make the fabled Hanging Gardens look like amateur topiary. Shafts of sunlight frolicked among the leaves of impeccably trimmed hedges and waltzed across rose bushes, each branch weighted with a bounty of blossoms.

"Is this like why you asked me to stop using magic in front of Dad and Phil, because they're Muggles? Is this secret?" Hermione's voice held a note of precocious understanding, her young mind piecing together complexities that eluded children her age.

Helena Granger, regal even in her simple summer dress, nodded. "Sort of. Instead of it just being a secret between you and me, like our magic, it's a secret between the whole family and the rest of the world."

Hermione frowned slightly. "Do you love Phil like you love Dad?"

"I do. And they love me and they love each other, in their way." Helena's eyes were warm, patient. "And even though the world calls me Mrs. Granger, because I took your father's last name, I could have taken Phil's name too."

When they went to the shops together, Helena turned heads—a fact Hermione noticed with a mix of pride and annoyance. It was as if her mother cast a spell without ever uttering an incantation.

"But—" Hermione hesitated, biting her lip.

"What is it?" Helena prompted gently.

"Holly Bishop's sister was dating two boys and..." Hermione trailed off, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Holly's brother called her a whor*."

Helena laughed—a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "Hermione, dear, that's the Muggle world."

Hermione perked up. "So if we moved back to the wizarding world, it wouldn't be strange—"

Helena crouched before Hermione, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Poor phrasing. I merely meant that only a Muggle would be so crass to say such things. They aren't very intelligent."

Hermione nodded but couldn't help frowning again; she knew Einstein and other Muggle scientists she studied in school were incredibly intelligent. But her mother was making a point, and she didn't want to miss it.

"But the magical world is no better in some respects," Helena continued. "There, we would receive no peace with people bothering us all the time, and Mummy would have to ring the police more often." Her voice softened with concern. "You remember that, don't you?"

The memory surfaced unbidden—Phil's arms lifting her from bed amidst hushed voices and flashing police lights that had painted the hallway an eerie blue for hours. She remembered the stern faces of officers as they showed her teachers photos of some man who'd disturbed their peace—a man who had wanted not Hermione but Helena.

"And above all we need to be safe," Helena murmured as she stood up again.

Hermione glanced at the towering fence that guarded their home—the iron keeping out more than just uninvited guests—and nodded.

"So is Phil my dad, too?" she asked. Would she need to buy two Father's Day gifts this year instead of one?

Helena patted her shoulder. "If you like."

"I think I would," she said after a moment of thought. Two presents wouldn't be so terrible. Especially since the last few years she'd always felt a little badly, seeing him sit and watch from the side as Dad opened and exclaimed over Hermione's gift.

"I think he would like that," Helena said.

Hermione steeled herself. "And since the wizards don't like Muggles, I know we have to stay far away to protect Dad and now Phil too, so I won't complain anymore that I can't go to the day school with the other wizards."

"That's very mature of you, darling. Why don't you run inside and see if your dad needs any assistance?"

"Alright, thank you, mum."

Hermione felt her mother's penetrating gaze follow her as she walked back towards the house, the intensity of that stare prickling the hairs on the back of her neck. Hermione's ears, sharpened from years of straining to catch every hushed rumor murmured in the school hallways, picked up her mother's voice drifting on the breeze. "One day you'll understand, darling."

Another summer. A new understanding.

The skin around Professor McGonagall's severe face stretched with the strength of her prim bun at the back of her head. To Hermione, seeing her fiercely bright eyes, out of style cape hanging off stiff shoulders, and the aura of the strict assistant at her mother's dental office—the same one who always snuck a candy to Hermione each time she visited the office—Minerva McGonagall was a vision.

Strength. Power. Intelligence.

When she left, Hermione immediately turned to Helena.

"Mum—!"

Helena held up her hand. Quickly getting off the settee next to Dad, she padded to the window on silent feet and peered out through a crack in the blinds. She waited a moment before her shoulders relaxed.

"She's gone."

Phil had just re-entered the room, blinking. "Did I miss something?"

"Yes, dear," Dad said. He stood, shaking his head. He looked rather like he did after a long day at work, when he'd come home and fall asleep in front of the television. "We just had a visitor from a woman claiming Hermione is a witch."

The news didn't surprise Dad. Helena had given up hiding it from them when Hermione started her menstrual cycle the year before, causing several highly visible magical outbursts since—nearly on a monthly basis, actually. It still embarrassed Hermione to death, but it meant she got to stay home those days. When Hermione was young, she used to bemoan missing a day of school. However, since Helena had told Hermione's fathers that Hermione had magic, now Hermione got to spend her time off from school enjoying the magical spellbooks Helena had saved from her school days. Hermione was through the third year textbooks at this point.

"Oh. Well, that's alright then, isn't it?" Phil asked, looking to Helena. "You expected it to happen soon anyway, and she's practically royalty—"

Helena gave him a sharp look, jerking her chin towards Hermione, and Phil quietened.

"Um, what I mean to say is..."

"I want to go."

Silence stretched through the room. Hermione winced. She hadn't meant to be that, well, blunt. She had wanted to ease into it, explain the pros and cons in a rational manner so her mother understood her reasoning was purely based on facts.

But then Professor McGonagall had knocked on their door an hour before dinnertime, and the choice had been stripped away.

She took a deep breath, released it.

"I want to go to Hogwarts, Mum."

Once again, silence stretched so far Hermione imagined it might pop any moment.

Hermione shuffled her feet, feeling the plush carpet beneath her toes bunch and relax. Her heart did a strange little somersault, not quite anxiety, not quite excitement. It was the sensation of standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

"I mean, if we think about it," Hermione began, her voice threading through the hush of the room. "Hogwarts is the best place for me to learn control. If I don't learn, I'm subject to keep blowing something up once a month. Saint Lucias won't let me keep attending if I destroy the science lab again."

Helena folded her arms, her brow knitting together in that way that suggested she was preparing a list of cons as long as Hermione's arm.

"And before you say it's dangerous," Hermione rushed on, "there's danger everywhere. I nearly set the cat on fire last Tuesday—accidentally!" Her fingers twitched at the memory of poor Mr. Whiskers' singed tail.

Phil coughed awkwardly, clearly out of his depth but attempting to contribute. "I've read about Hogwarts in Helena's old books. They have all sorts of safety measures—wards, spells, professors who can handle magical mishaps."

Dad nodded along, his expression weary but supportive. "And she'll be with others like her. Isn't that important for a young witch?"

Hermione desperately wanted magical friends. People her age who were in the heart of learning, who used magic in their everyday life and not just the passive skills that Helena used. She wanted educational stimulation, to talk about books over breakfasts, to use her magic, after it had been denied to her for so, so long.

"I'll be learning from the best," Hermione finished with a firm nod, hoping her conviction sounded more confident than she felt. "And... and I'll make you proud."

Helena crouched down in front of Hermione, tears brimming in her eyes. "Is this what you've been gnawing your lip bloody over?"

Her lip had been nibbled raw these past few weeks, and this was why. She nodded.

Helena's face crumpled. "Oh, darling. I'm sorry. I have every confidence you will be the greatest witch in the world. Practically royalty, like Phil said. My sweet surprise." She squeezed Hermione's cheeks and kissed both of them. "I'll send the tuition tonight. But—and there is a but—I have conditions. Secrecy, for one."

"Of course! I've always kept our secret."

"You have, of course you have," she said quickly in response to Hermione's quick answer, "but we must be certain. And you should never, ever kiss a wizarding boy."

"I don't want to go to school to kiss!"

While her dads laughed, Helena's smile turned a little wistful, her eyes misty with memory. Sometimes Helena acted like this after too many glasses of wine, but they hadn't even had dinner yet. She touched Hermione's cheek.

"Promise me, Hermione."

She sighed. This all seemed very silly. But whatever she had to do to go to Hogwarts, she would do. "I promise."

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Hermione boarded the Hogwarts Express a few days before her twelfth birthday.

Hermione stepped onto the platform, the steam from the Hogwarts Express clouding around her like a warm embrace. She could barely contain the jitters dancing through her, a co*cktail of exhilaration and nerves. With her trunk dragging behind her, she craned her neck, surveying the hustle and bustle of students and families saying their goodbyes.

She'd practiced for this moment—how to blend in, how to feign surprise at the magical marvels that were routine to her. The amount of owls in cages cluttering the platform was a surprise purely for the sheer number of them, but the sight of parents effortlessly levitating heavy trunks onto the train and young wizards mischievously enchanting their own sweets to hover and dance around their heads was almost exactly how she had pictured it from the books she’d devoured.

"Remember what we discussed," Helena whispered into her ear as she hugged Hermione tight, her voice laced with that maternal mix of worry and pride.

Hermione nodded. "Keep a low profile, stick to my studies, and... no snogging."

Helena laughed softly, pulling back to look at Hermione with that look—that "you're growing up too fast" look. "Exactly. Oh, and write every week."

"I will," Hermione promised. She glanced over at Dad and Phil, who both wore brave smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.

"Take care of yourself," Dad said, his voice gruff with emotion he was trying to hide. He pulled her into a hug that smelt of aftershave and mint toothpaste.

Phil clapped his hands together, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Go show them how it's done."

She grinned up at him. "I plan to."

Pulling away from her family was like untangling vines; each step towards the train felt heavy but necessary. She hoisted herself up onto the carriage, finding an empty compartment near the back. The plush seats beckoned, but she settled for perching on the edge of one, her trunk stowed away neatly under the seat.

The train whistle blew and with a jolt that made her grab onto the seat, they were off.

Students filled the corridor outside her compartment, their voices blending into an indistinct hum of excitement. She peered out through the glass at passing fields and towns that became blurs of green and gray.

The compartment door slid open with a soft shush, and a round-faced boy peered in, his eyes scanning the floor with an air of resignation. Hermione looked up from her seat, watching as he knelt down to look under the seats, his hands patting the ground in a hopeless manner.

"Um, excuse me," he mumbled. "Have you seen a toad anywhere?"

"No, I haven't," Hermione replied. He looked a little lost, but a potential friend was a friend, after all. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

He straightened up, brushing off his robes. "Neville Longbottom," he said, and a frown creased his forehead. "My gran's going to kill me if I don't find Trevor before we get to Hogwarts."

Hermione's brows knit together at his evident distress. "Don't worry, Neville. We'll find your toad." She stood up decisively. "You check towards the front of the train, and I'll head to the next carriage."

Neville nodded mutely and shuffled out of the compartment.

Hermione strode through the corridor with purpose. She rapped on each compartment door with a polite but firm knock, inquiring about the elusive Trevor. No one had seen a loose toad—most were too caught up in their own reunions or nervous introductions to pay much mind to a missing pet.

She reached the next carriage and pushed open another compartment door. Inside was a gaggle of students around her age, their attention focused on a pale, blond-haired boy with an angular face that made him look like he was perpetually peering down his nose at the world. One day he would grow into that pointy chin, but today wasn't that day.

Hermione stepped into the compartment, her eyes immediately drawn to the pale, blond-haired boy with an aristocratic air. He brandished his wand with a pompous flourish, but the spell that burst forth was underwhelming—a solitary feather trembled feebly before settling back onto the seat.

"Don't you see we're busy?" he snapped as Hermione opened her mouth. "You interrupted my spell!"

A girl with short, polished black curls clapped excitedly. "Oh Draco, it was still brilliant!"

Hermione bristled at the blond boy's rude dismissal. "I'm looking for a lost toad. Have any of you seen one?"

The boy—Draco—scoffed loudly. "A toad? On this train?" He exchanged disdainful looks with the hulking boys flanking him. "Why would we bother with a filthy creature like that?"

The curly-haired girl tittered behind her hand, her gaze flicking over Hermione in a quick, assessing glance. "Are you a first year too? I don't recognize you."

Before Hermione could respond, Draco spoke again, his upper lip curling. "Let me guess... Muggleborn?" He sneered the word like an insult.

Heat flooded Hermione's cheeks, but she refused to look away. "So what if I am?"

"Figures." Draco smirked at his friends. The curly-haired girl had wrinkled her nose. "No wonder you're so desperate to find a toad - you'd fit right in with the rest of the slimy Muggles."

Hermione's gaze lingered on the feather. Withdrawing her vinewood wand with its dragon heartstring core, she pointed it precisely. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The feather rose gracefully into the air, twirling in an elegant dance with a small silver knut that had been hiding underneath.

One of the larger boys snatched the coin mid-twirl with a grunt. "Hey! I was looking for that."

"I've been practicing at home," Hermione said primly, dropping the spell and the feather.

Draco's sneer deepened, pale eyes narrowing. "That's not very special. Any first-year can do that."

Hermione regarded him coolly, perplexed why he wouldn't ask for help instead of scoffing. She would have gladly told him his wrist angle was completely wrong for the swish and flick motion.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to show us all something truly special then? Something a slimy Muggleborn can't do?" She turned on her heel, leaving someone to snicker behind her.

A vicious whisper swiftly followed. "Shut up, Millie."

"You first, Parkinson."

She marched out, the sound of Draco's mocking laughter echoing in her head. Whatever. She didn't want friends like him. Her cheeks burned, but she refused to let him see how much his words stung.

Hermione continued down to the next few compartments until finally, Hermione peered inside one near the very end, and found a redheaded boy brandishing his wand at a fat, gray rat perched on his knee.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!"

Nothing happened, save for the rat giving a disinterested twitch of its whiskers. Beside the redhead sat another boy with jet-black hair and glasses held together by a considerable amount of tape. His expression suggested he was caught between amusem*nt and the desire to tell his friend the uncomfortable truth—that the spell was about as magical as a toaster.

Hermione knocked gently on the compartment door before sliding it open.

"Excuse me," she began, offering a smile as she stepped in. "I don't mean to interrupt, but have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."

The redhead shook his head, but he seemed grateful for the distraction from his fruitless incantation. "No toads here, just my rat Scabbers. He's useless, won't even turn yellow."

Hermione stifled a chuckle. "Did you find that spell in a book?"

"My brothers, Fred and George, gave it to me." He slumped back with a resigned glower at the rat. "I should've known. The twins are always playing jokes."

"That's tough," she said. At least they were friendlier than the last group. "By the way, my name's Hermione Granger."

The redhead's ears reddened slightly as he extended his hand. "Ron Weasley. And this is—"

"Harry Potter," the black-haired boy said quietly, pushing up his taped glasses with an embarrassed smile.

Hermione felt her eyes widen just a smidge—Harry Potter was something of a legend—but she recovered quickly.

"Pleasure to meet you both," she said warmly, deciding not to make a fuss about Harry's fame.

Her gaze lingered on Harry's glasses for a moment longer before she offered helpfully, "Those look quite uncomfortable. Would you like me to fix them for you?"

Harry seemed surprised but nodded eagerly. "You can fix them? That'd be great."

Hermione pulled out her wand once more and pointed it at Harry's glasses. He went slightly cross-eyed as he kept up with the tip of her wand. “Oculus Reparo."

The tape vanished as if it had never been there, leaving behind perfectly aligned and mended frames. Harry's eyes widened as he slid on his newly repaired lenses, and he beamed up at Hermione.

"Thanks!"

"You're welcome," Hermione replied, wondering why Harry Potter of all people would be wearing broken glasses and clothes that looked two sizes too big. But as she was supposed to be a Muggleborn—unaware of the celebrities of the wizarding world—she couldn't say anything about the oddity. "And Ron—just so you know—real spells are generally not rhymes or phrases."

Ron grimaced good-naturedly at his failed attempt to impress before asking with genuine curiosity, "So how do you change something's color then?"

"Well," Hermione began, eager to share her knowledge but mindful not to come across as overbearing as she had with Draco earlier, "there are color change charms that you can learn at Hogwarts. They require precise wand movements and concentration on your desired outcome. I read ahead in our school books—"

The conversation might have continued further into educational territories had it not been interrupted by Neville's anxious face appearing at the compartment door.

"Any luck?" Hermione asked.

Neville shook his head miserably. "I've looked everywhere... I think he's gone for good this time."

"I'm sorry, Neville. Ron, Harry, this is Neville Longbottom."

Although he gladly greeted them, Neville's mood remained crestfallen. Hermione bit her lip, hating to see him so dejected. An idea sparked in her mind. It was an advanced magic, but perhaps… "Hold on, I might be able to summon him."

Ron went oooh! "My Mum does those!"

She pulled out her wand, giving it a practiced flick as she clearly enunciated the incantation. "Accio Trevor the Toad!"

For a suspended moment, nothing happened. Then a muffled croaking came from down the corridor. A pudgy toad came zipping through the air, through the open carriage door, landing with a plop in Neville's cupped hands.

"Trevor!" Neville cried, his whole face lighting up with relief and delight. He cradled the toad to his chest, beaming at Hermione. "You're brilliant! How did you do that?"

Hermione couldn't help but return his smile, basking in the warm glow of having helped. "Just a simple Summoning Charm. No big deal, really."

"But that's at least third year material," Neville exclaimed.

"You really read ahead, huh?" Ron laughed. "I bet you're a natural born Ravenclaw."

"We'll see," she said, shrugging. "C'mon, Neville, I'll walk with you back to your carriage. It's time to change into our robes. Bye, Ron, Harry."

"Bye!"

"'Cor, I wish the twins had taught me that spell!"

As they headed back to their compartment, Neville chattering happily about his gran's reaction, Hermione decided she didn't care one whit what that arrogant Malfoy boy thought. She was going to be the best witch in the world.

Hermione stepped onto the dimly lit platform, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on her arms. Around her, students bustled excitedly, gathering trunks and cages while prefects herded the first years towards the boats.

A sharp jab in her side made Hermione stumble. She caught herself and whirled around to see Draco smirking as he melted into the crowd. Hermione scowled, but kept walking.

Two steps later, another invisible force knocked her shoulder, sending her bag sprawling. As Hermione knelt to gather her things, she saw Draco's satisfied sneer from the corner of her eye. Her fingers tightened around her wand. She wouldn't hex him, not here with everyone around, but perhaps one of the small jinxes she had learned…

With a subtle flick of her wrist and a whisper, Hermione cast a silent jelly-legs jinx. Draco's smug expression morphed to confusion as his legs wobbled unsteadily. He grabbed the train car for support, looking around in bewilderment.

Hermione hid a smile, tucking her wand away innocently. Around them, students continued shuffling along, oblivious. A booming voice carried over the platform.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

Harry and Ron appeared at Hermione's side. "Alright there?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded, falling into step beside them. Ron was chattering enthusiastically about the Sorting feast ahead. Hermione only half-listened, keeping one eye on Draco as he limped after Crabbe and Goyle, legs still trembling.

As they joined the gaggle of first years around Hagrid, Hermione caught sight of a burlier girl watching her shrewdly. She was pretty sure the girl was one of Draco's goons from his train car. The girl's eyes flicked to Draco then back to Hermione, one eyebrow quirked.

Heat rose in Hermione's cheeks but she held the other girl's gaze evenly. After a moment, her mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile. She dipped her chin slightly before looking away.

Relief swooped through Hermione's stomach. Hermione's secret was safe. As the first years jostled towards the boats, Hermione ended up beside the girl, shoulder bumping into hers.

"Sorry," she said.

The girl glanced at her, amusem*nt glinting in her eyes. "S'alright," she said quietly. "Well done, by the way."

Before Hermione could respond, Harry called out. "Hey, Hermione! Come on, want to join our boat?"

Hermione cast a tentative glance over her shoulder. "Join us? I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

The burlier girl offered a nonchalant shrug. "Millicent," she introduced herself in kind. "Sure, why not?"

Together, they followed in the wake of Harry and Ron, clambering into the boat before it launched itself across the vast, inky expanse of the Hogwarts lake.

Hermione's gaze wandered over the water's surface, where the last light of day glinted off the ripples. Soon they could just see the silhouette of the castle in the dying light. Towering spires and countless windows, some lit from within, cast a welcoming glow.

Magic thrummed in the air, an almost tangible current that danced across Hermione's skin and set her nerves alight with its power. It was intoxicating, this place—everything was so vibrant, so alive. She caught Harry's eye, his flushed face, and returned his grin.

Her mother worried, but Hermione couldn't imagine why. The air she breathed felt fresher than any she'd felt in the Muggle world and she sucked in a great lungful of it, not even minding the faintly fishy scent on the breeze. It was so satisfying to use magic, so much so that she didn't know how her mother could live without it.

She was meant to be here.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Rain lashed at the castle and the students hurrying up the lawn. Hermione sprinted up the last steps up to the castle doors, robes clinging to her legs, hair plastered to her head. The Care of Magical Creatures class had been a disaster, and it had ended in chaos when the students were caught in an unexpected downpour right as class ended.

She shivered, the cold seeping into her bones as she and the rest of the class hurried inside. The castle's warmth wrapped around them, chasing away the bone-deep chill. It seeped into Hermione's skin like sinking into a hot bath after a long day, thawing her from the inside out. Hermione turned toward the dungeon entrance, wanting to get into dry clothes after a long, hot shower. Scotland in October was freezing!

"I reckon Weasley's still got a thing for you, Mudblood," Draco drawled from behind her, his voice bouncing off the stone walls. "Or maybe he's just sniffing about for spare change."

Hermione rolled her eyes and wrung out her sleeves as she walked, ignoring his jibes. She was used to it by now.

But Draco was relentless. "Oh, don't tell me that overgrown weasel gets you all soggy?" He let out a derisive snort that echoed down the corridor.

Her fingers tightened around her damp robe. You must ignore bullies like him, Helena had told Hermione that summer, and in their bi-weekly letters, but Hermione still had to bite her tongue to stop herself lashing out at the toerag.

Hermione turned a corner, their footsteps echoing off the dungeon walls as he kept on her heels. Even as she tried to hurry to lose him, he kept up easily. Like all the other Slytherin boys, Draco had shot up during the summer, but unlike them he never seemed to get tangled in his new legs. Prat.

"Or maybe it's Potter you're after," he continued with a sneer. "Still drawing little lightning bolts in the margins of your notes?"

That struck a nerve. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and anger—the time Pansy grabbed her notes in the middle of Charms and showed Malfoy and the rest of them the doodle. It was an idle doodle, nothing more, but then rumor spread that Hermione had a crush and they all had to tease her about it. Especially Malfoy, who took every chance to bully Potter.

Without breaking stride, Hermione's wand was out and flicked before Draco could blink.

A spell hit him squarely in the chest, and suddenly his hair began to grow at an alarming rate. It cascaded down his shoulders like a pale waterfall, spilling onto the floor around his feet.

"What in Merlin's—? Granger!" Draco's voice rose in panic as he stumbled over his own hair.

Hermione glanced back just long enough to see him topple forward under the weight of his own vanity, his hands grasping at the strands that entangled his legs like vines. She couldn't help but smirk at the sight; she'd gotten creative with her jinxes since first year.

With Draco effectively incapacitated and trying to detangle himself from his own Rapunzel-esque predicament, Hermione approached the entrance to her common room. She leaned close to the stone wall and whispered the password.

"Inferi's touch."

The stone slid open silently, revealing the cozy green glow of the Slytherin common room beyond. She stepped through quickly, not wanting to get caught out with Malfoy still struggling in the corridor. If there was one thing Slytherin was quick to teach you, it was don't get caught.

The serenity of the lake's depths seen through the common room's windows was a stark contrast to the storm's fury she'd left behind above the dungeons.

"Enjoying the weather?" Millicent asked from a sofa by the door.

Hermione mustered a weak glare, feeling like a drowned rat. "It's an absolute delight," she said, squeezing water from her curls.

A series of thuds and muffled exclamations echoed from outside the common room door. Millicent tilted her head, her expression shifting to curiosity as she lowered her Transfiguration textbook. "What's that?"

Hermione shrugged. "Probably a pest or something." She started for the dormitory stairs, squishing slightly as she did so. "I'm off to clean up before lunch."

Hermione made her way upstairs to the third year dormitory, her thoughts already drifting back to the chaos of Care of Magical Creatures class. Hermione peeled off her sopping wet robes, the fabric making a loud squelching sound as it hit the floor. She crossed the room, soaked socks leaving wet prints behind her, and carefully tucked her time turner under her pillow—a secret precaution against unexpected situations—before heading into the washroom connected to their dormitory.

She was alone, thankfully. The shower's steam soon filled the room, creating a warm cocoon that loosened her muscles and allowed her mind to wander.

In class earlier that day, Hagrid had once again subjected them to a group 'project' about flobberworms, which was just his excuse to keep them busy while he moped about. Ever since the Ministry basically neutered Hagrid's class after Malfoy got himself attacked by a hippogriff, Care of Magical Creatures had become Hermione's least enjoyable class.

Excepting Divination, of course.

Hagrid told the class to get into groups for hands-on experience with said flobberworms. After groaning, Hermione watched as the Slytherins quickly banded together into two groups of three: Draco with Crabbe and Pansy forming one trio; Nott, Goyle, and Daphne making up another. Draco shot Hermione a smug look when she was left standing alone—the odd one out.

"Oi, Granger!" Pansy called in a mocking tone. "Need a partner? I'm sure one of the flobberworms would love to keep you company."

The others snigg*red at Pansy's jab. Hermione flipped her hair over her shoulder, scowling back as Pansy glared and Nott whipped his head around as if he'd catch her Muggleness on the wind.

"Join our group?" It was Harry. He looked a little wary, being so close to the Slytherins, but he'd sidled up next to her when he'd had plenty of other options.

Hermione scrubbed her hair harder, remembering feeling bewildered by his offer. They hadn't really spoken since their first encounter on the Hogwarts Express—after the Sorting Hat sent them to different houses, their interactions had dwindled to nothing. While Harry and Ron had become inseparable Gryffindor heroes, Hermione had carved out a place for herself within Slytherin House.

The scalding water cascaded over Hermione's skin as she stood motionless under the showerhead. She barely felt it. Harry Potter, the golden boy of Gryffindor, had crossed the invisible chasm between their houses—a divide as wide and deep as the Black Lake—and extended an olive branch in her direction.

"Um…" Harry had said when she'd stared at him in silence too long. He backed away, flattening his fringe in a nervous gesture.

"Yes," she rushed to say.

Harry led Hermione toward where Ron waited. Ron, arms folded, offered a tight-lipped smile before pointedly turning his back and sitting on a log and picking up a stick to poke their assigned flobberworm.

When she moved forward, Harry stepped into her way.

Standing there, with the light drizzle from the grey skies above soaking into her robes, Hermione felt a peculiar tingle under Harry's attention. He was taller than she remembered—tall enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his gaze. His messy hair did little to obscure the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, but as always it was his vivid green eyes that captured her focus, drawing her in.

Flushing with the realization that she'd been staring rather than listening, Hermione blinked and forced her mind back into gear. "Pardon, what?" she asked, touching her suddenly warm neck.

Harry fidgeted, his eyes darting to the side before hesitantly meeting hers again. "Don't you feel strange? Like there's something off?"

Hermione turned away from those intense green eyes and the tousled hair that made her itch to smooth it down. She tilted her head to put some distance between them, pretending to be distracted by Malfoy's distant complaints about the state of his robes.

"It is strange to continue on flobberworms," Hermione responded cautiously. Nothing weirder than any other day in Hogwarts, honestly. "About the assignment—"

"Not that—" Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear him. The proximity sent an unfamiliar shiver through her and his words took up a space in her soul. "I've been having these dreams, Granger. With you. And I wake up like there's a piece missing."

He placed a hand over his heart in a gesture so raw and unguarded that Hermione's rational mind reeled. Her senses jumbled into shock—was this actually happening?

"What."

"I know it sounds mad," he said quickly, smoothing his fringe down again. His earnestness seemed out of place—were all Gryffindors so obvious with their emotions? "I mean... don't you ever feel out of place in your House? Aren't you Muggleborn?"

"Of course I'm Muggleborn." Malfoy and his cronies had reminded her everyday since their Sorting, and they made it clear where a Mudblood belonged. She put her hands on her hips. "But unlike what people like to believe, there have been plenty of Muggleborns in Slytherin, and I need not remind you that my scores are the top in the school. So if you're trying to say—"

Harry held up his hands, surprise clear through his spectacles. "It's not meant as an insult. I didn't know that—I mean, the Muggleborn stuff. Everyone knows your marks are best in the school." He gave her his most earnest expression yet, his eyes shining as he took a step toward her. "I'm just trying to find a way to explain that I don't think you're supposed to be in Slytherin. I believe your place is with Gryffindor. With us."

The amount of times she'd had to hear some variation of you don't belong here, Mudblood. It wasn't a surprise that she had a quick response.

"Well, you'll need to tell the Sorting Hat that. And Professor Snape. And the Headmaster."

She'd folded her arms and stomped away toward the castle—tosh to this useless class!—but by then the rain was picking up. Perfect for her suddenly foul mood. Hagrid ended the class and, ignoring Potter's chagrined glances, she stomped up to the castle.

She'd spent three years defending her place in Slytherin House. Enduring the taunts of Malfoy and his friends. Only when she started earning points for Slytherin had it ended the teasing and bullying antics from the upper years, but the prefects and Snape still gave Malfoy free reign to treat her like he pleased.

Now Harry Potter was try to pull some prank on her?

Hermione scrubbed her hair with increased vigor. Dreams about her—ha! Well, she wasn't going to let him ruin her day. Even if she did have a small crush on him. Previously. Certainly not anymore.

To boost her mood, she pictured how Malfoy would look if nice, earnest Hagrid had volunteered to cut his locks with garden shears.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

"Charming as it is to be stalked in the library, I would appreciate if you didn't."

Harry Potter turned a furious shade of magenta. However, his determined expression doubled down. His glasses, held together by a strip of well-worn tape, sat crookedly on the bridge of his nose.

"Can I sit?"

She sat tucked into her usual corner, a small jar of bluebell flames nestled in her lap creating a warm bubble against the cool draft that seeped through the room. Only a few students braved the chilly library after dinner, their whispers blending with the storm's relentless patter against the stained-glass windows.

Harry's approach had been silent, but unsurprising. She'd been aware of his presence since he entered, oddly alone—he was usually with Ron Weasley. And she'd been acutely aware of his head turning to look for her even before the doors closed behind him.

Subtle, he wasn't.

With a terse jerk of her head, she acknowledged his request to sit. Harry took the chair across from her. His tie hung askew, the knot slightly loosened as if he had been tugging at it absentmindedly. It was a small detail, but one that drew her eye.

"I need to clear things up," he said, his voice quiet enough to avoid the attention of Madam Pince at her desk. "I never intended to upset you. Look, Ron's dismissed it, but I think you have a right to know about these visions."

Hermione considered him warily. Her irritation with him lingered like an unsolved Arithmancy problem. Was this some sort of prank? Yet, even noticing him from afar, Harry had never seemed cruel—foolhardy at times, yes, but never mean-spirited. He had saved her from petrification last year. With a resigned sigh, she nodded for him to continue.

"Over the summer," Harry said, his voice lowering as another student passed by, "I started getting… I'm not sure what to call it. Flashes of you."

She narrowed her eyes. Was Potter some Trelawney fangirl like those silly girls in his House?

"I spent part of my summer living in Diagon Alley," he continued, oblivious to her rising disgust. "Ron and his family came to stay too. But then I had this dream that you were there as well... That you'd bought a cat named Crookshanks—"

She went rigid.

Harry rambled on. "I dunno how to say this without sounding a bit off, but my summer was full of these, like, visions I guess. And you were there. All the time. Like my best friend or something. Kind of nice, but, um, weird, too."

His eyes shone with sincerity—or madness; Hermione hadn't decided which.

"I know it sounds strange," he said with a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. "I sound mad. But it hasn't stopped. Every day there's a new flash of what could be, what is happening somewhere that's not here." He offered a small grin as if sharing an inside joke. "Like today. Today you should be fighting with Ron because your cat won't leave his pet rat alone."

"Potter…" Hermione began but found herself without words—a rare occurrence indeed.

"Harry," he corrected gently. Harry ran a hand through his unruly locks, causing them to stand on end in a way that was simultaneously maddening and utterly charming. "I know I sound mad to you. You're the smartest person in our year. In the school, probably."

Surprise flickered across Hermione's face before she could mask it with her usual composure. "You think that?"

"What?" Harry scoffed lightly, humor dancing in his eyes despite their serious conversation. "Snape points it out every chance he gets. And it's not like we can just ignore the evidence because you're a Slytherin," he continued as he pushed his glasses up his nose. "You're actually nice, you know? Not like Malfoy and them. You volunteer to partner with Neville and actually help him."

Hermione frowned. "Of course. What else would I do?"

"You could make fun of him like everyone else," Harry pointed out matter-of-factly. "Your own Head of House does."

She had to defend her favorite professor. "While Professor Snape's methods may seem severe, potions is an unforgiving field. His strictness prepares us for the reality that even minor errors can have catastrophic consequences—"

"Woah, woah, Granger. I'm not judging," Harry said, holding up his hands.

"Then what are you doing?" Hermione asked sharply.

Sighing deeply and looking away for the first time since he sat down, Harry seemed to search for words amidst the stacks of books surrounding them. Hermione's gaze traced the curve of Harry's jawline, which seemed to have sharpened over the summer, lending him a more mature air.

"You've never felt like you don't belong in Slytherin?" he finally asked.

Hermione shrugged and looked down. It would be easier, certainly, if she were a Ravenclaw or even a Hufflepuff, which is what Malfoy loved to call her on his kinder days.

"There are plenty of nice people in Slytherin," she said after a beat too long. "Millicent, Davies... and Zabini..." Sort of. Sometimes.

"I won't argue," Harry conceded with the hint of a smile. "Hermione—can I call you that?" He winced. "Sorry, sometimes it's hard to remember what our relationship is, really."

Hermione flushed at her name on his lips—a mixture of embarrassment and something akin to pleasure—before giving a slight nod. "Sure... I guess."

Harry leaned forward slightly now animated by some internal conviction: "So now we've established you're the smartest witch in our year, have you ever heard of anything like this? Time travel or—"

"It couldn't be time travel."

He looked taken aback by her confidence. "You're certain?"

"Certain." Her voice held no room for doubt as she put a hand to the lump under her robes, right below her collarbone. "I've studied it thoroughly. Time travel has a way of ironing out paradoxes—usually with violent consequences."

"Violent consequences?"

She raked a glance over him. "You have all your limbs accounted for, yes?"

He huffed. "Something else then? Honestly," he added almost sheepishly, "it feels like I'm in one those fantasy stories I read back in my Muggle school..."

She'd read those too before her mother allowed her to read her old schoolbooks. "Isn't Hogwarts one those fantasy stories?"

Harry returned her smile and laughed. "Fair enough. Maybe the past three years have all been in my head."

It probably was some silly prank. But Hermione couldn't find the energy to be angry about it. She sighed and held out her hand. "Give me your glasses, Potter."

Blinking, he handed them over, and still blinking owlishly, watched as she repaired them. The tape disappeared from the plastic and he looked slightly embarrassed as she handed them back over.

"Thanks," he said, fingering the frame that was now all in one piece. He didn't look at her as his lips turned down. "You know, I'm sorry that I didn't reach out."

Hermione found herself lost once again. "Pardon?"

He glanced up at her, his shoulders slumping. "After we were Sorted. I should've. I shouldn't have let House prejudices keep me from reaching out. You were one of the first to be nice to me."

The warm glow from the bluebell flames flickered across Hermione's face as she mulled over Harry's confession. It was madness, surely, to entertain such a fantastical notion. And yet, a tendril of pity curled within her at the sincerity etched on Harry's face. His admission of regret tugged at something in her chest, an echo of loneliness she knew all too well.

"The idea is impossible," Hermione finally said, her voice a whisper against the hush of the library. "But... well, Hogwarts has a way of making the impossible possible, doesn't it?" She paused, then added softly, struggling to stay detached, "And I suppose I owe you since you killed the basilisk that petrified me last year."

Harry's gaze locked onto hers.

"Actually, there is something." Hermione bit her lip, but she couldn't smother the compulsion to share. "I did adopt a cat this summer."

"Crookshanks?" he whispered. When she nodded, a deep breath shuddered through Harry before he found his voice again. "Then you do believe me?"

What was she doing? Why was she entertaining such mad ideas. She couldn't fully admit to herself what she was doing, let alone to Harry Potter of all people. Yet there she was, flicking her gaze up to him with a resolve she didn't quite feel. "Have you ever heard of parallel worlds?"

His eyes widened slightly—a mixture of hope and incredulity painting his features. "What…?"

Hermione allowed herself a small moment to enjoy his astonishment before continuing. "I skimmed the topic when I was researching time travel."

"Why did you do that?" Harry asked, tilting his head.

"Oh! Um, personal interest," she said, forcing her hand down when it automatically rose to try to touch the time turner under her robes. "Ahem. Anyway, it's an auxiliary subject." She glanced down at the tome in front of her as if the answers might spring from its pages. "Very few people have ventured to try it directly, so mostly what I've read are tales of accidental travel."

"Accidental travel," Harry repeated under his breath as if tasting the words for the first time. He lifted his head. "And in those tales, did the people closest to them, like their best friends, recognize them in the new world?"

"It wasn't a focus in the book." She watched him closely now, gauging his reaction. "Has Weasley been having these flashes?"

Harry's shoulders slumped slightly at the mention of Ron. "No. Honestly, he thinks I've been hit by Bludgers one too many times. But he believes me all the same."

A small smile quirked at Hermione's lips despite herself. "He's a good friend."

His gaze was shy. "So are you."

Hermione's cheeks were aflame, and not from the bluebell flames she cradled. Harry's earnest gaze didn't help matters. "I'll research this phenomenon, alright?" she found herself saying, more to escape those eyes than anything else. "That's all I can promise."

Harry's face brightened—a mix of relief and gratitude—as he offered his hand across the table. "Thanks, Hermione."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his. His touch sent a jolt of heat from her palm all the way up to her shoulder.

And then it happened.

A memory—or was it? Sitting beside him, the smell of toast and ink in the air. A library day much like today, only warmer, cozier. Harry slid a roll he'd saved from lunch across the table to her with a lopsided grin, hair falling into his eyes. She could almost hear her own voice: "You're going to spoil my dinner."

The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Hermione staring at Harry in the dim library light.

The blood drained from her face and she snatched her hand back. "That… that was…"

A memory charm? An illusion? But Harry's wand wasn't in his hands. That leaves the more sinister paths, said Zabini's cool voice in her head. She glanced at her palms, searching for pinpricks or marks from needles that could be used to transfer potions or poisons—nothing.

Harry flexed the hand still held out in front of her before he let it drop to the table. He looked strangely confident, satisfied, as if he'd won an argument. "You saw something?"

She swallowed hard, trying to reconcile what she'd experienced with what she knew of magic. "You giving me a roll in the library," she whispered. Had her voice always been so snooty?

Harry's expression broke into a smile. "That's how it is for me, most of the time. Normal parts of our day."

Hermione shook her head slowly, trying to make sense of it all. "It was like a memory… but that never happened."

The idea of parallel worlds was far-fetched—a concept so outlandish that even in a world filled with magic it seemed implausible. Yet the clarity of the vision was unsettling; it had felt so real. There were spells and potions that could trigger hallucinations or false memories, but they typically required direct interaction or ingestion—none of which had occurred here. She'd eaten dinner hours ago and nothing but a high-grade slow-acting poison was capable of activating after so long.

"Whatever this is," Hermione said firmly, grounding herself with logic and resolve, "we need more information. There must be something here that can help us understand what's happening."

"I have an idea." Harry held out his hand again. It stayed stretched between them as Hermione froze. A darting glance told her no one was looking.

The storm outside seemed to press against the windows harder now, and yet within their corner of the library, Hermione decided to trust Harry Potter.

"If this is a practical joke, I will murder you," she said, making him grin.

Hermione stared at Harry's outstretched hand, hesitation swirling within her like the storm outside. This was madness, truly. Yet something deeper compelled her, drew her towards his offered hand as if it were a portkey to another world entirely.

With a shaky breath, she reached out, her fingers brushing his palm before their hands clasped atop the table. His hand was warm, so warm—like basking before a crackling fireplace or curling up with a cup of hot chocolate. The heat radiated through her, more real and visceral than the bluebell flames nestled in her lap.

Closing her eyes, Hermione saw gold behind her lids, pure and bright like sunshine. She heard Harry suck in a sharp breath, sounding as shocked as she felt by the intensity of it.

"Merlin," he whispered.

She could live forever in this warmth, Hermione thought dazedly. It reminded her of Christmas mornings with her family, playing on the beach during summer holidays, waking up to Crookshanks purring against her hip, sipping the first mouth-watering sip of Phil's famous tea. It was all of her favorite things wrapped into one singular feeling.

Was this what love felt like? The notion fluttered unbidden to the forefront of her mind before she could bat it away. What a fanciful, idiotic thing to think. Yet there was something undeniably profound in this simple touch, as if their hands had been destined to meet this way.

Hermione slowly opened her eyes, almost afraid the spell would break if she moved too quickly. Harry's hand remained clasped in hers, his thumb gently sweeping over her knuckles now, each sweep sending tingles dancing up her arm.

Harry's eyes locked onto hers, vivid green meeting earthy brown. In them she saw her own wonder reflected back at her. Neither spoke for several heartbeats, the only sound the crackling of the bluebell flames.

Finally Harry cleared his throat softly. "That was..."

"Extraordinary," Hermione finished in a hushed tone. What magic was this? It defied all logic, and yet there was no denying what had just passed between them.

Harry offered a crooked smile. "Yeah, extraordinary about sums it up."

Reluctantly Hermione slipped her hand from his. She flexed her fingers slowly, immediately missing the warmth.

"We should research this," she said briskly, trying to regain her composure.

Harry nodded, though his eyes still held a touch of wonder. "Tomorrow then, after classes let out?" he suggested. "We can meet here again."

Hermione gazed at her hand. "Yes, tomorrow."

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Hermione was engrossed in penning her essay, quill scratching furiously on the page. Lost in the complexities of deciphering a sophisticated potion recipe, she startled as a palm crashed onto her careful writing, smudging the wet ink into an illegible mess.

"Malfoy!" She released a hiss of frustration. The smudge marred her once pristine essay. Draco just wiped his hand off on his robes with an air of disinterest.

"Get over it, Granger," he drawled. "What are you doing snuggling up with Potter?"

"Snuggling—!"

Hermione bit off her retort as she realized that, yes, hand holding in the library probably was considered snuggling. For all she had been meticulous in making sure no one was looking last night when it happened, this castle was full of eyes. And now Draco's eyes were on her, and other Slytherins were glancing over at the commotion in the middle of the common room. Thankfully, they were third years, so most of the upper years were ignoring them.

"I wasn't 'snuggling'," she said finally, with an eye roll for good measure. "And you've ruined my essay for this nonsense?"

Draco leaned against the leather couch beside her table, a sneer curling his lips. "Finally dating then? You do look like someone who's impressed by fainting spells and ugly scars."

"We aren't dating," Hermione snapped back.

"So you weren't holding hands in the library?" Draco's voice rose just enough to draw attention from their Housemates gathered by the drinks cabinet.

Hermione's cheeks flushed as more eyes turned towards them. She shot Draco a withering glare, wishing she could wipe that infuriating smirk off his pointed face.

"So what if we were holding hands?" she countered, raising her chin.

A snicker erupted from the peanut gallery by the drinks cabinet. Millicent was watching with a smirk; she always appreciated a good row. Beside her, Pansy was eyeing Hermione with familiar disdain, her pug-like features scrunched up in disgust. Nott and Zabini were scowling their way, probably irritated at the disturbance.

"It's not any of your business anyway," Hermione said through clenched teeth, hoping to put an end to Draco's prying.

Cheekbones standing out under pale spots of color, Draco leaned in closer, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Just looking out for you, Granger. We wouldn't want Scarhead dragging down our House average."

"How about you quit poking around in other people's business like a busybody? I'm sure there's a mirror somewhere just dying for your undivided attention," Millicent called out.

A few snickers erupted from their fellow Slytherins as Draco straightened up, his face flushed with annoyance. With one last glare at Hermione—and an indignant huff—he stalked off toward his dormitory.

The common room slowly returned to its previous hum of whispered conversations and scratching quills as Hermione exhaled sharply. She smoothed out her essay as best she could, but some words remained blurred beyond recognition—a perfect metaphor for how she felt about Harry Potter at that moment.

Hopefully, that was the end of it.

* * *

It wasn't.

Hermione had barely smoothed out the last of the wrinkles in her essay when Lina Songswallow appeared, looming over her workspace like an unwanted shadow. Her presence alone was enough to make Hermione tense, not because she disliked the Head Girl, but because an encounter with her usually meant trouble.

"So," Lina drawled, resting a hand on her hip. "Heard you're dating Potter."

Hermione's quill froze mid-word, a small blot of ink swelling on the parchment as she looked up at Lina. She bit back the immediate surge of irritation, aware that lashing out at a seventh year—and Head Girl, no less—would only lead punishment. Slytherin had rules about respecting your House elders, and retribution was swift. Even that puffed up Malfoy's wealthy pureblood father couldn't protect him from that unspoken Slytherin rule.

Hermione replied evenly, "Even if I am, there's no rule against it. Students have inter-House relationships all the time."

Example One: Lina had a girlfriend in Ravenclaw she snuck in every long weekend.

Lina raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Hermione's response.

"True enough. But we need a chat. Come along, Granger."

Hermione couldn't help glancing at Draco, sitting across the room. He was watching, arms folded, looking smug. Like he'd earned Slytherin ten points without doing a thing. What a jerk. He'd tattled to Lina because he didn't get what he wanted.

Swallowing her protest, Hermione followed Lina upstairs. Hermione was trapped. The whole thing was absurd - all this fuss over some hand-holding in the library. Lina took her beyond Hermione's dorm room and the others, stopping at Lina's own. Locking the door behind them, Lina gestured to one of the three beds.

"Take out your wand and sit."

"Uh… alright."

Hermione's cheeks flamed crimson as Lina, the picture of composure, launched into an explanation of contraceptive charms. It was a subject Hermione had read about, of course, but she never imagined receiving such a frank, practical lesson—especially not from her Head Girl.

Lina's tone remained clipped and professional as she demonstrated the wand movements, but Hermione couldn't help squirming with discomfort. Her mind whirled with questions. Why was this impromptu lecture happening now? Did the older girl assume Hermione was intimately involved with Harry simply because of rumors? The thought was mortifying.

But Hermione pushed her embarrassment aside, determination winning out. New knowledge was to be respected and absorbed, no matter how awkward the subject matter. Straightening her shoulders, she focused intently on Lina's instruction, carefully mirroring the wand motions.

"Good," Lina nodded after Hermione performed the charm successfully. "Once more."

Hermione repeated the movement, feeling more confident this time. A shimmering cloud of magic briefly enveloped her midsection before dissipating.

"Excellent form," Lina acknowledged. "The charm will hold for twelve hours. Be sure to reapply it regularly if... necessary." Her lips quirked in a knowing smile.

Heat crept up Hermione's neck. Of course the contraceptive charm would be temporary—that made sense. But having its duration specified so plainly, with the implicit suggestion of its purpose, was still deeply embarrassing.

Lina's face remained impassive even though her eyes sparked with amusem*nt at Hermione's flustered state. "Any other questions?"

Hermione shook her head stiffly, eager for this incredibly awkward lesson to end. She wasn't dating Harry—or anyone else for that matter. But some knowledge, however uncomfortable, was still better than ignorance.

Lina picked up an apple off the sidetable by one of the beds. "Then one more spell. Watch."

The next spell Lina demonstrated was far less personal but equally puzzling. With a flick of her wand and an incantation, she turned the plump apple into a withered husk. Hermione watched, fascinated despite herself.

"When do I use that spell?" Hermione asked once she recovered from her initial shock.

Lina gave her a knowing look. "You'll know when to use it. Professor Snape requires all of us to know that spell. I imagine, since it's Potter, he's hoping you get to use it." Her voice carried a hint of dry humor. "I'm told it's exceedingly painful."

Hermione blanched. The idea that Professor Snape hoped she would cast such a terrible spell on Harry was both ridiculous and deeply disturbing.

"And if you abuse this spell," Lina added sternly, "you will likely go to Azkaban, and I will personally give you a thumping. Wait til you graduate, at least. Understood?"

Hermione's brow furrowed at the gravity in Lina's voice. "Understood," she said quickly. "But for the record—I'm not dating Potter."

Lina just shrugged as if Hermione's protests were mere formalities in an otherwise open-and-shut case. She tucked her wand away.

"Whatever you say, Granger," she replied with an unreadable expression. "But it doesn't hurt to be prepared. As for their being rules to inter-House dating, well, there are no rules against it, but you're a Slytherin." Her eyes glinted. "We have high expectations."

The word 'expectations' hung in the air between them like a Dementor's breath—chilling and ominous.

"And what expectations would those be?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice level despite the undercurrent of frustration building inside her.

Songswallow shrugged nonchalantly, but her eyes narrowed just enough to betray her interest in the conversation. "Well, we wouldn't want one of our own cozying up to a Gryffindor celebrity now, would we? It sets a... precedent."

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "Since when do Slytherins care about setting precedents?"

Lina chuckled softly—a sound that did nothing to ease Hermione's growing tension. "Touché," she conceded before adding, "Just be careful whose hand you hold, Granger. You never know how it might reflect on you—or us."

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Harry leaned back against the worn wood of the library chair, his gaze fixed on Hermione's face as she pored over another book. He had always thought the library lamps' soft glow cast a rather flattering light on people, but tonight, it really outshone itself. It lit up the golden hues in Hermione's brown hair, and made her focused eyes gleam more than usual.

She liked to bite her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. It was a habit Harry found utterly endearing, like a quirky signature move that was quintessentially Hermione. Watching the way her incisors sunk into that plump pink flesh made his breath catch. He had to forcibly drag his gaze away, mentally shaking himself to refocus on the task at hand before he got too distracted by the alluring sight.

As much as he was here to untangle the web of their shared visions, part of him—especially the part that was currently ignoring the dozen or so books stacked around them—couldn't help but revel in them. The visions were snippets of another life, fragments of happiness that were rare in his life before Hogwarts. Though he hadn't told Hermione this, only those visions had kept him out of a deep depression this summer as he spent it alone.

His favorite vision unfurled in his mind with vibrant clarity: they were in the cozy Gryffindor common room after dinner. The fire crackled merrily, casting a warm, golden hue over everything and making Hermione's curls glow like a halo. Ron had left them alone, mumbling something about needing to beat Neville at chess.

In this cherished memory, Hermione sat cross-legged on a plush red armchair across from him, looking utterly at home among Gryffindor colors. Crookshanks was curled up in her lap, a fluffy ginger bundle that rose and fell with each breath. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of sausage she'd saved from dinner. "I know you're not supposed to have this," she whispered, her lips curved in an affectionate smile that made Harry's heart flutter. The cat's squashed face came to attention, and Harry was struck by how tenderly Hermione treated the creature. "But you've been such a good boy today, haven't you?"

Crookshanks meowed softly, almost gratefully, as if he truly understood every word and appreciated her bending the rules for him. He purred loudly as Hermione fed him the sausage piece by piece, her delicate fingers lingering to scratch under his chin. Harry watched, forgetting utterly his Transfiguration's essay, wishing he could trade places with the cat and be the recipient of Hermione's gentle caresses.

"Spoiling him rotten," he had teased lightly, trying to cover his jealousy with a laugh.

Hermione looked up at him then, and there it was—that shy, radiant smile that lit her whole face and seemed to hold entire galaxies within it. Harry's breath caught in his throat as she laughed, the musical sound making his heart swell. "Oh hush," she said, rubbing Crookshanks' head affectionately. "He deserves it every now and then."

That beautiful, loving smile lingered in Harry's memory long after the vision faded. Yeah, that tender moment was definitely one of the best visions he'd experienced so far. In those glimpses, he saw a side of Hermione that took his breath away - soft, warm, and caring in a way that made him ache to be part of her inner circle. He longed for more of those smiles directed at him.

"Did you have a question?"

Harry coughed, startled out of his reverie by Hermione's voice. He blinked rapidly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he realized he'd been caught staring.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "You were miles away. I asked if you had a question about the passage I just read to you."

"Oh, er, right." Harry scrambled to collect his scattered thoughts. "No, I was just... thinking."

The corners of Hermione's mouth quirked upwards. "Clearly. Though I'm not sure thinking is the right word for the glazed look you had."

Harry felt his blush deepen and ducked his head, pretending to study the open book in front of him. Smooth, Potter. Very smooth.

"Anyway," Hermione continued, seemingly taking pity on him, "I was just going over the section on dimensional theory. It's fascinating stuff, but incredibly complex."

She launched into an explanation of the various theories and principles, her words a soothing cadence that allowed Harry to relax once more. As she spoke, gesturing animatedly with her hands, he found his gaze drawn inexorably back to her face.

The way her brow furrowed in concentration, the slight downturn of her lips as she talked about a particularly knotty concept—it was all so achingly familiar, like glimpsing fragments of his visions made flesh. A warm feeling blossomed in his chest, spreading outward until his very fingertips tingled with it.

This was right. Inevitable, somehow. Like two paths that had been running parallel for years had finally begun to converge. The thought should have terrified him, this sense of being caught in the inescapable pull of fate's gravity. But it didn't. If anything, it filled him with a profound sense of peace, of coming home.

Perhaps that was why the visions hadn't disturbed him as much as they could have. Deep down, some part of him had recognized the truth in them, had seen their bond for what it was—unbreakable, written in the stars.

The library lamps cast a soft glow over Hermione's features, gilding her skin and sending fiery sparks dancing in her eyes. In that moment, she looked every inch the brilliant, impassioned witch Harry had glimpsed in his visions. His witch.

The thought slipped through his mind before he could censor it, sending a jolt of shock and longing through his system. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on Hermione's words rather than get swept away by the raging current of his feelings.

"...so while the theory is sound, the practical applications are limited. No one has actually found a way to view or access these parallel realities before—Harry? Are you listening?"

Harry started, blinking owlishly. "What? Yes, of course. Parallel realities, right." He cleared his throat. "Sorry, I'm just...having a hard time concentrating tonight."

For a moment, Hermione simply stared at him, something unreadable flickering in her warm brown eyes. Then she smiled. "You're right. We've been at this for a while now tonight. I need to finish some homework, actually, so—"

"Me too," Harry said with a groan. He set his book off to the side. "This parallel universe stuff is doing my head in. I'll have to read this book again over the weekend, I'm knackered. You don't mind if I stick around to do my Transfiguration essay, do you?"

"Of course not," she said with an understanding smile.

Perfect. She'd been on the edge of sending him off to bed, but she'd changed her mind. Homework, he noted, was always one of Hermione's top priorities. She seemed to have so much of it, too, which made him wonder how many classes she was taking.

Taking out his Transfiguration's essay, Harry started to work while Hermione did the same across from him. His mind immediately wandered. All the third-year girls had come back from summer break with bodies that had changed in ways that made Harry—and the rest of the Gryffindor boys—a little nervous. Yet, it was Hermione Granger who had snuck up on him.

After two unremarkable years where her bushy hair was the wildest thing about her, and her school uniform hung plain and unadorned, Harry had hardly given Hermione more than a passing thought. Her pallid complexion and the shadows beneath her eyes telling of too many late nights reading, had registered only as peripheral details. She was simply the nice girl from the train ride, a distant memory that wasn't very memorable, other than she was the only Slytherin who'd ever been remotely kind to him.

But with the onset of their third year, she returned and she was—

Ahem. Harry cleared away the awkward thoughts like shooing away dungbomb smoke.

"You know," Harry said, and waited until Hermione lifted her head in polite inquiry, "the visions aren't hurting us or anything… They're actually kind of pleasant." Since Quidditch, really, he hadn't found anything he looked forward to as much as he did the all-too-brief visions.

Harry was famished for those fleeting moments. The visions came without warning, ambushing him in the middle of the mundane. He'd be navigating the crowded corridors, jostled by a sea of students rushing to their next class, when suddenly he'd be hit by the memory of Hermione's laughter, rich and warm, echoing in his ears over some clever quip Ron had made.

They were unpredictable, these snatches of another life. One moment he'd be practicing his wand movements in Charms, the next he'd feel the phantom sensation of Hermione's elbow brushing against his as she reached across him to grab a book in the library. During Potions class, when they were meant to be focused on their cauldrons, he caught Hermione rolling her eyes at something Draco had muttered under his breath. That familiar spark in her brown eyes had ignited countless times in his visions—visions where she sat beside him, not next to Bulstrode.

It was these little moments—the way Hermione huffed at something Ron said with mock indignation or the ease with which she sat next to him at breakfast—that fed Harry's hunger for more. The weekends couldn't compare; they were just two days without classes. But these visions were unexpected joys in everyday Hogwarts life. It was almost enough to soften the blow that he couldn't go to Hogsmeade.

Her hand paused mid-turn of a page as she met his gaze squarely. There was a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes before she lowered her gaze back to her book.

"I can't say I'm entirely displeased by the visions either," Hermione confessed softly after a moment. "It's like catching glimpses of a life where things are... simpler. However, it's not exactly normal, is it, even for the wizarding world?"

"Nothing's normal with me," Harry said with a sigh.

She considered that. "True," she said with an equally heavy sigh.

He gave her a half-hearted smile. "Sorry for roping you into my mess. I'm glad you're here, though. You're... well, you're supposed to be a part of this. A part of my life."

"I think you're right." Hermione's gaze locked with his while his chest gave a single hard thump. "After sifting through these texts on multiverse theory and magical resonance, I'm certain we are connected in this parallel world. Though I do think being in Gryffindor is a stretch. I'm not very brave."

"I think you're pretty brave," he said quietly. He tilted his head toward the front of the library. "You haven't let them get to you."

Malfoy's lot by the door was a mystery. Three times in one week? Harry could swear on his Nimbus 2000 that Malfoy only ever opened a book if it was bound in dragon hide or promised secrets of dark wizardry. He'd never seen Malfoy or his cronies in the library. And yet, here they were, casting glares sharp enough to slice through Hagrid's rock cakes.

Harry's gaze shifted to the Slytherin trio that had taken up residence in the library. Malfoy was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, the very picture of disdain. He wasn't even pretending to take notes, his arms folded over his chest. Nott's narrow face was buried in a book, but his gaze kept flicking up to their table. And Zabini, who walked the halls as with that air of someone who found life a constant source of amusem*nt, was scribbling notes as if his marks were as good as Hermione's.

"What do you reckon they're up to?"

Hermione followed his gaze, a frown creasing her forehead. Then she shook her head. "Not sure. I try not to pay them any attention."

Hermione tucked a loose curl behind her ear—a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Harry—and resumed her reading.

Harry turned his head and caught Malfoy's eye. Thin lips curled into a sneer. The pale boy radiated jealousy and possessiveness, his icy stare fixated on Hermione like she was a coveted object that belonged to him. Harry couldn't help himself—he smirked right back at Malfoy, relishing the way the other boy's sneer twisted into an ugly scowl of rage.

Harry's smirk seemed to stoke the tempers of the three Slytherins. Next to Malfoy, Zabini's hands stilled, a muscle ticking in his jaw, while Nott's head jerked up like a hunting dog's. All three were clearly irked by Harry's challenge, and Harry guessed it was rooted in more than just their rivalry.

Hermione shivered, and his attention zeroed in on her as she rubbed her arms and threw a glance towards the doors, as if contemplating saying goodbye for the night. He glimpsed Malfoy dropping his chair to all four legs, like he was alert for an opportunity to whisk Hermione back down to the dungeons.

Not going to happen.

"Here," Harry said, reaching across the table, hand up. Hermione looked at it, then him, skeptically. "This will help, right? And then we can work till ten?"

Doubt flickered across her heart-shaped face for a few moments before she relaxed and smiled. "That would be nice. They really do need to refresh the warming charms in here. I want to look over my Potions' essay before tomorrow but, I hate staying—"

"—when it's so cold," he finished. "Me too. About both, actually. I've two inches to finish."

Bright smile stretching her face, she reached across the table.

The moment Hermione's slender fingers intertwined with his, a surge of warmth kindled in Harry's chest, spreading through him like the cozy glow of a well-tended hearth. It was as if a long-dormant fire had been stoked to life, banishing the chill of the mundane world.

Their fingers laced together. Harry marveled at the way their hands fit so perfectly, like two puzzle pieces clicking into place.

Their eyes met, and Harry saw a flicker of something in Hermione's gaze—a mixture of wonder and uncertainty, still grappling with the unexpected depth of this feeling that Harry had accepted weeks ago.

"What did you see?" he asked as her lips parted. Soft, rounded lips with little teeth marks in the fleshy bottom lip.

"It wasn't exciting. We were doing homework," she said with a little smile.

He returned it, all bad feelings about Malfoy and the other Slytherins fading in the light of their touch. "I bet my marks were loads better."

Intelligent brown eyes danced at him. "Then maybe I should take a look at your Potions' essay. Give it up, Potter."

Harry didn't even try to pretend to grumble about it. He gladly retrieved the scroll he'd worked on after lunch from his bag. "Alright, but I'm warning you, Potions isn't my favorite subject."

She rolled her eyes as he set it in her waiting hand. "I'm sure it can't be worse than Goyle's."

"Don't tell me if it is—I couldn't handle it if Goyle had better marks than me."

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Hermione walked alongside Blaise, their shoes clicking against the stone floor as they made their way to class. Hermione glanced around the corridor, her eyes narrowing slightly as she noticed Draco and his Slytherin cohorts up ahead. The other students were a few paces ahead, out of earshot, though Draco kept glancing back with a scowl etched on his pale, pointed face. His grey eyes met Hermione's for a brief moment, a sneer tugging at the corners of his thin lips before he whipped his head back around, his robes billowing behind him. Hermione, used to it, focused instead on keeping pace with Blaise as they made their way to class.

Hermione glanced sideways at Blaise as they walked, taking in his tall, lean frame and the aristocratic lines of his face. She always felt so small compared to him, though her height was in a higher percentile for her age. Small and ungainly. Despite his notorious mother's reputation as a Black Widow, and the rumors that swirled around the handsome Slytherin, everyone admired his effortless poise and the way he carried himself with such casual assurance.

As they passed beneath the arched window embrasures, shafts of morning light casting patterns on the floor ahead of them, Blaise said, "So, Granger, when are you going to stop holding Potter's hand and start holding mine instead?"

Hermione fumbled with the books in her arms. "Don't be ridiculous."

Blaise chuckled, the sound low and rich. "What? I'm just saying, a bloke gets jealous seeing his favorite girl all snuggled up with the Chosen One."

Adjusting her rucksack and regretting not having a bigger bag, Hermione shot him a sideways glance. "We're not snuggled up. We're just friends."

"Friends who can't keep their hands off each other?" He arched an eyebrow. "If you say so."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Blaise barreled on. "Speaking of hands... you got plans for the first Hogsmeade weekend?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. "Er, yes, actually. I do."

"Ah, well." Blaise flashed her a roguish grin. His dark eyes sparkled with an edge of mischief that made her heart flutter ever so slightly against her will. It immediately died when they passed a group of Hufflepuff girls who gave Hermione and Blaise curious looks. "If those plans happen to fall through, you know where to find me."

Hermione's stomach twisted. Was he... flirting with her? Surely not. It made her sad. He always stayed back when Draco or Pansy started bullying her, and never joined in or laughed. She knew they weren't friends, but she at least thought he wouldn't play a cruel joke at her expense. Slytherins could be malicious, but they wouldn't stoop that low, would they?

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione fixed her gaze ahead and quickened her pace, putting some distance between them. Up ahead, she could see Draco's white-blond head disappearing through a classroom door. She wouldn't give Blaise's attention any credit. Not a chance.

***

Hermione's breath hitched as she almost toppled out of the carriage, her heart skipping a beat—not from fear, but from the sudden, steadying arm wrapped around her waist. She glanced up to see Adrian Pucey's easy grin, his grip firm but gentle as he guided her over the sprawling puddle at their feet. The carriages hadn't been picky about where they parked, and several students were standing in the lane with mud up to their ankle.

"Thanks!" she managed to squeak out, the butterflies in her stomach performing an elaborate ballet.

"My pleasure, pet," Adrian replied with a wink before turning to assist Millicent out of the carriage. Hermione watched, the warmth of his touch lingering like a spell. Millicent shot her a double take, eyebrow quirked, before they started toward the village.

"You're red," Millicent observed bluntly.

"No, I'm not," Hermione muttered, darting a look at where Adrian was jogging to catch up with his friends ahead.

Millicent shrugged off the comment with a smirk. "Honeydukes? We should go before all the couples flood out of Madam Puddifoot's."

Hermione nodded eagerly at Millicent's suggestion, trying to will the flush from her cheeks. The village beckoned ahead, quaint shops and thatched roofs peeking out from the morning mist.

"Definitely Honeydukes first," she agreed, lengthening her stride to match Millicent's loping gait. Her friend's mouth was set in a hard line, eyes narrowed slightly as they wove through the throngs of coupled-up students.

Millicent wasn't one to mince words. "This is bloody ridiculous," she grumbled, throwing a disdainful look at a pair of giggly Hufflepuffs holding hands. "As if we need to be attached at the lips to enjoy a village trip."

Hermione smothered a grin, knowing Millicent's gruff exterior hid a keen wit and biting sense of humor. She opened her mouth to commiserate, but her words scattered like ashes when Adrian's laugh drifted back to them. Rich and lingering, it drew her gaze like a magnet until she spotted him up ahead, hands shoved casually into his pockets as he swaggered along.

A sharp elbow in her ribs made her stumble. "Keep it together, Granger," Millicent muttered with a roll of her eyes. "You're hopeless."

Heat crept up Hermione's neck as she refocused on the path, Adrian's form retreating into the crowd. "I can look," she mumbled, defensive.

Millicent snorted. "For now. But give it time and you'll be just as loopy as the rest of them, chasing after some bloke." She waved a meaty hand, encompassing the lovesick couples surrounding them. "Then you'll ditch me to snog in the bushes."

The bitterness in her tone gave Hermione pause. For all Millicent's tough bravado, the loneliness was a familiar ache, one Hermione knew well. She bumped their shoulders together. "Not a chance. You're stuck with me, Bulstrode."

Her friend's annoyance softened a little, and Millicent gave her a tiny smile. Hermione was glad to lighten up the dark cloud hanging over them like the mist over the Black Lake. Millicent had been annoyed since Pansy announced that Malfoy and Warren were going to take her and Daphne on a double date as soon as the sign for the Hogsmeade visit appeared, and then that annoyance deepened when Zabini turned up dates from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for himself and Zabini, respectively, though Zabini made no indication whether he was happy with the outcome one way or the other. Crabbe and Goyle had supposedly tried to find dates, but Hermione hadn't seen them try very hard. They appeared content to hang out together.

That left Hermione and Millicent the two odd ducks out, once again.

Millicent grumbled, denouncing their peers' romantic pursuits, asserting Hogsmeade's purpose lay in replenishing supplies, not acting "like lovesick Kneazles."

Hermione's eyes widened as they stepped into Honeydukes, the sugary aroma of countless confections enveloping her senses. Towering shelves groaned under the weight of mounds of chocolate frogs, acid pops, sugar quills, and a kaleidoscope of candies she couldn't even name. A pang of guilt tugged at her - her dentist parents would surely disapprove of such an indulgent display. But the temptation proved too great to resist. Perhaps she could ask for a slightly larger allowance next time. One couldn't study properly on an empty stomach, after all. Phil would approve, surely?

She smirked. Sometimes, it was nice to have a second father to pit against her parents.

Unfortunately, not everyone was so lucky. Hermione started filling a basket, wishing that Harry could've joined them on the Hogsmeade trip. His dreadful uncle had stubbornly refused to sign the permission slip, leaving him dejected as he watched everyone excitedly depart the castle. She had given him a sympathetic little wave, her heart aching at the sight of his slumped shoulders as he trudged off toward the stairs alone. It wasn't fair that he should miss out on such a quintessential Hogwarts experience because of those horrid Muggle relatives of his. Muggles really could be heartless. Hopefully, she could bring him back something special from Honeydukes to lift his spirits.

He would love this place, and she would love seeing that smile of his and the flick of his head as he shook his hair out of his eyes—

Stop it, Hermione.

As handsome, funny, and nice as he was, he'd shown no interest in Hermione. He was, rationally, interested in the source of their strange visions, that was it. And she didn't have time for this extra project in the first place on top of all of the classes she was taking, nor did she have time to even attempt a romantic relationship with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Not that he'd asked.

Or that she wanted to.

Millicent nudged her. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Gazing off into space like you're thinking of your favorite quill. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were bitten by one of those love bugs too."

Hermione hastily added a few Sugar Quills to her basket, letting Millicent hear her laugh her off. Time to be sensible, like Helena said when something was bothering her and she had decided to put it away for the time being. It was easier to focus on choosing sweets than deciphering the tangled mess of her thoughts. She picked out a box of Peppermint Toads and started examining a jar of co*ckroach Clusters when she noticed Millicent didn't have a single sweet in her hands.

"What are you getting? Not in the mood for anything?"

Millicent shrugged and weighed a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans before setting it back on the shelf. "I guess I'm not as excited about Hogsmeade as everyone else. This is just... ordinary."

Hermione hesitated before speaking again, carefully selecting her words like picking Fizzing Whizzbees from a bowl. "Millie, it doesn't have to be about dating or boys or any of that stuff. It's our first time here—we should enjoy it."

Millicent glanced at her, and for a moment, Hermione thought she saw the ghost of a smile on her friend's lips.

"Yeah," Millicent conceded. "You're right." She tossed another bag into her basket with more force than necessary. "Let's just enjoy our day then."

They paid for their sweets and stepped back out into the bustling street. Students from all houses mingled together, some holding hands or sharing scarves against the autumn chill.

"Where to next?" Hermione asked, hoping to keep Millicent's spirits up.

"The Three Broomsticks," Millicent decided with renewed vigor. "I could murder a Butterbeer right now."

They wove through groups of giggling students and past shop windows filled with sparkling wonders until they reached the warm glow of The Three Broomsticks.

The pub was crowded, filled with the chatter of students and the clinking of glasses. They learned the proprietor's name was Madam Rosmerta, who led them over to an empty table by the window.

Millicent slid into the booth with a sigh while Hermione hung back for just a second longer at the doorway—eyes scanning for familiar faces before she joined her friend at their table. They ordered two Butterbeers and settled in comfortably to await their frothy drinks.

"You know," Millicent said after taking a long drink, "maybe I was too harsh earlier about everyone coupling up."

Hermione raised an eyebrow in surprise but stayed silent as she sipped her Butterbeer.

"It's not so much that they're dating," Millicent continued thoughtfully. "It's that they're making such an enormous fuss about it—as if finding someone to snog is their greatest accomplishment at Hogwarts."

The corner of Hermione's mouth twitched upward despite herself. "Maybe it is for some people. Like Parkinson."

Millicent snorted into her Butterbeer and wiped away a stray drop from her chin with mock dignity. "Then those people need to reevaluate their priorities."

Hermione laughed. "It is a little young," she admitted. "My mother didn't start dating until she was seventeen."

Millicent scoffed—a sound that somehow managed to be both ladylike and derisive. "I'm not irritated because I'm a prude. But now Pansy and Daphne will be moon-eyed and absolutely impossible to live with!"

A grimace crept onto Hermione's face. The prospect of enduring Pansy and Daphne's lovesick drivel was less than appealing. She could already hear Pansy's high-pitched whine and Daphne's dreamy sighs echoing off the stone walls of their dormitory. "At least we have Runcorn on our side," she offered, though it felt like clutching at straws.

Millicent gave another dismissive snort. "All Runcorn cares about is hanging out with the upper years. She'll be no help."

"Well, I'm sure we'll think of something. We always do."

Hermione knew why Millicent dreaded everyone coupling up so much. Despite her heritage, Millicent often found herself on the fringes of the pureblood Slytherin group—a position all too familiar to Hermione herself. Pansy's cruel barbs cut deep regardless of blood status; her words could make even the most thick-skinned witch flinch. It didn't matter that Millicent was a pureblood, what mattered was that Millicent, with her shapeless robes and a frame suited for rugby, was an easy target for willowy girls who thought that mattered. Children were children.

And there it was again—that voice in Hermione's head that sounded eerily like Helena Granger's sensible musings. The realization that her mother's wisdom had started to infiltrate her thoughts gave Hermione pause. Was this what growing up felt like? Adopting your parents' viewpoints as your own?

She shuddered.

"Anyway, where do you want to go next?"

"What about the pet shop?"

"Oh, that sounds perfect."

***

Pansy was indeed insufferable.

As Hermione settled into bed that night, she welcomed the end of the day, exhausted after what seemed like hours of Pansy and Daphne rehashing every minute detail of their double date. Weren't they on the same date? And yet they still found a way to drone on endlessly, even discussing Zabini and Nott's dates which only prolonged the insufferable conversation.

Hermione didn't let Pansy's snide comments about single witches bother her too much. The pair were in such a giddy, good mood that the jabs felt rather half-hearted anyway. Millicent merely gave them a flat look when they tried to tease her, which had sent the high-spirited Slytherins into fits of giggles.

At least Hermione could go to sleep glad her dorm mates had fun. Their whispers and muffled laughter continued even as she drifted off to sleep.

It felt like she had barely closed her eyes when someone was shaking her shoulder urgently. Blinking away the heaviness of slumber, Hermione found Millicent looming over her bed.

"Something's happened," Millicent said in a low voice. "We have to sleep in the Great Hall tonight."

Hermione glanced at the large ornate clock—it was past midnight. Rubbing her eyes, she joined the rest of her disheveled housemates, all in their pajamas and slippers, as they shivered in the cool dungeon air and made their way up to the Great Hall.

As they climbed the stairs, Hermione felt someone tug playfully on her braid. She turned to find Adrian Pucey beside her, a teasing smirk on his face.

"Cute," he murmured, his eyes lingering a little too long.

A flush crept up Hermione's cheeks, her sleepiness rapidly fading as she felt suddenly very awake and flustered under his gaze. All too aware of her flannel robe and her undoubtedly frizzy hair, she sped ahead.

Hermione quickened her pace, putting some distance between herself and Adrian. Her cheeks still felt warm from his unexpected compliment. She wasn't used to boys noticing her, let alone handsome older ones like Adrian Pucey.

Behind her, she heard Malfoy's drawling voice. "Really, Pucey? Granger?" He scoffed. "I thought you had better taste than that."

"Jealous, Malfoy?" Adrian replied, his tone cool and unruffled. "I didn't realize you had a claim on her."

Malfoy sputtered. "What? I don't—that's not what I meant!"

Adrian chuckled. "Sure it isn't."

Their voices faded as Hermione hurried ahead, too preoccupied with her own flustered thoughts to pay much attention to their bickering. Malfoy was just being his usual insufferable self.

Among other students shuffling in, she entered the Great Hall, which had been transformed. The long dining tables were gone, replaced by hundreds of plush purple sleeping bags. The enchanted ceiling swirled with stars, casting a soft glow over the room.

Professor Dumbledore stood at the front, his usually twinkling eyes grave. "Students, I apologize for the late hour. But I'm afraid there has been a breach in the castle's security. For your safety, you will sleep here tonight while the professors conduct a thorough search."

Whispers erupted among the students. A breach? What did that mean? Was someone trying to break in?

Students from all four Houses milled about in confusion and excitement. The perfects and professors were slowly regaining order. Hermione searched the room for Harry. He was with a group of other Gryffindors, his robe haphazardly knotted, his hair even more messy than usual.

She beelined towards him where he stood with Ron, keeping a wary eye out for professors.

"What happened?" she demanded, once she'd closed the gap. Harry's expression was taut with worry, and for a split second, it seemed to falter at Hermione's question.

"How do you know I know anything?"

"Your face," Hermione pressed. "Now what happened?"

Harry glanced between Ron and Hermione, as if weighing his options under her unwavering gaze. "Sirius Black got into the castle," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "All the way Gryffindor Tower. He had a knife... and he ripped up the entrance to our tower."

Her stomach dropped like a lead weight in water. Sirius Black, the notorious prisoner of Azkaban who had escaped with the whole wizarding world on his tail—here? In Hogwarts? She'd had to pass the Dementors guarding the school twice that day, and still she'd forgotten the danger.

Hermione opened her mouth to ask more questions—about how Sirius Black had managed to infiltrate the castle, whether anyone was hurt in the process—but the stern, unyielding expressions on the professors' faces as they cut through the crowd put an abrupt end to her inquiries. With brisk, no-nonsense efficiency, the teachers began shooing the students from Hermione's section of the Great Hall into the makeshift sleeping bags laid out on the floor.

Before she could protest, Harry was speaking again, turning to Ron and Hermione with a nod towards a cluster of unclaimed sleeping bags nearby. "Let's grab these three."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. Even Ron darted a hasty glance at her, as if he too realized what his friend didn't. A Slytherin sleeping among the Gryffindors? But Harry didn't seem to care, and so Hermione shrugged. No one had said they weren't allowed to sleep where they wanted, and she wanted to share theories with Harry.

Draco Malfoy's whining voice carried over the din of students settling into their sleeping bags. "But Professor Snape, shouldn't all the Slytherins bunk together?"

Hermione stiffened, realizing his complaint was targeted at her sleeping near the Gryffindors. She braced herself for Snape's rebuke, and soon after, Professor Snape's robes billowed into view. The dour Potions master fixed her with a disapproving sneer. "Miss Granger, I must insist you take the sleeping bag your..." His lip curled ever so slightly. "Friends have saved for you. Your true friends, that is—not ones who would see you in trouble."

The implications were clear in the way his cold, dark eyes flicked towards Harry and Ron. Snape thought very little of her fraternizing with Gryffindors, even if one of them was the famous Harry Potter. With a resigned sigh, Hermione bid the boys a quiet "Goodnight" before trodding off under Snape's watchful eye.

"You can sleep there," came Malfoy's sneering drawl as she approached the cluster of Slytherin sleeping bags.

Hermione frowned, taking in the strategic arrangement. The girls were positioned in the middle, with the third-year boys spaced protectively around the outside perimeter. The other years seemed to have adopted a similar chivalrous setup. Ordinarily, she might have found it sweet—if she hadn't ended up with her sleeping bag right at Malfoy's feet, face-to-face with Blaise Zabini.

No sooner had she lain down than Blaise propped himself up on one elbow, grinning at her. "So, did you find out anything juicy? I heard Black choked three seventh-years as he fought his way out."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "What? No!" She twisted to look at him properly. "Where did you hear that?"

The lamps lining the walls began to dim, plunging the Great Hall into darkness. Hermione waited until Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor Head Boy, passed by on his patrol before leaning closer to Blaise.

"Sirius Black slashed up the portrait that leads to Gryffindor Tower," she whispered, keeping her voice low.

Blaise let out a low whistle. "Think we'll get out of classes for our collective trauma?"

"That's not funny!"

Blaise chuckled. "Good grief, you're so serious, Granger. Lighten up a little."

She scowled and rolled onto her other side, putting her back to the smirking Slytherin. Honestly, the nerve of him! Didn't he realize how dangerous this was?

Staring into the darkness, Hermione couldn't shake the ominous feeling settling over her. Sirius Black had made it all the way inside the castle...all the way to Gryffindor Tower. What if he came back? What if next time he got inside? Or found Harry roaming the hall?

The quiet stillness of the Great Hall was broken by Blaise's voice, low but carrying between the scant inches between them.

"So, did your date stand you up or something? Is that why you ended up going with Bulstrode instead?"

Hermione's head whipped around to look at his dark silhouette. "What? No! I went with Millicent because we're friends."

Blaise let out a derisive snort. "Right, sure."

Heat prickled along the back of Hermione's neck ashe she determinedly turned away from him. How dare he imply—as if she would ever ditch a friend for some boy! Hermione whipped her head around, gritting her teeth.

"Oi, relax. I'm only joking." He poked her in the side and only stopped when Hermione jerked around to glare at him. He was resting on his side now, and though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them. "But you did say you had a date lined up, didn't you?"

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to retort, but stopped short. Had she? She wracked her brain but couldn't recall mentioning any such thing. A crease formed between her brows as she shook her head slowly.

"No... I don't think so." She eyed his silhouette warily. "When did I say that?"

Silence stretched between them. She wished she could see his face—her Housemates were easier to read in daylight. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a low, rumbling chuckle that made the hairs on Hermione's arms prickle.

"Merlin's beard, you really didn't, did you?" He grinned at her, all white teeth glinting in the shadows. "I can't tell if you're being serious or just oblivious."

Heat crept up the back of Hermione's neck as confusion swirled inside her. What in Salazar's name was he on about? She opened her mouth, a biting retort on her tongue—

"Zabini." Malfoy's snappish voice above her made her jerk. "Stop flirting with the Mudblood. Give it a rest. Like anyone cares about Granger's pathetic life anyway."

The words hit Hermione like a slap across the face. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as a lump formed in her throat. She blinked rapidly. She hadn't let a tear fall because of Malfoy in three years. She wouldn't start now. But still, something about it had hit her in a vulnerable place. Pathetic? Is that what he thought—what they all thought?

Beside her, Blaise made a soft tutting sound, but didn't contradict Malfoy's cruel jab. Of course not. Purebloods stuck together, even at the expense of a Muggleborn's feelings. After all, had Nott even said a single word to Hermione in all their time together? Pansy was Pansy, and Daphne clung to whatever Pansy did. Millicent was really her only ally, and if she wasn't an outcast herself, Hermione didn't doubt Millicent would be happy to turn her back.

Hermione swallowed hard against the burning ache in her throat.

Don't let them make you cry, her mother's words echoed in her head. Don't give them that satisfaction.

Pulling her sleeping bag up to her chin, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep. But even as exhaustion dragged her under, a nagging sense of dread lingered.

Sirius Black was still out there, and he was after Harry.

The thought made her shiver, her stomach twisting into knots. While Malfoy was a childish bully, this adult wizard had come inside to kill. What if the deranged killer found a way inside again? What if the next time Sirius Black found Harry? Sweet, kind Harry, who brought warmth to her barren existence in this school. Hermione's last coherent thought before drifting off was a desperate, silent plea:

Please... please don't let him find Harry.

She shivered, pulling her sleeping bag tighter. Why couldn't the Dementors catch him already?

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Hermione gnawed her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood as her teeth broke the skin. Her eyes widened in realization as the pieces finally clicked into place—Professor Lupin was a werewolf. She stared intently at the parchment containing the homework Professor Snape had assigned when he substituted for Professor Lupin's class.

Everything made sense now: his recurring "sick days" that always seemed to align with the full moon cycle, his haggard and gaunt appearance when he reappeared after those absences. Hermione recalled all the little details she had noticed but failed to put together until this moment. She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a small gasp. All those scars crisscrossing his face and body—they were the result of his own self-inflicted wounds during transformations. The signs had been there all along, but she had been too naive to recognize them for what they were.

"Poor Professor," she whispered. Professor Lupin was her favorite.

Hermione's heart ached for her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. She couldn't imagine the torment he must endure each month, the pain and humiliation of transforming into a mindless beast against his will. No wonder he always seemed so weary and melancholic.

Biting down on her lip again, Hermione considered her options. Part of her desperately wanted to confront Professor Lupin, to let him know that she had figured out his secret and assure him that it didn't change how she viewed him as a teacher. He was still the best Defense instructor Hogwarts had seen in years. But another part of her held back, fearing he might react badly to the revelation that a student had uncovered his darkest truth.

Hermione sighed, running a hand through her frizzy curls. She would have to tread carefully. The last thing she wanted was for Professor Lupin to feel threatened or ostracized because of his condition. He deserved compassion, not judgment.

Perhaps she needn't do anything about this information. After all, Harry was going to ask Professor Lupin to cancel the assignment, so Hermione understood that most of the classes hadn't started it yet with those hopes. If no one else put the clues together in the meantime, Professor Lupin would be safe. She would just stay quiet, for now.

The green light outside the windows swirled. The storm was stirring up the Black Lake. When she'd come down from breakfast, it looked like a hideous storm. Right now, all the other students were at the Quidditch stadium where Harry's match against Hufflepuff raged on. Hermione shook her head, grateful to be nestled in the cozy confines rather than braving that squall.

Hermione crossed to the ornate drinks cabinet tucked into an alcove of the Slytherin common room, one of the many perks she had grown to appreciate about her House. She loved the clever enchantments that allowed students to summon beverages and snacks from the Hogwarts kitchens with a simple verbal request.

Leaning closer, she murmured, "Hot cocoa, please." A small compartment slid open, and a steaming mug materialized, the rich aroma of chocolate and cream wafting out enticingly. Hermione inhaled deeply, savoring the comforting scent before wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic.

She carried her treat back to the plush green sofa where her books and parchments lay scattered. Settling in, she took a sip, the velvety liquid coating her tongue with its decadent sweetness. A contented sigh escaped her lips as the cocoa's warmth spread through her body, banishing the lingering chill from the storm raging outside.

Through the tall windows, Hermione could see the churning waters of the Black Lake, its inky depths roiling with the fury of the wind and rain. She was grateful to be nestled in the cozy confines of the common room rather than braving that squall. Most of her housemates were likely huddled in the stands watching the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, but Hermione had opted to stay behind and catch up on her homework.

As she took another sip of cocoa, her gaze drifted back to the parchment detailing Professor Snape's latest essay assignment. Her mind still whirled with the realization about Professor Lupin's condition. Despite her initial shock, a sense of understanding and empathy had settled over her. She couldn't begin to fathom the struggles he must face, the pain and isolation that came with being a werewolf.

Hermione's fingers traced the edge of the mug absently as she pondered how to approach this delicate situation. She knew she couldn't outright confront Professor Lupin—that would only risk alienating him further. Perhaps it was best to simply keep his secret for now and continue treating him with the same respect and kindness she always had. After all, his affliction didn't diminish his skill as an educator or the depth of his knowledge. He was still the best Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Hogwarts had seen in years.

Nodding to herself, Hermione took a fortifying sip of cocoa before rolling up her essay and setting it aside. Next she reached for the book on parallel worlds instead. It hadn't been easy to acquire—Madam Pince had to special order it at Hermione's request. But once she discovered Septimus Wallacen had made multiple trips through different parallel realities through a family artifact, she had to study his accounts.

Hermione's brow furrowed as she pored over the aged tome, her fingers tracing the faded text detailing Septimus Wallacen's extraordinary journeys through parallel realities. It seemed he had been driven by an insatiable scientific curiosity, a thirst for knowledge that transcended the boundaries of a single world. Rather like some eccentric Muggle scientists Hermione had studied.

According to his meticulous records, Wallacen had been gifted an ancient family heirloom to console him when he did not become heir of his family house. A consolation prize that was, he was informed simply, "a second chance." This artifact, which was never described, was imbued with the power to bridge the gap between realms. At first, his travels had been accidental, the artifact activating without his understanding and transporting him to alternate versions of reality. But once he grasped the artifact's true potential, Wallacen embraced his role as an interdimensional explorer, methodically documenting the nuances of each parallel world he visited.

Hermione's eyes widened as she read about the remarkable phenomenon Wallacen encountered time and again: his beloved wife, Annabelle. No matter which reality he found himself in, she existed in some form, bound to him by an inexplicable cosmic thread. Even in worlds where they were strangers, Annabelle would experience vivid visions of Septimus, and she would be compelled to find him, as if their souls recognized each other across the vast expanses of the multiverse.

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine as the parallels to her own situation with Harry became increasingly apparent. The visions, the undeniable connection that seemed to defy logic and reason—could it be that they, too, were tethered by some greater force spanning multiple realities? The thought was as exhilarating as it was unsettling.

Wallacen's words leapt off the page, his elegant script capturing the raw intensity of that first encounter with an alternate Annabelle: "In that moment we touched, I knew her as surely as I know myself, for our essences were bound by a thread that spanned infinite worlds, and she likewise. Though we had not been married in the realm from whence she existed, some fundamental part of her recognized the man before her as the other half of her soul."

Hermione exhaled slowly, her mind reeling from the implications of Wallacen's experiences. Did that then mean that Hermione was from a parallel world?

And did it mean she was married to Harry there?

A low rumble of thunder rumbled through the castle walls, but Hermione barely heard it. She needed to know why Annabelle and Harry had the visions, and after flipping a couple pages, she found Wallacen's three theories on this phenomena.

The first, quantum entanglement, was a concept she vaguely remembered from her Muggle science classes. It posited that particles could become inextricably linked on a subatomic level, allowing them to influence each other's behavior across vast distances and even dimensions. Could souls, too, become "entangled" in such a manner? The idea that her very essence might be tethered to Harry's through some cosmic quantum phenomenon was as mind-bending as it was tantalizing.

The second theory, however, struck a deeper chord within Hermione. Wallacen hypothesized that the visions and connections stemmed from the unique magical signatures all witches and wizards possessed. Just as every individual had a distinct fingerprint or voiceprint, their inherent magical auras acted as energetic identifiers that resonated across parallel worlds. If two souls shared a powerful magical bond like a wizarding marriage in one reality, echoes of that connection might manifest in others, allowing them to sense and even glimpse each other's existence.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she considered the implications. Did this mean that, somewhere out there, another version of herself shared an unbreakable magical link with Harry? The thought kindled a warmth within her, a fluttering sensation she had grown increasingly familiar with whenever he was near.

Intriguing notions, to be sure, yet both theories lacked substantial proof, mere conjectures awaiting validation. With a slight shake of her head, she turned the page, undeterred in her pursuit of knowledge.

The third theory was that of soul—

The tome snapped shut with a resounding thud, Hermione's fingers clenching the spine as if it were a lifeline. No, her mind recoiled, refusing to entertain the notion further. It simply couldn't be, the very idea sending tremors through her hands. She should face it, whatever revelations awaited within those pages, but an invisible force held her back, paralyzed by the weight of the unknown.

"I think you're pretty brave."

Harry's quiet confidence in her swam to the front of her memories. Her throat contracted. It was one thing to be unbothered by her irritating Housemates and another to, to entertain this nonsense.

Her trembling hand had just pulled open the front cover when the common room door slid open, letting in a cheering, laughing crowd of students.

The uproarious cheers and laughter of the returning Slytherin students shattered Hermione's tranquil cocoon. She snapped the book shut, her heart sinking as the jubilant crowd spilled into the common room like a raucous tide. The air was suddenly thick with their glee and mud from the soaking wet journey back from the stands. Hufflepuff had won, she gathered from their gleeful banter as if their own team had defeated them, but that wasn't the sweetest nectar for them—no, it was Harry's fall.

The words "Potter fell off his broom" and "the Whomping Willow smashed it to bits" passed through the crowd like a contagious disease, each repetition infecting another with delight. Hermione's lip curled as the full story emerged in bits and pieces: Dementors had flooded the pitch and Harry, sensitive to them undoubtedly by his past, had passed out, falling at least fifty feet to the ground.

Malfoy's sneer was practically audible as he gloated, his voice slicing through the chatter. "Can you believe it? Potter tumbling from his broom—it's like Christmas came early!" His laughter was as sharp and unwelcome as a splinter under a fingernail.

Hermione's stomach churned with disgust as the raucous cheers and jeers washed over her. She couldn't believe how delighted her housemates were over Harry's accident—their glee was utterly reprehensible. Pansy's shrill laughter cut through the din like nails on a chalkboard, voice dripping with malicious delight.

How could anyone take such pleasure in another's misfortune, especially when it involved a potentially serious injury? She gathered her book and rucksack, determined to extricate herself from this toxic celebration.

She rose from the sofa and had to fight against the tide of muddy, rain-soaked students streaming into the common room. Right near the entrance, a hand clamped around her wrist. She whipped around to find Malfoy leering at her, his grey eyes glinting with mocking amusem*nt.

"Where do you think you're going, Granger?" he sneered, giving her arm a rough tug. "Stay for the party. Flint's sneaking into Hogsmeade to get us some real refreshments."

Hermione's gaze flickered past Malfoy's shoulder, catching sight of Adrian Pucey waving her over from where he was toweling off his hair across the room. A flicker of warmth blossomed in her chest before Malfoy stepped into her line of vision, his smirking face filling her view.

"Come on, Granger, live a little," he goaded, his breath hot and sour on her cheek as he leaned in far too close for comfort. "If you keep running off to play with lions, you'll lose your real friends."

Hermione recoiled from his unwelcome proximity, her nose wrinkling in distaste. She gave her arm a firm tug, wrenching it from Malfoy's grasp with a defiant glare.

"You're delusional if you think I'd ever consider someone like you a friend."

He scoffed as he folded his arms in front of his chest. "Have it your way," he said, sneering. "Can't waste quality supplies on a Mudblood anyway."

Without sparing him or the rest of the raucous crowd a second glance, Hermione turned on her heel and strode toward the exit. Her anger beat at her chest like someone taking a baseball bat to a brick wall. How dare Malfoy try to call himself a friend? The mere thought made her skin crawl.

Pushing through the throngs of cheering Slytherins, Hermione finally reached the door and slipped out into the blessedly quiet corridor beyond. She paused for a moment, leaning back against the cool stone wall as she took a deep, steadying breath.

The stark contrast between the boisterous chaos she had just escaped and the tranquil silence enveloping her now was jarring. Hermione closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to slow its frantic pace. She couldn't let Malfoy get under her skin like this. He thrived on provoking reactions, on sowing discord and misery wherever he went.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she felt the tension gradually ebb from her body. She set off for the hospital wing.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

"Granger."

Hermione sighed at the unfamiliar voice, with an insult on her tongue for whoever was blocking the dungeon's stairs up to the Entrance Hall. The storm howled a spooky note as the insult died on her tongue the next moment. It was a boy who hadn't spoken a word to her despite sitting next to her in every Charms class for three years.

"Nott."

She held herself wary, especially because her mind was cataloging several things that weren't in her favor—they were the only two out in the corridor, he already had his wand out, and his eyes were downcast, preventing her from estimating where he'd strike. The second thing she realized was that she didn't regularly expect curses from her classmates—not anymore—so why was she tensed as if she was?

She cleared the thought the next second, because Nott moved forward. "I found these," he said, sticking his hand into his robe pocket. He pulled out a small bundle of wood. He looked up at her and noted her confusion. His eyebrows drew down as he looked away. "They're Potter's. Maybe it can be saved."

Hermione studied Nott's appearance, taking in his disheveled robes and the few leaves clinging to his hair. A raindrop trickled down his pale cheek as he held out the bundle of splintered wood—the remains of Harry's Nimbus 2000. Her heart sank at the sight of the broom's shattered pieces.

Up close, she could see his fingers were scratched and stained with dirt, no doubt from venturing near the violent Whomping Willow during the raging storm. His Slytherin tie hung loosened around his neck, the knot askew.

"You stayed behind? In this weather?" Hermione asked.

Nott gave a small nod, his blond hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of mud on his forehead. "I thought... well, I know my broom means a lot to me."

The only other person in their House who seemed to realize. The storm still howled fiercely outside. Yet here was this unassuming boy, drenched from undoubtedly braving the foul weather, all to salvage a few scraps of wood for Harry's sake.

"Thank you," she said, holding out her hands.

Nott hesitated before handing Hermione the bundle of sticks that made up part of Harry's broom. For a moment, she thought he might not give them to her after all. His fingers grazed her palm as he dropped the splintered wood into her outstretched hands. Nott sucked in a sharp breath and jerked his hand away as if burned.

His ears flushed a deep crimson. Shoving his hand back into the pocket of his robes, he averted his gaze. "Tell Potter chocolate helps," he mumbled, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Without waiting for a response, Nott passed her and hurried deeper into the dungeons, shoulders hunched as if fighting against a harsh, invisible wind. Hermione watched him go, her brow furrowed as she processed the strange encounter.

She looked down at the broken remains of Harry's beloved Nimbus 2000 cradled in her hands. Twigs and shards of wood were all that was left, a sad reminder of the broomstick's former glory. But Nott had ventured out in the storm to retrieve these pieces, muddying his robes and scratching his hands, all for Harry's sake.

Strange…

Having no reasonable explanation why Theodore Nott would break his years' long silence to give her pieces of Harry's broom and recovery tips, Hermione tentatively chalked it up to boys being Quidditch mad. Quidditch made some boys do strange things.

***

Her feet led her directly to the hospital wing.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, hurrying over to his bedside. Ron sat in the visitor's chair.

The hospital wing, usually a sanctuary of sterilized calm, looked like the aftermath of a monsoon. The wing was silent except for the soft swish-swish of a bucket and mop moving autonomously along the stone floor, scrubbing away the muddy footprints left by what appeared to be an onslaught of visitors.

She moved toward Harry's bed, noting that he was the sole occupant in the single beds. He lay propped up against his headboard, a shadow draped over his normally vibrant features. His glasses sat askew on his nose, and his skin was paler than the sheets he was tucked into—a stark contrast to his vivid green eyes that seemed to have lost their usual spark.

Ron, looking as if he'd been dragged through a bog, was still drenched to the bone. Mud splattered up his arms and legs and smeared across his face like war paint. His red hair stuck to his forehead in wet clumps, and he seemed utterly miserable as he shivered in his seat beside Harry's bed.

"Hey," Hermione said softly as she approached, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like a lifeline. She held out her hands to reveal the broken pieces of Harry's broomstick. "Nott found these."

Harry's eyes flickered with a brief spark at the sight of his broom's remains before dimming once more. "Thanks," he muttered, but there was no mistaking the despondency in his tone—a far cry from his usual determination. He gestured for her to place it among the other bits of wood left on the side table. Wincing, she did so.

She took in Ron's forlorn expression, noting how water dripped from his robes onto the floor, contributing to the mess that the magical mop struggled to clean up. "You look like you've taken a dip in the lake," Hermione remarked, a hint of wry humor in her voice as she attempted to lift their spirits.

"Did you hear, then? About what happened?"

"Only what the Slytherins said." Hermione wouldn't tell them about the party happening downstairs.

Ron let out a mirthless chuckle, wringing out the hem of his sopping wet robes. "Dementors happened. Bloody things attacked during the match." He shuddered, whether from the cold or the memory, Hermione couldn't tell.

"I fell off my broom when they..." Harry stared listlessly at the broken shards of wood on the side table. Ron cleared his throat.

"We're alive, at least. Dumbledore got it all under control," Ron said with a halfhearted attempt at levity. He forced a grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Could've been worse, I reckon. Could've been attacked by a rogue Bludger like Harry was last year."

Harry didn't react, his gaze remaining fixed on the shattered remains of his beloved Nimbus 2000. Hermione shot Ron a reproachful look, silently willing him to drop the subject.

Undeterred, Ron barreled on, his voice taking on a false cheeriness. "Cracking match though, wasn't it? Shame you missed it, Granger. Harry was brilliant out there until..." He trailed off again, grimacing.

Silence hung heavy in the hospital wing, punctuated only by the rhythmic swish of the mop across the floor. Hermione shifted uncomfortably, searching for something to say to lift the somber mood.

"I'm just glad you're alright," she said finally, her voice soft. She reached out and placed a gentle hand on Harry's pajama-clad arm, squeezing lightly. "We'll get you a new broom, Harry. A better one, even. I mean, it gives you the perfect excuse to upgrade, right?"

Harry managed a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I guess."

Hermione's ears perked up at the distinct sound of Madam Pomfrey's footsteps, the resolute tapping of her heels announcing the matron's arrival before she materialized from her office, features set in a serious expression.

"Mr. Potter can only have one visitor," Madam Pomfrey announced with an apologetic tilt of her head. "He needs his rest."

Hermione rose from her perch, her legs brushing against the edge of Harry's bed as she prepared to give way for Ron. However, before she could fully stand, Harry turned his gaze to his friend.

"Ron, would you mind if Hermione stayed for a bit longer?"

Ron glanced between them, a fleeting look of understanding crossing his face. "Yeah, sure thing, mate. Take care of him, Granger," he added with a nod toward her before he ambled toward the exit.

The sound of Ron's sodden footsteps faded into silence as he slumped out of the hospital wing. As she began to sit back down, Harry reached out silently with an outstretched hand. She didn't hesitate before slipping her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers with gentle pressure, warm and reassuring despite the clammy chill that still clung to him.

"Better?" Hermione whispered, feeling an inexplicable pull in her chest as she met his gaze.

A vision came to her then, Hermione charming his spectacles to repel rain. The small moment shone with friendship and love. When she opened her eyes, Harry's eyes were closed as if savoring the simple comfort of their joined hands. "Yeah," he breathed out, and there was something so honest and vulnerable in that single word that it resonated within her.

The strange yet profound connection pulsed through their intertwined fingers. Their touch bridged more than just physical space; it was a balm for something deeper.

The hospital wing fell quiet around them; even Madam Pomfrey seemed content to let them be for the moment, her office door closing heard faintly in the distance. Hermione watched Harry's chest rise and fall with each steady breath. The tension that had knotted his features began to ease, his brow smoothing out as peace settled over him.

In the stillness, Hermione allowed herself a moment to study Harry. The curve of his jawline softened by youth but hinting at strength, the faint freckles across his cheeks that few ever noticed beneath his glasses. She didn't feel rushed to fill the silence with words. Existing in silence together was enough.

Her thumb brushed absently over the back of his hand. Harry's lips quirked upward ever so slightly at the touch—a silent acknowledgment of gratitude or perhaps something more.

Harry tried to speak but his voice came out scratchy. He coughed and tried again. "Learn anything? I hope one of us had a good day."

She'd forgotten her book, which she'd left on Harry's end table beside the broken remnants of his broom. "Nothing much," she admitted, looking down at their joined hands. "A few theories about why you might have these visions. There's a chance it could be your magical signature matching mine—since we were friends in that other world, it's trying to remind you. You just might be extra sensitive to the magical signatures of your friends."

"Ron can rest easy then, he's always talking about jumping into parallel worlds."

"Is he?"

He snorted. "No. Ron's choosing to believe this"—he squeezed her hand—"is some guilt thing for getting you petrified last year."

"Oh? Is this guilt? I thought you just liked me."

Harry choked and started coughing. Laughing softly, Hermione jumped up and poured him a glass of water, which he waved away. The way red dusted his cheeks was very endearing.

She spent the next hour in the hospital wing, the storm outside muffled to a mere whisper against the windows. Hermione sat beside Harry, their hands still entwined, their shared warmth a counterpoint to the rain's chill. They talked sometimes, but mostly just enjoyed the silence, the thread tying them together.

Madam Pomfrey's return was heralded by the soft tapping of her shoes on the stone floor. The matron approached with a smile, her eyes reflecting approval at the color returning to Harry's cheeks.

"Well, Mr. Potter," she said, her voice tinged with satisfaction, "you're looking much better."

Harry perked up. "Can I go back to my dorm?"

"In the morning, dear." While Harry slumped, Madam Pomfrey nodded at Hermione. "You've been a good friend, Miss Granger, but it's nearly curfew and I need him to rest without distractions."

Hermione squeezed Harry's hand before letting go. "I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

Hermione's footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as she left the hospital wing, the heavy doors swinging shut behind her. The corridor stretched out before her, dimly lit by flickering torchlight that cast dancing shadows along the walls.

She paused for a moment, her fingers tightening around the book she carried. With Harry's wellbeing no longer her sole focus, her mind drifted back to the passage she had skimmed over earlier—the one that had given her pause.

Soulmate theory.

The words seemed to burn in her mind's eye as she flipped open the book, the worn pages parting to reveal the section she had avoided. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm her nerves, she began to read:

"Souls recognize each other by the way they feel—not by the way they look or by the words they speak. In every world, in every reality, soulmates find each other by the unique resonance of their beings."

Sentimental nonsense, of course. Yet... there was something compelling about being near Harry, holding his hand.

The passage went on:

"This theory posits that certain people are fated to be together, bound across universes by an invisible thread woven by destiny itself. It is said that when soulmates are near each other or think of one another, they experience a sense of completeness and serenity that cannot be replicated in any other form of relationship."

Hermione paused as she absorbed those words. Completeness? Serenity? Wasn't that how she'd felt holding Harry's hand in the hospital wing?

Hermione read each word a second time, slowly, allowing them to sink in fully. The idea seemed ludicrously romantic and not at all within her realm of comfort. Yet as she contemplated every interaction with Harry since his dreams began—every warm touch and shared look—a gnawing sensation in her gut told her this theory might not be as far-fetched as she wanted to believe.

Or was she just desperate for it to be true?

If the book was right, if that inexplicable bond she felt with Harry truly meant they were soulmates, it would recontextualize every interaction, every shared glance, every brush of hands that sent tingles down her spine. It would validate the depth of their connection, the way she felt drawn to him. Wouldn't that explain why she risked the wrath of her House for a boy she barely knew?

Yet even as a part of her thrilled at the idea, another part recoiled. Soulmates were the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels, not real life. And what would it mean for their friendship, this precious thing they were building together? Could it survive such a revelation?

Would Harry even want that with her?

No, their friendship was the one foundation of their relationship. She couldn't risk losing that, losing him. Whatever this other connection was, however powerful and alluring, it paled in comparison to what they already shared. She would bury these feelings, lock them away deep inside. Harry could never know.

Hermione tucked the book close to her chest in a thoughtful frame of mind. The corridors were empty and echoed with her footsteps as she made her way back to the Slytherin common room, taking the long path as she had plenty of time before the Bloody Baron started patrolling the dungeons.

She stepped outside to the covered walkway. Usually, she enjoyed taking a meal out here overlooking the courtyard, but today the chill of the evening rain nipped at her heels. The environmental barrier barely repelled the downpour, keeping the stones dry but occasionally letting raindrops in to splash Hermione's shoulder or face. Even magic had its limits, and the rain was coming down hard.

A movement caught her eye—a large black dog trotting up the walkway, its coat soaked and dripping with rainwater. Beside it, trotting with its tail held high, was Crookshanks. Her cat's orange fur appeared mostly dry, a stark contrast to his drenched canine companion.

"Crookshanks!" Hermione called out in surprise. The cat looked up at her, his yellow eyes glinting with familiar condescension. "Have you been making friends?"

Crookshanks meowed in response, striding over to rub against her leg as if seeking approval for his new friend. Hermione couldn't help but smile at the sight—her cat had always been independent, but this was unexpected.

She reached out to pat the dog's head. "Good boy," she said instinctively, not really knowing why she felt compelled to praise him. The dog's ears perked up at her voice, and he wagged his tail gently.

Hermione's hand paused mid-stroke. "Harry's in the hospital wing," she found herself saying to the dog. "His broom was destroyed by the Whomping Willow and he's feeling pretty low."

The words felt strange on her tongue—why was she confiding in an animal? And why did it seem as if it were listening? As she spoke, the dog tilted its head and fixed her with such an intense gaze that she couldn't shake the feeling that he understood every word. His tail kept up a steady wag. She shook her head, dismissing the odd impulse. Perhaps she was more unsettled by the day's events than she'd realized.

Crookshanks meowed again, and jumped up to swat at the pocket of her sweater. Reaching into the pocket of her robes, she retrieved a slightly squashed dinner roll and the last few pieces of chicken from the Great Hall. "I had a hunch you'd want a treat," she said to Crookshanks, unable to resist a small smile as her cat paused to give her an imperious look before devouring the offered morsels. She handed a larger bit to the dog. His ribs were clearly visible, poor thing. The dog accepted it gratefully, nuzzling her hand afterward as if asking for more affection.

"There you go," she murmured, her fingers absently scratching behind the dog's ears. Its coat was damp and matted from the rain, but it leaned into her touch with a contented sigh. For a moment, the dog looked up at her with understanding eyes.

Shaking her head again, she withdrew her hand. Clearly, the strange events of the day were getting to her if she was starting to anthropomorphize stray animals. With a final pat to the dog's head, she straightened up.

"Off you go, then," she said, waving them away. "I've got studying to do."

Once satisfied with a few pats, Crookshanks and his canine friend trotted off together the way Hermione had come. Hermione watched them go, and wondered if they might be going to visit Harry.

Wait… why would they do that? Why would Hermione even think such a irrational thing?

She turned back toward Slytherin common room but found herself lost in thought instead of moving forward. Parallel worlds… Septimus always remembered his prior world; why didn't she? Why did she only receive these strange flashes of insight—and why involve a dog?

This world was all she had ever known; Hogwarts was her reality, Slytherin was her house—these were facts as unchangeable as the stones that built the castle around her. But if she was connected to a parallel world… One thing was certain. Only one person's guidance could help her now.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Dearest Hermione,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your studies are going splendidly. Your fathers and I have been discussing holiday plans, and we would be delighted if you could join us for a visit to Australia over the holiday break.

Phil's relatives have extended a warm invitation for us to stay with them in Sydney. While I'm sure their hospitality will be lovely, I must warn you that the younger members of their household consists primarily of Phil's cousins - two rambunctious eight-year-old boys.

It will be summer there, so think sun and sand instead of snow. A bit of a change from our usual holiday traditions, but I think it'll be an adventure. You're more than welcome to join us if you'd like a break from Hogwarts and all that magic.

Though between you and me, darling, it might be a bit dull for someone with your... spirited intellect. Phil's nephews sound lovely but they don't have much to offer a mature young woman like yourself.

I'll understand completely if you decide to stay at school for the holidays—especially since I know how important your studies are to you. We'll miss you terribly, but we want you to do what makes you happiest.

Nonetheless, we would cherish the opportunity to spend this special time together as a family. The change of scenery may provide a nice break from your studies. Do let me know your thoughts, darling.

Sending you all my love and wishing you continued success,

Mum

P.S. Your dad says 'Don't let Crookshanks get into too much trouble,' and Phil insists on adding 'Make sure you enjoy yourself! You work too hard!' Do be smart, dear, and speak to your Head of House if you need assistance.

Folding the letter carefully, Hermione smothered her disappointment. She had hoped to ask her mother about the strange parallel world visions she'd been experiencing with Harry. That curiosity would have to wait until the Easter holidays.

Hermione traced the swooping curves and precise lines of her mother's handwriting, the ink a rich black against the creamy parchment. It reminded her of the way Draco's quill danced across the page during Potions, his penmanship a work of art. Pansy had a similarly refined script, no doubt drilled into her since birth, as did the other purebloods. But Harry's penmanship, like Hermione's, betrayed their Muggle roots. His letters were a haphazard jumble, as if he'd learned his alphabet from a book that was missing half its pages. Hermione smiled fondly, imagining Harry hunched over a scroll, frowning as he tried to wrangle his quill into writing legible words.

Hermione was no longer the clueless nine-year-old girl who knew nothing about the world, trusting her parents implicitly. While she trusted, she still questioned, and several questions had been on Hermione's mind of late: Hermione's blood status, the secrecy of her mother's magic, and Helena's Veela-like attraction.

Could it have something to do with these visions?

Now it seemed that conversation would have to wait until Easter.

Christmas was approaching fast—a time of festivity at Hogwarts with decorations transforming the castle into a magical wonderland. Hermione usually joined her family for an annual skiing trip to France. Sunbathing on Australian beaches was tempting, but her Mum was right: she would despise being put on babysitting duty. Staying put in Hogwarts it was.

But that left Hermione sitting with her questions. Her mother's passive ability to draw people in was something she'd taken for granted—the way Helena Granger seemed to charm everyone around her without any magical effort at all. Now, it struck Hermione that this trait might be connected to the visions. After all, Annabelle and Harry had been compelled to seek out the person at center of their visions—might it be similar to the way Helena charmed everyone?

She grimaced, shaking her head. Hermione couldn't see the connection, but she couldn't dismiss a possible link between her mother's unusual allure and her own situation.

Day by day, a thickening blanket of snow draped over the jagged edges of Hogwarts' battlements, while icicles multiplied, dangling from windowsills, their frozen tendrils reflecting the sunlight like diamond-studded curtains. Students bustled about with excited chatter about the end of term holidays while Hermione found distraction in revising for exams and aiding Harry in their quiet search for answers.

The end of term trip to Hogsmeade arrived, and Hermione only scoffed when Blaise brought up a date. Whatever he was up to, she wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, she made a plan to go with Millicent, who was meeting up with her parents to do last minute holiday shopping.

"Sorry you can't come along with us," Millicent told her. Her usual stoicism was broken, her forehead wrinkled as she stared at her knees while the carriage rocked along the path toward the village. "My parents are…"

She tutted at her friend. "Don't worry about it, Bulstrode."

Her parents were blood purists. Of course they wouldn't want to do their holiday shopping with a Mudblood.

Getting past the sting in her cheeks, she forced herself to smile. "I have plans anyway."

Millicent blinked at her. "You do? I didn't know you had a date."

Hermione snorted. "Hardly that," she said.

In fact, her last Hogsmeade visit was quite enjoyable as she spent part of it visiting the shops beside an invisible Harry, who had an Invisibility Cloak, and Ron, who begrudgingly accepted her as a tagalong on their outing. But it did get tiring after a time. Any time a Slytherin would pass by, Ron would redden as their eyes widened and then narrow, or he would tense as if he expected Hermione to reveal Harry's illicit presence next to her.

"Next time, just us?" Harry murmured when they slid into a booth at the Three Broomsticks.

"Sure," she whispered back, holding open her menu wide enough for him to read, too.

Unfortunately, lunch ended up being a disaster, and an hour later, Hermione stared out the frosty carriage window, watching the snow-dusted trees blur past as they trundled back towards the castle. Her mind replayed the shocking revelations they had overheard at The Three Broomsticks.

Sirius Black, the notorious mass murderer who had escaped Azkaban, was Harry's godfather - and had betrayed Harry's parents to Voldemort. The very thought made Hermione want to cry. How could someone so close to the Potters have turned against them in such a monstrous way?

What disturbed her even more was the detail about the Dementors not affecting Black. Most wizards went mad after prolonged exposure to the soul-sucking creatures. Yet Black had remained unaffected, bolting from Azkaban after over a decade imprisoned. It defied all logic.

Hermione shivered, rubbing her arms. The chill had seeped through her cloak despite the warming charms. Or perhaps the icy tendrils were born from the horrific tale they'd accidentally overheard.

Poor Harry. His face had been drained of all color when he finally tore off the cloak in the carriage. He didn't speak, and Hermione could think of nothing to say. Ron kept shooting him worried glances while Harry stared unseeingly, his knuckles white, fists clenched in his lap.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. "Sirius Black is my godfather? He betrayed my parents. Killed their best friend—all those Muggles."

Hermione's heart ached for him. She reached across the carriage, covering his clenched fist with her hand. A fleeting tremor ran through him, but then his fingers loosened, twining with hers in a desperate grasp.

They had escaped the pub in silence, Hermione hand on Harry's back making sure he stayed close, that he stayed on track to the carriages. She feared he might bolt if she didn't. Even Ron hadn't uttered a word, his freckles standing out starkly against his pallid face. The normally chatty boy seemed to understand this was a moment where words were insufficient.

Now, the carriage slowed to a halt before the gates of Hogwarts. Harry hadn't said anything further, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point. Hermione squeezed his hand, wishing she could pull him from the depths of his anguished thoughts.

"Harry?" She kept her voice soft. "We'll get through this together. I'm here for you."

He blinked, emerald eyes refocusing on her face. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he swallowed hard. Then he managed a tight nod, the ghost of a grateful smile flickering across his lips.

"He won't get away," Ron said, his freckles standing out starkly against his pallid face. "And we won't let him hurt you, either."

Harry's face darkened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His voice was low, grating. "Black is going to pay for what he did to my parents."

Hermione's heart clenched at the bitterness, the pain etched in the lines around Harry's eyes. She squeezed his hand again, wishing she could pull him back from the edge of that dark abyss. His gaze lifted, his expression softening infinitesimally.

"Thank you," he murmured, so low only she could hear as the carriage rocked forward, past the gates. "For... being here."

She offered him a small smile, hoping it conveyed everything the words couldn't - her steadfast loyalty, her promise to stand by his side through anything. Harry's shoulders lost a fraction of their tension.

As the castle loomed ahead, Hermione couldn't shake a prickling sense of dread. Sirius Black was unhinged, capable of unfathomable evil if the rumors were true. And now he was after Harry. Her heart hammered just imagining the deranged man slipping onto the grounds, trying to get to her... her friend.

Hermione's grip tightened almost convulsively on Harry's hand, a fierce protectiveness swelling in her chest. She would do whatever it took to keep him safe. Black would have to go through her first.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

The morning the Hogwarts Express departed, Hermione descended to the Great Hall to find it nearly empty. Only a smattering of students sat at the house tables. Harry had stayed, as had Ron, but they hadn't made an appearance yet. For the Slytherins, Nott had stayed, but no other third years. Hermione took her usual seat, the long Slytherin table feeling cavernous with so few occupants. She loaded her plate with eggs and sausages and didn't try to speak with Nott who sat in his usual seat adjacent to hers, his head down.

Hermione had checked out a book on the origins of Quidditch regulations, and she pulled it out and resumed it. It was surprisingly interesting. Dementors flooding the Hogwarts' pitch was not the first time dangerous creatures had invaded a match.

The book detailed a litany of bizarre incidents that had plagued Quidditch matches throughout the centuries. During the 1903 Quidditch match between Montrose Magpies and Wimbourne Wasps, a swarm of mischievous imps from the nearby forest infiltrated the pitch. They began pulling on the players' robes, hiding the Quaffle, and tying the Keeper’s gloves together. The chaos concluded when the Seekers, in a moment of unprecedented teamwork, managed to capture all the imps using a modified version of the Incarcerous spell, but not before one imp had swallowed the Snitch, causing the match to end quite unexpectedly when it hiccupped the tiny golden ball back onto the field.

Her gaze drifted up from the book to the staff table where only a few professors remained over the holidays. Professor Lupin was conspicuously absent. A tiny frown creased her brow as she wondered if he was feeling well.

The creak of the large oak doors made her look up again. Harry entered, his hair even more tousled than usual, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Despite his rumpled appearance, Hermione's pulse quickened at the sight of him. She watched as he trudged to the Gryffindor table and plopped down, resting his forehead on his arms with a weary sigh.

He'd been like this since their Hogsmeade trip.

A dark cloud had stalked him ever since they'd overheard the truth about Sirius Black's betrayal in Hogsmeade.

She glanced around the nearly vacant Great Hall. Only a handful of students had remained at Hogwarts over the holidays, most eager to escape the haunting chill of Dementors. But Harry had nowhere else to go. The Muggles he called family abused him, and the adults here who were supposed to care for him, protect the little boy they left on a stranger's doorstep, kept him in the dark.

The pulse of anger came quickly, like a snapping firework.

A dark, beating mass of rage came alive in her breast. They did this to Harry, hurt him and kept him isolated and ignorant. That ignorance nearly killed—

The soft murmur of Nott's voice finally penetrated the veil of Hermione's thoughts, his syllables a gentle prod against the spiraling fabric of her thoughts. "Granger."

She blinked, her eyes drifting away from where she'd been glaring up at the Headmaster's empty seat. The world seemed to blur, and shift, and then she was staring at the source of the disturbance.

It was Nott, whose usual mask of indifference had cracked, a flush of color spreading across his narrow cheeks. His gaze flickered away from hers as soon as she met it. Nott cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as an awkward silence stretched between them.

"Were you speaking to me?" Hermione asked.

"I was," Nott replied, his cheeks reddening further.

Hermione rubbed her eyes. What had she been thinking about? Something about the Headmaster's absence? Anyway, this was likely more important than whatever she'd been thinking about. Nott never spoke to her. His silences were like walls he built meticulously around himself, and Hermione had long since learned to navigate the quiet maze without expectation. But now he'd reached out—on his own—to speak to her twice in as many months?

"I'm sorry," she offered. "I'm used to you ignoring me."

Nott's expression tightened, his brow furrowing as if bracing for a blow. "I don't ignore you. I just don't speak to you."

Nott's honest words caught Hermione off guard. She had always thought his constant silence was an intentional insult, a display of his pure-blood bias through purposeful neglect. But his clarification that he wasn't ignoring her, just not talking to her, made her rethink what she had assumed about the quiet Slytherin.

Or he was just a prat playing barrister.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a half-smile. "I suppose that's one way to think about it."

The words hung between them like an uncast spell, waiting for someone to give it life. She studied him for a moment, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the unusual spark behind his eyes.

"Did you want to repeat what you said or…?"

The few freckles on his cheeks darkened anew with his flush. Nott took a few moments to gather himself, his narrow face tightening as if preparing for a duel. The words seemed to fight their way out of his mouth.

"I said, I noticed you're staying for the holidays." He looked down at his plate. "I understand you usually go to France with your parents."

Hold the presses, he wanted small talk? And just how much did he eavesdrop on her conversations with Millicent at the table?

"Change of plans. They're visiting Australia this year."

"Australia?" Nott's tone suggested that the country might as well have been the moon.

"Yes, to visit with family friends."

"But not your friends." When her eyebrows rose, he added, "Or you would go."

She smiled. "True enough. You're right—I don't know them well, and as much as I'd enjoy the beach, I prefer a real Christmas." She gestured toward the frosted windows.

"Not France?"

"I prefer it most of all. I like to ski and practice my French."

His brow furrowed. "Ski?"

"It's a Muggle sport," she said, smiling over the lip of her pumpkin juice when he twitched.

Nott nodded, a quick jerk of his head, and silence settled once more. The tips of his ears were red. Hermione sipped her juice, eyeing him over the rim of her goblet. She wondered what had prompted this rare attempt at conversation. A foray into speaking to Muggleborns—the horror!

"Do you usually stay for the holidays?" she ventured when the silence continued to tick over.

He nodded, staring at his plate. "Yes, staying here is preferable."

The cryptic response didn't escape Hermione's notice. "Preferable to what?"

Nott's gaze remained on his plate. "Nothing," he bit out, his knuckles white around his fork. "France. I've been there before."

Hermione now knew a little more about Harry's awful home life. More than most everyone except for Ron. But magical parents could cause significantly more harm than Muggles putting bars on windows and a catflap in the door. While Harry recounted such tales with a grim sort of humor, there was no humor in Nott's expression.

She chewed the inside of her lip to stop the instinctual maternal urge to soothe, to encourage him to open up. Even open-hearted Harry disliked sympathy for his situation, so a guarded wizard like Nott would highly resent any empty words.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Time to keep things casual then, to play along with this small talk he wanted.

Nott's eyes flicked up to meet hers, surprise flickering across his features at her light conversation. For a long moment, he simply stared, as if weighing what to say.

"No," he said finally, his voice little more than a rasp. "I did not enjoy France."

Hermione gave a small nod, respecting the boundaries he'd set with his terse response. She returned her attention to the book, allowing him space to continue or retreat as he wished.

The Great Hall was quiet, the only sounds the crackle of flames in the hearths and the soft clink of silverware against plates. Hermione scanned the passage about the 1784 Quidditch World Cup semi-final between Prussia and Flanders, where a rogue Erumpent disrupted play by detonating in the French Minister's luxury box.

"My father has... expectations," Nott said abruptly, the words seeming to burst from him like freed captives.

Hermione glanced up. His jaw was set, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance between them.

"He expects certain behaviors and beliefs to be upheld." Nott swallowed hard. "France was meant to instill those beliefs through immersive experiences."

A chill prickled along Hermione's arms despite the warmth of the hall. She recognized the vague allusions, the careful omissions that allowed her mind to fill in the blanks. Whatever had happened in France, Hermione didn't want to know.

"That's difficult," she said simply, letting the weight of those two small words convey far more meaning.

Nott's eyes snapped to hers, surprise and something like gratitude flickering across his features before the shutters came down once more. He gave a tight nod, then dropped his gaze to his plate.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the unspoken truth hanging between them. Hermione found herself studying her housemate from the corner of her eye, seeing him through a new lens. Nott's silence made a little more sense now.

"Well," she said briskly, turning a page with a decisive snap. "I for one am glad to be staying at Hogwarts this year. A proper English Christmas is just what I need."

Nott's shoulders seemed to loosen a fraction at her change of subject. "Agreed," he murmured. "The snow is my favorite."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Hermione's lips as she scanned the next passage, the words a blur in her vision. "It gives me plenty of time to wrap up my Transfiguration's essay. Have you started it yet?"

"I finished that last week."

A small smile played across Hermione's lips. Of course he had. Nott was one of the few students who could rival her marks, especially in Transfiguration.

"I should have guessed," she said. "Your last practical was excellent - turning that raven into a vase. Very clean lines."

A flush crept up Nott's neck at the compliment. He gave a small shrug, but Hermione didn't miss the pleased glint in his eyes. "It wasn't as good as yours. Transfiguration seems to come more easily to you."

"As Charms does for you," Hermione replied. She recalled how deftly he had performed the Cheering Charm in their last class, his wandwork precise and controlled. "That Aurorus Charm you cast was remarkable. The aurora borealis effect was stunning."

His hazel eyes searched her face, as if trying to detect any hint of mockery. Finding none, he looked down, his lips curving into the hint of a smile.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice little more than a rasp. He cleared his throat. "Charms has always been a respite for me."

Hermione found herself nodding in understanding. She too found solace in the precise movements and controlled power of Transfiguration, and the soothing work of translating runes. She did not imagine how people like Pansy could live, bemoaning about homework when magic was just so interesting.

"I can see why," she said simply.

A comfortable silence fell between them. For perhaps the first time, Hermione felt she was seeing a glimpse of the real Theodore Nott beneath his customary reserve.

She found herself studying his profile—the sharp angle of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the way his dark blond hair fell across his forehead. He was striking in an understated way. Like one of the stoic statues that lined the hallways of Hogwarts.

Giving herself a mental shake, Hermione returned her attention to her book, cheeks flushing slightly. She was just making an objective observation, that was all. Though she couldn't deny the small flutter of warmth in her chest at having connected, even briefly, with the solitary Slytherin.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

It was a lovely holiday.

With most students gone, the castle felt peaceful, the usual commotion replaced by a tranquil quiet.

Each morning at breakfast, Hermione found herself drawn into conversation with Nott. Although he still seemed to struggle to speak to her most days, Nott seemed to forget this when he was discussing their classes. The boy proved to be a deep well of information on topics from spellcasting to magical plants to ancient runes. Hermione was impressed when he pulled out his meticulous homework planner, color-coded by subject with a complex system of annotations.

"I find it helps me stay organized," Nott explained in his soft, measured tone. "Especially with overlapping assignments."

Hermione leaned forward, hungrily taking in every inch of the pages. "I have to say, Nott, your organizational skills are impressive."

A faint blush colored Nott's cheeks as he fidgeted with his planner. "I... I just find it helps me stay on top of things."

"I completely understand." Hermione sighed over the neat handwriting and tidy rows of assignments and due dates. "It's so much nicer than mine. Not that I have a hard time using it, but it's certainly not as tidy."

Nott's lips twitched into a shy smile. "Well, if you ever want any tips..."

Hermione grinned. "I might just take you up on that."

As they continued chatting, Hermione couldn't help but marvel at the irony. Here she was, bonding with the quiet Slytherin she'd barely spoken to in years. It was like discovering a rare first edition hidden behind a dusty bookshelf she passed everyday—unexpected, but all the more delightful for it.

Her days, however, were mostly spent with Harry and Ron, her connection with the bespectacled Gryffindor deepening through lazy days playing games in the Great Hall and snowball fights on the side lawn. Hermione watched Harry closely, noticing the melancholy that would occasionally cloud his features. At times, she'd find his gaze drifting towards the Black Lake, his vivid green eyes glazed over as if entranced by the dark waters that bore the name of his family's betrayer. Yet, the more time passed, the more she saw glimpses of the carefree, joyful Harry she knew resurface. A soft smile would tug at the corners of his mouth, banishing the shadows from his expression, and Hermione's heart lightened at the sight of her friend's happiness slowly returning. He seemed especially so one afternoon when he invited her to the Gryffindor common room.

"You have to see it," he insisted, green eyes alight with excitement. "It's brilliant."

Hermione felt a flutter of trepidation mingled with curiosity as she climbed through the portrait hole. No Gryffindor, that she knew of, had ever stepped into the Slytherin common room, and she couldn't imagine many Slytherins choosing to step into the lion's den. Once the portrait closed behind her, she looked around in curiosity. The Gryffindor tower seemed to burst with warm reds and golds, a stark contrast to the cool greens of the Slytherin dungeons. Plush armchairs and sofas were crammed haphazardly around the roaring fireplace, giving the room a cozy yet cluttered feel.

"It's so bright," Hermione murmured, squinting slightly against the flood of light from the tall windows.

Harry grinned, clearly relishing her reaction. "Bit different from that gloomy pit you lot call a common room, eh?"

Hermione shot him a mock glare, though she had to admit the Slytherin common room did have a rather somber ambiance compared to this vibrant space.

"Ours has more breathing room," she countered. "This place looks like it could use a good de-cluttering."

Harry laughed, and Hermione felt a warmth bloom in her chest, banishing the lingering chill from the dungeons. In that moment, surrounded by the cheerful chaos of Gryffindor tower, she found herself envying Harry's House just a little.

Harry pushed her into the squashy sofa by the fire which tried to swallow her. She groaned, closing her eyes as she relished how comfortable it was.

She sighed. "What a decadent amount of Cushioning Charms!"

Harry, sitting in the squat armchair across from her, waggled his eyebrows. "Still say you're not Gryffindor at heart?"

Scoffing, she threw her arm over her eyes. "Nonsense, Potter. There's nothing brave about wanting a nap." She waved her free hand lazily toward his direction. "Now shoo."

He tsked. "Just like a snake."

***

The morning of Christmas dawned bright and crisp, sunlight filtering through the windows of the Slytherin dormitory. Hermione awoke to find a small pile of gifts at the foot of her bed, neatly wrapped in colorful paper.

Sitting up, she reached for the rectangular package addressed in her mother's familiar handwriting. Carefully peeling back the paper revealed a set of new dental supplies—a soft-bristled toothbrush, minty floss, and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste. Hermione smiled, shaking her head fondly. Trust her parents to prioritize oral hygiene, even at Hogwarts.

The next gift was a flat box tied with a green ribbon. Hermione's eyes lit up as she recognized the embossed logo from her favorite confiserie in France. Untying the bow, she lifted the lid to reveal a assortment of buttery toffees nestled in paper cups.

"They remembered," Hermione murmured, popping one of the sweets into her mouth. As the rich, creamy flavor melted on her tongue, she felt a pang of wistfulness for the holidays she always spent with her family in the mountains.

Turning her attention to the remaining gifts, Hermione's brow furrowed slightly at the unfamiliar wrappings. One lumpy package was adorned with a sprig of holly, with a card propped against it.

Curiosity piqued, she reached for the card first. The elegant script on the envelope read "Merry Christmas, Granger" in Blaise Zabini's hand. Hermione's lips pursed, wondering what on earth the incorrigible flirt could have sent her. When she opened the card, a single dried flower fell onto her thigh. It was pretty in a simple way, the pale yellow petals surrounded by a wreath of delicate green leaves.

Setting the card flat to the side so the little flower looked up at her from the comforter, Hermione reached for Harry's gift. She peeled away the wrapping paper to reveal a neatly folded crimson sweater. A small smile tugged at her lips, appreciating Harry's thoughtfulness. Before Hermione could examine it further, Crookshanks strolled up beside her and grabbed the flower off the bed.

He started crunching happily away, petals scattering across the sheets.

"Crooks!" Hermione scolded, swiftly grabbing the destructive feline around the middle to stop him darting away with his prize. She frowned disapprovingly as she pried the mangled remains from his mouth. "You can't just eat whatever's in front of you! What if it was poison?"

Crookshanks slid out of her arms like a mermaid escaping a net and Hermione groaned, flopping back against her pillows in defeat as her familiar continued massacring Blaise's gift. So much for that odd bit of whimsy from the Italian boy. She eyed the sweater lying across her lap and felt her lips quirk upwards.

Honestly, only Harry would think to get her a Gryffindor-colored jumper for Christmas.

A soft weight curled up against her, jarring Hermione from her reverie. Crookshanks had stretched himself against her thigh, tail twitching lazily as he blinked up at her. Despite his earlier misbehavior, Hermione couldn't resist scratching behind his ears, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Silly cat," she said, her gaze drawn back to the sweater, marveling about how soft it was under her fingers. "Silly Potter."

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

"What did he expect would happen, bringing hippogriffs to class with snobbish Slytherins who delight in making life difficult? Malfoy was practically begging to be attacked."

The half-giant's naivete was absolutely exasperating, although mildly endearing. But it really wasn't a sensible way to act, was it? A proper professor would prioritize the safety of the animals from idiot doorknobs like Malfoy, instead of merrily living in delusionland believing everyone could get along.

Harry frowned down at the library table, a ragged fingernail digging into the grooves of the wood. "Hagrid sees the best in people, especially around animals. He doesn't think anyone would intentionally provoke a hippogriff."

Hermione snorted derisively as she marked a vicious slash across an error in Harry's Transfiguration's essay due the next day. "That's why you need a Slytherin on your side, Harry. We know better than to expect good intentions from people. There are no good people."

His eyebrows shot up. "There aren't any good people?"

She shrugged, a cynical smirk playing on her lips as she continued reading the essay. Nothing outstanding, but the foundation was there. "None that I've met. The sooner you accept that everyone's looking out for themselves, the better off you'll be."

Harry was quiet for a moment. "I think you're a good person, Hermione."

His words hung in the air, and she looked up, finding him studying her. They were nearly alone in this section of the stacks. The other students had returned that afternoon, and there had been a mad dash for library tables to complete homework assigned over the holidays, but their new spot by the Ancient History section was rather empty. And the way Harry was looking at her… Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure how to respond.

"Maybe I enjoy others thinking I'm good," she said. "I'm selfish and ambitious. I hex people who annoy me. I lie to protect myself." She looked down, traced a finger along the edge of Harry's essay, the weathered parchment soft under her nail. "Maybe I do some good things on occasion, but it's never out of pure altruism."

When she glanced back up, Harry was frowning, clearly unconvinced. "That's not the Hermione I know. You've fixed my glasses. You've been helping Neville since the first time we rode the Hogwarts Express. You let me sit with you and tell you about the visions even though you thought I was a mad stalker. And you help me with my homework all the time even though it's a hassle."

Hermione scoffed. "I help you because I can't stand sloppy work. It's for my own benefit, not yours."

The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears. Deep down, she knew there was at least some part of her that genuinely cared for Harry and wanted to see him succeed. But old habits died hard—vulnerability and softness had left her vocabulary long ago.

"Then I suppose you won't help me clear Buckbeak."

"I… what?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Harry. He was baiting her, that much was obvious.

"What do you mean 'clear Buckbeak'?"

Harry leaned back in his chair with a nonchalant air. "Well, if you really don't care about doing good deeds or helping others, I suppose I'll have to find someone else to help me prove Buckbeak's innocence."

She scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. Buckbeak attacked a student. There's no 'proving innocence' - the evidence is clear."

"Is it though?" Harry challenged, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. "Malfoy was being an arrogant prat, as usual. He provoked the hippogriff."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "So? That doesn't change the fact that Buckbeak still attacked him."

"You know Malfoy better than anyone," Harry pressed on. "Don't you think he was just looking for an excuse to get Hagrid in trouble? To make himself the victim?"

"Of course he was. He only signed up for Care of Magical Creatures to see people get maimed, so he's not good or nice. He also loves attention. Merlin knows he milked that arm injury for all it was worth. However," she said when Harry perked up, "that still doesn't absolve Buckbeak."

"But if we can prove Malfoy instigated the attack through his own stupidity, it would at least show there were, um, mitigating circ*mstances. Reasonable doubt."

"You watch too much telly, " she said, making him grin.

"Please?"

Hermione worried the inside of her cheek for a moment. No, the hippogriff didn't deserve to die because Malfoy was an arse, but this was just another project on top of a full courseload. It would mean a number of legal treatises, digging through the records for examples of other magical creatures baited into attacks, and facing what she already knew was a rigged system.

But that was thinking like someone who wanted to stay in the system. If she knew Malfoy, he wasn't. So she would have to do the same.

"I'm just not sure it's worth the effort," she said, leaning back with an indifferent sigh. "Buckbeak's just a hippogriff."

But Harry saw right through her. A slow grin spread across his face. "You're already thinking about how to go about it, aren't you?"

Prat.

"Fine, I'll look into it," she grumbled. "But I'm not making any promises. If it's not as straightforward as it seems, I'm dropping it. I have a full course load, you know, I can't help every charity case out there."

Harry's grin widened triumphantly. "That's my Hermione. I knew you couldn't resist a good challenge."

She glared at him, but there was no real venom behind it. Stupid Potter and his stupid ability to see the best in people. As much as she hated to admit it, she found his faith in her oddly gratifying.

Hermione turned her head, covering her mouth.

My Hermione.

***

The Great Hall buzzed with chatter as students piled in for breakfast. Hermione was halfway through her bowl of porridge when Millicent plopped down beside her at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. "Alright, Granger?"

Hermione nodded, swallowing her mouthful. "Morning, Millie. How were your hols?"

"Alright," she said with a shrug of her thick shoulders. "We went to visit my distant aunt and uncle in northern Sweden. The snow was hellish."

She launched into a colorful description of the frozen Swedish landscape, complete with sparkling icicles, towering pine trees weighed down by mounds of powder, and roaring fires inside the cozy log cabin where all thirty of her distant blood relatives gathered to celebrate.

"On Christmas Eve, we all gathered round this huge bonfire outside and cast these special rune charms into the flames. The runes represented things you want for the new year - prosperity, fertility, good health, so on. As the symbols burn up, supposedly their magic is released into the universe."

Hermione found the concept fascinating from an academic standpoint. "Did you get to participate? What runes did you cast in?"

"Berkana for new beginnings and Fehu for wealth. Auntie Greta insisted I add Ingwaz too." She rolled her eyes. "As if I need fertility magic! I'm thirteen."

Hermione stifled a grin, imagining the burly, no-nonsense Millicent staring down her aunt.

"Anyway, enough about my holiday. What'd you get up to here? Reckon you had the castle all to yourself, swotting away in the library."

A flush crept up Hermione's neck as flashes of the past two weeks flickered through her mind - studying in the deserted Gryffindor common room at Harry's invitation, soaring over the grounds huddled against his warm body on the new Firebolt, lingering in the courtyard while snowflakes drifted down around them...

"Oh, you know...bit of this, bit of that." She waved a nonchalant hand. "Spent time with Harry, mostly."

From the corner of her eye, Hermione caught Nott straightening almost imperceptibly. He sat adjacent to her as usual, methodically slicing into a fried tomato without looking up. If he was worried that she'd tell his friends that he'd deigned to speak to her, he needn't have bothered. His secret was safe with Hermione.

Millicent arched one thick eyebrow knowingly. "Potter, hmm? Getting quite cozy with him, are we?"

The teasing lilt made Hermione's cheeks burn hotter. She opened her mouth to protest, but a shrill voice cut across from further down the table.

"Did someone say Granger's dating Potter?" Pansy Parkinson craned her pug-like face toward them, lips curled into a mocking sneer. Several other Slytherins swiveled around with undisguised interest.

Millicent made a noise under her breath. "Sorry, mate," she murmured.

Hermione felt her stomach plummet as Draco Malfoy whipped his head in her direction, grey eyes glinting with disdain. Fantastic, just what she needed first thing on a Monday morning...

"Oh, Granger, even a Mudblood like you can do so much better." Pansy scoffed before Hermione could get a word in edgewise. "Like a dung beetle."

"I dunno, Pans." Blaise Zabini lounged back on the bench beside the black haired girl, airily inspecting his perfectly manicured nails. He shot Hermione an unmistakable wink across the table. "I wouldn't mind if Granger cornered me in a broom closet."

"Blaise—!"

Zabini covered his ears. "Ouch, no screeching, you harpy! Hey, no hitting either!"

"Keep dreaming, Zabini," Malfoy sneered once the commotion died down and Pansy settled for glaring at Blaise. "We all know Granger's mad for the Fainting One. Tell me, does he faint when you try to snog him?"

Hermione recoiled, her cheeks flaming, but Millicent simply laughed.

"Jealous you can't get any action yourself, Malfoy?" She raked her gaze over him with mock appraisal. "Can't imagine why, with your sparkling personality."

A hushed "ooooh" rippled through the watching Slytherins. Malfoy's pale cheeks flushed an ugly mottled red, but he seemed to think better of retaliating against Millicent's formidable bulk.

Blaise let out a low whistle. "Be still, my heart."

"Kick rocks, pretty boy."

He fluttered his lashes. "You think I'm pretty, Millie?"

The banter continued to swirl around her as the Slytherins dug into their breakfasts. Hermione got back to her conversation with Millicent, avoiding more sensitive topics. For all their pureblood posturing, Hermione had to admit there was a certain familiarity to it all. Not friendliness. But an ease born from years crammed together in the dungeons.

"...and that ruddy great oaf had the nerve to act all wounded when it was his bloody chicken that attacked me unprovoked!"

Of course Draco had to ruin what had been a lovely conversation about Arithmancy with Millicent. Hermione turned her head, seeing Draco's nasty grin in her peripheral, attuned to what she knew would be the latest news regarding Buckbeak's case.

"But you'll all be pleased to know the beast is facing a hearing." He chuckled. "Executioner's axe, more like. My father's made certain of that."

A cruel smirk twisted his lips as he glanced pointedly in Hermione's direction. "Surprised you haven't tried to make a deal with me to protect your ickle boyfriend's favorite beast, Mudblood."

"Yeah, go on, Granger," Pansy sneered from beside Malfoy, her pug-like face twisted into an ugly leer. "Beg for the half-breed's pet. We all know you'd do anything for Potty."

Hermione's jaw clenched. She could feel the weight of the stares on her, the anticipation thrumming through the air like a living thing as her Housemates waited for her outburst.

But she hadn't given them the satisfaction despite all their bullying since first year, and she wasn't about to start now.

Hermione took a sip of her orange juice with studied nonchalance. "No, thanks."

Draco's pale eyes narrowed as Hermione calmly set down her goblet. His lips twisted into a sneer, clearly displeased that his taunts had failed to provoke her.

"Not even going to try and bargain?" He leaned across the table, voice dripping with false solicitousness. "I might be persuaded to put in a good word for the beast if you ask sweetly enough."

The undisguised leer that followed made Hermione's insides churn with revulsion. She could practically hear the unspoken insinuation—that he expected favors of a different sort in exchange for his influence. No doubt a ploy just to get her riled up. After three years of such tactics, they failed to touch her at all.

Honestly. Would they ever change their strategy?

Pansy cackled beside Draco, her shrill laughter like nails on a chalkboard. "As if she'd ever have a chance with you, Draco darling. The Mudblood's standards are far too low."

"Clearly," Hermione said coolly, arching one brow. "I do have some modicum of self-respect, after all."

Millicent choked on her pumpkin juice. Even Nott's lips twitched ever so slightly from the corner of Hermione's eye.

Pansy's pug face flushed a violent crimson as the other Slytherins joined in the raucous guffaws. Draco's expression soured like he'd swallowed a lemon whole.

"You filthy little—"

"Now, now, Parkinson." Blaise interrupted the chaos, his brown eyes sparkling with obvious amusem*nt. "No need to get your lacy knickers in a twist. We all know Granger's got more power than the lot of us combined. Do you really want to chance it?"

Pansy looked fit to combust, her meaty fists clenching spasmodically on either side of her plate. Draco simply glowered, his cheeks still tinged an unflattering shade of red.

Well, Blaise had that right, at least. Hermione considered him for a moment, but only for a moment, because he started waggling his brows at her.

Hermione couldn't resist adding one last barb before she turned back to her porridge. "Don't worry, Malfoy. I'm sure you'll find some dimwitted pureblood to fawn all over you when you get tired of that one."

She enjoyed the last of her breakfast to the tune of Pansy's affronted spluttering.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

"Hippogriff blood?" Hagrid's eyes widened in disbelief as he turned to Harry, a worried crease forming on his brow. "Are yeh sure yeh've befriended the righ' sort, Harry?" He shot a suspicious glance towards Hermione, his gaze lingering a little too long on the House crest sewn over her chest.

Harry tapped the half-giant's arm. "Uh… Hermione's on our side, Hagrid. You can trust her."

He shot her a wide-eyed look around Hagrid, like I can trust you, right?

Hermione took a deep breath, flinging her annoyance behind her like a rubberband. "It sounds extreme, yes, but it's a way for you to save Buckbeak."

Hagrid scratched his beard, his expression a mix of confusion and apprehension. "But why would yeh need his blood? Ain't there other ways ter help 'im?"

"None that will cure the problem quickly," she said. Which she needed to do promptly. Exams were in less than five months!

Hagrid shifted his massive bulk, scratching his beard as he eyed her. "I don't know. This all seems a bit dodgy to me. Blood magic is Dark..."

"I'm fourteen! Why would I know Dark magic?"

"Yer right, that wasn't right of me." Hagrid shook his shaggy head, his eyes filled with concern behind the wild tangle of hair and beard. "But I can't just go bleedin' poor Buckbeak, Hermione. He's been through enough already." His voice took on a pleading tone as he gestured towards the pumpkin patch.

"Will you choose to avoid a little pain over saving Buckbeak's life?"

Hermione's heart sank as Hagrid folded his massive arms across his chest, his expression hardening. "I can't go bleedin' Buckbeak unless yeh tell me why, Hermione. I need ter know what yer up to."

Hermione took a steadying breath, the crisp January air stinging her lungs. "I can't tell you the reason, Hagrid. Not the full details, at least."

The gamekeeper's eyes narrowed into beady points. "Why not?"

"Because there may come a time when you need plausible deniability," Hermione insisted. "A time when you have to honestly say you don't know what's going on."

"Hagrid, I promise we're doing everything we can. Please, can you help?" Harry added.

Hagrid's bushy eyebrows knitted together as he processed her words, looking down at Harry as he considered his plea. After a tense moment, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. "I can't do it, 'm sorry. Some things are better left alone. I've got ter have faith that the hearing will see Buckbeak for the good hippogriff he is."

Frustration welled up inside her. Couldn't he see they were trying to help? But she knew pushing further would only make him more obstinate. Swallowing hard, she nodded stiffly. "Very well. We'll find another way."

As they turned to leave, Hagrid called out. "'arry, a moment of yer time?"

Hermione nodded at Harry's silent gesture for her to go on ahead. As she turned and started walking back towards the castle, she could hear Hagrid's gruff whisper carrying across the pumpkin patch.

"Are yeh sure it's wise ter be consortin' with a Slytherin lass like that one? Where's yer mate Ron at? That's the sort yeh need ter be 'angin' around with."

She gritted her teeth, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Of course the half-giant would question Harry's friendship with her just because of the emerald green serpent emblazoned on her robes. To people like Hagrid, a Slytherin was all she would ever be. It didn't matter that she was Muggle-born or that she had been nothing but helpful to Harry so far. Her House affiliation overshadowed everything.

A familiar bitterness rose in her throat as she trudged up the sloping lawn. How many times had she been judged and dismissed because of her blood status by the pure-blood elitists in Slytherin? Draco's snide comments about her being a "Mudblood" replayed in her mind. To that loathsome bunch, her magical abilities and academic achievements meant nothing compared to her non-magical parentage.

Hermione snorted derisively. What a cruel irony that the two things that defined her—her House and her heritage—were looked down upon by different groups for opposite reasons. She could never win. There would always be someone ready to sneer at her, whether it was for the green and silver colors she wore or the "impure" blood that ran through her veins.

As she reached the entrance hall, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. Part of her wanted to wait for Harry, to demand he correct Hagrid's misguided assumptions about her. But the larger part knew it would be futile. Hagrid had already made up his mind about the "righ' sort" that Harry should associate with.

Which brought up another question: did Harry have to field questions from the other Gryffindors for befriending Hermione?

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Hermione pushed through the doors and headed towards the library. If she couldn't get Buckbeak's blood the straightforward way, she needed a new strategy.

***

Hermione strode purposefully through the dimly lit dungeon corridor, her footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls as she headed toward the Potions classroom. Checking her watch, she swore under her breath. Professor Snape's office hours had ended an hour ago. Sod it.

She'd missed her chance to discuss her question with him. Hermione wanted to get through this issue quickly, and waiting a day would put her behind schedule. A day, but still. She'd made her revision calendar already—stealing some strategies from Nott—and she couldn't wait to crack open the pages of her revision diary and get started.

Biting her lip, frustration itching inside her, Hermione weighed her options. Maybe she could catch Snape before he left his office? No, that seemed unlikely this late. Ah, well, nothing for it if she wanted to stay on track with revising for exams.

Hermione changed course, deviating from her path and heading toward a familiar broom cupboard nestled close to the Potions classroom. She glanced over her shoulder quickly, before slipping inside the cramped, musty space. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

In the darkness, Hermione retrieved her time turner from beneath her robes, the delicate golden device glinting in the faint light seeping through the cracks. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the journey through time. Her fingers trembled slightly as she began to spin the time turner. A mere three-quarter revolution of the device would suffice to traverse the brief temporal distance she needed.

Then a light speared through the dark cupboard as the door opened.

Hermione's heart leapt into her throat as the familiar voice called out her name. She spun around, eyes wide, to see a silhouette framed in the broom cupboard doorway. Panic seized her as she realized she couldn't stop the time turner now—it had already begun spinning, the delicate hourglass whirring as the sands cascaded.

The world around her blurred, the cupboard and Nott's confused face melting away. Hermione's stomach lurched violently as she was yanked backwards through time, the dizzying sensation of the time turner's magic enveloping her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the vertigo.

When the whirling finally ceased, Hermione opened her eyes to find herself standing in the same cramped broom cupboard—only now it was an hour earlier. Faint shafts of torchlight filtered through the cracks, casting elongated shadows across the dusty floor.

Her heart still pounding erratically, Hermione took a few deep breaths to steady herself. Theodore Nott had definitely seen her, but she could find a plausible explanation, couldn't she? She'd simply reappear elsewhere and let him believe he'd been chasing after a ghost or trick of the light. Hermione clenched her fists, the time turner's delicate chain biting into her palm. She would be more careful in the future. She couldn't allow her secret to be exposed, not when so much depended on her ability to attend all her classes. She couldn't trust him or her other Slytherin classmates not to tattle if they realized her secret, so it was imperative he keep his mouth shut.

If he actually told Professor Snape he'd seen her use the time turner... well, she didn't want to imagine the fallout. Disappointing Professor Snape was the last thing she wanted.

Why did she ever agree to help Potter?

Sighing under her breath, she scolded herself for being such a ninny to take on so much risk for one silly request. It was those stupid green eyes! Why couldn't she be immune to him, just a little?

Carefully, she pulled the door open a crack and peered out. The corridor was deserted.

Perfect timing. She had a chance to catch Snape before his office hours ended. She'd deal with Nott later. Perhaps Professor Snape could even provide her alibi, if she held him up long enough.

Hermione slipped out, straightening her robes. She strode with purpose toward Snape's office, smothering her earlier anxieties. Knocking briskly, she waited.

The door creaked open to reveal Snape's sallow, sneering face. "Miss Granger," he drawled. "How… punctual of you to visit during the last ten minutes of my designated hours."

If he suspected she used the time turner for non-academic purposes, he was absolutely right. But suspicions were only suspicions unless he caught her, and Hermione would never be that careless.

"Professor." Hermione inclined her head respectfully. "I have a query about a topic outside assignments. May I come in?"

Snape's dark eyes narrowed suspiciously for a moment before he stepped aside, allowing her entry. As Hermione brushed past him into the dimly lit office, she caught a whiff of his usual potion-tinged scent.

Hermione settled into the hard wooden chair before Snape's desk, trying to appear nonchalant despite the worry still biting at her heels. Two bubbling cauldrons nearby emitted spiraling vapors that mingled into an intriguing aroma. Snape followed her gaze.

"Admiring my work, Miss Granger?" His voice was silky but laced with sarcasm. "Does this mean you aim to take my NEWT level Potions class?"

She met his obsidian stare evenly. "Yes, Professor."

A ghost of a smirk played across Snape's thin lips. "I suspect you'll want to enroll in every NEWT course available."

Heat crept into Hermione's cheeks at being so transparent. Snape seemed pleased by her ambition, though his next words cut through her brief satisfaction.

"However, we will need to discuss the continued use of your time turner, as I suspect it will not be permitted beyond this year. You'll be forced to pare down your course load as a result."

Hermione's stomach twisted, but she nodded tightly. The time turner's future was uncertain—all the more reason to use it judiciously now.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?" Snape arched an inky eyebrow.

She took a deep breath. "Is it true the Ministry collects blood samples when investigating magical beast attacks?"

Snape's eyes widened infinitesimally, the only crack in his impassive mask. After a tense moment, he inclined his head. "If you've read it in Ministry procedures, then it is likely accurate protocol. May I ask why you're inquiring?"

Hermione didn't respond immediately, her mind racing as she weighed how to phrase her next question. "Can a person duplicate blood from a magical creature? If you have a small amount, is there a way to multiply it while retaining its original genetic signature?"

Snape sat up ramrod straight, his face inscrutable. "That would be the purview of Dark magic, Miss Granger." His tone bordered on accusatory. "Why do you ask?"

She steeled herself against the weight of his piercing glare, determined not to wilt before her deeply respected—and utterly intimidating—Potions master. "I was thinking of it from a medical perspective, sir. The potential applications in that field."

Those fathomless black eyes seemed to bore into her very soul for an endless moment. Finally, Snape looked away, his voice low.

"Ah. I detect this has something to do with your new... friendship... with the Potter boy. Am I correct?"

He said friendship like Malfoy said dog sh*t.

His tone stung deeply coming from the professor who had been one of the few to make her feel truly welcome at Hogwarts.

In those first dizzying weeks of her first year, awash in the wondrous new world of magic yet adrift in the sea of pureblood culture, Snape had been an unexpected ally. While her Slytherin housemates largely shunned the Muggle-born girl, viewing her with thinly veiled disdain, Snape had taken her under his wing.

He'd summoned her to his office just a month into term, no doubt noticing her isolation. Hermione remembered the trepidation she felt entering the gloomy office, the pungent potions fumes stinging her nostrils. But Snape's obsidian gaze had been surprisingly gentle as he gestured for her to sit.

"You must not take the prejudices of your housemates to heart, Miss Granger," he had said in that trademark silky baritone. With a deft flick of his wand, a teapot soared over, pouring two steaming cups. "You are a singularly gifted witch. Slytherin is privileged to count you among its ranks."

Hermione had flushed, scarcely daring to meet his intense stare. No professor had ever paid her such an overt compliment before. But Snape's words bolstered her fragile confidence in a world she still struggled to find her footing.

"Thank you, sir," she had managed, cradling the teacup's warmth between her palms.

A ghost of a smile played across Snape's thin lips. "I will not suffer foolish blood prejudices in my classroom, Miss Granger. Nor should you permit such ignorance to diminish your magical talents."

In the months that followed, Snape had indeed been scrupulously fair to Hermione, never favoring her but also never allowing her housemates' disdain to go unchecked. When Malfoy or his ilk lobbed a snide comment her way during his class, Snape's reprimands—afterwards, outside the eye of the other Houses—were swift and biting, reminding them that Slytherins presented a united front to the other Houses. He demanded respect and excellence from all his students, regardless of their heritage.

Hermione had thrived under Snape's tutelage, her natural aptitude for potion-making allowing her to earn coveted praise. While the other professors sometimes viewed her as an overeager know-it-all, Snape recognized her genuine thirst for knowledge and pushed her to new heights.

So to hear the sneer in his voice now at the mere mention of Harry's name felt like a slap. Snape's disdain for the famous Gryffindor was well-known, but Hermione had allowed herself to hope he might make an exception for her. It appeared not.

Hermione lifted her chin a fraction. "It's merely intellectual curiosity, Professor. I'm exploring theoretical possibilities in medical magic, nothing more."

He stared at her, unhappy. But Hermione kept her face placid and cool.

When she remained silent, Snape's eyes glittered with a hard, warning light. "Miss Granger, I must caution you against pursuing anything related to Dark magic." His voice was low and severe. "While your intellectual curiosities are admirable, there are certain boundaries that must not be crossed. The consequences could be severe."

He leaned forward, hands steepled on the desk. "I recognize your newfound association with Potter may be influencing these inquiries. However, I urge you to tread carefully. That boy has a penchant for trouble that I fear he will only drag you into as well."

Hermione bit the tip of her tongue, fighting the urge to protest. To tell him that Harry didn't even know her plan. But she knew better than to interrupt her Head of House.

"You are one of my most gifted students, Miss Granger. Your talents are wasted on an unworthy allegiance." Snape's lip curled in distaste. His dark eyes bored into her. "I would hate to see you caught up in Potter's inevitable follies, forced to face disciplinary action. Punishments that I will not shield you from."

Hermione's hands clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She swallowed hard against the lump of indignation rising in her throat. Harry wasn't trying to make her do Dark magic!

"I am merely looking out for your best interests," Snape said, his tone softening slightly as her expression wobbled. "You have immense potential, more than that idiot boy could ever comprehend. Do not squander it on fruitless, dangerous pursuits, Miss Granger, when you have much greater depth of respectable friendships available to you within your House."

Hermione fought to keep her expression neutral, though inside she was irritated. All she'd wanted was information on a harmless duplication potion to help clear Buckbeak's name. How had Snape extrapolated that into her supposedly falling under Harry's bad influence and cavorting with Dark wizards?

Hermione inwardly scoffed. The notion that she should seek out companionship within Slytherin House was utterly preposterous. Save for Millicent, the lot of them were nothing more than a collection of cruel, spineless, or downright foolish individuals. Frankly, she'd sooner befriend a flobberworm— at least they were useful for potion ingredients.

Still, she knew better than to argue. Snape wouldn't understand hear her side. Swallowing hard, Hermione inclined her head. "Thank you for the advice, Professor. I shall take it under consideration."

His obsidian eyes glinted, unreadable. "See that you do, Miss Granger." He paused, mouth twisting wryly. "Though I suspect my words of caution will fall on deaf ears where Potter is concerned. He does have an inexplicable sway over those around him."

With that parting barb, Snape waved a dismissive hand. "You are excused. Do take care on your way back to the common room."

Cheeks burning, Hermione rose stiffly and swept from the office. This visit had been a failure, but at least she'd learned a good lesson: she couldn't trust Snape anymore. Harry was her friend, perhaps her closest at Hogwarts. More than that, if she was being honest with herself. And aligning herself with him meant earning Snape's ire.

Hermione sighed, raking a hand through her curls as she strode through the dungeons back toward the entrance hall, long before her past self eventually moved this way. She'd lost a valuable ally, but she could figure out a way to repair that relationship later. For now, she needed to focus on clearing Buckbeak through another strategy, since she doubted Hagrid would bleed the hippogriff as much as she needed to fake the hippogriff's death, and she wasn't ready to resort to Dark magic for the moment.

When she reached the entrance hall, she took out her wand and laid it flat across her open palm. "Point me Draco Malfoy."

It spun until the tip lined up toward the far doors leading to the library. Hermione dithered for a moment, stewing in unease as her mind raced over the potential risks and rewards. Draco could be unreasonable, vindictive even, if she played her cards wrong. But it wouldn't necessarily harm her to at least see what kind of bargain he might be willing to make regarding Buckbeak's case, would it?

While she walked, she sighed to herself. This was all so troublesome.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Draco lounged at a library table, his pale blond hair slicked back, grey eyes narrowed on what looked like an Ancient Runes assignment. Crabbe and Goyle, brawny as ever, sat on either side—human gargoyles with tongues sticking out of their mouths as they painstakingly penned what looked to be the one page essay on flobberworms Hagrid assigned in large block letters. They didn't look up when Hermione stopped in front of their table.

In the corner, the lean figure of Nott hunched over a parchment, quill scratching furiously. Unlike the slack-jawed dullards surrounding Malfoy, Nott's brow furrowed in concentration, his narrow face all angles and freckles. Past Nott. In about forty minutes, he would be an issue. Until then, she had time.

While most students scrambled to catch up on holiday assignments, Hermione knew Nott stayed ahead. He probably nagged Draco and his lummoxes to come here to finish their work, preserving Slytherin's vaunted reputation. Snakes prized reputation above all else, after all, and despite what most other Houses believed, marks were one way to satisfy ambition here.

Steeling herself, Hermione cleared her throat, meeting Draco's pale, pointed gaze without flinching.

Hermione squared her shoulders, chin lifting defiantly as she met Draco's pale, pointed glare. "I need to discuss the case against Buckbeak." Her words drew disdainful sneers from Crabbe and Goyle—all jutting jaws and beady eyes like a pair of overfed bulldogs. But she refused to let their Neanderthal antics rattle her. Across the table, Nott's quill stilled, his dark eyes flicking between Draco and Hermione with open curiosity, one eyebrow arching in silent question.

A cruel smirk curled Draco's lips. "Do you, now? And how badly does your boyfriend want the bloody chicken saved?"

Hermione tamped down the urge to bristle and kept her voice mild. "That depends on what you want. Arithmancy homework? Ancient Runes assignments?" She knew he had recently obtained a bad mark in Potions before break, but even the arrogant Malfoy would never try to cheat in Snape's class.

Draco's pale grey eyes glinted with intrigue, like polished steel catching the light. With a subtle jerk of his sharp, pointed chin, he motioned for Hermione to follow. "Come with me," he commanded in a low drawl, not waiting to see if she obeyed before slipping out of his seat and striding away.

Nott's dark eyes flickered with unease as she brushed past, a silent question in his furrowed brow.

Hermione followed Draco's retreating form, the worn stone floor swallowing their footsteps as he led her into the shadowy stacks of the Muggle Studies section.

Draco halted abruptly, the scant torchlight carving severe planes across his sharp cheekbones and hawkish nose. "Here's good enough, I suppose. No one would be caught dead here." His lips twisted in a disdainful sneer, pale eyes flickering with contempt at the tomes lining the Muggle Studies shelves. An unsubtle jibe at the subject matter and Hermione's heritage. She refused to take the bait, keeping her expression impassive as she surveyed the neglected section—books left to gather grime, their leather bindings cracked and faded from disuse.

He turned his gaze to her sending the hairs on her nape prickling at the scorching intensity of his gaze—molten silver boring into her, equal parts challenge and unspoken hunger. His pale eyes smoldered like banked coals, igniting unfamiliar tendrils of dread low in her belly despite the drafty chill of the shadowed stacks.

She was alone with Draco Malfoy. Not an ideal position. But they both knew from experience she was quicker at wandwork than him, so she didn't let him see her unease.

"So you want payment to drop the case? What did you have in mind?"

Draco's pale pink tongue darted out, glistening as it slicked over his full lower lip. He looked like a ravenous wolf finding trapped prey. "A kiss," he rasped at last, the gravelly words tumbling from his mouth like lead weights dropping straight to the bottom of her stomach. "That's my price."

Hermione stared at Draco, her jaw slackening as his outrageous demand sank in.

Merlin's beard, the arrogance of this prat! As if she would ever willingly let those thin, sneering lips anywhere near her own. The very notion made her insides squirm with revulsion. But there was an unmistakable glint of challenge burning in Draco's pale eyes—that familiar metallic sheen that sparked between them whenever he sought to provoke her.

Pretend to play lovesick and then mock her? Did she think she was a fool?

Hermione lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders as she met his gaze without flinching. Two could play at this game. "Is that all?" she asked, infusing her tone with feigned boredom as one corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "I was rather hoping for more of a challenge."

She allowed her eyes to brazenly rake over his lithe form, taking petty satisfaction in the way his sharp jawline twitched. Slowly, with exaggerated nonchalance, she closed the distance between them until the toes of her sensible shoes nearly brushed against the leather of his loafers. His throat constricted with a sharp swallow.

"A kiss?" Hermione tsked, shaking her head in mock disappointment. She could see the tiny flecks of blue scattered through the gunmetal grey of his irises, could smell the clean, crisp scent of his cologne—like fresh linen and frost. "Honestly, Malfoy, I expected better than such a silly boy's game. Surely that's not the full extent of your ambitions?"

Lifting one hand, she traced a solitary finger along the crisp line of his jaw, relishing the way his eyes flared wide for a heartbeat. "Don't sell yourself short, Draco," she purred, letting his given name roll off her tongue like a caress. "Name your real price, and we'll negotiate like true Slytherins."

With a last lingering caress along the sharp angle of his cheekbone, Hermione stepped back and folded her arms across her chest, one eyebrow arched.

Bluff called.

Draco's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the tendons in his neck straining. His pale eyes had gone wide, the molten silver irises ringed by a thin band of stormy grey. For a heartbeat, he seemed utterly thrown—the unflappable Malfoy heir undone by a Mudblood's bold taunts and brazen touch.

She almost, almost felt like a Gryffindor.

But the momentary crack in his arrogant facade sealed over quickly, his expression hardening into a mask of cold disdain. A muscle ticked in his sharp jawline as his lips peeled back, revealing a flash of straight, white teeth.

"If you want my cooperation, you'll need to sweeten the deal substantially." His tongue darted out, wetting those full lips in an unconscious gesture that made Hermione acutely aware of how close they were still standing. "I'm thinking you take on my homework assignments. For the rest of the year." That wicked mouth curved into a smirk. "Mine, Crabbe's, and Goyle's."

The implication landed like a kangaroo kick to her gut. Hermione's jaw clenched as she calculated the sheer enormity of essays and practice problems his proposal entailed. It would consume every spare moment, leaving no time for herself, her own studies, or anything else. Draco had effectively proposed indentured servitude, all while looking insufferably smug about it.

"It's either that," Draco drawled, "or my original request."

The conniving snake. If she wasn't so furious, she'd be impressed.

"That's too bad," she said. This was just a negotiation. Perhaps she could talk Draco into something more reasonable. "Though I can't say I'm surprised by your unmitigated gall. But I'll need more out of the bargain if I kiss you, because I would be breaking a promise, and a Slytherin shouldn't break their promises."

His eyes narrowed. "What? You promised to be faithful to Potty or something?"

"Not at all." Hermione held up one hand, fingers splayed. "I made a promise to my mother, you see. That I wouldn't go around kissing wizarding boys."

Draco's sharp brows knitted together in an expression of open bafflement. "What in Merlin's name does some stupid Muggle think about wizards?"

Hermione bristled at the slight against her mother, but fought to keep her temper. Losing control now would only give Draco the upper hand. "My mother's quite intelligent, I'll have you know," she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. Fixing him with a pointed stare, she gestured broadly in his direction. "I'd wager she thinks all wizarding boys are arrogant little toerags. You're rather proving her point, aren't you?"

Pink splotches flared high on Draco's sharp cheekbones, but he affected a haughty look just the same. "What does a Muggle know, anyway? But whatever, fine. What do you want?"

Hermione's brows arched in surprise. Was the insufferable prat actually caving to her demands? Her gaze raked over him, scrutinizing. Just how far was he willing to go for a bloody kiss?

The idiot didn't actually… like her?

His pale eyes bored into her, jaw clenched. Draco's fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his discomfort under her assessing stare. The pulse in his throat beat as fast as a hummingbird's wings.

Oh, oh, oh. Hermione slid her hand over her mouth to smoothly cover her smile. Oh, how precious. How scandalous! Did he yearn for her like some dashing hero out of a romance novel? Did he cast lovesick eyes at her as she went about her day, wishing upon every star that one day she would be in his arms? How he could be such a terrible actor defied all reason, all sensible Slytherin standards.

What a poor pureblood he was! She wanted to cackle.

If she could obtain a Pensieve, she would have blackmail material for ages. She instantly put it on the list the next time she went to Diagon Alley.

One kiss? She absolutely couldn't let this chance go.

Sorry, mum. It's for a good cause.

"Thank you for helping me honor my promise to my dear mother, I know how important family is thanks to seeing your good example," Hermione said, tilting her head, letting her lashes sweep down like when Pansy was pretending to be coy and innocent. It rang false with the conniving Parkinson and it felt false to Hermione, but Draco gulped loudly just the same.

"Y-yeah. Every child should honor their parents."

She let her lips curl. How had she missed it? The boy obviously craved her approval.

Hermione stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "For one kiss, you'll drop the charge against Buckbeak and…" Life Debt? Too much. Then she found the perfect idea. "When I tell you the password, you have to do whatever favor I ask. Nothing too crazy, though, I promise."

She was sure she had given herself away. Draco was barely breathing as his attention darted all over her face, and she held her breath until she noticed the slight glaze in his eyes, as if he was too blind with desire to care.

Oh, he had it bad.

Every move you make is a nail in your coffin, Draco.

His throat clicked. "Just one kiss?"

"Just one."

And he sounded like it was a bargain when he whispered, "Password?"

"Lover's touch."

"Deal."

Hermione let her eyes close, tilting her face toward him, and Draco dived.

Hermione remained frozen as Draco crashed his mouth against hers, eyes squeezed shut in a grimace. His thin lips mashed clumsily against her own, dry and chapped. For several agonizing moments she stayed rigid, hands clenched into fists at her sides as Draco Malfoy—her insufferable nemesis—snogged her with all the finesse of a starving man devouring a discarded crust.

Then his hands came up, palms cradling her jaw with unexpected gentleness as he angled her head for better access. Draco crowded against her, his lean body pinning her to the bookcase until the wooden shelves dug into her shoulderblades. A strangled noise rumbled from deep in his throat—a guttural groan of pure want that made the fine hairs on Hermione's nape prickle.

Was this how it was supposed to feel? Like Draco was trying to suck the very air from her lungs with his greedy mouth? It was hard and messy—his technique as unpolished as her own inexperienced efforts. But he was eager, sculpting their mouths together with clumsy ardor, his slick tongue sliding brazenly across the seam of her lips until they parted under the effort. Seizing the opportunity, Draco delved past her parted lips, tangling with her in a heated duel that left their teeth clacking together. And then he gentled, slowed the desperate ravaging, and her thoughts turned molten.

Hermione was torn between utter revulsion at having Malfoy's insistent tongue in her mouth and... something else. Something low and smoldering that made her belly squirm with unfamiliar heat. Her knees trembled faintly, buckling under the sheer intensity of her own rising hunger.

Despite herself, despite the overwhelming wrongness of it all, Hermione crumbled against him. Something primal and base was awakening within her—a simmering need to give as good as she got. To challenge this arrogant snake and prove her prowess.

Before she could overthink it, Hermione's hands lifted and fisted in Draco's silky pale hair, gripping tight as she surged up to meet his hungry kiss with equal fervor.

Merlin help her, but she was kissing him back.

Hermione fisted her hands in Draco's pale locks, gripping tight as she met his ravenous mouth. She would not be cowed or outdone—not by this arrogant snake who thought he could possess her. Draco made a strangled noise against her lips, the vibration sending a shudder through her marrow. His hands slid from cradling her face, palms skimming down the slender column of her neck to splay across her shoulders, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his chest.

She could feel the frantic staccato of his heart thundering against her breastbone, echoing the rapid flutter of her own pulse. Draco angled his head, deepening the kiss until she tasted the sweetness of his tongue—like the butterscotch he ate every day after class. An intoxicating sweetness that made her dizzy, made her want to keep chasing that rich flavor until she earned cavities.

Hermione's nails scoring his scalp, she took control. She nipped at his thin lower lip, worrying the plump flesh between her teeth until Draco groaned. Butterscotch and coffee lingered on his lips, and she dragged in the wet heat of his mouth as she explored him with slow, thorough strokes.

Draco shuddered against her, his fingers flexing against her shoulders as a tremor racked his lean frame. He was putty in her hands, malleable and receptive as she snogged him breathless. Hermione's heart thundered with a fierce sense of power—of conquest. She was the one leading this dance, she was the one reducing the arrogant Malfoy heir to a gasping mess with nothing more than her lips and tongue.

Mine, she thought, a rush of possessive heat blazing through her veins. Mine to take, mine to ruin.

Hermione's nails raked over Draco's nape. She wanted to devour him, to lay utter claim until he was hers and only hers. Draco moaned against her mouth, the broken sound vibrating between them as his knees buckled. He sagged into her until his wiry frame pinned her to the shelves.

She would own this arrogant snake, would lay him bare and leave him utterly ruined for anyone else's touch. Only she would ever make him keen and shiver like this, only she—

She ripped her mouth away.

Immediately, Draco tried to follow.

"One more second," he whispered. "One more, Hermione."

Hermione breathed hard and could not find her breath. One more second would turn to ten would turn to minutes feeling this exquisite torture. This excruciating desire to curl her hands into his hair and rub against him like a cat. He was lean, a Seeker's build, wiry arms wrapped around her. Ravenous with his mouth as if he would suck her into a dried husk, and she would gladly let him.

"Please."

She still couldn't catch her breath. "No," she grit out. Not another second, not - one - more. If she did, she didn't think she'd ever stop. "We agreed. One kiss."

"Remember…" His breath ghosted over her jaw. "The bargain can change."

The low tone in his voice, the blade's edge, scraped against that confusing whir of feelings. It cut through and she went rigid in contrast to the gentle way his nose brushed over her cheekbone.

He would try to coerce her?

What. An. Arse!

"Shove off!" she spat, and actually did shove him.

Draco stumbled back into the bookcase, his expression flickering between stunned outrage and humiliation, like he couldn't believe his great plan to take advantage of her wouldn't have her full support. His pale hair was mussed, lips swollen from their heated kiss—a state of delicious disarray that sent a treacherous flutter through Hermione's middle.

Why did the foulest toads have to be blessed with such dashing good looks? It was patently unfair, especially when she could still taste him on her lips, the ghost of his butterscotch taste haunting her.

"You're disgusting."

She stormed away. Behind her, she could hear Draco grabbing the bookshelf and pulling himself upright. "Forget it, Granger! Tell your precious Potter to get his tissues ready. He'll need them when that rotten beast dies."

What had she been thinking, snogging Draco Malfoy in the blasted library of all places? Over a bloody chicken, no less! She was supposed to be the brilliant one, not some dunderheaded floozy ruled by hormones.

Sorry, mum.

***

"Sorry I couldn't get Malfoy to make a deal," Hermione told Harry when he came racing through the entrance hall doors as soon she arrived. Merlin, had that entire adventure taken the hour and ten minutes she'd returned?

That meant she'd spent the longest time with Draco. How mortifying.

"Malfoy?"

"Yeah, I tried to make a deal with him just now," she said, a flush creeping over her neck like a drop of ink in a cup of clear water. "But it's hopeless. My first two ideas haven't worked. We may as well start looking at other options."

Alarm spread over his features. "You tried to bargain with Malfoy? Hermione, you didn't have to do that for me. I'd never ask you to deal with that prat. Are you okay?" He reached up as if he were about to touch her cheek. His hand flexed into a fist before he brought it back to his side. "He didn't hex you or anything?"

"No, he would never," Hermione said. "I'm too quick for him."

Hermione watched Harry's features soften from alarm to mild worry, and he gave a weary sigh. "Just... don't make deals for me again, alright?" he asked her. His voice carried a trace of regret as he added, "Sorry about Hagrid, too. He got it into his head that I didn't know you were a Slytherin. I tried telling him you're one of the good ones, but he wouldn't have it. I get where he's coming from, though; if I had been kept out of Hogwarts because of some Slytherin trick, I'd probably feel the same way he does."

"It's alright." Honestly, she wished she could just forget the past hour entirely. "As long as you know I'm a Slytherin."

"It's my favorite part about you," he said, and she grinned. "Do you want to go grab a bite?"

"Yeah, let's go," she said, and they walked into the Great Hall together. She would worry about Nott later. She'd seen him disappearing into the dungeons right before she entered the entrance hall. The only thing she really needed to do now was keep her mind off sodding Malfoy.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Theo froze in the shadowed corner of the entrance hall, watching Hermione Granger's curly hair disappear down the dungeon stairs as she hurried away. His brow furrowed, debating whether to follow or not. He hadn't seen her leave the library, nor Draco, so he'd left when he couldn't find them. He'd reached the entrance hall right when she was coming through the doors from the grounds, which confused him a moment. The look in her eye, defeated and tired, worried him.

Malfoy must've pushed too far with his usual taunts and harassment this time.

Theo's jaw clenched as he watched Hermione's retreating form, a mixture of helplessness and frustration churning in his gut. If only he had enough power to stop Draco. But Draco's magical prowess matched his own, and the Malfoy heir wielded it with a cruel, ruthless edge that Theo couldn't match.

A flicker of shame burned through him at his own cowardice, at his failure to stand up to Draco when he went too far. But first he needed to grow stronger, to hone his own abilities until he could defeat Draco. That desire for strength, for the power to protect what mattered most, was all he craved. And someday, somehow, he would attain it.

Theo hesitated, fingers twitching at his sides but he moved after her down into the dungeons, steps silent as he trailed her like a ghost. Why was she ducking into that broom cupboard? Surely she wouldn't... His stomach twisted at the thought of Granger crying alone in some dingy cupboard because of Malfoy's cruelty. The idea made him feel vaguely sick.

Before he could reconsider, Theo's feet carried him down the corridor towards the cupboard door. He paused, hand hovering over the handle as he steeled himself.

Should he announce himself? Knock? Or would that only compound her embarrassment? Squeezing his eyes shut, Theo took a steadying breath and gently pushed the door open.

"Granger?"

Hermione's wide, startled eyes met his for the briefest moment before she vanished into thin air, leaving Theo staring dumbfounded at the empty broom closet. He blinked rapidly, certain his eyes must be playing tricks in the low torchlight. But she was simply gone, without a sound or trace of magic in the air.

Theo's mouth hung open as he peered around the small space, littered with cleaning supplies. Had she... Apparated? Impossible within Hogwarts grounds. He stepped fully inside, turning in a slow circle as if she may reappear at any moment. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck—Granger couldn't have just vanished into nothingness.

Unless... Theo's mind raced, putting together the bizarre pieces. The closet, her frantic rush from the library after that tense confrontation. The unmistakable look of panic in her eyes when she saw him. His mouth went dry as he realized the only plausible explanation.

Time travel. Granger had a Time-Turner.

***

He had noticed her on the train first. Seated beside Blaise, Theo watched in quiet awe as the girl perfectly enunciated the levitation spell, skill on par with the adult witches and wizards he'd seen demonstrate it. Her easy expression, as if magic was as simple as breathing, was unusual.

Captivating.

When she was sorted into Slytherin house, an inexplicable sense of pride slid through him, as if her placement validated his own. Of course someone as brilliant as her belonged with the cunning and ambitious snakes.

Theo tried not to stare too obviously as the bushy-haired Muggleborn girl raised her hand yet again in Transfiguration. She practically vibrated with eagerness to answer the professor's question. An unfamiliar fluttering sensation stirred in his chest when she smiled widely after giving the correct response. This rawness of academic passion was so foreign to the apathetic dullness that characterized lessons at Nott Manor under his father's tutelage. His father's cold disdain for frivolous curiosity beyond what was necessary to maintain the family's reputation had effectively quashed any sense of wonderment from Theo's childhood.

But now he devoted himself to his magic, to expanding it.

To keep up with Hermione Granger.

Theo memorized Hermione in the weeks that followed. The way her quill danced across the parchment during lessons. The sound of her laughter as she chatted animatedly with Millicent. The spark of inquisitiveness that ignited her warm brown eyes whenever a teacher posed a thought-provoking query. Theo drank in each fleeting glimpse of her, savoring the rare moments he could openly admire the brilliant Slytherin without raising suspicion.

In their first Herbology class, Professor Sprout had paired them together to re-pot Bouncing Bulbs. Theo's heart threatened to burst from his ribcage as Hermione confidently strode over, offering a friendly smile that crinkled the corners of her warm brown eyes. Despite the cruel whisperings branding her an insufferable know-it-all, she exuded patience and kindness, correcting any mistakes he made without a shred of condescension. Her pretty voice made his palms sweat as she leaned in close to adjust his grip on the trowel. Though he couldn't summon the courage to speak a single word, mesmerized by the way her hair swung with each movement, she still treated him fairly, as if he were just another classmate rather than a bumbling fool rendered mute by her very presence.

An unfamiliar warmth bloomed in Theo's chest whenever he caught sight of her brilliant smile. He wished he could see her laugh and grin all the time, but he knew better than to delude himself into thinking he could ever coax such joy from her. Theo wasn't funny or charming. He was quiet, forgettable—the type of boy bright, vibrant girls like Hermione overlooked.

Still, he couldn't resist stealing glances at her in the library, admiring the intense way she studied and took notes, as if trying to etch the knowledge into her very being through sheer force of will. He couldn't speak to her, couldn't find his tongue around her, but what he could do was match her academically.

So he did.

Anytime Malfoy mocked Hermione's appearance or heritage with a cruel jibe, a rare flare of anger ignited in Theo's chest. He hated seeing her brown eyes dim with hurt or her shoulders stiffen with rage. He wished he was could stand up for her, but knew doing so would only draw unwanted attention her way and more of their Housemates would turn on her. Besides, she proved time and time again she didn't need anyone's help.

The closest Theo came was quietly dripping Boil Draft on Malfoy's sheets whenever the urge to do something became too much. How dare that arrogant prat mock her for circ*mstances beyond her control? Didn't he realize how remarkable she was? The subsequent days of Malfoy shifting uncomfortably while sneaking wary glances at Theo were immensely satisfying. Even more satisfying was he always took Theo's hint, and settled down his harassment of Hermione. Almost as if he felt ashamed of himself—or got tired of all the boils on his back and legs—for a few blessed days before the prat inevitably started again.

It was a small act of defiance, but one that made Theo feel slightly less helpless.

During their second year Dueling Club meeting, she was as confident as ever. When Lockhart announced her opponent would be the dashing Blaise Zabini, because of course it was, Theo envied the handsome Slytherin.

As the two took their stances, Zabini flashed Hermione a charming grin, clearly underestimating the brilliant Muggleborn witch. He said something, which Theo couldn't hear, but that made Hermione snort and glare.

Theo's eyes were glued to Hermione, taking in the way she squared her shoulders and met Zabini's gaze without faltering. When Lockhart began the duel with a dramatic flourish, Zabini wasted no time firing off the first jinx. But Hermione was too quick, deftly deflecting it with a precise flick of her wand.

Theo's breath caught in his throat as she immediately retaliated with a Disarming Charm, her lips silently forming the incantation with perfect enunciation. Zabini barely managed to block it, his bravado slipping as realization dawned that his opponent was far more formidable than he'd anticipated. A fierce thrill coursed through Theo as he watched the curly-haired witch he admired so ardently easily outmatch one of the most popular boys in their year.

Zabini fired off jinx after jinx, but Hermione deflected each one with graceful twists and pivots. Nothing could touch her. Theo couldn't tear his eyes away, utterly entranced by her spellcasting. For those few shining moments, the rest of the world fell away and all he could focus on was Hermione—her furrowed brow, the determined set of her jaw, the elegant swish of her wand arm as she countered Zabini's attacks.

When she finally disarmed the Italian wizard with a well-aimed Expelliarmus, Theo's heart soared with pride. A dreamy smile tugged at his lips as she stood victorious, chest heaving slightly but her expression radiating triumph. As Zabini patted her shoulder with his Italian magnanimity and easy confidence in himself, Theo allowed himself to briefly fantasize about being her dueling partner instead of that arrogant prick Zabini.

He imagined standing across from her on the platform, holding her warm gaze as they took their stances. Theo would duel his absolute best, putting every ounce of effort into the mock battle just to witness her incredible skills up close. Maybe he'd even land a few hits, just to see that fierce look of determination blaze in her eyes as she countered him. And when the duel inevitably ended with her disarming him, Theo wouldn't even be disappointed. He'd just smile dopily and congratulate the brilliant witch, admiring the rosy flush on her cheeks and the triumphant grin lighting up her face.

The fantasy shattered as Lockhart's booming voice praised Hermione's exemplary spellwork. Theo blinked rapidly, his cheeks flushing as he realized he'd been staring unabashedly at her while lost in his daydream. Quickly averting his eyes, he tried to ignore the unhappy glance Malfoy was throwing Zabini's way as he chatted up the witch and the knot of longing tightening in his chest. Hermione was amazing... and utterly out of his league.

The rest of the year passed in growing fear for everyone. But his world stopped when Professor Snape announced the news.

Theo couldn't bear the thought of Hermione lying petrified in the hospital wing. Every time he passed the closed doors, his chest constricted, his mind conjuring visions of her frozen form. In classes they shared, her vacant seat was a constant, haunting reminder that his first love had fallen victim to forces nobody understood.

The weeks crept by torturously, each day feeling more hopeless than the last. Theo pored over every books about the Mandrake Restorative Draught he could find. Desperate to reassure himself she could be saved. Her mind, sharp as a freshly honed blade, couldn't remain trapped forever behind vacant eyes.

"Can I help with the mandrakes, Professor?"

Professor Sprout had given him a kindly look and patted his arm. "Of course. I'll need some help taking care of the rest of the garden while I prepare the mandrakes for puberty. Would you mind helping the Hufflepuffs who've volunteered?"

It would be much better to help the skilled witch devote her time to preparing the main ingredient for Hermione's cure. To fumble the mandrakes' care as they grew out of his skill level would be unforgivable. He nodded happily, and he spent the rest of the term assisting the group of Hufflepuffs with the greenhouses.

Malfoy mocked him for disappearing so much, asking pointed questions about what he was up to. Until he found out what Theo was doing, and then he just stomped around unhappily, almost as if he'd thought for a moment that Theo had been the one to open the Chamber and release the monster. Malfoy wasn't the only angered Slytherin, as Snape went around in a rage most days after his favorite student was stolen from them.

Then, one blissful morning, the news rippled through the Great Hall like a tidal wave. Hermione was revived, whole and healthy! Theo's knees nearly buckled with the force of his relief, his vision blurring. She was awake, she was alive—awake, alive. When he finally caught a glimpse of her familiar curls bouncing as she strode into the hall, radiant and glowing with life, his soul felt lighter than it had in ages. Hermione Granger had returned, and all was right in Theo's world once more.

And then he'd finally mustered up his courage to speak to her, and it had been… it had been everything he hoped for. Her attention completely on him. Seeing him with those brilliant dark eyes, guarded but kind, without a hint of ego. So he'd mustered his courage again during the holidays, though every year around Christmas his memories dredged up what his father had done—

Of course, once others had come back to the castle, and when Potter entered the picture, she forgot about him. That was to be expected. But he could not. Her attention was like riding his broom. The world sharpened and his thoughts ran too fast, and he found himself lovesick before he had a chance to realize it.

But it wasn't as if he'd stop it, either.

Hermione made him lovestruck. A fool who wanted to protect her from Malfoy and the rest of the world. But he would never be good enough, right enough. He, unlike Draco, was wizard enough to admit it. So he lingered in her periphery, drowning in the warmth of her existence was enough. And she had just allowed him into her biggest secret.

He would take Hermione's confidence to his grave if need be.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

"Nightshade," Hermione whispered, and the door to the Slytherin common room slid open with a low rumble. She stepped inside, the familiar scent of damp stone and smoldering embers enveloping her senses.

How many others had he spilled the humiliating details to? A knot twisted in her stomach at the thought of the entire house mocking her behind her back. She may have blackmail material to hold over Malfoy's head, but it would be useless if he spread the story far and wide first. And since he'd gone back on their deal, he wouldn't feel any compunction against dragging her through the mud.

Scanning the dimly lit common room, Hermione saw no sideways glances or whispers in her direction. Pansy was trouncing Zabini at a game of cards, her pug-like face contorted with smug satisfaction. Daphne sat nearby, letting Pansy play her hand while her own deft fingers wove beads into an intricate bracelet—one of her favorite hobbies. Nott occupied a worn leather armchair before the crackling fire, a seventh-year droning on beside him as Nott stared vacantly into the flames.

No sign of Malfoy. Perhaps she was safe, for now.

Relief washed over Hermione as she crossed towards the staircase leading to the girls' dormitories. But something in her periphery caught her attention—a movement, a flicker. Wand raised, a jinx on her lips, she whipped around to find Nott beside her, his expression unreadable.

"Can we speak?"

He'd moved like a ghost. A muscle in her jaw throbbed. She had expected him to wait until she was alone to corner her.

Hermione tucked away her anxiety, her expression a mask of nonchalance as she agreed to speak with Nott. They made their way to a corner of the common room where a couple of brave first years had claimed a loveseat by the window.

"Tsk!" she said, waving them on when they tried to look at her haughtily. First years were so arrogant these days. She might be a Mudblood, but a third year was practically a saint compared to those fresh out from under the Sorting Hat. With stubborn pouts, they scampered away.

She settled into the seat beside Nott, crossing her legs and arranging her features into a look of casual indifference. "So, what's this about, Nott? Need help with homework?" Her tone was light. Pretend it's just another request for a tutoring session.

But Nott shook his head, his dark blond hair falling into his eyes. "No, it's not that." He paused, seeming to gather his courage. "I wanted to apologize, actually. For following you earlier. You looked, um, upset. I'm sorry if I overstepped."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. His concern was unexpected, coming from the quiet, introverted Nott. A part of her appreciated his apology, the sincerity in his voice. But another part, the part honed by years in Slytherin, whispered that this could be a trap.

Hermione's gaze flickered over the leather couches and green armchairs, trying to spot anyone giving them undue attention. Adrian Pucey, his tousled blond hair glinting in the emerald light filtering through the lake windows, flashed her a quick grin before returning his attention to the little wireless radio. The low thrum of the announcer's voice barely touched the air as Pucey and his Quidditch mates huddled around, engrossed in the live match. She glanced away, satisfied that no curious stares lingered on her and Nott tucked away in their secluded corner. Nott hadn't told anyone to watch out for him.

She kept her guard up, her wand within easy reach. "I went straight to the dining hall after the library," she admitted carefully. "You probably didn't see me—I sat at the Gryffindor table with Harry. Ask anyone, I just came back. Are you sure you didn't see the Grey Lady or maybe another ghost?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, watching his reaction. She'd spent the past hour getting side-eyed by all the Gryffindors, all to throw off this boy's scent, but hadn't he even seen her?

Nott's pale cheeks flushed pink. "Then, I must have been mistaken." He looked down at his hands, his fingers twisting together.

His response should have reassured her, but Hermione's suspicion grew at the quickness of his reply. He needed keeping an eye on. She leaned back, affecting an air of boredom. "Well, if that's all, I really should be going."

She made to stand, but Nott's hand shot out, grasping her wrist. Hermione stiffened, her other hand tightening around her wand. But when she met his eyes, she saw only earnestness, tinged with a hint of desperation.

"Wait, please." His voice was low, urgent. "It must have been a ghost, like you said. In the future, I'll do better not to make such amateur mistakes."

Had his lips always looked so soft and inviting? A faint blush dusted his sharp cheekbones, and she found herself transfixed by the glow. When had Nott become so pretty?

Hermione shook her head slightly. This was Nott, for Merlin's sake—the boy who barely acknowledged her existence for the past three years.

Nott's fingers clasped hers hard, and then he seemed to remember himself, snatching back his hand. He curled it in his lap, hair falling into his eyes as he looked down.

"I just... I wanted you to know that I didn't see anything." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and met her gaze under thick, dark blonde eyelashes. "If there ha-had been anything, I wouldn't want to talk about it either."

Hermione studied him. Could she trust him? In Slytherin, trust was a rare commodity. But something in his eyes, in the earnest set of his mouth, made her want to believe him. It seemed he wanted to earn her trust. Still, he barely spoke to her, never spoke up at all, giving his tacit approval of all the harassment his pureblood friends put her through, and she'd just been betrayed by one of his closest friends and her primary bully.

"Forgive me if I'm not in a trusting mood this evening," Hermione said and he flinched. "Are you willing to swear it?" A magical binding was the only thing she would accept now, and Nott would never do it—

"I swear it on my magic," Nott said, his gaze never leaving hers. "Your secret is safe with me, Hermione Granger. Always."

To swear it on your magic was no empty promise. It was what she should've gotten from Draco, bound to fall back on you and make you sick if you broke it, depending on how sincere you were when you made it.

To swear it insincerely was tantamount to taking a blow from the Whomping Willow.

Clearing her throat, Hermione rose abruptly from the loveseat. "Right. Well, I'll be off then. Lots of studying to do and all that." She forced a casual smile, already turning towards the staircase to the girl's dormitory.

She could feel Nott's eyes on her as she retreated, her steps a bit too hurried to be truly nonchalant.

He'd sworn it without hesitation.

What did he gain from that?

***

Hermione drafted multiple letters to her mother. It was only a little transgression. Done in the service of a greater good—mostly. It couldn't really be that harmful, right? She burned all the letters, ashamed she had the courage to break her promise but lacked the courage to own up.

If only she'd gone home for the holidays, really. Over the next few weeks, all Hermione wished for was a visit with her mother.

Harry sensed her bad mood at times and took special effort to cheer Hermione up, but it rarely lasted past the next time she saw Draco: at dinner, walking to class, lounging in the common room. She would stare at him from the corner of her eye, and wish he'd just get it over with. Rip off the plaster.

But weeks passed with Draco keeping quiet about the kiss. It was horrifically peaceful, too. Draco didn't bother her at mealtimes or go out of his way to harass her.

"How'd you neuter Malfoy, Granger?" Blaise asked as he fell into step beside her as she trailed behind the main group walking towards the dungeons for double Potions. He didn't bother to keep his voice down. Draco's stiff shoulders were only a few feet ahead, surely within hearing distance. But although Hermione tensed, Draco made no notice of Blaise.

The only one who turned his head was Nott.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, "nor do I care. You're interrupting my quiet time, Zabini."

"Yes, I'd appreciate the respite too." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Ahead, Nott looked forward, and her gaze assessed the pale skin of his nape against the starch white shirt collar peeking up underneath his school robes. "Any plans for Hogsmeade?"

"No," she said.

Blaise smiled. "Not a single Valentine's? Not even Potter?"

"He's not allowed. Mad escaped convict on the loose. Have you heard of it?"

"Ah. Very true. If it's just you and Millie, can I tagalong?"

Millicent was behind on several days' worth of assignments after spending too much time reading the kneazle breeding books she got over the holidays, so she already planned to skip out on this one. The love holiday repulsed her on several levels, she said, and she'd rather do homework.

"Millicent isn't going. Just me."

Blaise looked surprised and then very pleased. "Then—"

"I'm happier to do my shopping by myself. No thanks."

He sighed. "Another time, then," he said. He waggled his brows. "Want to trade partners in Potions since you and Malfoy are getting on so well?"

Hermione shot Blaise an irritated look. "I think I'll pass on that offer as well."

As they neared the Potions classroom, Blaise shrugged, the motion exaggerated and lazy. "Suit yourself, Granger. But you're missing out." He winked, the gesture smooth and practiced, before sauntering ahead. His gait was loose, confident, and nothing like a third year's should be. Blaise joined his usual hallway partner, Tracey Davies, who had already turned into a blushing, stammering mess by the time their group merged with the queue waiting outside the classroom. The heavy oak door remained firmly shut, and the Gryffindors were already lined up.

Across the corridor in the middle of the Gryffindors, Harry's gaze met hers for a fleeting second, his green eyes warm. Hermione quickly moved forward.

Hermione offered Neville a small smile as she passed him in the corridor. "Hello, Neville."

The round-faced boy flushed and stuttered a greeting in return. Hermione suppressed a sigh. No matter how many times Snape asked her to partner Longbottom so he didn't blow up a cauldron, he'd never got over his nerves around a Slytherin.

"Alright, Granger?" Dean Thomas piped up, giving her a friendly nod.

Hermione inclined her head politely. "Thomas."

She found herself surrounded by Gryffindors, a lone Slytherin in their midst. Parvati and Lavender frowned at her presence, clearly displeased by the intrusion of a snake into their lion's den. Hermione turned her back as they started whispering to each other behind cupped hands.

Harry, bless his oblivious heart, seemed not to notice the distrust emanating from his Housemates, particularly the girls. His green eyes crinkled at the corners as he flashed Hermione a warm smile.

"Staying out of trouble?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow at Harry's question. "Trouble? Me?" She affected an innocent expression. "Why, I'm a perfect angel, Potter."

A snort escaped from Ron's direction, earning him a playful glare from Hermione. Harry grinned, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

"Right, my mistake. Should've known better than to accuse the resident bookworm of stepping out of line."

Hermione huffed, fighting a smile. "Careful now. This bookworm might just hex that messy mop you call hair right off your head."

"Hey!" Harry protested with a laugh, shielding said messy hair.

Their banter was interrupted by the classroom door swinging open. Professor Snape's dour presence immediately dampened the lighthearted atmosphere.

"Inside," he commanded curtly. "No dawdling."

With a resigned sigh, Hermione fell into step beside Harry as they filed into the gloomy Potions classroom. A subtle brush of his hand against hers sent that familiar, inexplicable warmth spreading through her. It was all she needed to release the the weight of her worries over Draco's silence.

Surely if he intended to unleash the mortifying kiss, the ferret wouldn't have been able to resist dangling it over her head by now. Patience was a foreign concept to Draco. That prat never could keep his oversized mouth shut when he caught someone else's misstep. His grating drawl would be insufferable as he spilled embarrassing details to all the Slytherins. Yet weeks had passed without a whisper of Draco's triumph leaking out. He hadn't even shot her one of those knowing, infuriating smirks.

But people were noticing Draco's change of attitude, and if that continued people might ask questions, putting pressure on him to explain. If that happened, would he be able to resist blabbing?

She certainly hoped so. For now, it looked like Hermione had the ultimate blackmail on the pureblood prat.

"Still on tomorrow?" Harry whispered to her. She nodded, pushing down the flutter of butterflies in her belly, and they parted, Hermione turning to her usual table where Millicent was already setting up.

"What're you smiling about?" Millicent grumbled, scowling as Snape wordlessly put the instructions for the Shrinking Concoction on the board.

"Just thinking about how quickly fortunes can change."

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

The melting snow crunched underfoot as Hermione leaned against the weathered fence, gazing at the decrepit Shrieking Shack. It stood high on the hill, abandoned, Despite the chill February air, she was perfectly warm with a jar of bluebell flames in her pocket and her cheeks hot from laughing so much.

Then Harry's disembodied voice whispered beside her, hidden beneath his Invisibility Cloak.

"I want to go take a look around the Shack," he murmured. "Do you want to come?"

Hermione shook her head. "And risk getting mauled by the vicious shrieks? I'll pass, thanks."

A soft chuckle drifted from the empty space beside her and then the fence rattled as he managed to hop it.

"You're pretty good with that cloak," she said. Jumping the fence without showing himself—that took skill.

"I've had some practice," he said. Smug prat. "Sure you don't want to find out what haunts this place?"

"I'll stand the mystery. Go on then, Potter."

Wet tracks appeared in the snowy slush as Harry ventured across the overgrown yard, his footsteps gradually fading until Hermione couldn't pinpoint his location.

Wrapping her cloak tighter, she inhaled the crisp scent of melting snow and damp earth, savoring the rare tranquility. Her lips quirked in an amused smile, wondering what Harry would discover poking around the reputedly haunted dwelling.

In the village, they had wandered the snowy streets, peering into shop windows decked out for Valentine's Day. At Honeydukes, Hermione insisted on buying all the candy Harry wanted—"Consider it your gift, Potter"—and he followed up at Scrivenshaft's by giving her the lovely eagle owl quilt he'd had her purchase.

They'd exchanged the chilly weather for a secluded booth at the Three Broomsticks. Sipping the frothy, butterscotch-laced Butterbeer, its warmth spread through her like liquid sunshine, she furtively slid plates of steak and kidney pie across the table to the invisible Harry. A few curious classmates craned their necks, but she ignored the stares. What was it to them if she ate a meal alone? After draining the last drops of Butterbeer, they slipped out, the door creaking shut behind them as they rejoined the swirling snow.

Hermione's cheeks were flushed from the cold and from the pleasant ache of laughter. Though Harry remained unseen, she felt remarkably attuned to his presence beside her, their bond growing as they replaced the parallel world's memories with their own. It had been a lovely day.

"Granger."

The familiar drawl made her stiffen. Turning, Hermione found herself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, impeccably dressed in a tailored wool coat that matched his misty grey eyes. The wind teased strands of his pale blonde hair across his forehead as his attention raked over her.

A flicker of unwanted interest stirred within her, which Hermione swiftly smothered. Draco's gaze swept their bare surroundings before settling on her once more. "So you really are here alone," he stated, a hint of surprise coloring his tone, as if he hadn't believed it.

So he'd overheard her earlier conversation with Blaise. Of course. Hermione mentally kicked herself for not being more discreet.

Or he had just happened upon her, which she doubted very much. She'd seen him entering a carriage with Pansy and his cronies earlier, after all. He would have plenty of friends to keep him occupied in Hogsmeade, and yet he was here.

In a few long strides, Draco closed the distance between them, until he was crowding her against the fence. He radiated warmth, unabashed intimacy, and Hermione fought the urge to lean into it as his clean, crisp scent enveloped her senses.

"Been thinking about me, Granger?" Draco murmured, leaning in until his face was mere inches from hers.

Heat blossomed in her cheeks at his proximity and the intimate lilt of his voice. Hermione's mouth dried and her brain stuttered as Draco's intense gaze held her captive.

"I want to discuss our future."

Draco's confidence fueled Hermione's spine to straighten, and she flared up defensively. "There is no future between us, Malfoy," she stated, furious gaze meeting his. "Whatever delusion you're harboring, dispel it now."

He seemed utterly unfazed by her rebuff, his lips curling into what looked like a genuine smile, with a dimple in his cheek and everything. "Did you know couples come here to snog?" His hands landed on the fence beside her, caging her in. "And we're all alone out here."

For all he knew. She leaned away from him, looking away from the pale lashes fringing his eyes, the sharp angles of his aristocratic features. "Aren't you dating Parkinson?"

Draco laughed, the rich sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "Is that what you're worried about? You of all people needn't worry about her."

His hand landed on her waist and she found herself effectively pinned. Sweat forming on the back of her neck, she stared up at him. "You haven't spoken to me in weeks. Why now?"

"Because I had to come up with a plan to handle this."

Draco was coming on too strong, his unshakable confidence throwing Hermione off-kilter. Where was the flustered, shaking boy she'd created in the library with just a single kiss? This bold, assured Draco was all wrong—her heartbeat pulsed at the back of her tongue as she fought a strange, unsettling thrill. Where was Harry? Was he seeing this encounter unfold?

Before she could react, Draco's hand brushed her cheek, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw as he leaned in, clearly intending to kiss her. Hermione stilled, paralyzed by indecision, a traitorous part of her tempted to let him.

His voice was as warm as the sparks in her stomach. "And now I have. First, I'll start with making sure no insect ever bothers you again," he murmured, his breath gentle against her lips.

Snapping out of her daze, Hermione pressed her wand against his throat, the rigid wood halting his advance. Draco took a step back, hands raised in surrender as his expression registered surprise.

"Pansy means nothing, alright?" he stated, an edge of impatience slipping into his tone. "I should've realized you didn't know, but there's no match between us. She's got a fiancé waiting in France, and they're just waiting for graduation, so she can't step between us."

Hermione nearly burst out laughing. "Us? There's no us, Malfoy. You really have lost all sense, haven't you?" She shook her head in disgust. "To think I'd want anything to do with you. You're the insect to me."

Draco's face darkened as he dropped his hands to his sides, the arrogant smirk slipping from his features. "You know who I am, Granger. What I can do to get what I want."

"Oh, yes, I've heard all about your father, Malfoy. In fact"—she allowed a small, satisfied smile to tug at the corners of her mouth—"I'm sure your dear daddy would be so proud to know how obsessed his precious son is with a filthy Mudblood."

The words had the desired effect—Draco's pale face flushed an ugly crimson as his fists clenched at his sides. Before he could respond, however, a wet, sloppy snowball caught him square in the side of the face, splattering icy slush across his cheek. He sputtered in shock and outrage as the remnants slid down his neck, seeping beneath his expensive wool coat.

Hermione's gaze whipped toward the source of the projectile—the decrepit Shrieking Shack looming above them. A ghostly cackle seemed to emanate from the dilapidated structure, eerie and unsettling.

"The ghosts!" she exclaimed with a breathless laugh, unable to contain her amusem*nt at Draco's misfortune. "I guess you'd better go before they get you again."

As if on cue, another volley of snowballs came hurtling toward them. Hermione ducked instinctively, but Draco wasn't so lucky—one caught him squarely in the chest while another glanced off his shoulder. His outraged sputtering quickly turned to genuine fear as the ghostly laughter intensified.

"Granger!" he shouted, his voice edged with panic as he whipped his head around, searching for the source of the onslaught. "Are you doing this?"

She couldn't help but laugh at his obvious distress. "The ghosts of the Shrieking Shack, remember?" she taunted, relishing the rare opportunity to see Malfoy so thoroughly rattled. "I think I hear more coming."

Sure enough, the eerie cackling grew louder, echoing all around them as if a horde of specters had been roused. Draco's eyes widened in alarm, his pale face now tinged with a sickly green pallor.

"Granger, come on!" he pleaded, extending his hand to her. "Let's get out of—"

His words cut off abruptly as his gaze fixed on something over Hermione's shoulder. Whipping around, she caught a brief glimpse of a flash of black hair swiftly being covered up by the shimmering folds of the Invisibility Cloak. Harry!

Draco's eyes narrowed as he looked between the empty space where Harry had disappeared and Hermione's face. Realization dawned in his stormy grey eyes, quickly followed by a look of pure, unbridled fury.

"You... and him," he seethed through gritted teeth, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He started backing away. "I should have known. This isn't over, Granger," he vowed, his voice laced with venom. "I'll make you pay for this."

With that, he turned on his heel and ran, and she had no doubt Draco would make good on his promise as soon as he could.

She didn't wait until he was out of sight, she whirled as he hopped the fence and landed beside her. "Hurry, you need to get back to the castle," she hissed urgently. "He's going to get Snape."

The empty space beside her shimmered as Harry's face materialized, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of pelting Malfoy. "Are you alright?"

Hermione waved off his concern. "Don't worry about me, just go!"

Harry hesitated for a heartbeat, his vivid green eyes searching her face. Then, with a nod, he tugged the Invisibility Cloak back over his head and vanished from sight once more. Then Harry was gone, the only evidence of his presence the imprints in the snow as he pounded up the hill toward the secret passage at Honeydukes.

Hermione watched him go, her heart still pounding from the confrontation with Draco. Despite the lingering apprehension, she couldn't quite suppress the giddy thrill of satisfaction that bubbled up within her.

Draco Malfoy had finally gotten his comeuppance—and she had Harry Potter to thank for it.

Tucking her scarf more securely around her neck, she cast one final glance toward the Shrieking Shack before turning toward the path. The snow crunched underfoot as Hermione made her way back toward the castle, her breath puffing out in frosty clouds. She pulled her cloak tighter against the chill, her mind still replaying the confrontation with Draco and the immense satisfaction of seeing him so thoroughly rattled.

What in the world was Draco thinking, festering in this perverted crush of his? A laugh puffed out of her. And that villainous last line? I'll make you pay for this. What a prat.

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Hermione's head turned toward the copse of trees lining the path, her wand slipping into her hand instinctively. For a moment, she thought she glimpsed a figure lurking amongst the bare branches, but it could have just been a trick of the shadows.

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione peered into the thicket, her senses on high alert. Just as she was about to dismiss it, the branches rustled again—unmistakably the movement of someone, or something, concealed within.

"Who's there?" she called out, her voice ringing sharply through the stillness. "Show yourself!"

The stillness shattered as a figure erupted from the thicket, snapping twigs and crunching leaves underfoot. Hermione's wand arm snapped up, ready to defend herself, but the person paid her no heed. A swirl of black robes flapped behind them as they sprinted heedlessly down the path, their boots pounding against the frozen ground, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and her as possible.

It was Nott.

Hermione didn't hesitate. With a deft flick of her wand, she sent a Stunning Spell hurtling after him, the jet of crimson light blazing through the trees. There was a muffled thump, followed by eerie silence.

Cautiously, she advanced after him. There, sprawled face-down in the snow, was the unmoving form of Theodore Nott.

"I'm getting rather sick of this," she muttered.

Shaking her head, she bent down and grasped his shoulder, rolling him over onto his back. What possessed her to Stun him, she didn't know, except the irritation bubbling under her skin had urged her to do something, at least.

Nott's eyes were closed, his features slack and expressionless. She wiped the mud off his cheek before she caught herself. In his unconscious state, there was something almost... peaceful about him. Vulnerable, even.

Frowning, Hermione studied his face. Why had Nott been lurking in the trees to begin with? And why had he run when she confronted him?

"Rennervate," Hermione murmured, tapping her wand against his forehead.

Nott's eyes flew open with a sharp inhalation, his gaze wild and unfocused for a few disorienting seconds. Then, as his surroundings seemed to register, his eyes found Hermione's face and widened in apparent dismay.

"Granger?" he said as he sat up. "What... what happened?"

Keeping her wand trained on him, Hermione arched a questioning brow at him. "I was rather hoping you could tell me," she said coolly. "I found you lurking in the trees like some sort of deranged forest sprite. Care to explain?"

A flush crept up Nott's neck as he averted his gaze, his expression one of acute mortification. "I... I didn't mean to..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. "I was just... out for a walk."

Hermione scoffed at the blatant lie. "Right. And Dumbledore's a Squib. The truth, Nott. Now."

For a long moment, he didn't respond, his jaw tensing as he seemed to wrestle with some internal struggle. Finally, he exhaled a defeated sigh and met her gaze once more.

"I saw Malfoy come after you," he admitted, his voice low. "I didn't mean to follow, but... well, I was concerned."

"Stalking me is a terrible habit, Nott."

The tips of Nott's ears burned crimson as his gaze skittered away from hers again. "I wasn't—"

"Trying to get something on me?" Hermione snapped.

Nott flinched at her accusation. "No! Granger, I would never—"

He broke off, shaking his head vehemently. It took him a moment to gather his resolve, squaring his shoulders before meeting her gaze once more.

"I just - I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Hermione's brow furrowed skeptically. "By lurking in the trees like some creep?"

A flicker of hurt flashed across Nott's features before he schooled them into a carefully neutral expression. "I didn't intend to do anything," he insisted. "I was going to leave, but then I saw Potter appear and...well, I got curious."

Her grip tightened fractionally on her wand at the mention of Harry. He could use that as leverage against them both. If Professor Snape found out she'd helped Harry sneak out of the castle, he wouldn't be kind to her.

"Potter wasn't here. I don't know what you think you saw—" she began, but Nott cut her off with a shake of his head.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," he said, his tone earnest. "You have my word."

Hermione studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any hint of deception. To her surprise, she found none—only sincere hazel eyes steadily holding her gaze.

"Why should I trust you?" she asked at last. "You've never given me a reason to."

His head dropped and he stared down at his lap, saying nothing.

Nott looked pitiful. Pitiful and resigned. Curse her sympathetic heart and his ridiculously hurt expression. Slowly, she lowered her wand, though she didn't put it away entirely. "Alright, Nott," she said at last. "I'll take you at your word—for now. But if you breathe a syllable of this to anyone..."

She let the threat hang in the air, watching as Nott gave a solemn nod of understanding.

"You have my oath, Granger," he vowed. "No one will hear about this from me."

Hermione studied him for another beat before giving a curt nod of acceptance. Turning on her heel, she began making her way back toward the path, leaving Nott to collect himself in the wake of their confrontation.

As she moved past him down the path, however, a thought occurred to her. Pausing, she glanced back over her shoulder at the disheveled Slytherin boy.

"Oh, and Nott?" she called out, waiting until he met her gaze. "Next time you want to make sure I'm alright, just ask. No need for the lurking."

His blush was adorable. "I - um, alright."

"Now, are you coming along or not?"

He gaped at her for a second, before he scrambled to his feet. Hermione let him catch up, smiling to herself. Was she collecting Slytherin wizards? Must be some Freudian complex, honestly.

Ah well, she'd find a use for them at some point.

***

Pansy was pouting at dinner.

"But why did you run off so quickly, Draco?"

Draco stabbed at his dinner with his fork. Pansy's whining grated on his nerves like Peeves' laughter. "I told you, I had business to take care of," he snapped, shooting her a withering glare.

Pansy's pug-like face crumpled into a petulant frown. "But you just ran off without saying where you were going! I thought we were supposed to spend the day together in Hogsmeade." She sidled closer to him on the bench, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

Draco recoiled slightly at her overpowering floral perfume. "I don't need to explain myself to you, Pansy."

Hermione sat in her usual spot further down, her curly mane haloing around her face as she snorted at whatever Millicent had just whispered. Her full lips curved in an easy smile, completely oblivious to Draco's icy stare boring into the side of her head. As always, she brushed him off like an insignificant gnat.

At least Snape knew about Potter's illicit excursions now, although he hadn't let Granger's name slip. Snape had assured him that he would be on close lookout from now on for any illicit trips when Draco visited him before dinner. Snape's sallow face hadn't been pleased though, so Draco could only guess Precious Potter had somehow gotten away with it that day.

Draco shifted on the bench. Despite vigorous scrubbing under the shower's scalding spray until his pale skin flushed pink, a phantom sensation of grime and filth clung to him like a film. Damn Potter and his cursed luck. One day he'd wipe that smug grin off the golden boy's face permanently.

But first he needed to do something about Granger. His gaze slipped past her. And apparently Nott, too. Adjacent to her in his usual spot, Nott was darting looks from his broccoli to her with blatant indiscretion. Ha. As if Nott's father would ever allow it. The git was utterly besotted, and the sight made Draco's lip curl in disgust. How he could have ever mistaken Nott's attention as anything but unnatural attraction, he didn't know. He should tell his mother to call on Nott Sr. Fathers deserved to know a son's loyalty, didn't they?

"Draco? Are you even listening to me?" Pansy's nails dug into his arm.

He started to shrug her off—he hated that she'd become so clingy this past month—then paused. "I'm listening," he said. He had the beginnings of an idea. With a smirk, he leaned into her, and whispered, "Let's go to your dormitory while it's empty. I think I'll hear you even better there."

Eyes widening, Pansy gave an excited giggle, shooting Daphne a smug look. Shoving his plate away, he rose and stalked out of the Great Hall beside the black haired witch, the image of Granger's wild curls and full lips haunting him with every step.

A little alone time was just what they needed to iron out their differences. By the time he was done with her, she would know her place.

***

"Alright?" she mouthed across the Great Hall.

Across the Great Hall, Harry choked on a bite of pudding and, smacking his chest, gave her a thumbs up when he finally managed to swallow his food. Good. So he hadn't gotten into too much trouble.

Her gaze returned to the Slytherin table. Nott quickly looked away. It wasn't the first time she'd caught the reserved Slytherin boy sneaking furtive glances her way.

Hermione's brow furrowed slightly as she contemplated the unusual situation. She wasn't delusional about her looks which had always been plain and unexceptional, really. Her untamable, frizzy hair had a mind of its own most days. Though her front teeth were mercifully straight now thanks to her mother's subtle spellwork before she came to Hogwarts. And she supposed her little upturned nose wasn't too objectionable. But she remained almost stick-thin, curves refusing to blossom like some of the other girls her age. If Hermione envied one thing about Pansy—along with most of the rest of the Slytherin girls—it was how she filled out her clothes nowadays.

So what did Nott and that foul git Malfoy see in her? Draco's crude advances and attempts at blackmail were transparently self-serving. But Nott... his motivations remained a mystery. Hermione stole another glance his way, catching him quickly look down at his plate again.

At least she could use this to protect herself, at least. If Professor Snape came snooping, she would bully Nott into providing witness testimony. "No, I never saw Harry in Hogsmeade, sir. Ask Nott. I was with him."

But that was just the tip of the iceberg. She could use Nott in so many ways, couldn't she? Not another blackmail scheme, certainly. With the blatant hints about his monstrous father—Hermione had researched him after that and found his name all over the war with Voldemort, though Nott Sr. hadn't been charged—threatening Nott would do more harm than good. Besides, it'd be like stepping on a dying bird, and she wasn't a monster.

Just a snake.

Her eyes drifted back towards the solitary Slytherin boy.

Perhaps a more delicate approach was warranted. After all, Nott had proven himself a man of his word by keeping her time-turner escapades an absolute secret as promised. And his gesture of retrieving Harry's shattered Nimbus pieces showed a softer side. There was something almost noble about his awkward silence and furtive glances. Like a knight pining after an unattainable princess from the shadows.

Hermione snorted at the silly romantic notion. More likely the poor boy just fancied her a bit and lacked the courage to actually speak to her. His family's beliefs probably instilled a deep-seated fear of tainting their lineage by consorting too closely with Muggleborns.

Her gaze drifted back over to him, hunched over his plate, carefully avoiding eye contact. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she studied his features - the strong jawline, those full lips pressed into a contemplative line. Objectively, she could admit he was handsome in an unconventional way.

Hermione pushed her plate away, the last few bites of treacle tart suddenly losing their appeal. Handsome? Maybe it wasn't just Malfoy who'd lost his senses. She'd done just fine these past years without considering any of these Slytherin boys as anything other than pests to ignore, and she didn't mean to stop now. She rose from the Slytherin table, offering a polite "Goodnight" to Millicent before heading for the dungeons.

On the way, Hermione considered the possibilities for freeing Buckbeak. Bargaining with Draco had been an utter debacle from start to finish. This time, things would be handled properly—through diligent, meticulous planning. No rash actions or shady deals, just good old-fashioned hard work.

Hermione barely registered entering the dimly-lit Slytherin common room. Her feet carried her automatically towards the girls' dormitory stairs and she nearly bowled over the figure descending the staircase.

"Watch it, Granger!"

The snide drawl jerked Hermione from her reverie. Draco Malfoy sneered at her, the smug look on his face only accentuated by the unmistakable love bite peeking over his collar. Hermione's lip curled in disgust as she took an instinctive step backwards.

"Honestly, Malfoy, must you be so boorish?"

The sound of a throat clearing from the top of the stairs mercifully cut off whatever retort was forming on Malfoy's lips. Pansy sashayed down, looking every bit the cat who'd got the cream. She flashed Hermione a smug grin before sidling up to Draco and looping an arm through his.

"Come along, darling," she purred, nuzzling his neck. "I'm simply parched."

Hermione's face twisted in revulsion as the couple sauntered off towards the drinks cabinet, Draco shooting her one last mocking leer over his shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she stormed up the stairs towards her dormitory, silently fuming over Pansy's utter lack of discretion. Honestly, inviting that foul git into their dormitory like it was some sort of brothel!

Disgust bubbled in her as she got ready for an early night. Hermione at lunch and Pansy at night, huh? Malfoy was trying to be a playboy, it seemed. Or else trying to make Hermione jealous. Ugh. Disgusting. She firmly pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside as she settled into bed, drawing the hangings closed around her four-poster with a decisive tug.

As if she would ever be jealous of Pansy.

As soon as her head hit the pillow, her mind turned back to the disappointing start on Buckbeak's case. The path had been littered with too many missteps—getting on Snape's bad side, Malfoy breaking their deal, Nott finding out about the time turner—but she would recover. A smart snake always slithered out of danger.

And she still needed to talk to her mother…

Some indeterminable time later, Hermione awoke with a start, eyes flying open in the pitch blackness surrounding her bed. An eerie stillness hung in the air, the only sound her own shallow breaths. Something wasn't right. But what?

Then the mattress shifted beside her—the unmistakable weight of a presence looming over her prone form. Hermione's heart seized as someone whispered, "Lumos."

The wandlight revealed a pale, pointed face.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Malfoy! She tried to shout, to snatch her wand and make him pay—

She couldn't move.

He'd immobilized her.

The blond Slytherin's lips curved into a sinister smirk as he leaned closer, his features thrown into sharp relief. Hermione vision darkened at the edges, heart pounding as hard as a bird trying to free itself from a locked cage, throwing itself against the bars of its prison again and again—except he could touch her prison. Only her flannel pajamas and the comforter separated them.

"You really should be more careful, Granger," Draco purred. "All of you girls should. Not a single shield on any of the beds. It would be a shame if a black-hearted someone took advantage of that."

Draco's smirk widened, reaching out for her.

"So naive," he murmured, fingertips grazing her cheek in a feather-light touch that made her want to recoil. "I said I would make you pay for earlier. Did you really think I wouldn't keep my word?"

His hand continued trailing down the line of her jaw, her throat, coming to rest just above the thundering pulse at the base of her neck. Hermione's eyes were wide with terror, her mind screaming at her body to move, to fight, to do anything.

"Relax," Draco whispered. "I'll be taking good care of you from now on... I'm the king of Slytherin and if you're very, very good, I'll elevate you into someone worth listening to."

His thumb brushed over her pulse sending phantom centipedes crawling into her bowels. "But first, I need to go over the ground rules. No more Potter. Your place is in Slytherin, so start acting like a snake, not some pathetic pet. Understood?" He paused, tilted his head. In the wandlight, his eyes were two black holes. "Oh, right, you can't move. Blink twice if you understand."

Hermione didn't move. Couldn't move, except to close her eyes, but she kept staring, waiting, unable to do anything but wait for him to drop this facade and hurt her as he'd always wanted to. Again and again, his malicious smile returned to her, the comments he'd made over years echoing in his head.

Pity. The basilisk should've killed you, too.

No proper Slytherin wants a filthy thing like the Mudblood in their classes.

"You're so pretty," he whispered, pale light on the side of his face as he leaned down, leaving the rest of his face in shadow. He sounded distant, and she wasn't sure if that was the ringing in her ears or not as his nose brushed along her cheek. She wanted to thrash, to scream for help, but her voice remained trapped in her throat.

Mockingly sweet, he murmured, "It's almost like you put a spell on me. Did you do that, Granger? Did you want me so badly?"

A tear spilled from Hermione's eye, sliding down her cheek before disappearing into her tangle of curls. Another followed just as Malfoy lifted up.

He jerked as if stung. "What are you doing? What are you crying for?"

Hermione couldn't stop the tears. They kept flowing, hot and stinging, and Draco blanched.

"Stop it! Stop crying right now, Granger!" He wrenched himself away from her. "I wasn't going to force myself on you. Don't flatter yourself. Merlin, you're such a drama queen."

He flung himself through the curtains of her four-poster and didn't even try to muffle his footsteps. The creak of wood told her he had left. One of her roommates murmured sleepily. "Daph? Tha' you?"

Only then did Hermione's body unlock, the paralysis lifting. She gasped for air, trembling uncontrollably as the trauma of Malfoy's attack washed over her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth.

She had never felt so violated, so powerless. Malfoy's threats echoed in her mind, his disgusting, awful mockery of a crush. The thought made her ill. How could she face him again after this? How could she continue at Hogwarts when even her dormitory wasn't safe?

How could she continue on knowing that her classmate was a hideous beast and there was nothing she could do about it?

Hermione cried until no more tears would come, her throat raw. She rose on shaky legs and began packing her trunk. She couldn't stay here, not anymore. Hogwarts had never felt less like home.

Hermione had relished the power she wielded over Draco. The mere thought of him squirming under her blackmail had made her heart race with wicked delight. For once, the insufferable prat would be at her mercy, forced to obey her every whim or face the mortifying consequences. But she'd forgotten what an awful, horrible toad he was.

A toad who was never shy about taking what he wanted.

"Hermione? What are you doing?"

Freezing, Hermione realized Millicent had climbed out of bed. Her flannel pyjamas were rolled up at the ankles—they'd previously been her father's, she'd told Hermione once—and she stood with her hair sticking up on one side, a red mark on her face from her pillow. She'd lit her wand that she put on the ground next to Hermione as she sat beside her.

"Something wrong?"

Hermione realized she was on her knees in front of her trunk, throwing things inside in random order. That she hadn't taken care to be quiet. The other girls were shifting in their beds.

Shuddering, Hermione closed her eyes. That… that had been terrifying. But she was alive. Unharmed. Malfoy was a coward at heart. He'd wanted to make her submit, but he didn't have the guts to get his hands dirty by making the effort himself.

"I'm… fine," Hermione whispered. She couldn't look at her friend, but that didn't stop her feeling Millicent's stare on the side of her face.

"Yeah? You always pack up at f*ck o'clock in the morning?"

A watery sound burbled up from her throat. "New habit."

"Need a tissue?"

Hermione's braids fell into her face as she shook her head. "No. No, I'm feeling better, I think." With Millicent there, solid and strong and take no bullsh*t, it was hard to feel like the past ten minutes had happened.

"Alright then," Millicent said, and then waited. At the five second mark, she shuddered and shoved Hermione's shoulder. "Bloody hell, Granger, get back in bed. It's freezing!"

Hermione let herself be prodded back into bed. With Millicent's gruff reassurance, the panic was subsiding, though an undercurrent of unease still thrummed through her veins. She pulled the covers up to her chin like a protective cocoon.

As Millicent's soft snores soon filled the dormitory once more, Hermione recalled how utterly powerless against him she was in that moment. For all her magical prowess, a simple Petrificus Totalus had rendered her helpless prey. The thought made bile rise in her throat. Hermione was no wilting flower, no damsel to be cowed by the likes of Draco bloody Malfoy. She was a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake! Cunning, ambitious, resourceful—those were meant to be her defining traits.

Hermione's hands trembled as she gripped her wand, casting the sticking charm on her bed curtains with a fierce determination. The flimsy fabric barrier felt laughably inadequate after the violation she'd just endured, but it was a start—a tangible step towards fortifying her defenses. Never again would she allow herself to be caught vulnerable again.

Anger simmered in her veins, burning hotter with every ragged breath. How dare he? How dare that loathsome little boy invade her sanctuary? His rotten touch lingered, the ghost of his touch trailing down her cheek, her throat—a mocking parody of affection that left her skin crawling.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione fought back the urge to be sick as flashes of his cruel words replayed in her mind. "I'll be taking good care of you from now on..."

As if she would ever allow that vile, bigoted cretin to lay a single finger on her. Over her dead body.

Malfoy had crossed a line tonight, one he could never uncross. Hermione's fingers clenched around her wand so tightly her knuckles turned white. He would pay for this. No more games, no more playing by the rules—she would make him regret the day he ever dared to threaten her.

A soft snore from Millicent's bed reminded Hermione she wasn't alone. Thankfully, the other girl had been there to pull her back from the brink of panic.

It took another two hours before a Tempus spell told Hermione it was an acceptable time to get up. Hermione rose from her bed and gathered her things with purpose. She would not flee like a coward, not from her own House. Slytherin was her home as much as anyone else's, and she refused to be driven out by that sniveling little bully. No, she would stay and fight—confront this head on. Harry thought she was a Gryffindor?

Not.

In

The

Least.

As the first pale rays of dawn filtered through the lake's depths, Hermione made her way to the bathroom to prepare for the day. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she studied the puffy redness rimming her eyes, the tear-stained cheeks. This would not do.

Hermione had just over an hour before the school started to rouse. She had to look normal before she broke into the Restricted Section. Thank Merlin for her time turner.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

"—lena? Helena, is that you?"

Narcissa's eyes widened slightly as she recognized the familiar figure stride past Flourish and Blotts, the woman's dark curls cascading over one shoulder just as they had during their shared years at Hogwarts. Helena moved with the same unapproachable air that had drawn Lucius's eye all those years ago.

The letter from Draco, hastily tucked into the folds of her robes, momentarily forgotten, she found herself following the woman before she thought better of it. Narcissa's lips curved into a polite smile. To see Helena again after all this time, when she thought the country rid of her for good, was an unexpected surprise.

The woman turned. Yes, it was Helena. Narcissa would never forget the intensity of those eyes meeting hers across the Great Hall. Nor the slow curve of her mouth, as it did now as Helena took stock of her.

"Narcissa," Helena murmured. She stepped forward and the two women obliged in the pleasantries. Helena smelled surprisingly prosaic, like ink and heather, and cold lips touched Narcissa's cheek. "You look well."

"As do you."

The two women stepped back, studied each other, their gazes appraising but not hostile.

Despite the years that had passed, Helena still carried herself with that same effortless, captivating grace that had so enthralled Lucius during their Hogwarts days. Narcissa remembered it well—the lingering glances, the "accidental" brushes of hands, the knowing smirks exchanged when they thought no one was looking. But that was a lifetime ago, and Narcissa knew without a doubt that Lucius's heart belonged to her now.

"I must admit, I'm surprised to see you here," Narcissa said, her tone polite but curious. "Everyone thought you had moved abroad."

"The weather didn't suit," she said, her once pale skin flushed with the slightest color, as if she'd recently been in the sun. "How do you enjoy being mistress of Malfoy Manor?"

Narcissa smiled, a hint of pride in her voice. "I've learned it intricately as I've been its mistress for many years now. It only grows in its beauty."

"Of course," Helena murmured, which Narcissa acknowledged with a gracious nod.

Narcissa allowed her gaze to sweep over Helena, noting that the other woman's dark curls were just as wild and untamed as she remembered, framing a face that had hardly aged a day since their youth. It was a testament to Helena's enduring beauty, but Narcissa felt no envy, secure in her own elegance and the love of her husband.

"You've been away for quite some time," Narcissa continued, not bothering to suppress her curiosity. "I can't imagine what could have brought you back to our shores after so long."

She knew it was not her place to pry, but the unexpected nature of Helena's return piqued her interest. This was the woman who had nearly stolen Lucius from her grasp before they had even married, but that was ancient history now, and Narcissa had long since made peace with it. However, there were plenty who would not be so gracious, and the waves of that fury might even reach Malfoy Manor one day. Narcissa liked to be well informed.

"I have personal reasons for returning," Helena said, holding Narcissa's steady gaze. "Though I can't say I expected such a greeting from you after all this time, Cissy."

The familiar nickname, uttered in that same low, mellifluous tone that used to make Lucius's eyes glaze over, barely registered with Narcissa now. She simply smiled, unruffled by the attempt at familiarity. She opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a sudden commotion from the street behind them.

Only a man dealing with an overturned cart, the caged pixies atop having escaped. Narcissa's lip curled—didn't the wizard have the sense to hold a wand?—and she faced Helena again. Only to find her with her hood up and her beautiful curls tucked away.

"Narcissa," she said, gaze flitting about the street as her knuckles tightened on the edge of her cloak. "I must be going. Lovely to see you again."

With a formal tip of her head, Helena turned and strode off down the lane toward the Leaky Cauldron. Narcissa watched her disappear with the crowds, drawing no notice, her own eyes calmly observing, making her believe the witch's cloak carried a subtle attention repellent. Unusual, when she used to walk around the school with her head held high, collecting stares with a smirk.

No matter. She would gather information about Helena's return to England through her usual contacts, but for now, she had other matters to attend to.

Narcissa's pulled out Draco's letter, the parchment crinkling between her perfectly manicured fingers as she re-read it. Her son's usually impeccable penmanship appeared hurried, the words slightly smudged as if he had been writing in haste.

A frown creased her brow. For Draco to request her aid in offering an apology was highly irregular. He so rarely admitted fault, let alone sought forgiveness. The Malfoy pride ran thick in his veins. Something significant must have transpired at Hogwarts to prompt such an uncharacteristic plea.

Though Narcissa had witnessed Draco express regret to both her and his father, Lucius, she couldn't recall an instance when her son had felt compelled to make amends with his peers. Naturally, Draco was above them, so why would he need to bend his neck to them?

But Narcissa knew her son better than he knew himself, and unlike his father, Narcissa listened. Which meant while Lucius received letters filled with scholarly questions and philosophy, his letters to his mother contained more substance of his daily life. He wrote to Lucius to make him proud. Narcissa, he understood, would always be proud. This letter, unlike all the other ones she received weekly from her dutiful, lovely son contained no mention of the Mudblood.

The Muggleborn. Narcissa's lips pursed slightly at the thought, but she quickly pushed aside any reservations. With the increasing popularity of her name in the letters, Narcissa had started adjusting her thinking, determined to support her son no matter what. No Malfoy had married less than a half-blood since the origin of the name, but now it looked as if her son might attempt to break the trend.

At first, the mentions had been sparse, little more than disdainful asides and insults flung with characteristic Malfoy superiority—"that insufferable know-it-all Granger," or "the bushy-haired suck up." Narcissa had scarcely paid them any mind, dismissing the girl as a minor irritant unworthy of further thought.

But then the tone had shifted. The insults gave way to begrudging acknowledgments of the girl's intellect and magical prowess. Narcissa had noted with interest Draco's words of stunned disbelief after the girl had outperformed him in nearly every class. Granger this, Granger that—the name appeared with increasing frequency, each time laced with a mixture of resentment and reluctant respect that caught Narcissa's attention.

Narcissa had wondered if it was a passing fixation, but the letters kept coming, one after another, each one more telling than the last. For all his professed loathing, Draco seemed unable to divert his focus from the girl. Granger's very existence had become a significant presence in his life, and Narcissa knew she needed to pay close attention to how this developed, for her son's sake.

But Narcissa had sworn on the day of his birth, when she whispered his name into his ear for him alone to hear, that she would give him every happiness in the world. And if that included a Mudblood—

A Muggleborn, she corrected herself firmly. If she could subtly guide this situation, it would be the better for him—for both of them. Lucius would not see reason if Draco tried to jeopardize the sacred purity of the bloodline. The girl would face unpleasantness, if that were the case, and Draco would be… troubled. But if she had to, she would, for Narcissa had promised him every happiness.

She had not promised happiness would come easy.

With a determined exhale, Narcissa tucked the letter back into the folds of her robes. Her unexpected encounter with Helena had been surprising, but not as unsettling as it would have been for her sixteen-year-old self. The woman's very presence in Diagon Alley after over a decade's absence was curious, but Narcissa refused to let it distract her from what truly mattered. She needed to visit Grimoire & Greats for the artifact her son required.

***

"Apparently, he tried to choke three seventh years and murdered someone's pet!"

"That's not what happened—I hear he fought Dumbledore in a duel and when he was about to lose, he Apparated!"

Hermione scoffed as the gossiping students scurried past them, whispering ludicrous tales about Sirius Black's supposed exploits within the castle walls. With each retelling, the stories grew more outlandish and far-fetched.

"Honestly, you'd think people would have better things to do than spread ridiculous rumors," her friend muttered under her breath as they rounded the corner to the Charms classroom.

It certainly was more entertaining than classes. "Did you hear the one that said he's hiding in Lupin's wardrobe with the boggart?"

"Nonsense. Why the professors don't stop it, I don't know. It only breeds more panic."

Zabini stepped up beside Hermione.

"I agree with Millie. It's a better sight than the true story, which is Weasley's shrieking waking up half of Hufflepuff. Then that old cat practically threw that fat lump Longbottom out of the tower."

"Don't call me Millie, Zabini."

"My, your rage enchants me."

Millicent noticed Hermione stiffen beside her at Zabini slipping in beside them, the other girl's body going rigid. In fact, her friend hadn't been herself since the last Hogsmeade trip—there was a tense air about her now, a tendency to rush off down the halls alone or whip her head around to stare at approaching people like a wary kneazle.

Hermione only seemed comfortable around Millicent these days, gravitating to her side on the infrequent times she sat in the common room and at the few meals she joined with everyone. Even her usual time spent with Potter had dwindled to almost nothing, leaving the Gryffindor shooting insufferably forlorn looks at the Slytherin table during meals that made Millicent want to hex him. In class, Hermione's eagerness to answer questions had been silenced. In the halls, too, Hermione kept to herself, eyes downcast and steps hurried, except for when the overnight news had finally broken her out of her shell. The story, on everyone's tongue that morning before they stepped into breakfast, seemed to have sparked something in Hermione, a flicker of her old fire returning as she brushed off the annoying rumors.

Though often overlooked, Millicent was an astute observer. She noticed all kinds of things, like Flint's forbidden crush on Wood, and Goyle's inability to read his letters, and Snape's growing discontent at the staff table during mealtimes, and Weasley's jealousy of Potter and Hermione—though she couldn't tell whether he was jealous of Potter or Hermione.

How wizards seemed drawn to Hermione more and more, their eyes lingering a bit too long on the curly-haired Muggleborn. Blaise was no exception, but today his gaze wasn't straying like usual.

"You're not the least bit entertained by all the rumors, Granger?"

Her hard expression didn't flicker. "Not a bit."

"Pity," Blaise said as they came to a stop outside the Charms classroom, "because I like seeing you laugh."

Blaise's focus was on Hermione and Millicent's was narrowed on Blaise. A muscle in Hermione's jaw feathered and she turned her back on the taller boy with a decided chill in the air.

Millicent noticed things, like Blaise's growing worry, and Draco's face which seemed to get paler by the day while Hermione acted…

Off.

Jerking her head at Blaise, Millicent was faintly surprised that the wizard took the hint and left them alone, ambling back to where Nott stood awkwardly by himself at the other end of the corridor. The smaller boy gave the flirt a wary glance as he leaned on the wall next to him. Blaise responded with a swift smile.

"So. Granger." Millicent folded her arms as she refocused on the shorter girl, looking down an important few inches at her. "When are you going to spill?"

"Spill what?"

"Why you're acting like a kneazle with a burr up your arse. You've always been decent to the others if they were decent to you. Now you're freezing out all the Slytherins."

"No, I'm not," she said, staring at Millicent tellingly.

Millicent huffed. "Fine. Except for the girls. Now that we've got that out of the way—what's got your hackles up?" Hermione opened her mouth. "And don't say nothing."

Hermione's mouth shut. She turned to the side, ostentatiously watching the Charms class ahead of them depart and scatter down the corridor to their next class. But Millicent was watching and knew Hermione was mulling over her answer.

"Did it have anything to do with the other night?"

The way Hermione pressed her lips tight together told Millicent all she needed.

Millicent was her father's magical heir. This had certain expectations as eventually Millicent would become the head of her family. Heirs were a big discussion around her father's lessons on heirship. But the production of an heir came with some explicit warnings, especially for witches. So in addition to teaching Millicent how to be a good heir and eventual leader of the Bulstrodes, Millicent's father had taught her how to prevent a wizard from growing too… forceful in their enthusiasm to help produce an heir.

Millicent was very good at shriveling apples, along with any other fleshy parts that got too close to her despite a warning.

"I assume you'll do something about it?" Millicent said.

Brown eyes flicked to her, away. She jerked her head. "I will."

"What? When?"

If Hermione was pulling into herself instead of facing the issue head on—

Hermione's attention turned down the hall where Malfoy was rounding the corner with Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy at his side giggling over something.

Millicent followed her gaze. She narrowed her eyes as soon as Draco darted a look at Hermione—as he was wont to do, except this time he quickly ducked his head instead of pratting about as usual.

"I see," Millicent said.

Hermione's attention returned to Millicent, a wary glint in her eye that dissolved in a moment. Her lips tilted for a moment, the hint of a smile that had been gone for too long. "What will I do? A solution will present itself shortly, I'm sure."

"Well"—Millicent drew her hand into a fist and cracked her knuckles into her left palm—"while you wait for your opportunity, I'm going to make mine."

"Wait! No!"

Millicent ignored Hermione, who muttered a, "Oh, bugger it," behind her as Millicent stomped toward Draco sodding Malfoy.

Millicent marched purposefully towards Malfoy, her jaw set in a hard line. As she closed the distance, Draco's bravado seemed to falter. His grey eyes widened like a pine marten seeing a hippogriff and he scrambled back, only to crash into Crabbe's bulky frame.

"You've got a lot of nerve, Malfoy," Millicent growled, grabbing him by the collar of his robes and yanking him forward. Draco let out a strangled choke as the fabric constricted around his neck.

Pansy shrieked, her shrill voice piercing the corridor. "Leave him alone, you brute!" She pounded her small fists against Millicent's broad shoulders, but it felt like her mother's kneazle Mittens tapping her for all the good it did.

Millicent leaned in close, her face mere inches from Draco's, which had turned an alarming shade of puce. "Listen here, you little weasel. I know spells that would make even your Death Eater daddy soil his pants."

"Oh, she's killing him—stop!"

Draco's eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish as he struggled to draw breath. Pansy's wails increased in volume, but Millicent hardly paid her any mind most days and she didn't plan to start now.

"That's right, Malfoy. My father was a Death Eater too, so don't think I'm afraid of you or your father." She gave him a rough shake, his feet leaving the ground momentarily. "You're not as untouchable as you think."

Finally, Draco managed to rasp out a few garbled words. "Go…gold branch...I have it!"

Millicent narrowed her eyes, loosening her grip enough for him to suck in a wheezing breath. "What was that?"

"I have a gold branch," he repeated, his voice strained. "I need...mediator."

Slowly, Millicent set him back on his feet, her hand still fisted in the fabric of his robes. She eyed him skeptically. "You have a gold branch? And you need her mediator?"

Draco bobbed his head frantically. "Got it...yesterday. Was waiting...for the weekend..."

Millicent grumbled under her breath, sucking her teeth as she considered the sniveling prat before her. A golden branch, huh? That meant whatever he'd done, whatever trespass he'd made, really meant something. And the only act that could mend whatever f*cked up relationship he had with Granger would only be cured with pain.

So he wasn't entirely an arse.

She gave a curt nod. "Fine, I'll be your bloody mediator then. But we're not waiting. This afternoon at seven o'clock, Malfoy. Don't be late." With that, she released him, letting him crumple to the floor in an undignified heap as she turned on her heel and stalked back towards Hermione.

Hermione blinked up at her, all big brown eyes and wonder.

"Seven o'clock, Granger."

"I-uh—" Her gaze slid to where Malfoy was clutching the wall to help him stand, panting and staring at Millicent's back while Pansy tried to tend to him. "What's at seven o'clock?"

Millicent clapped her hand on Hermione's shoulder and shoved her toward the empty Charms doorway. Blaise and Nott were waiting there, staring in equal wonder. Behind her, Pansy was snivelling and cursing Millicent.

"Your first pureblood ritual, Granger. Keep up."

***

The first thing that happened when Harry reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the entrance hall for lunch was a bushy haired girl flinging herself into his arms.

"You weren't at breakfast! I had to hear such horrible rumors all day."

He only had a brief moment to inhale—ink and floral shampoo and Snape's ingredient storeroom—before she pulled back.

"How are you? How terrible was it?"

Harry, feeling a little winded now after being pressed against her so suddenly, rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly, I didn't know what was happening until Ron stopped blubbing. I thought he'd had a nightmare." Seeing the worry reflected in her eyes, he shrugged and dropped his arm. "I think the maniac lucked into the chance, honestly. I feel bad for Neville though. That mad portrait kept changing the passwords, so Neville wrote them all down and now McGonagall's forbidden anyone giving him the password."

"I wondered how much of the rumors were true," she said. "You can't imagine the rubbish people were saying."

He could, especially if any of it involved Ron wrestling Black out the window. His best friend had been having a grand time re-telling his story with each re-telling becoming more outlandish. He snorted. "It really wasn't anything. Just bad luck."

"Bad luck that could've killed you!" She swatted his arm when he offered a shrug. "Oh, you absolute—what am I going to do with you?"

"Grab lunch?" he suggested with a grin at her exasperation. He couldn't help it. Sure, it'd been scary, but it wasn't as if anything had happened. "I'll go snag us a few sandwiches if you wait a moment. We can go find a place to eat together? I don't really want to listen to the thirtieth rendition of Ron single-handedly saving the tower again."

"Ah, I…" His hope sank down to approximately his kneecaps when she shook her head. "Sorry, I have—"

"To go check on your project," he finished. She winced at his sourness and he dropped his gaze to her left shoulder so she didn't see his disappointment. "When are you going to tell me what it's about? All you've said is it'll take a month. It's not dangerous, is it?"

His attempt at swallowing his resentment clearly didn't work because she grimaced. "It's advanced, and really, really tricky to make. I'm sorry but not today, alright? I'll be in the library this afternoon, though. If you want to join me?"

It was the first time in two weeks that Harry had managed to catch Hermione alone. Every other time, she'd been dodging him—wolfing down a few bites of food before bolting from the Great Hall, books clutched to her chest. Or ducking around corners, the swish of her robes disappearing from view just as he rounded the bend. He was sick of glimpsing only the frizzy tangle of her hair bobbing away as she rushed off yet again before he could corner her.

At least he'd gotten to see her today. It only took a mass murderer breaking into his room to do it. Still. He took the opportunity to seize her hand.

Instantly, that familiar warmth rushed through him, settled into his bones, and wrapped around him in a familiar hug. From the way Hermione shivered, she felt that way too.

Much better.

"Everything's good, right? Between us?" he said.

"Of course," she said, a smile tilting the corner of her mouth. "There's nothing to worry about."

"When my best friend's ignoring me, there is."

She winced. "I am sorry it's come across that way. I-It'll be done soon. It'll take a month and then I'll have more free time to spend with you."

"Good," he said, squeezing her hand.

Harry had fast realized how much he hated to go too long without touching Hermione. Reminding himself that she was there and not just a vision in his head. Being apart from her made him anxious. Second-guess what was real. He had to feel her solidity, had to twine their fingers together until the bond between them glowed bright and steady, banishing his doubts.

One day, Hermione would wake up. She'd open those warm brown eyes, blink away the haze of their friendship, and see the chaos in Harry's wake. Maybe she'd get fed up avoiding jealous Slytherins, or spending time discussing the deranged killer out to kill Harry. Normal friends didn't have mass murderers stalking them. One morning, Harry feared she'd wake up and realize their bond wasn't worth the insanity it brought.

But until then, he'd take every moment he could.

"After dinner, yeah?" he said. "No standing me up, Granger."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "After dinner, Potter."

Harry left for lunch with a spring in his step and joined his classmates at the Gryffindor table in a much better mood.

"Did you tell 'ermione?" Ron said around a full mouth.

Across from her brother, Ginny grimaced at her brother's table manners.

Harry shook his head as he piled his plate with sandwiches. "Didn't have to tell her anything. The whole school already knows what happened."

Ron swallowed thickly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, but you gotta tell her the right story, mate. Not all that rubbish people've been spreading. I-I should probably tell her myself, yeah?" His ears started to turn pink as he glanced toward the Slytherin table.

A surge of irritation prickled under Harry's skin. Did his friend fancy Hermione? The thought made him thankful Hermione had already left the Great Hall. Harry would have been daft not to notice the way his friend's eyes tracked her every now and then, especially after they spent so much time together during the holidays. He couldn't really blame Ron though—Hermione was easily the most brilliant witch in their year, maybe the whole school. The prettiest, too.

Unfortunately, Ron wasn't the only boy at the Gryffindor table Harry had noticed lately straightening their ties or combing their hair down when Hermione entered the vicinity, so Harry smothered the irritation.

"The story's not that exciting, Ron. Sirius Black just got in somehow. Gave us all a right scare is all." Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "But I could tell her all about how you shrieked so loud, you woke up the whole bloody tower. I don't think anyone's heard that version."

Ron sputtered and tried to wack him with a loaf of bread. Harry laughed, his brief flare of jealousy fading.

If Ron did fancy her, well, that was his problem. But Harry wouldn't be stepping aside for the other wizard, best friend or not.

The rest of the day dragged by agonizingly slow for Harry. He found himself unable to focus during his remaining classes, his mind preoccupied with the anticipation of seeing Hermione again after dinner. Every minute felt like an eternity as he impatiently waited for classes to end.

Finally, the last class ended, and Harry hurried through dinner, shoveling down his food rapidly. Ron shot him a quizzical look at his speed, but Harry just shrugged it off as he saw familiar brown curls leaving the Great Hall.

Hermione waited for him in the entrance hall, a small ink smudge on her nose. Harry's lips twitched into a grin at the sight. Her eyes found his and her face lit.

"All set?" she asked.

"Let's go."

They fell into step together, Harry's shoulder brushing against Hermione's upper arm as Hermione started to chat about the ridiculous rumors she'd been forced to listen to all day. He considered reaching for her hand, just to forge that connection between them again. Surely she wouldn't think anything of it if he just casually took her hand as they walked down the hall, right? Sure, they usually only touched when they were sitting, or still, but it had become such a natural gesture between them. And if it just... kept happening over and over, maybe they could eventually skip all those awkward steps and just start dating.

The thought made his cheeks warm. He wasn't sure he was ready for that yet—for Hermione to potentially realize how he felt and pull away in disgust or pity. But Merlin, did he crave her touch, that warmth that seemed to sink into his very bones and soothe all his troubles.

Abruptly, the memory of Hermione in Hogsmeade with Malfoy surfaced in his mind's eye. As it had so many times since that lovely day with her, where he'd been so close to just blurting out how he felt, urged along by the village's Valentine's Day decor. Now the memory haunted him, especially in the moments before sleep.

The way the blonde Slytherin had crowded into her personal space. How comfortable she'd been with him leaning over her. The flush in her cheeks. How the world paused around them as Malfoy closed the distance between their mouths.

How long it had taken her to finally shove the git away.

Jealousy licked at Harry's insides. He didn't want anyone stepping between him and Hermione, not ever. For her to look at someone else the way Harry wanted her to look at him. If it meant he was pushed out of her life... it made him feel violently ill.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

Hermione's concerned voice broke through his jealous haze. Harry blinked, realizing they had reached the library already. He forced a smile.

"'Course. Just thinking about some homework." The lie slipped easily from his lips. "Shall we?"

Hermione eyed him shrewdly for a moment before nodding. Before he thought better of it, he grabbed her hand and used his other to push open the library doors. "Come on, let's grab a good spot."

As she laced her fingers between his, Harry relaxed. Of course they didn't have anything between them. Hermione rightfully despised Malfoy. As for the other boys in the school, Harry planned to place a lot of obstacles in their way.

After all, he'd nearly been a Slytherin too.

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well at the manor. The first week at Hogwarts has been horrible, as I'm sure you can imagine being surrounded by half-bloods and Mudbloods. That famous Harry Potter is here too, and everyone loves him like he's the next coming of Merlin just for having a silly scar on his forehead. It's sickening how the professors play favorites. I can't stand the way he walks around the castle like he owns the place.

At least I have Crabbe and Goyle as friends here in Slytherin. They may be thick as troll bogies, but at least they are the right sort. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise are here too, and I'll get to know the Greengrasses as their eldest daughter, Daphne, is also in Slytherin.

But you'll never guess who the biggest nuisance is, Mother. A Mudblood in Slytherin! Marcus says it's not unheard of, only unusual, but there is nothing usual about this one, I'm certain. She's always waving her hand in classes and she can recite our textbooks word-for-word. She's annoying! And for knowing so much, she doesn't seem to understand that her kind doesn't belong at Hogwarts. I've tried putting her in her place, but she just sticks her nose in the air and acts like she's too good for us purebloods. Mark my words, I'll make her respect us before the year is out.

In the meantime, would you please send me more butterscotch? I have run out—not that I am ruining my appetite. I eat one piece a day, exactly as I promised you.

Your loving son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

Thank you for your advice. I will only eat the butterscotch after lessons, and never at breakfast. Your mention of the new house-elf, Tippy, has me intrigued. I trust your judgment in selecting only the most loyal and efficient servants for our household. I look forward to meeting her upon my return.

Hogwarts has been an utter disappointment so far. You would think that the professors would treat us all equally. But no, everyone gives Potter special treatment at every turn.

Just the other day, that cat McGonagall allowed Potter to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team, even though first years aren't normally permitted! Can you believe the blatant favoritism? And to make matters worse, he was allowed a Nimbus 2000 - the latest racing broom! It's not fair, Mother. If I get all Outstandings on my end of year exams, may I get the newest broom model? I feel I deserve it after having to put up with this injustice, but I will do what you think is best, as your devoted son.

I am making a loyal circle of friends just as you suspected I would. Blaise has been up to his usual antics, chatting up every girl who crosses his path—even that Mudblood Granger! Naturally, as the leader of our year, I swiftly ended Blaise's nonsense. What did that murderous mother teach him?!

I still struggle with why he would do such a thing. That frizzy haired know-it-all is the most insufferable person I've ever met. She's always waving her hand like a deranged windmill, saying answers before anyone else can get a word in. And the professors just eat it up! Flitwick practically swoons every time her annoying voice pipes up to show off her "brilliance." It's revolting how quickly she's become the teachers' pet. She won't even take helpful advice. I tried to tell her that she didn't know her place to be silent as befitting someone of her station, and she called me an imbecile.

She is insufferable!

Your loving, if put-upon son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. It's wonderful news that Great-Aunt Cassiopeia's cursed opal necklace has been successfully cleansed by the curse-breakers. I know how much you treasured that heirloom. Perhaps I could see it when I'm home for the holidays?

My problems at Hogwarts continue growing with each passing week. As you advised, I have been working hard in my studies and acting as befits a Malfoy heir. However, that Mudblood Granger insists on beating me at every turn.

In Potions, a subject where I should naturally excel given my relationship to my godfather and his excellent tutelage, Granger is top of the class. Professor Snape begrudgingly praises her potion-making abilities, though I know he must loathe having to acknowledge her talents. While I am not far behind her in terms of our marks, Professor Snape did urge me to study more diligently if I am to surpass her. It is utterly maddening! It is not a matter of diligence, but time. Unlike her, I have friends and a social life. The only reason that Mudblood is better at her classes is because she has neither and spends all her time in the library.

I have studied harder, working deep into the night. Surely with enough hard work, I can beat Granger and prove I'm better.

That celebrity prat Potter managed to secure a win against Slytherin in our first game against the lions. It was irritating to watch him preen around the pitch on his new Nimbus 2000 during the match against Slytherin when first years are not even supposed to play! That broom is the latest model and outclasses anything our team could muster. When I get onto the team next year, I will ensure Slytherin never loses to him.

If I am to join the Slytherin squad next year as I hope, perhaps you could see if Father is opposed to acquiring me the new Nimbus 2001 when it is released? As long as I obtain all Outstandings on my exam, of course.

Your hardworking son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I understand your concerns about studying too late into the night and I assure you that I go to bed promptly at ten o'clock every night. Naturally, due to your diligent instruction, I do not want to embarrass my name by appearing in classes with bags under my eyes. As you pointed out, that is unbecoming of a Malfoy.

Granger doesn't have bags under her eyes when she attends classes, which is not saying much about her appearance. Bags under her eyes can't make her look any worse than that bushy hair does. It is too big. Pansy says it's big enough to keep birds in, and she says it clogs up the shower drains. Disgusting! A diligent person should take care of their hygiene, including their hair, as you taught me. Apparently Muggles do not teach their children that.

Potter remains infuriating. He has made friends with Hogwarts' half-giant groundskeeper—the groundskeeper, can you imagine!—and I recently found out that Potter and the bloodtraitor Weasley were encouraging that half-giant Hagrid to keep a dragon! A baby dragon in a wooden hut. Utterly ridiculous. But when I tried to responsibly tell the professors, that cat McGonagall took points from Slytherin! It was barely after curfew anyway, but she insisted on taking twenty points. My only consolation was that they did catch Potter and all those points he received from unfairly winning the last two games were reduced by 150!

The Slytherins cheered for that, of course. Even Granger managed to pick her head out of a book for a moment to have a butterbeer in the common room.

Your responsible son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits at the manor. I have the most wonderful news to share - I have been selected as the new Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team! You cannot imagine how happy I was when Marcus Flint announced I had made the team. Of course, my natural talent and skill would naturally place me on the team, but to have my thoughts confirmed has satisfied me.

I cannot wait to take to the pitch and show that celebrity prat Potter what a real Seeker looks like. No more will he be able to preen around on that outdated Nimbus 2000 he somehow finagled last year. With the superior 2001 model and excellent flying skills, I will outfly him at every turn. The looks on the Gryffindors' faces when I catch the Snitch before Potter will be utterly priceless.

That grungy little Ron Weasel had the audacity to accuse me of buying my way onto the team when the announcement was made in the common room. As if I, a Malfoy, would ever need to so something so low! I had invited the entire year to the open tryouts to prove my skills, and even Granger had to admit I outperformed everyone and earned my position fairly. The Weasel is just jealous that his family could never afford such finely crafted brooms.

My courses this year have been considerably easier thanks to the supplemental tutelage you arranged for me over the summer hols. I have markedly improved in all my subjects, especially Potions. Granger may have edged me out minimally last year, but I am confident that with your excellent guidance, I will be the top student in Slytherin this term.

I hope you are well, Mother. I will write again soon with news of my first Quidditch match against Gryffindor.

Your happy son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I am furious! I regret to inform you that Slytherin suffered a humiliating defeat against Gryffindor in our opening Quidditch match of the season. The entire game was an utter farce, marred by blatant cheating and rule-breaking from Potter and his band of thugs.

From the very start, those dirty lions were fouling at every opportunity. The Weasel twins aimed Bludgers directly at my head with clear intent to unseat me! When I protested to Madam Hooch, that incompetent referee merely shrugged it off as "part of the game." Part of the game?! They were actively trying to severely injure me, Mother. It was awful.

And that's not even mentioning Potter's tricks. I was clearly in control and closing in on the Snitch when that scrawny little cheat violently slammed into me, nearly knocking me off my broom! In the end, Potter only caught the Snitch out of sheer dumb luck. It was a complete joke of a match and I have half a mind to demand a rematch. How that talentless fraud continues to be lauded as some grand Quidditch prodigy is beyond me.

He's being celebrated all over the place now, what with his "supposed" defeat of the You-Know-Who at the end of last year. Even by Slytherins! Pansy noticed the little Mudblood had been doodling lightning bolts all over her Charms notes like some kind of deranged fangirl. Of course the little Mudblood loves famous Scarhead. When I told her how ridiculous she is, her face turned nearly as red as that stupid Weasel's hair. Honestly, Mother, I've never seen someone look more mortified in my life! Granger tried to deny it but the evidence was irrefutable.

I don't know what's more laughable—the thought of Scarhead and the Mudblood or that she's dense enough to fall for his stupid fame and glory act in the first place. Doesn't she realize he's nothing but a spoiled, conceited little boy constantly seeking attention? He's not half as talented or important as he's made out to be. I'll prove I'm better than Potter soon enough.

Our bumbling new Defense professor is doing an admirable job making himself look even more incompetent than Potter. That preening peaco*ck Lockhart is an utter joke. Honestly, I've never encountered someone so blatantly self-obsessed and incompetent at actual magic. The man spends most lessons regaling us with his "achievements" from his vapid autobiography collection. I'd sooner have a Squib teaching the class.

Worse, Lockhart seems to think Potter is the next great Defensive prodigy and constantly praises the idiot during demonstrations. It's utterly sickening watching them bask in their undeserved fame together. I nearly hurled when Lockhart awarded Potter and that wretched Weasel five points each for... well, I'm still not sure what for. Breathing air, most likely.

But you needn't worry, Mother. I will not allow Potter's arrogance and lack of talent to overshadow the Malfoy name any longer. Next match, I'll ensure Slytherin utterly crushes our opponent.

Your infuriated son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to you with a clear brow, as per your advice about avoiding wrinkles. You were quite right to caution me—a Malfoy must always maintain a smooth, unblemished visage befitting our status. Yourself and Father are admirable models of this effect. I shall endeavor to keep my features relaxed and serene, no matter the indignities I suffer here at Hogwarts.

Speaking of indignities, I must inform you that the legendary Chamber of Secrets has been opened once more. That Squib's dreadful cat was found Petrified in the corridors. While part of me is happy at the idea of that dirty beast finally getting what it deserves, the idea of the Chamber being unsealed is worrying, to say the least. I can scarcely believe it.

I took it upon myself to warn the Mudblood Granger about the potential dangers, telling her to leave the castle before whatever monster lurks in the Chamber turns its sights upon her. I did this not out of any misguided concern for her well-being, you understand, but simply to avoid any unpleasantness that could interrupt my studies.

And how did Granger answer my kind warning? With utter ingratitude, of course! She accused me of trying to "scare her away" from Hogwarts and refused to listen to my advice. The impertinence! As if I would waste my time attempting to frighten someone as insignificant as her. Granger is lucky I deigned to warn her at all after her constant showboating in class. I won't be nice to her again. Let the beast in the Chamber eat her for all I care!

In other news, I am quite pleased with my academic performance as of late. Just last week in Potions, I brewed a near-perfect Swelling Solution, only missing marks for being a few shades off the desired green hue. Professor Snape still graded me higher than Potter's concoction, which just goes to show that excellent pureblood breeding will always trump conceited arrogance. I also received top marks on my recent Transfiguration essay about the Principles of Re-materialization, although mine didn't include as many points as Granger's did. I have resigned myself to being unable to study as much as she can due to my social life and, now, my required Quidditch practice, but I will endeavor to continue to make you proud. Your advice to focus on my own marks has helped soothe my irritation about her continued presence in the top of the class.

I am quite looking forward to the upcoming Dueling Club being hosted by Professor Lockhart and Professor Snape. A chance to practice duelling spells? It shall be great fun to pummel Potter. Perhaps I'll even get to jinx Granger's hair flat.

Oh, and might I trouble you to send me another box of sweets, Mother? I've nearly run through my supply of butterscotch. Some fresh parchment and quills would be appreciated as well, as my stores are running low.

Your serene son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I have much to report from the Dueling Club session hosted by Professors Lockhart and Snape last week. It was, without question, a great success for Slytherin House.

To begin, the duels between my fellow third year Slytherins went very well. Crabbe and Goyle both acquitted themselves well against their opponents, showing the proper application of Disarming and Shielding spells. Pansy was in fine form, neatly disarming Daphne Greengrass after a spirited exchange. I must admit, I felt a small twinge of disappointment that Blaise insisted on dueling Granger instead of allowing a better opponent like myself to put her in her place. Even Theo would have been a better option—his marks are right behind Granger's. Predictably, Blaise lost against her relentless spell-casting, much to the amusem*nt of the other Slytherins. Granger herself was grinning like one of Millicent's kneazles.

But the best part, Mother, was my duel against Harry Potter arranged by Professor Snape. From the moment we started, it was clear the famous prat was no match for me. For once, the professors could not praise his "talents" as I so easily showed them as a lie, although that show-off Lockhart still tried.

Unfortunately, the session ended on a rather unnerving note. At Snape's suggestion, I cast the Serpensortia spell to conjure a venomous serpent—a rather large, handsome one, if I am honest, which I always am. While initially intended to further rattle Potter, the foolish Gryffindor shocked us all by revealing he is a Parselmouth—he can speak to snakes! It was unsettling to hear Slytherin's gift come from Potter's mouth. To make matters more disturbing, Potter actually sicced the serpent on a Mudblood student before Snape intervened.

Which brings me to the matter of the Chamber of Secrets, Mother. I will admit, when I first learned of the Chamber's opening and the notion of a monster stalking the school's Mudbloods, I was intrigued as any Slytherin would be to see the noble work of Slytherin to continue, to purge Hogwarts of those unworthy of studying magic. With Potter's disturbing Parseltongue ability, I have begun suspecting he may be the Heir, carrying out Slytherin's wishes. And yet, the idea of Potter being capable of such greatness is too ludicrous to entertain. He is nothing more than an attention-seeking celebrity, not a magical genius.

No matter who unleashed the monster, the first student has already fallen victim—a Mudblood from Gryffindor, Petrified by an unknown creature. Colin Creevey is his name and he went around with a ridiculous camera, snapping photos all the time to send to his Muggle family. While part of me feels he deserved such a fate for his irritating manners, I must also consider the potential danger to my fellow Slytherins. If this monster can Petrify, what is to stop it from attacking those of us who happen to be in the corridors at the wrong time? Can the monster differentiate? After all, it's last victim was a cat. I grow increasingly apprehensive, Mother.

Have no fear, though. Professor Snape assures me that so long as Slytherin students exercise caution and keep their wits about them, we shall be protected from any threat the Chamber's beast may pose. I have the utmost faith in his guidance and shall heed his advice to the letter.

Your vigilant son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I'm relieved to hear the protective enchantments around the manor have been fortified. One can never be too careful, especially given the current climate. Your foresight and proactive measures are commendable, as always.

The situation here at Hogwarts has taken a most alarming turn. Just last night, another student was found Petrified—a Mudblood Hufflepuff named Justin Finch-Fletchley. But even more disturbingly, the ghostly apparition of Nearly Headless Nick was also rendered immobile in some bizarre fashion. I had not thought it possible for a ghost to be affected in such a way. It is utterly shocking.

The entire school is in a state of panic and fear. Students are terrified to be out wandering the corridors, fearful that whatever monstrous entity lurks in the Chamber of Secrets will strike again without warning. Even the professors seem apprehensive, growing increasingly paranoid with each new attack.

A small part of me is uneasy as well. While part of me initially felt the attacks on Mudbloods were deserved, the fact that this beast seems unable to discern between them and the rest of the population is cause for concern. A cat first and now a ghost? What if a Slytherin is the next victim?

On a separate note, I wished to discuss the upcoming Christmas holidays with you. In your last letter, you mentioned a planned trip to Santorini. I must regretfully decline joining you and Father this year. You will recall my unfortunate incident last summer when I spent too much time in the sun and developed a dreadful case of sunburn, and I did not appreciate the jellyfish.

Additionally, I feel it is my responsibility to remain at Hogwarts this Christmas, if only to keep a watchful eye on the other Slytherins. I suspect Potter may be the Heir of Slytherin behind these attacks, so I aim to investigate his movements more thoroughly over the break. Even Granger is finally worried—she's been spending more time than usual in the common room than in the open library.

You once instructed me that part of being a Slytherin means being loyal to one's House above all else. While Granger may be unbearable, she is still one of us for the time being. As much as it pains me, I must ensure her safety along with the others, even if she refuses to take the sensible course and remove herself from Hogwarts. Such sacrifice to Slytherin is occasionally required of a Malfoy, as you have taught me. And as Professor Snape has reminded me multiple times, Granger is a Slytherin.

I shall endeavor to remain vigilant and report back with any new developments. If you can, please send back some of that delicious baklava we tried over the summer.

Your watchful son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the delightful parcel of baklava you sent—the almond variety is my absolute favorite. I've already made my way through half the box. You always know just what to send to lift my spirits.

I wish you and Father a very happy Christmas. Thank you as well for the thoughtful gift of Slytherin's Illustrious History—I skimmed it and it seems to go into more detail than the history within our library, and it looks like a worthy addition to the Malfoy library. Father's gift of Mastering the Dueling Arts was also much appreciated. With the suspicious climate here, brushing up on advanced combat spells seems prudent.

I have delightful news to report, Mother. That arrogant prat Potter and his sidekick Weasley were caught by Professor Snape trying to break into the Slytherin common room just last night! Can you imagine the audacity? Apparently the dunderheads actually suspected me of being the Heir of Slytherin behind the recent attacks.

When Professor Snape recounted the story to me this morning, I could scarcely stop laughing. Even he almost smiled. Those idiots are lucky our Head didn't expel them on the spot for their transgressions. I can only imagine the looks on their pathetic faces when Snape descended upon them. The thought alone fills me with glee. I cannot wait to see Granger's reaction when she returns for the term and learns her precious Potter is an utter moron.

That said, their foolish assumptions do raise a concerning possibility - what if the Heir does hail from Slytherin? I cannot dismiss it outright. It makes the most sense for the Heir to belong to our noble House. While I harbor no love for Mudbloods, this reckless campaign of terror casts Slytherin in a dreadful light, giving that addlebrained Dumbledore further cause to discriminate against us. If one of our own is responsible, I will sniff them out and ensure they are punished for maligning our reputation.

But those are grim thoughts for another day. This morning's humiliation of Potter has left me in too buoyant a mood to dwell on such unpleasantries. In fact, I believe I shall join in the snowball skirmish some of the Slytherins are engaged in out on the grounds shortly. A chance to pelt a few enchanted snowballs at some uppity first years sounds like the perfect cap to the day.

I hope you and Father are enjoying a relaxing holiday thus far. I shall write again soon. The picture of the beach behind the villa looks beautiful.

Your merry son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well, I'm so glad the library's renovation is ending soon—do you think my friends will be able to enter it this summer when those wards are down?

I have the most amusing tale to recount from Valentine's Day here at Hogwarts. That preening fool Lockhart decided it would be a marvelous idea to have mischievous little dwarfs dress as cherubs and deliver singing Valentines throughout the school. Can you imagine? It was utterly ridiculous!

Of course, I couldn't resist the opportunity to have a laugh too. I sent a few of the dwarfs to deliver humorous Valentines to Crabbe, Goyle, and even Pansy. You should have seen the looks on their faces when those dwarfs started singing their awful little rhymes! Pansy turned beet red and nearly hexed the poor dwarf before he could finish. It was priceless.

But the absolute highlight was when one of those dwarfs caught up to Granger in the hallway and started serenading her with a Valentine from that idiot Zabini! Granger looked utterly mortified as the dwarf bellowed its rhyme down the corridor at her. Her face was nearly as red as a Weasley's hair! Granger tried to hurry away, but the persistent little dwarf followed her, professing Zabini's undying affections in verse. It went on for a couple minutes before Granger finally snapped and Disarmed the dwarf and spun on the grinning Zabini. I haven't laughed that hard in ages!

Zabini is an utter fool if he thinks he has a chance with Granger. She's much too focused on her studies to pay him any mind. Not that I care, of course. But he could certainly do better than fraternizing with a Mudblood. Although he's told me that it's "love" since she trounced him at the dueling club. As if his mother would allow such a thing!

You will speak to his mother, won't you? I don't wish for him to descend down the wrong path, if you will.

Speaking of humiliating Valentines, I also witnessed one of those dwarfs accost Potter in the middle of the hallway and start singing some insipid rhyme about "eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad." The prat looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. It was obvious the little poem came from that pathetic Weasley girl who's been mooning over the celebrity ever since he arrived. Everyone knows she's obsessed with Potter—everyone except Potter himself, apparently. He's denser than a concussed troll.

I made sure to point out the Weasley girl's obvious crush in front of Granger, too. The Mudblood knows as well as I do that Potter won't ever look her way when there's trash like Weasleys hanging about. I couldn't resist needling her about it a bit. Honestly, I'll never understand what she sees in that arrogant little glory-hound. He's really not that impressive when you get down to it.

But enough about Potter and his throng of admirers. Thank you again for the delicious cauldron cakes you sent for the holiday. I made sure to share them with my friends. I must run now, but I eagerly await our trip to the chalet over the Easter holidays. A break from Hogwarts will be most welcome after this term's absurdities.

Your amused son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

Granger is in the hospital wing. She's been Petrified by the monster.

I warned her, Mother. I told her plainly that she should get out of the castle before whatever beast lurks in the Chamber turned its sights on her. But did she listen? Of course not. That swotty little know-it-all was too stubborn and arrogant to heed my advice, just like always. Now she's been Petrified.

Petrification is no trivial matter, Mother. What if it's permanent?

It is an outrage that such a thing could happen under that addlebrained Dumbledore's watch. Surely Father can petition the Board of Governors to have that old fool removed from the Headmaster's office? His inability to ensure the safety of the students, even those from our own noble House, is an utter failure worthy of the greatest censure.

Which brings me to my other concern—the potential identity of the Heir. The more I observe Theo, the more convinced I become that he may be the one behind these attacks.

Theo has always been the quiet sort, keeping to himself. But I've noticed him watching Granger before—though initially I took it as just curiosity. Now I look back and wonder if it's a fixation. You don't suppose he could harbor some kind of unhealthy fascination, do you? There were always whispers that his father wasn't truly under the Imperius when he served the Dark Lord all those years ago. If that's true, perhaps Theo is not innocent in this. Now he spends most of his time away from the common room, disappearing between classes even when we're not supposed to travel by ourselves.

If Theo is the Heir of Slytherin...

I need to know for sure, Mother. If Nott is the Heir, he poses a danger to us. He attacked a Slytherin. What would you advise? Should I attempt to question him myself? Or would it be wiser to bring my concerns to Professor Snape straight away? I trust you will guide me true, as always.

Please send me your counsel soon.

Draco

Dear Mother,

Theo couldn't be the Heir. Apparently, he's been spending his free periods in the greenhouses, getting his hands dirty for extra Herbology credit. Sprout has offered extra points to multiple students to assist her in tending to the greenhouses while she focuses on growing the mandrakes to maturity, which is needed before Professor Snape can brew the draught to revive the Petrified students. Now I do not know who the Heir might be.

Mother, although I had not received your reply by the time I questioned Theo, I did not push Theo too far in my investigation as you cautioned me against. Our relationship remains as solid as ever on the surface, though I confess I now view him with a more scrutinizing eye. And as you've said, I will not mention Nott Sr.'s background again—I understand your concerns regarding the privacy of Hogwarts post, especially for an important house like ours. There haven't been any more raids, have there? I also thank you and Father for your quick action in regards to Dumbledore—it is a relief not to have that fool twinkling at all of us while good Slytherins are Petrified!

As you noted, I was quite shaken when I learned Granger had been Petrified, but it is merely because she is one of ours. A Slytherin, struck down?Even Professor Snape is furious.

This latest attack has me questioning if the Heir's motivations are truly in line with Slytherin's vision after all. Granger might be a Mudblood, but she's a proper sort, and I'm not the only one who's questioned whether she might be a half-blood given her marks. Surely Slytherin wouldn't approve of his beast attacking one of his own.

I thank you for your discretion with Father on this point.

Your worried son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for the cake—I've shared it among my classmates, who loved it.

Professor Snape informs me that work on the Mandrake Restorative Draught is progressing steadily, but it will still be several weeks before the potion can revive Granger and the other Petrified students. In the meantime, he's taken to removing points for the smallest infractions on the other Houses. We can tell he's upset about his favorite student being Petrified.

While a few of my housemates privately confided satisfaction at seeing the insufferable know-it-all taken down a peg, the majority are rightfully disturbed. Granger's prowess in classes may have been irritating, but she is still one of us.

On a happier note, I have been working hard to prepare for end-of-year exams, trying to do my best as always. Of course, any wins will feel a bit empty if Granger remains remains Petrified and unable to take exams. What's the point of acing my tests if Granger isn't there to see me do it? It's like winning a Quidditch match because the other Seeker fell off their broom. Still, I will do what I must to make you proud, Mother—

Sorry for the sudden ending. I've just had an update from Zabini. Apparently, that little Weasley girl has been taken by the Heir, dragged off to the Chamber itself. That proves to me that a Slytherin can't be the Heir. What self-respecting Slytherin would bother with a Weasley?

Your wary son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope you can provide me with more concrete details as no one seems to know the full story just yet, all anyone says is that of course Potter saved the Weasel girl and killed the Chamber's monster. Even Father's letter was rather vague, only mentioning his dismissal from the Board of Governors and... the loss of a house elf? Dobby, I believe his name was. A strange thing to focus on, given the gravity of the situation, but I did not pry.

The school is utterly abuzz with rumors and theories. Lockhart, also, was transported to St. Mungo's with spell damage. Apparently he's gone barmy, not that it isn't an improvement.

Can you tell me anything Father has heard? Also, is it true he's really no longer Chairman of the School Board?

Your perplexed son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the chocolate and everyone sends their good wishes. We all believe it's terribly unfair for Father to be removed from the Board of Governors for the legitimate fear for the students. And didn't it end by a student anyway and not through any extraordinary effort by Dumbledore? Pansy has sent a letter to her mother to ask them to petition the Board to reverse their decision, along with others in our House, and hopefully they soon see sense.

Professor Snape completed the restorative drought and brought all the Petrified students back. He let me assist as a Slytherin representative. Can you believe the first thing Granger said was that she was furious they had canceled examinations? Muggles must teach their children to be utterly ungrateful, but Professor Snape didn't seem to mind.

Without exams coming soon, the rest of term seems like it will be completely boring. I look forward to coming home—I have so many new dueling spells to show Father now. He'll be so pleased.

Your optimistic son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. Things at Hogwarts have been rather dull lately, though I did have a spot of amusem*nt the other day. You'll never guess what I witnessed in the library.

Granger was meeting with Potter in a secluded corner, carrying on like they were the best of friends. Can you imagine? It was utterly revolting. I nearly vomited all over my Runes assignment right then and there.

Potter kept leaning in close, giving Granger that dopey look he always has —like a dog that's been hit too many times with a Bludger. And Granger was just eating it up! I've never seen someone so desperate for attention. I don't know what they were whispering about, but at one point they clasped hands over the table. How sickeningly precious. You would have died from secondhand embarrassment, Mother. I nearly did. I half expected them to start snogging right there among the books.

The whole thing made me ill. If I didn't have such exceptional self-control, I might have hexed them on principle for putting me through such an unsightly display. A Slytherin with a Gryffindor? I told our Head Girl—you recall the Songswallows, right? It's their youngest, Lina—and what did she do? Nothing! Do we have no pride anymore? What about the dignity of our House?

Honestly, I shouldn't have expected better from Granger, I suppose. She may be a Slytherin, but she's still just a Mudblood when all is said and done.

Your disapproving son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

You'll never believe the utter chaos that erupted at Hogwarts last night! That raving lunatic Sirius Black somehow infiltrated the castle and made his way to Gryffindor Tower, of all places. Can you fathom the incompetence that allowed a convicted murderer to slither right through the front doors? It's an outrage and a stain on the prestige of this institution.

Naturally, the professors flew into a panic and ordered all students to sleep in the Great Hall under their pitiful "protection." As if a few foolish enchantments could stop Black if he decided to return! I shudder to think of the grave danger Potter was in, with that madman after his blood.

Speaking of Potter, he had the audacity to try to cozy up with Granger in the Great Hall! Not knowing any better, she naturally tried sleeping amongst the Gryffindors, no doubt hoping to gain Potter's favor. Honestly, her desperation is becoming embarrassing to witness.

Not that I care, of course. It's simply pathetic how she fawns over Potter, practically tripping over herself to get his attention.

But I digress. The point is, Granger fraternizing with Potter and those blood traitors is unseemly. Professor Snape rightfully put her in her place and sent her scurrying back to us snakes, where she belongs.

Of course, Zabini tried chatting her up, the prat, but Granger seemed oblivious to his flirtations. Sometimes I wonder if she's actually part troll with her utter lack of self-awareness. But you did say you met with Mrs. Zabini, didn't you? Again, it is unsightly to be so obvious about his unnatural crush.

In any event, I'll rest easier when that deranged half-breed Sirius Black is captured and given the Dementor's Kiss. One can hardly sleep with a psychopath roaming the grounds! I do hope you and Father are taking precautions at the Manor, since we are uniquely bound to the madman.

Your anxious son,

Draco

Dearest Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for explaining the updated wards around the Manor—it comforts me to know you and Father are safe at home.

Yesterday, the Gryffindor Quidditch team played against Hufflepuff in a dreadful storm. But the best part is that Potter, the arrogant git, fell off his broom! Can you believe it? Some Dementors showed up and he fainted, tumbling at least fifty feet. His precious Nimbus 2000 was smashed to bits by the Whomping Willow. It's a shame you couldn't see the look on Potter's face. Priceless.

Of course, the Slytherins had a proper celebration in the common room afterwards.

Though I must admit, there was one small damper on the festivities. That insufferable Granger didn't attend the match. She was holed up studying, as usual. Honestly, just because she's top of the class doesn't mean she can snub her nose at Quidditch.

I tried to convince her to stay and join the party, but she got all huffy and stormed off. Called me "delusional" for considering myself her friend. The nerve of that girl! Doesn't she realize that I'm responsible for the Slytherins in our year? Honestly, instead of running off to hang around Scarhead all the time, she should be learning how to be a proper Slytherin.

Anyway, I best be off. Crabbe and Goyle are itching for a game of Exploding Snap and I'd hate to deprive them. Give Father my regards and tell him I'm doing my utmost to uphold the Malfoy name.

Your miffed son,

Draco

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for bothering you with this matter, but I find myself in need of your guidance and influence.

As you may recall from my previous correspondence, I wrote to Father about dropping the charges against that oaf Hagrid's bloody chicken. The beast attacked me, as you know, and it was only right that it face consequences for harming the Malfoy heir. However, I have come to reconsider my stance on the matter.

You see, I have reason to believe that pursuing this trial may not be in our best interests. While I still maintain that the creature is a menace and Hagrid is wholly unfit to teach, I worry that the negative attention drawn to our family name may outweigh the satisfaction of seeing the beast executed.

I brought these concerns to Father, but he returned my letter with a resounding no, insisting that we must see this through to the end. He believes it would make us appear weak to back down now. But Mother, I implore you to consider the potential ramifications.

The Headmaster favors that oaf Hagrid, and I fear that Father's insistence on this course of action may strain his already tenuous relationship with Dumbledore. Surely there are more subtle ways to exert our influence and maintain our standing without creating unnecessary enemies.

I do not wish to disappoint Father, but I cannot shake the feeling that this may be a misstep. I humbly request that you speak with him on my behalf, Mother. Perhaps he will be more receptive to your wise counsel.

I await your response.

Your hopeful son,

Draco

P.S. I have enclosed a box of your favorite chocolates from Honeydukes.

Dear Mother,

Thank you for your advice. I too am disappointed in Father's decision, but I stand behind it as a loyal heir should. As you've wisely pointed out, if it's important to me, I will find a way, and so I will consider your other suggestions for maintaining the family's reputation.

Have you removed the anti-Muggleborn wards on the Manor doors this season like you mentioned over the holidays? No reason, except I understand the Ministry is cracking down on such wards so it might be wise to remove them before summertime raids begin… You know how I worry with the current sentiment toward Dark wizards.

Your devoted son,

Draco

Mother,

I need your help. Will you please send me a gold branch as soon as possible? I must mend a bridge I've broken.

Your son,

Draco

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

Hermione was comfortable in the library, sitting at a table near the Restricted Section. The chill in the air prompted Harry to draw their chairs closer, allowing their legs to make contact and share their warmth. Hermione found herself distracted every so often as Harry's arm grazed hers or when he shifted positions, causing his thigh to press against her own.

But what was really on her mind was not her homework and not the way Harry's touch sent a warm prickle down her back, it was on the golden branch.

That was what Malfoy had said in the corridor. He had a golden branch and he needed a mediator.

"What does a golden branch mean, though?" Hermione had asked Millicent, frowning, as they settled into their seats before Charms class.

"That's what you want to ask?" Millicent raised her eyebrows. "Didn't you hear me when I said my father was a Death Eater? Imperiused, but still. Doesn't that, you know, frighten you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "You're the one I share a dormitory with, Millicent. Besides, I'm not ignorant of the background of most Slytherins."

"No, you'd have to be an idiot," Millicent agreed with a grumble. Her friend didn't bother to disguise her disgust as she muttered something under her breath, and letting her book fall onto the tabletop with a thump. "Look, just—purebloods have different rituals for important matters between families. Rituals are ingrained in pureblood society," Millicent said, her tone matter-of-fact. "They mark important events, seal alliances, even solidify debts and punishments." She leaned closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "The golden bough ritual usually signifies an apology."

An apology from Malfoy? He thought some stuck up pureblood ritual would erase what he'd done?

"It's an apology enforced by magic, so don't make faces."

Schooling her face, she thought, chewing her lip pensively. "So this apology ritual needs a mediator?"

"A debt isn't just one person owing another a galleon," Millicent said with a familiar look of distaste that happened anytime Slytherins talked about wealth. "The golden branch symbolizes a rift between two pureblood houses—or two people—that can only be healed through reparations. A mediator acts on the part of the wronged party to oversee the ritual and ensure its magical integrity. Another mediator supports the transgressor for the same reason. And to act as a witness in the event it's a trap, of course. There's rarely treachery, but enough to insist on mediators."

Suspicious Slytherins. Or, more aptly, suspicious purebloods who always thought the other houses were trying to bring them down.

Hermione frowned, processing this new information. "But I'm a Muggleborn," she said. "Why not just apologize?"

Millicent gave her a pitying look. "Because we're not Muggles. If the wrong is large enough it needs the golden branch to make reparations, that's what a proper wizard does. He's a Malfoy which means naturally his first step will be a ritual."

She had just opened her mouth when Professor Flitwick started class.

Hermione shifted in her seat, trying to focus on Professor Flitwick's lecture, but her head turned to look at the pale, sullen figure of Malfoy a row behind them. He sat hunched over his parchment, quill scratching furiously, his usual sneers and disruptive antics nowhere to be seen.

It wasn't the first time she'd noticed his subdued demeanor lately. If Millicent had noticed Hermione's changes, she'd surely noticed his. Gone was the pompous sneer, the biting insults hurled at anyone deemed unworthy by his pureblood sensibilities. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on his work, shoulders tense, as if bearing an invisible weight.

A tiny flicker of satisfaction kindled within Hermione. Good. Let him suffer from the burden of his actions.

Her fingers tightened around her quill as her mind drifted back to that night in the dormitory, the terror that had gripped her when Malfoy's hand caressed her face, his words promising sweet malice. She suppressed a shudder.

But she wouldn't be cowed, wouldn't surrender to fear.

Millicent's words echoed in her mind. A golden branch. A ritual apology. As if antiquated pureblood customs could absolve Malfoy of his transgressions. She highly doubted it.

Hermione's jaw clenched. If his so-called apology proved insufficient, she would proceed undeterred with her carefully laid plans. The Polyjuice Potion simmered in the abandoned second-floor girls' lavatory already, and she wouldn't let it go to waste either way.

"Granger."

"Hmm?" She glanced toward her friend, but Harry was looking up with a deep V of a frown already furrowing his brow. She followed his gaze to—

"Nott," she said, sitting straighter. "What is it?"

The other boy had been his normal quiet self since she'd caught him in Hogsmeade. Though immediately after she had withdrawn from almost her entire House and started producing the Polyjuice potion, so Hermione hadn't paid him much attention or given him much thought since.

Nott was eyeing Harry, his mouth in a tight line. A crease appeared between Nott's brows as he watched Harry lean towards Hermione, his jaw clenching as if vexed.

"This is our study time, Nott," Harry said, his voice a hushed growl, like a wolf guarding its territory. His emerald eyes narrowed, daring the other boy to challenge him. Nott stiffened, the fabric of his robes straining across his shoulders as he clenched his fists, knuckles whitening.

"I'm here to, to—" Nott took a deep breath and switched his focus to Hermione. "It's nearly seven o'clock, Granger. They're waiting for you."

Checking her watch, she agreed with the other boy that it was nearly time to leave. "Did Millicent send you to get me?"

Harry was looking back and forth between them. "What's happening at seven o'clock?"

"Malfoy." Nott glanced at Harry. "I'm his, um, to make sure…"

Malfoy's mediator. To make sure she didn't hurt Malfoy. Like Millicent was Hermione's.

Harry leaned in closer to her, eyes narrowed on Nott. "What's this about?"

Hermione's fingers tightened around her quill as she considered how to respond. Part of her wanted to be completely open with Harry. After all, he was her closest friend, the one person she valued above all others.

But he'd want to know why Malfoy felt the need to do an apology ritual, and the thought of revealing what transpired that night in the Slytherin dormitory made her throat constrict with dread. To relive that violation, even secondhand through the retelling, she wasn't certain she possessed the fortitude for such an ordeal.

And then there was the matter of Harry's inevitable reaction. He would go off like a Gryffindor. Demand vengeance, swift and merciless. And could she really fault him for that? After what the loathsome prat had done?

No, Hermione couldn't bring herself to burden Harry with this, not yet. Not when the wounds were still so fresh and raw. He already carried far too much on his shoulders without adding her own issues to the load.

Besides, he was a Gryffindor. He had his morals. He wouldn't understand that Hermione wanted Malfoy to hurt.

Pursing her lips, she met Nott's watchful gaze and gave a curt nod. Rising from her chair, she turned to Harry and managed a small, reassuring smile. "It's nothing to worry about, just a disagreement that needs resolving. I'll fill you in later, I promise."

His jaw clenched as he glanced at Nott, but his eyes were full of concern when he looked at her. "Want me to wait for you?"

"No, that's alright. I'll see you tomorrow."

Hermione pushed back her chair, the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor. She slung her frayed bookbag over one shoulder, the strap digging into the soft wool of her sweater. Glancing at Harry, she offered him a tight-lipped smile in apology before she turned on her heel and trailed after Nott.

As soon as they were in the corridor, away from the hushed atmosphere of the library, Hermione spoke up. "So you're Malfoy's mediator for this ritual?"

Nott glanced at her sidelong, his expression unreadable. "Yes."

"Why you and not Crabbe or Goyle?" The two larger boys were Malfoy's constant shadows, his enforcers of sorts.

"As a mediator, it's my responsibility to make sure the injured does not harm the instigator." A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Nott's mouth. "They wouldn't stand a chance, would they?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow, catching his implication that the brutish Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't be able to handle her if things went awry. She gave a nod of reluctant agreement as they descended the stairs towards the dungeons.

"You think you can?" she asked, eyeing Nott appraisingly. She'd never seen him duel or cast a spell outside of class. They passed the Potions classroom and Snape's office before continuing deeper into the lower levels, the dank air growing cooler. Hermione shivered, pulling her robes tighter as they ventured past the Slytherin common room into an area of abandoned classrooms and what looked like old professors' quarters.

He didn't look back at her, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "I'd say I have a better chance than anyone."

The compliment, however backhanded, caught Hermione off guard. Of all her Slytherin classmates, Nott was one of the few who didn't actively torment her, at least not to her face. He kept to himself, barely spoke in class. To hear him acknowledge her skills was unexpected.

"That is," he added, pulling to a stop outside a closed door and studying her face as she turned to look at him, "depending on what Malfoy did."

"He didn't say?"

He shook his head. "He's not required to state how he's injured you—only what he's willing to offer to mend the rift." He licked his lips, his eyebrows pulling together. "But his mediator isn't required to be loyal to him. Only able to stand up to you."

Hermione studied Nott's face, searching for any hint of deception. His hazel eyes were steady, sincere. A small crease appeared between his brows as he held her gaze.

"You'd help me?" she asked, unable to mask her surprise. "Against Malfoy?"

A muscle twitched in Nott's jaw before he gave a solemn nod. "I may be his mediator, but that doesn't mean I agree with whatever he's done." His voice was low, as if worried they might be overheard. "If his apology is insufficient, if his offer of reparations falls short..." He trailed off, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I'll help you."

Hermione studied him a moment longer before giving a curt nod. "Very well. I accept your offer to intervene should Malfoy's apology prove lacking." It wasn't as if she would rely on him—she still had the Polyjuice. But she couldn't resist adding with a hint of dark amusem*nt, "Though I can't imagine what he could possibly offer to make amends."

Nott's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything else. With a slight incline of his head, he turned and rapped his knuckles against the heavy wooden door.

It swung open with a creak to reveal a dimly lit chamber. The air inside was thick with the scent of melted wax and dust. Along the walls, a series of ornate candelabras bathed the room in an eerie, flickering glow. It looked like old visitors' quarters, with a broken headboard leaning against the far wall and a pile of broken down boxes covered in dust by the door. Darkness gaped in the mouth of an unused fireplace.

At the center of the deserted chambers stood Malfoy. Absent his school robes, he was robed in deep black robes edged in silver. His pale hair was drawn back with a leather tie. His grey eyes were downcast, his expression unreadable as he held a gnarled branch before him, its twisted length shimmering with a golden radiance.

Beside him, Millicent offered Hermione a curt nod before gesturing for her to enter. Steeling herself, Hermione stepped across the threshold, and Nott pulled the door closed behind them.

Millicent's voice rang out, clear and solemn, in the dimly lit chamber. "Let all those present bear witness. We gather here this evening to address a grievance between two Houses."

She turned her steely gaze towards Draco. "State your intent and present the golden bough."

Draco straightened his shoulders, the black robes he wore shifting with the movement. In his outstretched hand, the gnarled branch radiated magic.

"I take up this hallowed golden branch to request a parley of peace between our two beings," he intoned, his voice reverberating against the stone walls. "You the injured party, Hermione Granger, and I, Draco Malfoy, the transgressor."

Hermione's gaze fixed on the gnarled branch clutched in Draco's hand, its twisted length pulsing with an eerie golden radiance. The air strained around the archaic object, the hairs on her arms rising from the potent enchantments laced into its very fibers. Unease twisted Hermione's stomach, the magic radiating from the branch bearing an unsettling, dissonant undercurrent akin to a beloved song sung slightly off-key.

"Let it be known that on this night, I, Draco of the Noble House of Malfoy, do humbly seek House Granger's forgiveness. I seek parley between our Houses."

Draco extended the branch towards her, his grey eyes locking with hers.

A hush fell over the chamber, the flickering candlelight casting haunting shadows across Draco's pale features. Hermione had never seen the arrogant Slytherin so solemn, so devoid of his typical snide demeanor. Like he had matured three years overnight. For once the bravado had drained from his voice, each word carrying a weight that seemed to reverberated through them all. As if the ancient magic itself demanded a sobering reverence from its participants, stripping away the petty arrogance of youth.

Millicent's gruff voice broke the tense silence. "As the wronged party, you must either accept or reject his offer of parley, Hermione."

Hermione looked away from Malfoy and studied the proffered branch. Hermione's fingers twitched at her sides. So much ritual and pomp surrounded this pureblood tradition, she couldn't help but be skeptical.

"What exactly does accepting this branch entail?" she asked, her gaze flicking up to Draco.

Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't lower the branch. "It is a vow of contrition, a physical manifestation of my willingness to undergo restitution for the wrongs I have committed against you."

"And if I accept?" Hermione pressed. "What form will this restitution take?"

A muscle twitched in Draco's cheek before he replied in a carefully measured tone. "For minor transgressions, the bough typically breaks a small bone, such as a finger."

Her eyes widened at that. Purposefully breaking a bone seemed a barbaric practice, even for antiquated pureblood customs. "And for your offense?"

Draco swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. When he spoke, his voice was resolute, devoid of its usual snide drawl. "My right clavicle."

Hermione's gaze snapped to his outstretched arm, the one gripping the golden bough. His predominant arm, the one he used for wand work, writing, virtually everything. To willingly break the bone that controlled its movement while she was here, with her friend and a sort-of ally, able to attack him...

She swept her gaze around the abandoned chamber, noting the lack of any medical supplies or healing potions. "We're rather far from the hospital wing, aren't we?"

A grim smile tugged at the corners of Draco's mouth. "Indeed. I chose this remote location for a reason." He lifted his chin, an undeniable aura of aristocratic pride surrounding him despite the humbling circ*mstances.

His predominant wand arm, utterly incapacitated. She found herself searching his face for any hint of deception, but his expression remained impassive, resolute. Like he'd be proud to take the injury without Madam Pomfrey right there to heal him.

"You would subject yourself to that?" she asked, unable to mask the disbelief in her tone. "Voluntarily?"

Draco swallowed hard before giving a solemn nod. "It is but a mere symbolic gesture compared to the transgressions for which I must atone."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. It was as if they were part of the ritual itself which held the four of them in its grasp, the magic wrapping coil and coil of its massive, serpentine body around all of them. The faint rasp of its scales sliding against stone filled her ears, though Hermione wondered how much of that was in her imagination. The serpent waited. Hermione's fingers twitched once more as she studied the proffered branch, so delicate and brittle in appearance yet imbued with immense power.

She remembered how it felt to have him loom over her. His eyes sweet as his whispers leeched all hope out of her.

The terror deep in her marrow as he touched her.

The serpent watched.

"I don't have to break it, do I?" she asked carefully. "Taking it would be sufficient?"

"It would," Draco replied. "You could accept the bough and choose to enact its punishment at any time, Vanish it so I wouldn't be harmed, or break it."

Hermione stretched out her hand and grasped the branch. An electric tingle rushed through her at the point of contact, the magic surrounding them intensifying until the air seemed to crackle with energy. The serpent of magic sped up its winding dance around them until the rasp of scales on stone filled her head like radio static. Draco's eyes went wide, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as the bough's enchantments took hold and under her fingers his heartbeat came to life, beating at the same time as the pulse fluttering against the thin skin at his throat.

Hermione looked at Draco, really looked at him.

That this was his first thought instead of apologizing made a cold kind of sense if one thought about it as actions over words. While Malfoy was full of hot air, spewing empty words all the time, here he was silent. Offering action instead of dull apologies. She would have never believed an apology. The bough tingled under her fingers and her grip tightened. The tendons in Draco's neck tensed and there was a faint fear in the back of his eyes—and a cold kind of courage.

Millicent spoke once more, her tone brooking no argument. "The injured party has accepted the offer of parley. Declare your intent, Hermione."

Staring deep into Draco's pale eyes, Hermione tightened her grip on the fragile branch. As the serpent wound around them all, she raised it high and brought it crashing down over her knee with a resounding crack that echoed through the chamber.

The branch splintered. Magic roared.

Draco's eyes went wide, shock and pain contorting his features as he crumpled to the floor, clutching at his shoulder. A guttural cry tore from his lips, his body curling inward from the sheer agony of his shattered collarbone.

Hermione stepped back, the broken remnants of the branch slipping from her grasp as she stared down at Draco's prone form. Pain broke his ashen face, his features twisted in a rictus of anguish. His harsh breaths sliced through the room.

No one moved.

Millicent's low voice cut through the stillness. "The grievance is settled, the debt paid in full." She nodded toward the shattered branch on the floor, her mouth curving in rare approval even as she spoke solemn words, "House Malfoy and House Granger stand on level ground once more. House Granger, you must leave now that reparations have been paid."

Nott was tensed, poised to the side, and he met Hermione's eye. Is it enough? his expression seemed to ask. His wand was in his hand.

Hermione thought of those hours huddled in her bed. Even when a basilisk had roamed the school, she'd never felt afraid in her dormitory.

Draco had stolen that from her.

Turning on her heel, she strode from the chamber without a backwards glance, leaving Draco to contend with the consequences of his actions. Nott followed, closing the door behind them and shutting out Draco's anguished gasps.

"Was that good, Granger?" Nott murmured.

She nodded. While she regretted the potion brewing upstairs, she could always store the Polyjuice for something else. "Let's go get Professor Snape."

Hermione exhaled, her shoulders loosening as if an invisible weight had been lifted. The ache that had plagued her since Malfoy's violation dissipated, leaving a strange sense of clarity in its wake. Perhaps there was merit to these archaic pureblood customs after all, distasteful as they seemed on the surface. Breaking the branch had unleashed a catharsis she couldn't have anticipated, like lancing a festering wound to finally allow it to heal properly.

Nott kept up with her as she made her way down the corridor toward where, hopefully, Snape would be in his office.

"It's unusual for the injured party to go get help after one of those rituals. Most would leave him to suffer until they could drag themselves to the hospital wing." His glanced back toward the door behind which Malfoy no doubt still lay, cradling his shattered collarbone.

"Yes, well, I'm not most people," Hermione said with a slight shrug. "Malfoy may be an arrogant prat who deserved what he got, but I'm not going to leave him to walk to the hospital wing with only Millicent. Besides, I'm a Mudblood, I don't have to follow along with pureblood customs."

Nott hissed sharply through his teeth. "Don't say that word."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Oh please, it's not like I find it offensive. Besides, you've never objected the past three years whenever Malfoy or Parkinson's flung it at me. Why would you care now?"

Nott's jaw tightened, and he stared hard at the floor. "I have objected," he said, his voice low. "Just because you didn't notice doesn't mean I didn't."

Hermione arched an eyebrow, glancing at the other Slytherin. In the dim torchlight of the corridor, the angles of his face seemed more pronounced, sharper. He tended to fade into the background, content to keep his head down and avoid drawing unwanted notice. But she'd been noticing him more and more this year.

"You've objected?" she echoed, unable to mask her skepticism. "When? I don't recall you ever sticking up for me against Malfoy."

Nott's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Not out loud, no," he admitted. "But I've come up with ways to punish him."

Her brows hiked upward in surprise. "You hexed Malfoy? For me?"

"Not hex, but…" He shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. "I didn't actually plan on telling you that."

"What do you do?"

Nott twitched and the dungeon light did odd things to his face, like make him flush from his neck to the roots of his hair.

"I'm better at potions," he muttered. "Boil Drafts, mainly."

Hermione's laugh broke the quiet, and she had to grab his arm or risk falling when her head fell back.

"Th-thank you, Nott," she said, the words feeling inadequate yet sincere. She wiped her eyes while Nott looked as if he'd love to sink down to the bottom of the lake. Boil Drafts! "I appreciate you... sticking up for me, even if I wasn't aware of it."

He glanced down at the hand on his arm before ducking his head, the torchlight casting his chiseled features in a warm glow. "Please, call me Theo."

Hermione stumbled. The hand still on his arm dug in.

"Oh my," she muttered as the full weight of what she'd done settled on her. "I just broke someone's clavicle!"

Hermione stiffened at the telltale click of boot heels on stone. Snape materialized from the shadows, his sallow features emerging like a half-formed specter. Greasy hair framed his hawkish profile as he zeroed in on them, nostrils flaring. The torchlight cast deep grooves in his sour expression, twisting it into something sinister.

"Miss Granger. Mister Nott. What did I just hear about a clavicle?"

***

In the end, Hermione was directed to wait in Snape's office while Theo and Snape returned to the abandoned visitors' quarters. Later, Hermione cracking Snape's office door and peering through it, Millicent and Snape came through with Malfoy between them. Pale and hunched over, but walking.

Resigned grey eyes met hers briefly before Snape stopped in front of the door and she was forced, with sweat pinpricking to life on the back of her neck, to look up into Snape's constipated expression.

"Miss Bulstrode. Since Mister Malfoy is in a fit state to walk himself, escort him to the infirmary and return to your common room."

"Sir," Millicent said. With a commiserating glance over Malfoy's head at Hermione, she continued by with her charge. Hermione stepped back as Snape stepped through the doorway. He gestured her toward his desk before closing the door behind him.

Hermione sat stiffly in the chair Snape indicated in front of his desk, back straight and hands folded primly in her lap. His politeness did little to ease her discomfort as he sat in the chair next to her, though he arranged his seat to face her directly. She met his obsidian gaze unflinchingly, though her heart thudded against her ribs.

"Have you broken any school rules tonight, Miss Granger?" Snape's silky voice held no accusation, only inquiry.

She hesitated, worrying her lower lip briefly. "I'm not certain, sir. I participated in a ritual with Malfoy."

Snape's eyebrows raised a fraction. "Explain."

Hermione recounted the evening's events—Malfoy's golden bough offering, the mediators, her acceptance, and its consequences. Throughout her explanation, Snape remained impassive, those fathomless eyes studying her closely.

When she finished, he steepled his long fingers. "While not often used in these modern times, the rites of apology you describe do not violate Hogwarts' statutes. You are not in trouble, Miss Granger." His lips curved in a ghost of a smirk. "This time."

Hermione exhaled slowly, some tension leaving her shoulders. "Thank you, sir. I aim to avoid trouble when possible."

Snape's sharp features softened infinitesimally. "A wise policy, though one which Potter seems incapable of following."

Hermione's heart sank at the mention of Harry, but it dropped to the floor when Snape's demeanor shifted, his expression changing by degree into one that was cold and cruel. In a silky tone that set her nerves twanging with dread, he asked, "What exactly did Mister Malfoy do to necessitate performing a reparation ritual with you, Miss Granger?"

"The ritual is over, sir," Hermione stated, trying to keep her voice even as she met his obsidian gaze. "I don't feel the point is to brood on it."

When she dredged it up, the memory of Draco invading her dormitory bed no longer carried the same visceral sting. Gone was the tightness in her chest when recalling how he touched her face and proclaimed himself the King of Slytherin. It was as if the ritual had purged the venom of those nasty emotions, allowing her to view the incident objectively. Yes, it had been frightening at the time, but now it felt shallow, with no irreparable harm done.

Snape's obsidian eyes bored into hers, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair's edges. He said nothing for a moment before turning his head away. "I see," he uttered tightly.

Snape seemed to struggle with reining in his emotions, his jaw clenched. Finally, he exhaled slowly through his nostrils. "Very well, Miss Granger. You are free to return to your dormitory." His tone remained clipped, devoid of its usual silk.

Hermione rose from her chair, relieved the interrogation was over. She hesitated briefly before nodding at Snape. "Thank you, sir. Good night."

Hermione halted abruptly, the office door's brass handle a hairsbreadth from her grasp. Her eyelids fluttered as a peculiar sensation rippled through her mind, blurring her vision like a camera losing focus. Instinctively, her thoughts drifted back to that dusty, forgotten classroom where she and Malfoy had enacted the ancient rites. The potent magic there had swirled around them both, constricting with the same inexorable force as a serpent's coils. Yet beneath that primal power lay an undercurrent of... recognition? As if some part of her had sensed the ritual's magic before, a half-remembered familiarity plucked from the depths of her subconscious.

"Miss Granger," Snape said behind her. "You may go."

"Snake," Hermione said. The world was a blur as she turned, carefully, around. Snape was an inky spot blotting out the dim dungeon office. "Antivenom. Nagini. You need plenty of antivenom, Professor. Promise me."

"Miss Granger?"

"You must keep it—the snake—"

His voice was close. Thin, spindly fingers touched her shoulders while cold ones pinched her chin and tilted her head back. "Have you imbibed anything unusual tonight?"

Hermione's vision blurred further as a sharp, metallic tang filled her nostrils—the unmistakable scent of blood mingling with the musk of snake. Her body tensed, muscles spasming as if an electric current surged through her veins. Professor Snape's voice echoed distantly, his features indistinct amidst the encroaching haze.

"Miss Granger!" Snape's tone was laced with urgency as he gripped her shoulders.

Hermione's knees buckled, and she crumpled, the stench of serpent and crimson overwhelming her senses. Through the disorienting fog, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Snape's pale, hooked nose and thin lips contorted in alarm before everything faded to black.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

She woke in darkness.

The unfamiliar scent of disinfectant and starched linen made her nose scrunch. Tall windows that let in warm light during the day opened to the inky blackness now. She heard a shuffle beside her, and then a faint glow illuminated the room as Malfoy lit his wand from the chair beside her bed. Shadows slashed across his pale, angular features. A fleeting memory resurfaced—Malfoy's wand tip glowing in the pitch-black of her dormitory, his silhouette looming over her bed like a specter. Her lips parted, a scream on the tip of her tongue—

Then she blinked, and Draco was simply sitting beside her hospital bed.

The fear quickly dissipated into only a low dread in the background. Confusion crinkled her brow.

"How long..." Hermione's voice cracked, her throat parched. She swallowed hard. "How long have I been here?"

"It's been a day since the ritual."

The golden bough ritual. Fragments of the ceremony trickled back—the weight of the branch in her hands, the sharp snap as she broke it, Malfoy's pained shout. Her gaze flickered to his shoulder, but he wasn't wearing a wrap. "You've been here all this time?"

"Pomfrey discharged me this morning." Draco shook his head, strands of pale hair falling across his brow. It looked as if he hadn't washed it in several days. "Snape asked us to look after you, tell him when you woke. Zabini just left."

Ignoring his scowl, Hermione blinked, squinting around the hospital wing. "What happened?"

"You don't know?" Malfoy's brow furrowed. "Snape's been silent. But I saw him bring you in almost as soon as Pomfrey set me up in a bed. You were unconscious."

The line between her brows had yet to go away. "Professor Snape set up a watch… couldn't Madam Pomfrey do that?" She'd seemed very alert when Hermione was recovering from her petrification. Why would a bunch of third year Slytherins be bothered setting up watches at— "What time is it?"

"It's two o'clock."

"You really should be in bed—"

"Granger. Stop trying to kick me out."

She stopped trying to kick the thin cotton blanket off her feet and looked at the boy. Noted his mullish expression that hadn't gone away yet. Instantly wary, she also noted she had no idea where her wand was.

"What are you doing here?"

"That's my question," he said.

"And yet I asked."

"I told you. Snape asked us to look after you."

"Did he imply you should be here at, hm, two o'clock in the morning? I see from your face he didn't. So. What are you doing here?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed as she angrily stared into Draco's grey eyes. Familiar eyes. A familiar churlishness in them that roused something in her chest. And then the world around her blurred and shifted. A metallic taste flooded her mouth and she choked, a cough exploding out of her chest. Bright crimson speckled the sheets as blood spattered from her lips.

Malfoy shot up from his chair. "Granger!"

She'd never seen him look so terrified.

Hermione gasped for air, each ragged breath feeling like shards of glass scraping her throat. Dizziness overwhelmed her as more blood gurgled up, staining her pajamas. She clutched at her chest, nails digging into the fabric as pain lanced through her.

"Merlin... Pomfrey! Madam Pomfrey! Help!" Draco shouted towards the door, his usual composure shattered. He reached for Hermione, but hesitated, uncertain of what to do. Horrified grey eyes stared at her just like another pair of eyes staring across a tiled bathroom at her, full of anguish and love—

Another cough racked Hermione's body and she tasted the unmistakable tang of smoke in the air.

Draco leaned over Hermione, his face mere inches from hers. Noise switched off like she'd pointed a remote at the telly. Clear tears, grey eyes. Then the world turned black.

***

Hermione's eyelids fluttered open to the dim lighting of the hospital wing. Her throat felt raw, and her mouth tasted coppery, like she'd just bitten the inside of her cheek. Professor Snape's sallow face hovered above her, brow furrowed in concentration as his wand moved in precise motions, casting diagnostic charms. Madam Pomfrey stood nearby, nodding as Snape murmured observations under his breath.

"I'll go report to Albus," she said.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered, the stiff hospital sheets crinkling like paper as she stirred. Snape's coal-black eyes snapped to hers, and his gaze locked down tighter than Azkaban. His sallow face remained impassive, lips pressed into a thin line as Madam Pomfrey's footsteps faded. The dim lighting cast stark shadows across the severe angles of Snape's features, sharpening his hawkish profile.

"Miss Granger," he said in a low rumble, straightening. "How are you feeling?"

Hermione winced as she leveraged herself upright, every muscle aching. "Quite sore, sir."

With a subtle wave of his wand, her pillows plumped, allowing him to assist her into a seated position. "Understandable, given the circ*mstances." He scrutinized her carefully as he stepped back. "May I ask what magic you have done recently?"

Hermione blinked owlishly, foggy from hrealizing for the first time how foggy her head felt. "Magic? No, I haven't cast any spells..." Her voice trailed off as flashes of the golden bough ritual flickered through her memory—the weight of the branch, the sickening snap, Malfoy's anguished cry. "Unless you mean the ritual with Malfoy?"

A muscle ticked in Snape's jaw, but he remained impassive. "I am referring to anything you may have done subsequent to that event which could explain your..." He paused, selecting his phrasing carefully. "Condition."

Hermione shook her head and impatiently brushed her hair out of her face. "No, sir. After the ritual ended, I was coming to see you when you found me and then—" She cut herself off abruptly, frowning. "Then I woke up here. What happened to me, Professor?"

"And when you woke up?"

"Just now?"

Frustration flickered in her Head of House's eyes and Hermione shifted in the hospital bed, looking around. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock. It has been three days since you collapsed in my office, Miss Granger, and two days since you woke up here and had an episode that saw you lose nearly three full liters of blood in front of Mister Malfoy." That much blood? She paled and he studied her like a particularly stubborn stain on a cauldron. "Do you recall coming into my office?"

Hermione's head was slowly shaking back and forth before he finished his question. She tried. She really did. Tried to scrounge her memories, remembering "Please, call me Theo" and Snape rounding a corner, and then, then—

"Miss Granger." Snape's hand was suddenly on her shoulder, squeezing, black eyes peering into her soul. Only when he found he had her attention did he release her and step back. "Do not attempt to recall the events of that evening any more. It is obvious that whatever magic befell you is preventing you from accessing those memories."

Bony fingers gripped her heart. What the hell had happened? Her head throbbed when she instinctively tried to think back, and she forced herself to stop. To breathe. Or, rather, gasp, which is what she did, her heartbeat thundering under her palm through her thin pajamas. Weren't these wet before? No amount of air seemed enough to slow down the panic.

"Miss Granger. Miss Granger."

He was back in front of her and he snapped out—something.

Hermione's world tilted. The panic that had been crushing her jerked sideways in a way so powerful her neck cracked as it tugged her along with it. Like whatever spell Snape had cast had taken all those emotions that had been suffocating her, balled them up, and dumped them into a bin in the corner of her mind.

She took several long, deep breaths.

"Thank you, Professor."

"You are welcome, Miss Granger," he said, his tone holding a wary edge as he stepped back. Beetle black eyes roamed over her as if he expected her to pass out at any moment.

"What spell did you use just now, sir? To clear my mind?"

"Is now the time to be curious?" Snape sighed when her face fell. "A calming charm of my own devising that focuses on rational thought rather than serenity. Your panic was counterproductive to our discussion." His obsidian gaze remained unwavering. "I will not have you injuring yourself further by recklessly probing whatever enchantment that has addled your memories."

Hermione swallowed hard against a raw throat. She knew better than to push Snape when he took that tone. A knot of unease twisted in her gut as she considered his words. "You believe I'm under some sort of spell, Professor?"

"It is the only logical explanation for your condition that I can discern." Snape crossed his arms, robes billowing around him. "Before you collapsed in my office, you spoke of something most peculiar. You warned me about the need for snake antivenom." His hawkish features hardened. "It sounded like a premonition of sorts. Tell me, Miss Granger, have you experienced such divinatory visions before?"

Hermione's breath caught. Of course, the visions she shared with Harry, the strange flashes of their parallel reality. But revealing that… Snape didn't appreciate her befriending Harry. If he thought for a moment that the visions might be harming her health—

She jerked her head. "No, sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "I cannot assist you if you choose to withhold information, Miss Granger. However..." He paused, assessing her for a long moment before speaking in a quieter tone. "Perhaps there is another way. If you would permit me to employ Legilimency, I may be able to discern the nature of these enchantments without your mind being strained."

Hermione stiffened. A Legilimens! All this time, he'd been a Legilimens and she hadn't known? Immediately, her gaze dropped to the thin cotton blanket covering her pajama-clad knees.

Hermione's fingers twisted together in her lap. Her rational mind raced behind his calming charm, weighing the consequences. Snape disliked Harry intensely, and from the glimpses she'd caught during Potions, he hadn't been fond of the Gryffindor version of herself either. She tried not to take his disdain personally, but combined with his warnings to distance herself from Harry, it stung nonetheless.

If Snape discovered her visions of an alternate reality where she was Harry's best friend, he would have ample justification to forcibly sever that bond. All he would have to do is point to her stay here as evidence that it wasn't in her best interest. The thought of losing her deepening connection with Harry twisted her insides into knots. She couldn't allow that to happen, no matter how much Snape threatened.

Lifting her gaze, Hermione avoided Snape's obsidian stare, but focused on a point just beyond his left ear. "No, sir. I cannot permit you to use Legilimency on me."

The room's temperature seemed to plummet as Snape's features contorted into a rictus of fury. "You refuse me, Miss Granger?" he hissed, robes billowing as he took a menacing step forward. "I am attempting to discern what ails you, you foolish girl!"

Hermione held her ground. He would cut her off from Harry. He'd find a way to enforce it, say it was medically necessary—she wouldn't let that happen. "I understand that, Professor. But I cannot allow you access to my mind when my mind's attacking me. I don't want to end up a vegetable."

"Then you leave me no choice." Snape's voice had dropped into a whisper, his presence suffocating. "Since you appear to be suffering the effects of Dark magic that may endanger this school, I will need to alert the Headmaster. It is a kindness I didn't alert him sooner after your curiosity about hippogriff blood."

"No!" If they removed her from school… Swallowing hard, Hermione pretended to crumble under his glower. "I-I have been having divinatory dreams, sir. Visions of the future." She glared down at her knees. "It's been happening since October. I receive insight of what's happening around me in the moment. I see flashes of events before they occur."

Like pop quizzes, she didn't add. Snape likely wouldn't think much of that kind of divinatory vision, and she needed him to believe her.

Eyeing her shrewdly, Snape seemed to accept her explanation, for now. "Very well, Miss Granger. I will not subject you to Legilimency at this time." His tone made it clear it was a temporary reprieve. "However, if your... condition endangers yourself or others, I will seek the Headmaster's permission to interrogate you by any means at my disposal. Do not doubt that."

Hermione nodded meekly, trying to appear appropriately cowed.

"Furthermore," Snape continued silkily, "since you claim to possess the Sight, I cannot permit you to drop Divination as you requested." He smirked at her crestfallen expression. "You will continue your studies in that course to develop your abilities, understood?"

Hermione had recently handed in the list of classes she wished to discontinue the following year, assuming she could manage without both Care of Magical Creatures and the dreadful Divination. Blast it. She would now have to forgo Muggle Studies.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione muttered an affirmative. As Snape swept from the hospital wing, she released a shuddering breath. Her secrets—and her bond with Harry—remained safe, at least for now. But she would need to tread carefully around Snape from now on.

Hermione only allowed herself to relax once Snape's footsteps faded into silence and the doors to the Hospital Wing closed behind him. While she was well aware of her Head of House's formidable anger, she had never before experienced the full brunt of his wrath directed at her.

She tore at the blankets over her knees. "I did not enjoy that."

"No one does."

She jumped as the curtain on the right side of her bed slid open with a metallic scrape, the rings clinking against the pole. Draco stood on the other side, his sharp features washed out in the watery dawn filtering through the high windows. His blond hair appeared nearly translucent, his grey eyes sharp.

How much had he overheard?

"Malfoy," she said coolly, forcing her expression into an impassive mask. "What are you doing here?"

Two pale pink spots formed on his cheeks, and he threw his head back like an antsy horse that had once tried to buck Hermione off. She'd never much liked horses after that.

"Keeping an eye on you, Granger. Why was Snape talking about you like you're a Dark witch dabbling in forbidden magic? Are you?"

"Of course not," she snapped.

"You know," Draco said, tilting his head as his gaze raked over her—from blue cotton blankets to her undoubtedly matted, grungy hair, "you were bleeding an awful lot. I'm not surprised Snape thinks you're a Dark witch."

She curled her lip. "What? Irritated my dirty blood got on you, Malfoy?"

In an instant, his face hardened, planes of his face becoming granite as he glared at her. She knew he was furious because he didn't shout, no, his voice dropped to a whisper that froze the hairs on her arms. "You don't get to talk like that," he hissed. "You bled out so much I was swimming in it."

Hermione leaned back at the force of his anger. Even his magic had come up, tugging at the curtains at his back. With visible effort, Malfoy calmed, straightening and jerking down his own pale blue hospital pajamas.

Before his gaze snapped away, she saw something that made her lips part. He couldn't be… was he was worried for her?

After she broke his clavicle?

"As I was saying," Draco said, his expression returning to the haughty one she was so used to, "if I hadn't been here to call for Madam Pomfrey, you would've died."

"Congratulations on meeting the basic standard for a human being."

The calming charm was still in effect on Hermione. She knew because she didn't immediately fumble to find her wand—wherever it was—and instead stared at Draco. Disbelieving.

"You think I owe you a Life Debt." His expression said it all. Hermione pulled herself up straighter, wincing at the ache in her back from lying for three days straight, and glared at Draco. "We just went through the ritual, and you're trying to get a Life Debt on me? No. I'm in the hospital wing. There's half a dozen wards shining all over the place Madam Pomfrey probably used to figure out my situation," she said, throwing her hand up toward the high ceiling where all kinds of temporal and alert wards glittered like string lights. "I do not owe you a Life Debt."

"You would have died—"

"If I owe anyone a Life Debt, it's Madam Pomfrey," she snapped back.

Draco's jaw tensed, frustration rolling off him as he ran his tongue over his teeth, staring at her as if he'd like to peel back her skin. Hermione didn't bother to hide her smirk. Life Debts became ambiguous when hospital staff were involved, and if he knew anything about the ancient magic, he would know that.

He wanted something from her, that much was clear. Too Slytherin not to try to take advantage of the situation. There went her tentative idea that they would have a truce between them.

Draco's angular features softened, the sharp lines around his mouth and eyes easing into smugness. Hermione tensed, her fingers curling inward as if to grip her wand, the unexpected shift in his expression raising the hairs on the back of her neck like a warning flare.

"It would be a shame if the news got out that a Dark witch is roaming Hogwarts with a curse on their memories, one who refuses to cooperate with the professors trying to help her. Sounds like the Heir of Slytherin all over again." His mouth curled. "The Board of Governors would be obligated to do something if they learned of it, certainly…"

Her heart stuttered in her chest. Lucius Malfoy wielded considerable influence at the school through his former position on the Board of Governors as well as his remaining prestige with the Ministry. If Draco spun her stay in the hospital wing and what he overheard Snape say in the right way, she could be suspended—or worse, expelled.

She couldn't lose Harry. Not after everything they'd been through together, after the bond forming between them. Panic clawed at her throat, but Hermione forced it down, refusing to show weakness in front of Malfoy.

"What do you want?" she asked through gritted teeth.

A triumphant gleam lit Draco's eyes. "I want you to owe me five favors," he said silkily. "To be paid whenever I require them, no questions asked. And before you say no, also remember that I can write to my father and tell him how an unfortunate classmate of mine is being pressured to submit to Legilimency—a terrible breach of privacy they didn't even force on Death Eaters after the war." His eyebrows rose. "Let's see if the great Albus Dumbledore's tries to bully you when you have the Ministry and the Board of Governors on your side."

Bile burned the back of her throat. He had her cornered, and they both knew it. Hermione didn't have the clout to fight. And, she realized with a sinking feeling, she couldn't risk the exposure. Her mother had made it clear to Hermione to stay out of the spotlight. She had the secret to consider. Having the Ministry and the Board of Governors looking into her would undoubtedly open a Pandora's box Hermione couldn't afford to unlock.

"Don't say anything to anyone and I'll give you one favor. I get veto power if it's mentally or physically humiliating or harmful," she said.

"Four."

"Two."

"Three." It was one more than she wanted, but Draco nodded. "Swear on your magic."

She bared her teeth. "You first. After all, you have the habit of breaking your word."

Draco's brows hiked. "Me? I never—" His mouth pressed together and he turned away for a moment. He quickly retrieved his bag from beside the next hospital bed and yanked an envelope out of it. He shoved the crumpled envelope into her hands. "Read it," he said, folding his arms.

Hermione unfolded the letter with a crease between her brows.

Draco,

I am most disappointed to receive your request to rescind the proceedings against the hippogriff. You are well aware that I have already committed a favor to Walden Macnair in exchange for his diligent pursuit of this case against the half-breed's dangerous beast.

To withdraw at this stage would be an insult to the integrity of our family name and principles. I expect you, as my heir, to fully support the rightful execution of this vile creature which so foolishly attacked a pureblood wizard unprovoked. Do not fail me in this matter.

I remain,

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy

Hermione folded the parchment closed, her lips pursed. It was dated in January, only a week after their agreement in the library. Across from her, Draco looked mulish, his grey eyes glinting with frustration.

"I tried to keep my promise, but my father won't yield on this."

Tilting her head, Hermione studied the tense line of Draco's jaw. "Does that mean the open-ended favor you owe me is still in effect then? The one for whenever I say 'lover's touch'?"

A flush crept up his pale neck. "Why do you think I want to even it out between us?"

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Hermione's mouth. Unlike their first bargain, this was very, very Slytherin of him—rational and sensible enough to want an equal footing, the scales more closely balanced between them. Underneath that spoiled, bratty facade, he did have cunning self-preservation instincts.

"Then I apologize for doubting you," Hermione murmured, handing the letter back. So he had some Slytherin pride, somewhere under all that brattiness. It made the oath a little easier to swear.

His flush deepened, but Draco held her gaze steadily. "I'll get three favors sworn, Granger. On your magic, within reason, as long as I keep my mouth shut."

A tiny part of her felt a flicker of relief that Draco hadn't actually deceived her, but it was quickly overshadowed by resentment for being forced into this new vow. Hermione's smile faded as she considered the consequences. But really, what choice did she have? She couldn't risk Draco spinning tales.

"Very well, Malfoy. I'll swear it, if you do."

He straightened, expression arranging itself into the one she recalled as he held out a golden branch to her. Mature, solemn. "I swear on my magic to keep my silence regarding Hermione Granger's condition to anybody including the school governors, professors, or the Headmaster. Now you."

"I swear on my magic to owe Draco Malfoy three favors, to be paid at a time of his choosing, restrictions within reason, for as long as he holds his oath."

The words felt like ash on her tongue, but she consoled herself that at least she still had the open-ended favors from him.

"Good, Granger," he said, tilting his head.

She scowled at the condescension. "Now go away. Unless one of your favors is to let you hang around me until I'm discharged?"

He had just opened his mouth to undoubtedly shoot back a retort when footsteps clattered on the tile as the infirmary healer strode toward their beds.

Madam Pomfrey bustled over with her usual brisk efficiency, casting a disapproving glance at Draco. "Mister Malfoy, what on earth do you think you're doing up and about?" Her voice carried the sharp note of a scolding mother as she eyed him with a mix of concern and exasperation. "And your head wrap—it's missing. You took quite the tumble when you fainted."

Draco scowled at Madam Pomfrey's fussing, his pale cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he glanced back at Hermione. "I did not faint," he protested as she put him back into his bed. He batted away her wand as she tried to direct new bandages around his head. "I slipped."

Hermione couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips as she watched the pureblood prince squirm under the matron's stern gaze. "You fainted, Malfoy?"

His grey eyes snapped to her, narrowing dangerously. "It was a lot of blood," he snapped back. "Forgive me for being a bit lightheaded."

The hospital wing doors burst open then, and Harry strode in, his messy black hair even more tousled than usual. His vivid green eyes immediately found Hermione, and relief washed over his features. "Hermione! You're awake!"

He crossed the room in a few long strides, dropping into the chair beside her bed. Madam Pomfrey tutted disapprovingly. "Mister Potter, you must let Miss Granger rest!"

Harry nodded and shot her his most disarming smile. "Please? Only until breakfast?"

The matron, apparently not immune to Harry's smiles, sighed. "Until breakfast, then," she said, and closed the curtain, putting privacy between the two students who occupied her hospital wing. Hermione was glad she didn't have to look at Draco's face anymore, which had mottled into an ugly shade of red when Harry entered the scene.

As soon as they were alone, Harry reached out and grasped her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. "What happened?" he murmured, his brow furrowed with concern. "I heard you collapsed, but no one would tell me anything."

Beside the magic of just touching him, warmth bloomed in her chest at his obvious worry, and she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm alright, Harry. Just a bit of accidental magic." She shot a pointed look at the curtain separating her bed from Draco's, ensuring her voice carried. "Nothing too serious."

Harry followed her gaze, his expression darkening. "Did someone hex you?" he asked in a low voice, leaning closer.

A surprised laugh bubbled up from Hermione's throat at the absurdity of his question. Shaking her head fondly, she met his concerned green eyes. "Harry, what do you think happens in Slytherin?" She dropped her voice, shooting a telling look at the curtain behind him where undoubtedly Malfoy was listening. "I'll tell you when we're alone."

This was one secret she wouldn't keep from her best friend. If Snape tried to separate them because of the visions, she needed Harry informed and on her side. After all, everyone knew Dumbledore favored Harry. That might work in her favor if Snape tried something.

And, she considered as Harry squeezed her hand, she needed all the advantages she could get. Harry was too precious to lose.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

"Mum!"

"Hello, darling," Helena murmured, turning around from the front seat of Mr. Granger's vintage Range Rover to smooth her hand over Hermione's forehead. She had the distinct position of being one of the only people who could smooth Hermione's wild curls. The car jostled as Phil closed the trunk with Hermione's luggage safely tucked away.

"Sorry I couldn't come to the station, bunny."

"That's alright," Hermione said, what she always said to her mother, as besides Hermione's first trip to Hogwarts, Helena had never stepped foot on Platform 9¾ again.

Hermione beamed at her mother, soaking in the familiar scent of heather and herbs that always clung to Helena. As Phil slid onto the back bench beside Hermione, he threw his arm over Hermione's shoulder and squeezed her tight.

"Alright back here, Miss Granger?"

"Splendid, thank you," Hermione replied, unable to contain her grin.

Mr. Granger chuckled as he turned the key in the ignition, the old Range Rover sputtering to life. "I don't know why you insist on calling her 'Miss Granger,' Phil. Makes me feel like I'm transporting a schoolteacher."

"Well, she certainly seems to have that prim and proper air about her," Phil said.

William smiled back at her in the rearview. "Our bunny's growing up."

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "I'm only fourteen."

"Yes, dear, do not encourage our girl to grow up faster than she should," Helena said, lightly slapping William's arm as he pulled out into the road.

As they merged onto the motorway, London's towering skyline gradually giving way to rolling fields and quaint villages, Hermione settled back against the worn leather seat. She watched the city's grey sprawl bleed into vibrant shades of green, her fingers idly playing with a loose thread on the hem of her jumper.

"So, how was the journey from Scotland?" Mr. Granger inquired, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror. "That train ride can't be a short one."

"It was perfectly lovely," Hermione assured him. "It's very quiet on the train at Easter, so I got to enjoy the whole time sitting with my friend Millicent."

"That was the tall girl you disembarked with?" Mr. Granger said.

Hermione noticed the slight furrow in her mother's brow as Helena looked over her shoulder. "Bulstrode, is it?" she inquired, her tone polite yet tinged with an undercurrent of wariness. "You're still friends?"

"I would say so," Hermione said, thinking about how the ritual had only bonded them closer together. "But you'll be happy to know I've been expanding my friend group this year like you asked."

"Oh?"

Hermione shifted in her seat, her fingers unconsciously twisting the loose thread as she thought about the best way to get the information she wanted.

"Harry Potter," she said.

Helena turned in her seat. "Hermione—"

"He's a Gryffindor and he's really nice," Hermione said, rushing the words out. "And I'd like to have him visit this summer, if he can. His aunt and uncle are Muggles and they're hateful toward him for being a wizard. They've tried every year to keep him from Hogwarts, and they're abusive."

Phil shared a look in the rearview with William, his arm tightening protectively around Hermione's shoulders. "My bunny isn't supposed to be fraternizing with boys."

"You haven't been breaking your promise, have you?"

"Of course not!" Hermione said, coloring at her mother's sharp question. Couldn't they at least have tried to address anything she said about Harry? Didn't they care at all. "This is unfair—I can't make friends with wizards now?"

"Now, now," William said with a soft glance at Helena, whose lips were pressed tight as she studied Hermione's flushed face, "let's stop teasing Hermione. She's already regretting returning for Easter before we're even home."

Helena stiffly faced forward again. Phil squeezed Hermione with one arm, his free hand reaching out to touch Helena's shoulder over the seat. Helena, looking out the window, put her hand atop his, as elegant and distant as ever.

Grateful for the reprieve from her parents' questions, Hermione turned her gaze out the window, watching the quaint village homes and neatly tended gardens whir past.

Helena had never been warm, per se. She had high standards for Hermione, and while she encouraged her as a mother should do, Hermione had always looked to her dad and Phil for true warmth. Helena was not the cuddling type—at least not with Hermione—though she excelled at brief touches that mimicked the love other mothers showed their daughters freely. She was elegant and cold like white marble, expressive in her own, sterile way. Hermione loved her dearly for it, because even if she couldn't mimic that haughty pureblood way of acting herself, Helena always encouraged her to be herself. Despite all the mysteries around her, Helena was the best mother in the world.

But Helena had never, ever been disappointed in Hermione before, and Hermione didn't know how to tell her that she'd broken her promise.

As the Range Rover trundled down the winding rural roads toward the Grangers' suburban estate, Hermione wondered how long she would be able to keep the truth from her mother.

Phil and William kept up a solid conversation, telling Hermione all the important gossip and news from the dentist office and Phil's London solicitor's office, trading friendly jabs and catching up on the small details of life as the car approached the tall iron gates surrounding their home. Hermione noticed immediately that the wards shimmered with a deeper, richer indigo hue than before.

As they pulled into the drive, Hermione's brow furrowed. "The wards look different. Has there been any trouble?"

In the window's reflection, a fleeting shadow crossed Helena's features before she looked over with a reassuring smile. "Nothing to worry about, love. Just some routine strengthening spells."

Hermione wasn't entirely convinced but decided not to press the issue in front of Phil and her dad. She'd ask her mother about it privately later.

Once inside, Hermione took her luggage up to her bedroom, smiling at the familiar sights and smells. Her mother followed a few minutes later, giving her a warm hug.

"It's so good to have you home," Helena murmured. "I've missed you terribly."

Hermione hugged her back tightly, unable to remember the last time she'd been held so tightly by her mother, nor for so long. "I missed you too, Mum. Now, what's this about new wards? Has that man been back again?"

"No, thankfully, although I would prefer it were a Muggle." Helena sighed, pulling back to look Hermione in the eye. "The news in the Daily Prophet has given your mummy a scare," she said. "It made me realize we needed to bolster the protective enchantments around the house."

"Oh. Well, Sirius Black would hardly come here, right?" She scrunched her nose. Technically, wouldn't her mother be around the same age as Black and Harry's parents? "Unless, well, you knew him?"

She tried to ask delicately, just in case, but Helena didn't seem bothered.

"Only from the Prophet," Helena said with her back turned, busying herself pulling out a stack of books in Hermione's luggage the Muggle way and tucking them in a neat pile on the desktop. She turned around and clapped her hands together. "Anyway, the new wards will make it impossible for anyone to so much as catch a glimpse of the house, which makes me feel easier having you home."

Hermione nodded. Her mother's magic had always been strong. Hermione thought she would probably be on par with McGonagall and Flitwick, if not Snape. If Helena said they were safe, she would believe it.

"Alright," she said, managing a small smile. "I trust you, Mum. I'm just glad you're taking precautions to keep us all safe."

Helena patted her shoulder. "Always, my darling girl. That's my most important job. Now finish unpacking and rest up before dinner. Daddy's making tacos."

"Can we talk tomorrow?" Hermione asked. "There's been something strange happening…"

Helena's gaze narrowed as she took in Hermione's face and then her expression took on a pinched as she seemed to trace something in the air around Hermione.

"Is it about your breasts, dear?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed crimson as her mother's words registered. If only she could use her time turner to escape this awkward moment—or concuss herself on her pink vanity.

"Mum, no, please."

Helena seemed oblivious to her daughter's embarrassment, that pinched, concerned expression still etched on her features. "There's nothing to be ashamed about, love. It's just a natural part of growing up." She reached out, gently tucking an errant curl behind Hermione's ear. "We'll go shopping tomorrow, just us girls. How does that sound?"

Hermione managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a curt nod. As uncomfortable as the conversation made her, she knew her mother meant well. She just wished Helena had a bit more discretion when it came to certain subjects.

"And there are no other boys I need to worry about?" Helena searched her face with her elegant eyebrows furrowed slightly. "You remain innocent?"

If Hermione could just die right then—

"Yes, Mum," she said.

Helena nodded, seeming satisfied with Hermione's response. "Good girl," she murmured, reaching out to gently cup Hermione's cheek. "You know how important it is to keep that promise. Not even one kiss."

Hermione stiffened slightly as her mother's touch came with a wave of misery. She dropped her gaze, unable to meet Helena's probing stare. It was only the one, and she'd regretted it, hadn't she? It was just Malfoy. He might be neutral toward her now, but he meant nothing to Hermione overall. One kiss wasn't so terrible, was it? Hermione was maturing into a woman, just as Helena said—

Helena's thumb caressed Hermione's cheekbone as she studied her daughter's face. "Darling, look at me," she said softly but firmly. When Hermione reluctantly met her eyes, Helena's expression was solemn. "If you break that promise, I will have no choice but to pull you out of Hogwarts immediately. I trust you understand the severity of such a thing."

"Why?" Hermione burst out.

"Because it's the only punishment severe enough you'll listen," Helena said. Her nails scratched lightly at Hermione's cheek. "Now, will you obey me?"

A lump formed in Hermione's throat as she gave a small nod, her heart sinking. The thought of being taken away from the magical world, from her studies and Harry, was utterly devastating. Guilt gnawed at her still, but what choice was there?

"Yes, Mother," Hermione managed in a small voice. "I understand."

Helena held her gaze for a moment longer, searching Hermione's eyes as if she could divine the truth. Finally, she dropped her hand and stepped back with a soft sigh. At least, she thought miserably, Helena didn't have Legilimency.

"Good. I'm counting on you, my bright girl." With a final pat on Hermione's cheek, Helena turned to leave the bedroom. Yet she lingered in Hermione's doorway, fingers curled around the wooden frame. "This Harry—he's the Harry Potter, isn't he?"

Hermione nodded, bracing herself.

Her mother's brow furrowed as she mulled it over. "I'd rather you selected friends among witches, but I suppose he's a decent choice as far as wizards go." A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Could come in useful having The-Boy-Who-Lived in your corner."

Sidestepping the guilt crawling in her stomach, Hermione jumped at the chance to talk about her mother's school days. "You sound like a Slytherin. Were you a Slytherin, Mum?"

Helena's smile widened into a sly grin, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "No, dear. I was a Ravenclaw," she said, "though that tattered Hat did give serious consideration to Slytherin." Her fingers traced an invisible crest over her heart, the Ravenclaw eagle no doubt emblazoned there in her memories. "It said I had a pragmatic mind that appealed to the old relic's Slytherin sensibilities. It was for the best. I did not endear myself to many Slytherins."

"But—" Hermione stopped herself, and then charged forward. "Aren't you a pureblood?"

Slytherins and purebloods went hand in hand. She studied her mother—the graceful slope of her neck, the refined arch of her brows, the delicate curl of her lashes. Helena Granger radiated a sophisticated allure that Hermione suspected outshone even the rumored beauty of Narcissa Malfoy. Her letters arrived penned in a flowing script, each looping letter a testament to the meticulous penmanship drilled into pureblood witches from childhood. An aura of aristocratic poise clung to Helena, reminiscent of the seventh year Slytherin girls who glided through Hogwarts' halls with the grace of swans.

Hermione wanted to know.

Helena looked at Hermione for a long, long moment. The muffled chatter of Phil and William drifted in from downstairs, punctuated by Crookshanks' insistent meows as he likely weaved between their legs, demanding the treats they loved to sneak him, while Helena continued to study Hermione.

"I am no one of consequence," Helena said finally. "Think no more of it, bunny."

The door clicked closed behind Helena and Hermione slumped onto the edge of her mattress. Her pink-striped bedroom with pale pink bedclothes and pink vanity returned Hermione straight to her childhood every time she stepped into it. And that child was still what Helena saw, all these years later, breasts or no.

Hermione couldn't talk about the visions. If she was this strict about kissing, there was no telling how she would react when Hermione told her she regularly mixed her soul with Harry's when she held his hand. The visions that had—according to Snape—put her in the hospital. Her mother would overreact and remove her from school. Hermione's fingers tightened around her wand, the vine wood warm and reassuring in her grip. Losing Hogwarts was unthinkable. How would she ever get a job with only a third year's education? Losing the magical world would devastate her.

And losing Harry wasn't an option—not after these last wonderful months having a friend she could trust with her soul. She'd fight for him with every spell in her arsenal, guard his back like the viper she was.

For him, she would lie to her mother.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

Calm returned to Hermione's life as she stepped back onto the grounds of Hogwarts, leaving the confines of her mother's home behind. Hermione departed without uttering a word to her mother about the peculiar visions. Keeping this secret didn't weigh too heavily on her conscience—her mother's overreaction to even a simple kiss made Hermione's remorse fade away when she thought about it over the break.

Besides, wasn't it a little hypocritical when Helena had two partners?

The visions continued, remaining both manageable and painfree. She spent no more time in the hospital wing, and as long as she avoided thinking about what may have prompted her passing out, she remained healthy and unharmed. As long as she did that, they weren't truly a concern, were they?

Hermione attended her first Quidditch game toward the end of the term, cheering as Harry's fingers closed around the fluttering Snitch, sealing Gryffindor's decisive 230-20 victory over Slytherin. The crimson-clad crowd erupted, a tidal wave of noise crashing over the pitch, and she watched Harry be swarmed by his joyful teammates. Slytherin had mucked about too much on fouling and dirty tactics to truly contend, according to Ron and Neville, who she sat between for the final game of the season.

Theo agreed with that assessment when Hermione ran into him in the common room afterward, though she made sure to inquire outside Marcus Flint's hearing. The common room was full of depressed Slytherins after the game. She commiserated with Adrian, who Lee Jordan contended was the cleanest of all the Slytherin players during the commentary. During the depressing party, Draco seethed when Flint berated him for his dementor stunt backfiring spectacularly at the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game. "Helping Scarhead win by accident," Flint snarled, nostrils flaring like an enraged bull. "We would have beat Ravenclaw!"

Right after, exam revision started in earnest for the school. Hermione threw herself into it, setting aside research on Buckbeak's case after his execution date was announced. Knowing Macnair would see the execution through to get Lucius Malfoy's favor limited her abilities significantly, and she wouldn't waste precious study time on a legal case that had a slim chance of succeeding. Therefore, she spent more time in the library revising with Harry and a less-than-enthusiastic Ron who saw her revision diary and turned puce.

Soon the first week of June was ending with exams beginning the next Monday.

Hermione resigned herself to an Exceeds at best in Divination, setting the Divination book aside as the very last subject to study. When it was finally time to revise, Hermione scowled as she flipped open the Divination textbook, the musty smell of aged parchment wafting up. Studying this woolly subject felt like a colossal waste of time. She could already envision Professor Trelawney's wide, blinking eyes magnified by those cheap shades as the batty woman peered into a crystal ball and proclaimed Hermione lacked the "inner eye." No matter how thoroughly Hermione memorized planetary alignments or tea leaf symbols, her practical mind rebelled against ascribing meaning to such arbitrary patterns. Trelawney's grading was as opaque and illogical as peering into swirling mist.

She was also irritated that seventh years had stolen most of the library tables that evening so she had to study in the common room. Millicent had saved Hermione a spot in the common room, giving her a friendly nod as she arrived, but she'd left soon after, bored of studying. Her scowl as she flipped through Unfogging the Future reflected that dissatisfaction that not only could she not wish Harry good luck before exams started the next morning, but that she was at a cramped table in the Slytherin common room with Draco and Blaise unnecessarily spread out. At least Theo was keeping his notes contained in the spot next to her.

"This is ridiculous. A crystal ball practical?"

"Easy. All you need is a spooky voice. Like this." Draco leaned back in his chair, crossing his eyes and imitating Trelawney's misty, over-dramatic cadence. "A giant bread loaf will devour the spectacles come the twenty-fifth of August," he said, to snorts of laughter from Blaise and Theo. Hermione rolled her eyes, fighting a reluctant grin. Leave it to Malfoy to make a mockery of the one class she struggled in.

Hermione snorted despite herself. "Giant bread loaf?"

"Sign of prosperity and luck," he said, tapping his knuckles on the cover of Unfogging the Future.

"Spectacles?"

"Puts things in perspective," he said.

"So… you'll make money if you change your perspective?" Hermione said, processing it with an amused head shake. "Why August 25th?"

"It's the Quidditch World Cup that day. I'll definitely be placing bets on the match, no matter which teams are playing. That bat won't have a clue whether I cleaned up or not," he said, chin resting on his palms, grey eyes sparkling with mischief as he grinned across the table at her. "Clever, isn't it?"

"I'll reserve judgment until I see how this brilliant scheme of yours pans out during exams."

Draco scoffed, leaning back with a smirk. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first. Face it, Granger, I'm a genius."

Blaise leaned back in his chair, resting one ankle on his knee as he smirked at Hermione. "Trelawney's an easy mark." He twirled a quill between his fingers. "Just feed her some vague mumbo-jumbo about grim omens and impending doom. Throw in a few dramatic gasps and furrow your brow like you've peered into the abyss. Draco nailed it—play to her delusions, and that 'EE' is in the bag."

"We'll see," she said, lips pursed. Spinning vague fortunes from thin air seemed a stretch for her pragmatic mind, more accustomed to cold facts than whimsical fantasy. Still, she supposed she could give it a try—the worst that could happen was Trelawney saw through her amateurish attempts.

But that was for the practical. She turned her attention back to the Divination textbook, resolving to master the written portion of the examination as best she could. Trelawney's grading methods might be questionable, but Hermione was nothing if not thorough. Even for frivolous subjects.

As the group settled into a comfortable silence, each absorbed in their respective notes and textbooks, Hermione relaxed at the easy camaraderie with her fellow Slytherins. Unlike Millicent, who often crammed at the last minute before simply winging it on test day, a strategy that somehow still earned the burly Slytherin respectable marks, the three Slytherin boys did become diligent near exam time. As irritating as Draco could be, she could admit that once he settled down that he wasn't a bad study companion. Draco's quill scratched across his parchment as he resumed his revision for Ancient Runes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously copied runic symbols. Despite his penchant for theatrics in Trelawney's class, when it came to mapping constellations and tracking celestial movements, he was an expert. Hermione had to grudgingly admit, the git had a natural knack for Astronomy that outreached her own. And as loath as she was to stroke his already inflated ego, having a study partner who could keep pace proved surprisingly... tolerable.

Blaise also wasn't a terrible study companion. His method of rewriting sections from the textbook based entirely on memory was rather effective. At the moment, he had a half foot of parchment covered in his elegant script, detailing everything he knew about Cheering Charms without once referencing the book. While his retention wasn't quite at her level, she begrudgingly acknowledged his technique could prove useful when revising for exams. Perhaps she could incorporate it into her own study regimen, assuming she didn't hurt her wrist from so much writing.

Theo, naturally, was an excellent study partner. Organized. He methodically crafted potential exam essay prompts throughout the term, compiling a thick stack of parchment covered in his neat cursive scrawl. During revision periods, Theo would test himself by answering his practice questions. Hermione admired his diligence, even if his intensity bordered on obsessive at times.

Sitting with them was nice, but certainly unusual. A few months ago, she would have balked at the idea of studying alongside Draco. But their fragile truce held, his sneers and insults dwindling to the occasional barbed comment about Potter, and no slurs, as the term resumed. He did not even bring up the debt he had over Hermione, even obliquely, surprising her immensely. The golden bough ritual had changed their dynamic for the better after an admittedly rough start. And Theo had become someone she regularly walked with to and from classes, although he left the conversation mostly up to Millicent and Hermione.

And Blaise was… well, Blaise.

"You certainly look well rested," he said with a grin as Pansy descended the stairs from the girls' dormitory, her hair artfully rumpled and her cheeks a pretty pink as if she'd just woken up from—Hermione checked her watch—a second nap.

“Studying still?” she asked, throwing herself into the empty seat between Malfoy and Hermione on the side of the table. “It’s so pretty outside. Let’s go to the lake.”

Malfoy sighed. “Tiwaz, Granger.”

“Guiding spear,” she said, without looking up from Unfogging the Future. “It’s associated with the north star, a guide.”

Pansy's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning as she leaned toward him. "Astronomy is your thing though, right Draco? Didn't you say your mother had you stargazing before you could walk?"

Malfoy shrugged off Pansy's pawing hand. "That's Astronomy, you dolt. This is Ancient Runes." He tapped his quill against the parchment, leaving an ink blot resembling a black hole in his scowling irritation. "A subject I actually have to crack a book for."

Pansy jutted out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. "But you've been hunched over these books all day." She brushed her manicured hand over the shoulder of his dark green sweater, leaning in so close that her chest grazed his arm. "We still need to celebrate your birthday properly..."

Malfoy jerked back. Hermione saw Pansy brace and knew the other girl was preparing for a mouthful of his signature venom. "Exams start tomorrow, in case you haven't processed that fact. My parents actually have standards and expect results."

“I’ll celebrate Malfoy’s birthday with you, Pansy,” Blaise said with a grin as Pansy flushed and glared at the blond wizard. He waggled his eyebrows when Pansy turned her glare on him.

"Shut it," Pansy snarled, face contorting into an ugly sneer as she abruptly shoved away from the table, the legs of her chair screeching against the stone floor. Her black curls bounced with indignation as she whirled on her heel and stormed out.

Blaise swiveled back to the table, his dark eyes locking onto Hermione's with a mischievous gleam. With a subtle nod toward Malfoy, his smirk widened into a wolfish grin. Hermione refocused on her Divination notes, suppressing a snort at the twin splotches of crimson staining Malfoy's pale cheeks. If the prat was so mortified by his clingy girlfriend, maybe he should grow a spine and detach the whiny leech from his side. Fiance in France, her foot.

After the next eighty pages of the textbook, Hermione took a respite and reached over to stroke Crookshanks' ginger fur. The large cat was nestled comfortably in Theo's lap, purring as the quiet Slytherin absentmindedly scratched behind his ears with his free hand. Crookshanks blinked at Hermione with contented orange eyes.

"I'm surprised you're not off following that big black dog around the grounds again," Hermione told him quietly.

It was startlingly easy to distract Blaise from studying. He perked up. "You're friends with the Grim now, Granger? Should we be concerned?"

"Crooks is," she said.

"I've seen them together on the grounds. It does look like the Grim," Theo said softly. Crookshanks kneaded his paws contentedly against Theo's thighs, rumbling like a tiny engine in response to the quiet boy's voice. Though their conversations flowed more easily these days, Theo still seemed to shrink inward whenever their Housemates surrounded them, as if the weight of their presence constricted his vocal cords.

Malfoy barely glanced up from his Runes notes. "Sounds perfect for your Divination practical. Go on then, Granger. Give us your best ominous prediction about the big bad doggie."

Hermione rolled her eyes, her hand stilling on Crookshanks' back. Honestly, did Malfoy have to mock everything? Still, she supposed she could humor him—if only to wipe away that hint of a smirk on his face.

Squaring her shoulders, she adopted her best imitation of Trelawney's misty, dramatic cadence. "The beast prowls the grounds, a dark omen of death and despair," she intoned, letting her voice drop into an ominous hush as she swept her gaze around the table. "Its presence heralds a cosmic shift that will shake the very foundations of our world, where death may be defied if only the messenger is trusted..."

Theo's hand had paused mid-stroke on Crookshanks' back, his hazel eyes widened almost comically. Even Blaise looked momentarily taken aback by her performance. Malfoy's mouth had dropped open ever so slightly as he stared at her, ink dripping onto his parchment.

She collapsed back in her chair. "Merlin, that sounds ridiculous."

"You sound exactly like her!" Blaise said. He shivered. "Bloody hell."

Draco's chuckled. "Have you noticed how well she mimics Snape too?" He shuddered. "It's like she's been possessed by him. Makes me look over my shoulder whenever she starts parroting his words back at us."

"I do not!"

"You do it with all of our professors," Theo said. His brow furrowed as if he were thinking about it while she was plunged into silent horror. "Even Professor Hagrid."

Hermione's cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth to protest, but quickly realized there was no use denying their claims. Maybe once or twice she'd noticed the hint of a Scottish burr in her voice when she recited a fact she'd learned in Transfigurations class. But still!

"I do not sound like Professor Hagrid," she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. A reluctant grin tugged at the corners of her mouth as Theo's lips twitched, though his expression looked fairly apologetic.

"Well, you are a bit smaller than him," Draco drawled with an exaggerated once-over. "Might be difficult to properly mimic that oafish lumbering."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the blond wizard. "I'll have you know I can squash you just fine, thank you very much."

"And wouldn't he like that?" Blaise barked out a laugh at Draco's face and then covered his head when Draco's large Ancient Runes textbook tried to slam into his face. "Ow! Ow! I yield!"

The two boys jostled the table, sending a few quills clattering to the floor. Crookshanks yowled in protest and leapt from Theo's lap, stalking off with his bottlebrush tail held high.

"Don't glare at me," Blaise said to Theo as he retrieved his fallen quill. "Blame this prat."

"Oh, piss off," Draco grumbled, while Hermione buried her head back into her textbook. It was... nice, she realized, to engage in such playful back-and-forth with them. Only a few months ago, any teasing from the Slytherin boys would have been laced with cruelty.

Which only meant she shouldn't trust it, her more pragmatic brain told her. However, she was willing to withhold judgment for the time being.

"Oh, um," she said later, as she stood up, ready to take a shower before bedtime. Draco's attention focused in on her, the faint line between his brows disappearing as he looked up at her, standing next to his spot while she pulled her bag tighter over her shoulder. It was the first time she'd done this, but if they were neutral Housemates and not only bitter enemies, she owed it to herself to act in good faith—and so she took a quick breath before she lost her nerve. "Happy Birthday, Malfoy."

Malfoy's expression softened ever so slightly as a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Why, Granger," he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't realize you cared."

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn't quite suppress the flutter his undivided attention put in her stomach. When he wasn't acting like a prat—or unnecessarily trying to control who she talked to—he could be quite disarming. Looks wise, she hastily corrected herself.

"Don't read too much into it," she said. "I'm just being polite."

His smile broadened. "Thanks."

With a small shake of her head, she turned and headed for the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

"Are you ever going to tell me how the f*ck you got on her good side?" Blaise's voice was a whisper, just loud enough for Hermione to catch the words as she walked away.

Malfoy's reply was curt, snappish. "None of your business. Now stop bothering me, I'm trying to revise."

"It's definitely not your personality—ow!"

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Harry advanced on Hermione, his green eyes narrowed with contempt. "You're a disgrace, Hermione," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Your mother was right to remove you from Hogwarts. With your abysmal grades and appalling behavior, you don't belong here. Kissing him. How could I ever call you a friend?"

A lump formed in Hermione's throat.

Hermione steadied her trembling hand, gripping her wand tightly. She couldn't let this manifestation of her insecurities overpower her. Drawing a deep breath, she channeled her determination. "Riddikulus!" she shouted.

In his place stood a miniature version of Professor Hagrid shaking his fist up at Hermione.

A giggle escaped Hermione's lips as the absurd sight banished her fear. The boggart-Hagrid's exaggerated disapproval was almost endearing. The boggart whipped back into the ancient wardrobe from whence Professor Lupin had released it. Hermione beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as she hurried over to Professor Lupin. Her curls bounced with each step, framing flushed cheeks still hot from laughter. "Did you see that?" she asked breathlessly. "The boggart didn't stand a chance!"

Remus Lupin's kind eyes crinkled at the corners as he returned her smile, though his gaze darted back to the spot where Harry had stood for a moment. "That it did, Miss Granger," he agreed, gesturing for her to proceed to the end of the obstacle course.

As she moved to obey, Hermione's smile faltered, a sense of urgency gripping her. She turned back, fixing Lupin with an intense stare. "Please take your potion tonight," she implored, the words tumbling out in a rush. When his face drained of color, she pressed on. "Please, sir. It's very important you are in your right mind tonight."

Lupin's brow furrowed. "Miss Granger—"

"I've got to go!" Hermione cut him off, already backing away. "I'll see you tonight!"

She hurried to rejoin the cluster of Slytherin students lounging by the lake, studying the obstacles they'd soon face. Millicent eyed her curiously as she approached. "What was all that about?"

Lupin stared after Hermione for a moment, but then Tracey Davies' impatient voice cut through the stillness. "Professor? I'm next, yeah?" The half-blood Slytherin girl tapped her foot, and Lupin remembered himself, smoothing his shabby robes as he gestured for her to proceed.

Pansy let out a derisive laugh as she focused on Hermione. "Trying out your feminine wiles on professors now? Good luck, Granger."

Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste, lips pursing. "Don't be crass." She shook her head, bushy curls bouncing. "My boggart manifested as Snape expelling me for abysmal grades. Lupin was reassuring me after I banished it."

Except Hermione hadn't been remotely flustered. After four grueling days of exams, her confidence was soaring.

"Likely because I've passed these before—except this one," she remarked lightly as she strolled with Harry away from the Divination classroom, having just fumbled spectacularly with the crystal ball practical. A wry smile played at her lips. "However, I do think my practical went well. Trelawney seemed impressed when I spoke of a big black Grim haunting the grounds."

Harry looking around the hall cluttered with other students waiting to take their practical, lowering his voice. "What you said to Lupin… do you think you're regaining more memories?"

"I don't know," she said, wrinkling her nose. "The words just came out. They're undoubtedly my words in my voice, but it's as if I'm a vessel channeling some deeper message I can't grasp. It's so frustrating—but if I try to think about it too hard, I get a headache, and I start feeling like I did in the hospital wing."

"Definitely don't do that, then." Harry leaned in, brow furrowed. "What do you think Lupin's potion is about? Do you think it's that nasty one I told you I saw Snape bring to him?"

Hermione avoided his gaze, busying herself with rummaging through her rucksack unnecessarily. "Honestly, I'm clueless," she mumbled, shoving books around without thought.

Lupin being a werewolf wasn't her secret to tell, even to Harry.

Harry nudged her shoulder with a slight grin creeping over his face. "I'm surprised you're here at all. I thought you'd quit. I heard you punched Trelawney and set fire to her divining rods on your way out."

"Please. I simply knocked over one of the silly woman's crystal balls with my overstuffed bag. A complete accident." She sniffed indignantly when Harry snorted. "Typical that the gossips butchered every detail."

"Well, you did quit," he said. "Or I thought you said you had. Change your mind?"

"Professor Snape demanded I take it after..." Hermione glanced around the hall where students waited for friends, speaking in hushed tones, oblivious to their conversation. She waved at Millicent, who had just climbed down from the trapdoor. "After I was in the infirmary," she continued softly, gaze still on Millicent as the girl approached. "I couldn't explain what actually occurred, so now he believes I have the Sight." Her lip curled.

"You!?"

Harry clapped a hand over his mouth, barely smothering a guffaw.

Hermione forcefully pushed Harry's shoulder, spinning on her heel to stalk off with Millicent coming up at just the perfect time. She tossed a disdainful glare over her shoulder, nose upturned like a petulant child. Harry's grin only widened until it dipped.

"Well, Granger? How did you do?"

Draco slid into the spot on her other side. His head was bent toward her and she had a moment of panic at his proximity, until she remembered herself. They were in a corridor below Trelawney's classroom with other third-years taking up space in the hall, waiting to take their practical, including an irritated Pansy complaining to a bored Blaise. Draco Malfoy was not trying to do anything.

"Fine, I think. How did your bread spectacles turn out?"

"The utter lunatic tried to give me financial advice," he said and she laughed. "The Ancient Runes test was much easier than I thought it would be. What did you think of question seven?"

She perked up. Finally, someone wanted to talk about it. "Oh! I thought so too. Number seven was trickier than it first looked—"

Millicent groaned. "You swots are not rehashing an exam around me."

Hermione looked in askance at her friend who always refused to participate in Hermione's exam post-mortems. "You're not even in the class, so what does it matter?"

"It matters."

Malfoy glared over her head at Millicent. "Number seven, Granger."

Putting speed into her step, Millicent hurried ahead of them. "I hope you both got it wrong."

***

The afternoon was still and ominous as Hermione, Harry, and Ron approached Hagrid's hut and Harry knocked on the door. Buckbeak's execution loomed over them like a dark cloud.

"You lot shouldn' be here," Hagrid urged, his voice gruff but tinged with worry. His gaze easily went over their heads to look up the path from the gates. "Go on back up ter the castle," he said with a growl in his voice. "You shouldn't see this."

Hermione glanced around at the approaching Ministry employees, her jaw clenched. The Ministry officials were easy to pick out beside Dumbledore. But it was the man following the group of Ministry officials caught Hermione's eye – dark hair, blunt features, and a hard expression. He carried an axe, the blade looking dull and dirty. As he drew closer, he took in the children on Hagrid's doorstep and Hagrid himself before his gaze fell upon Hermione. He frowned slightly, as if trying to place her. Hermione mimicked him. There was something unsettling about his face. Wrong.

Hagrid's beard twitched as he ground his teeth. "Walden Macnair. Official executioner." Hermione continued staring at the man. It was as if his proportions were off. He gripped the axe with calloused, meaty hands, the blade curving like a cruel smile. "Cold bastard," Hagrid spat under his breath, disgust twisting his features. He turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Git yerselves gone, now. Can't have yeh mixed up in this bloody mess."

Hermione stole another look at the executioner as they departed, her skin prickling with unease when their eyes met. Macnair's flat gaze followed her, his face an inscrutable mask, lips pressed into a thin line.

She was very glad to hurry up the hillside toward the castle again, though she did cast a quick glance back toward Hagrid's hut and the gloomy, creepy forest behind it.

Ron caught up to Hermione, grimacing with what looked like sympathy. "You know, Hermione, uh, if you need a shoulder to cry on..."

She threw him a confused look, glancing away from the forest. "Why would I cry?"

"These arms are ready to—I mean. Uh. Because it's sad?" His face twisted in confusion. "Buckbeak's going to die, isn't he?"

"Is he?" she asked.

Ron elbowed Harry, who was stifling a snigg*r. "Look, do Slytherin girls cry or not? I'm trying to be a good friend here—"

Harry snigg*red even harder.

Behind them, the sound of an axe striking wood echoed through the night, followed by a short, abbreviated cry.

Hermione stopped, turning toward the noise. Looking, looking, scanning the treetops which were void outlines against a dark blue velvet sky. Where was it, where was it? She held her breath. Don't tell her—

"Ow!"

Hermione flinched, whipping around as Ron started struggling with his robes with red-faced frustration.

Harry's brow furrowed, taking in Ron's frantic movements. "What's wrong?"

"Scabbers!" Ron hissed through gritted teeth, fingers clenched around the wriggling lump in his pocket. "The bloody rat won't stay still and he just sank his teeth into my hand. Ow! Quit it, you stupid lump—"

The rat jumped and ran. Ron, swearing, took chase.

Hermione tensed as a dark shape detached itself from the castle's shadows, hurtling towards the running boy with alarming speed. She grabbed Harry's arm who was busy watching the commotion. "Hold on a moment."

The shadow resolved itself to be a massive dog, bounding towards them with alarming speed. Before Hermione could blink, the dog lunged at Ron, its jaws clamping down on his arm. Ron yelled and thrashed at the dog but it wasn't letting go, and soon enough its jaws clamped down on his arm with savage force. In only a second, it was dragging Ron away.

It had dragged him a third of the way across the lawn away from them before Harry or Hermione could blink. Ron's agonized yells pierced the night air as the beast hauled him towards the violently thrashing branches of the Whomping Willow.

"Go get a professor!" Harry barked at Hermione, shoving her toward the castle before he took off sprinting after the dog and his friend.

Hermione didn't hesitate, her feet pounding against the lawn as she raced to keep up. No way was she leaving. She clutched her wand tight, the willow's flailing limbs growing larger with every stride.

"The servant of the Dark Lord—" The words came out of her unbidden, on their own, pulled from another world, and in her mind's eye she saw another Harry superimposed over her own, racing toward his own world's Whomping Willow.

"No," she gasped. "No."

She tripped her way up the tunnel underneath the Whomping Willow. Harry, white faced and panting, put her behind him when the mangy, stinking Sirius Black loomed at the end in a dusty house. Not just any house, but the Shrieking Shack.

Sirius Black, the servant of Voldemort—except, except—

"You think my rat is a dead man! He's crazy, absolute nutter, Harry you've gotta run!"

Sirius Black loomed at the end of the dusty shack, his matted hair hanging in greasy clumps around his gaunt face. His eyes burned with unhinged intensity, wide and bloodshot, the pupils mere pinpricks in that crazed stare. His filthy robes hung off his skeletal frame in tatters, starved body visible through the gaps. Sirius looked less like a man and more a feral creature consumed by singular, manic purpose—an obsession that had clearly driven him to the brink of madness.

And then Professor Lupin ducked through the door and looked around with those familiar, gentle amber eyes.

Remus met Sirius's wild-eyed gaze, and understanding passed between them in a silent exchange the three students could only watch. With a slow nod, Remus accepted Sirius' words. He crossed the room in two long strides and enveloped his friend in a fierce embrace, clapping him on the back as if to reassure himself Sirius was really there.

"I thought — I'm sorry. Forgive me."

"Forgiven, friend. Now, about the rat in the room."

"Professor!" Hermione and Harry both cried, with horror dawning over Harry's expression like a blood moon.

Hermione's throat constricted, her vocal cords paralyzed as she tried to scream out the truth. Her lips refused to part, sealing Lupin's secret inside. Puppet-like, her body drifted towards Harry, movements not her own. "Nothing's what it seems," she murmured, the words bitter on her tongue. As bitter and useless as the wand in her pocket that hadn't been taken away, that some unseen force inside her kept tucked away instead of using it against the criminal.

And now Lupin was betraying them.

Harry snapped his head towards her, brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Then Lupin looked to Ron. "Your rat, Mister Weasley, please."

Ron reluctantly handed it over. Lupin's face changed when he grabbed the rat, ignoring how it squeaked and twisted. It sharpened like a wolf's.

"You were friends," Hermione said louder. Both men turned toward her, the rat struggling greatly in Lupin's clasped hands. "He turned into an Animagus to keep you company before the Wolfsbane potion allowed you to comfortably live with the curse without hurting anyone. He's the Grim—the black dog that's been roaming the grounds." Oh, Merlin, her cat was fraternizing with a criminal!

"None of this matters!" Sirius cried. "Who cares about the—"

"They all did." Lupin ignored Black, assessing her with a long, considering stare while the rat continued its struggle. "Yes. All three of my best friends learned how to become Animagi to keep me company. How long have you known, Miss Granger?"

"When Professor Snape substituted for you," she said. "The homework he assigned."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Remarkable. And you never told?"

"Told us what?" Harry's gaze was bouncing back and forth between them. Though he was obviously concerned about his friend being in pain with a broken leg, he was too caught up in the story about his parents' traitor.

"You're our first good Defense professor," she snapped back at Lupin. "Now are you going to call your dog off so we can confirm the truth?"

"Hermione?" Harry asked as Ron immediately went into spluttering.

"The rat's an Animagus," she said. She frowned. "Or I think it is."

Harry's eyes widened as he stared at her. "You've seen…?"

Someone yelled when Snape stepped into the room, or dropped his concealment charm, appearing like a specter from nowhere. His sallow face was twisted into a sneer as he set his burning glare on Lupin standing protectively over Sirius Black, ignoring entirely Ron whimpering on the floor clutching his injured leg, and Harry and Hermione frozen in shock.

"Vengeance is sweet," Snape hissed, his wand aimed squarely at Lupin's heart. "How I've longed for this opportunity, werewolf. To catch you harboring a convicted criminal. If I am lucky, I will see the Dementors perform the Kiss twice tonight."

Hermione whipped her wand around.

"Expelliarmus!"

Snape's wand flew from his grasp, clattering across the dusty floor. His cold, beetle-black eyes widened in surprise as he whirled to face Hermione.

"Miss Granger. You do not know what you do!"

"Neither do you!" she shot back. Words came tumbling, from where she didn't know, and now she knew why she hadn't drawn her wand until this moment. So no one could disarm her. So no one could interrupt this moment. "The future… it will be decided tonight. Black is innocent. It's Pettigrew who killed her. Pettigrew betrayed her! The rat, Ron's rat, he's hid all this time as an unregistered Animagus. Please just help us check, and if I'm wrong, do whatever you need to do. But please give me this one thing first." Hermione refused to falter under his withering glare. "There's more to this than you know, Professor," she pleaded.

"Is that what they've said?" Fury blazed in Snape's eyes as he turned his glare back to Lupin. "And I'm to take the word of a werewolf and his criminal accomplice?" He sneered at Sirius, who glowered back defiantly. "You expect me to believe that Weasley's pet rat is actually an Animagus who has been hiding for over a decade?"

"It's the truth," Lupin spoke up, his voice strained but firm. "Peter Pettigrew was my friend, and he betrayed James and Lily to the Dark Lord."

Hermione's heart raced as she tried to keep her wand steady. She had to make Snape listen, had to convince him of the truth before he did something reckless. "Professor, please," she implored. "One chance—either way, the true culprit will be confirmed tonight."

Snape's eyes bored into hers, his expression unreadable. For a long, tense moment, the room was utterly silent save for Ron's pained whimpers. Finally, Snape gave a curt nod, his jaw clenched tightly.

"Very well, Miss Granger," he said, his voice low and dangerous. He didn't blink as he glared down Lupin and Black. "Go ahead. Prove yourselves."

Lupin wasted no time. His calloused fingers uncurled, allowing Scabbers to tumble to the dusty floor. Without missing a beat, Lupin whipped his wand in a sharp arc, snapping out, "Revelio Animagus." A brilliant azure flare burst from the wand tip, bathing the thrashing rat in its electric glow. Scabbers writhed, his fur bristling as if charged with static.

Hermione had witnessed all manner of magic since arriving at Hogwarts, but the grotesque metamorphosis of Scabbers into a human form made her stomach churn. She grimaced as the rat's body stretched and contorted, its limbs elongating obscenely. Shoulders burst forth from the rodent's form in a nauseating, unnatural birth. Then, with a sickening crunch of bones snapping and reshaping, the rat began to distort. Limbs elongated, stretching the skin taut until it split in oozing crimson cracks. A potbellied torso inflated, the tail shrinking into its base. Within seconds, a balding man with a pointed nose and watery eyes cowered where the rat once lay, wheezing in ragged gasps.

Ron gagged audibly beside her as the transformation completed, a pudgy little man collapsing onto the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack.

"Right!" Sirius Black growled, his voice raspy from disuse as he scrambled towards the discarded knife on the floor.

"No!" Harry shouted, throwing himself into the convict's path. "He needs to see justice."

Sirius tried to shove past him him. "You don't understand!"

"He killed my parents!" Harry yelled back, rage flushing his face. "Of course I bloody understand."

The trembling wizard on the floor looked around frantically, his watery eyes wide with terror. "B-But I didn't..." His voice faltered as Snape lifted his wandless hand, the potions master's expression burning with loathing. Pettigrew shrank back, gaze darting about the room. "I..."

"Stupefy," Snape intoned, hand lashing out as unrestrained magic exploded from him. A jet of red light struck Pettigrew squarely in the chest, freezing him in place. "Incarcerous."

Thick ropes burst from Snape's hand, coiling tightly around the immobilized man and binding him securely. Pettigrew's eyes bulged comically before rolling back in his head as he slumped over, unconscious and trussed up like a slab of meat.

Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the pathetic figure, her mind whirling. Peter Pettigrew, the same man who had betrayed Harry's parents to Voldemort over a decade ago, was alive and captured before them.

Snape lowered his wand, his lip curled in a sneer of disgust as he regarded the unconscious Pettigrew. "Well, Miss Granger," he said, his voice laced with contempt. "It appears you were correct after all."

"No! Let me at him, Snape," Sirius snarled, fighting against both Harry and Lupin now. His face was twisted in fury as he fought to get past them. "Let me earn my stay in Azkaban!"

Snape looked at him coolly. "Stupefy."

Sirius fell to the floor with a thump.

Snape held out his hand to Hermione. "My wand, Miss Granger."

"Oh! Sorry! You were just doing so well without it," she said, stumbling over to him in her haste.

He took it without looking at her as he turned his wand on Lupin. "I would appreciate that ability to not leave this room. Now, are you going to give me trouble and insist on vigilante justice as well, wolf?"

Lupin had no standing to look at Snape with such shrewedness, but he did so unapologetically as his former best friends were unconscious at his feet. "What do you plan to do?"

"I will take them both up to the castle where the Ministry will undoubtedly be called." His voice was a silky threat. "Any objections?"

Lupin swallowed hard, squeezing Harry's shoulder. "Thank you, Severus. We will follow you to the castle. If I may, I will assist with Mister Weasley?"

Hermione interjected. "You won't be assisting us tonight. Did you take the Wolfsbane?"

Lupin started, Snape turning toward her, and then Lupin's haggard expression softened. "I did. And you're right, of course. On four paws I will be little help."

Snape considered this for a moment before he nodded. "Potter, Granger, help Weasley. I will handle Black and Pettigrew. The wolf can remain here," he added with a curl of his lip toward Lupin. "Since a sight of a werewolf will only cause undue panic on the Hogwarts grounds."

Lupin inclined his head, and Hermione stepped in with a thought. "No offense, sir, but I'll handle Black. I'm more afraid of that rat escaping."

"I assure you the assistance is unnecessary," he said, sneering. He jutted his chin toward the door. "And three points from Slytherin for not giving your Head of House due respect, Miss Granger."

"Sir," she said, ducking her head. "Please at least make sure he remains unconscious. I feel it's important."

"If I ever have to hear about what these children feel anymore—" Snape's mutters disappeared into the hall as he floated out both Black and Pettigrew in front of him. But she did hear him layer a sleeping spell atop his Stupefy when he was in the hallway, so she considered it a win.

Ron grumbled as she helped pull him up. "That would've been fifty points if I said that!"

Harry, putting his shoulder under Ron's on his other side, grunted when Ron got to his feet. "Perks of being Slytherin, mate." He glanced up at her and winked. "Let's get you to the hospital wing. He'll bring Sirius there, I think."

There was hope in his eyes, hope that he might actually, finally have family who cared for him. Hermione wanted to keep it there.

***

She said two words as soon as she saw Draco leave their final examination of the day: lover's touch.

Now Draco stood beside her just inside the treeline of the Forbidden Forest, his face the color of whey. On her other side waited stoic, calm Theo, a horrific organic stench wafting from the bucket next to his feet.

"It's dangerous!"

"It's within reason," Hermione insisted.

"Why are you whinging? It's a simple task." Theo glared over at Draco before turning to Hermione. "Let me do it instead, Hermione."

"She didn't ask you," Draco said, sneering. "And it's not simple, either. We're stealing a bleeding hippogriff out from under Ministry officials and Dumbledore. My father—"

"If you can't handle a simple task…"

Hermione tuned out the hushed bickering, her focus locked on the trio of figures striding across the grounds. As they neared, she recognized the messy black hair and glasses of Harry, Ron's lanky frame, and her own frizzy hair. They were coming to support Hagrid during Buckbeak's execution. Through the grimy window of Hagrid's hut, she spotted the half-giant's massive form pacing, pausing to peer outside at the proud hippogriff tethered in the pumpkin patch, a heavy chain dangling from the collar around its feathered neck.

"In a few minutes," Hermione said as the threesome disappeared around the hut, shutting the two boys up from their whispered argument, "Dumbledore is bringing up the executioner from the front gates. We have almost two minutes after they see Buckbeak to release him and take him a safe distance away until it's dark."

Earlier, when Hermione had told him the task, Draco's had been excited, eager to help. However, now he looked faintly queasy—and irritated that Hermione had invited Theo along, if the glares he was casting at the other Slytherin boy were any indication.

"Why can't we just do it now?"

"Because they'll suspect Professor Hagrid released the beast, which is not the plan," Theo snapped back. He looked to Hermione while Draco steamed and his gaze dropped to the gold chain just peeking out above the collar of her robes. "You're certain of the time-frame, I presume, but where should he take him? Into the forest?"

"This is crazy," Draco muttered.

Cutting off Theo before he could snap at Draco again, Hermione stepped up to Draco. Instantly, Draco's attention focused on her, the blacks of his eyes growing a little wider. Reaching out, she squeezed Draco's elbow, feeling the tension radiating from him. "I promised you only reasonable favors, didn't I? If you truly don't want to do this, if you don't think it's reasonable…" She drew off, watching him as he comprehended her meaning. "Go back to the castle."

Draco stared at Hermione, face sharpened, the dark shadows of his face startling her for a moment. Was he related to Sirius Black somehow? Why did he look so…

"No, I'll do it for you," he said, his voice low as he dipped his head toward hers. "I gave you my word."

Relief washed over Hermione. She offered him a small smile and gave his arm another gentle squeeze. "Thanks."

His mouth curved. The air turned, warmed, and the aura around him shifted into one that made her nerves stand up. An aura full of twisted, ravenous vines, the barbs ready to pull her in as soon as she touched them.

He held her gaze, his eyes searching her face. Close, too close. Hermione dropped her arm, and a small crease appeared between his brows when she stepped away.

She started digging in the pocket of her robes, ignoring the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. "Right, well, we should get into position then." She offered him a vial of Polyjuice Potion from her robes. "This contains a few hairs from a second year Hufflepuff boy, just slightly shorter than you. It should last long enough."

"You stole Polyjuice from Snape?" Malfoy exclaimed.

"She made it," Theo said back, and then looked at her, abashed. "Didn't you?"

"I did," she said primly. Why Theo still remained so nervous around her, like she would bite if he said something wrong, she didn't know. It wasn't as if she'd Stunned him again. "That's why it'll only work for about an hour."

Draco eyed the murky liquid with distaste but took the vial, uncorking it and downing the contents in one gulp. He shuddered violently as the transformation began, his features bubbling and shifting grotesquely. When it was over, a stocky Hufflepuff boy stood before them, glaring at them through dark blue eyes.

"Merlin's beard, these shoes are pinching already," Draco grumbled, wiggling his toes.

Hermione held out her hand to Draco. "Take off your tie."

"Why?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "Because it's a Slytherin tie. We can't let anyone trace it back to our House."

"It was just a question," Draco grumbled as he worked it free. Hermione cast an obscuring charm on his House crest. "We're already in second place for the Cup. It's not like anything will happen if we lose points."

"As if you were whinging about points earlier."

While Hermione thought Theo speaking more had improved her relationship with him considerably, the look Malfoy shot him said the other Slytherin disagreed. Heartily.

Well, tough. He could get over it, because Hermione trusted Theo to have her back and trusted Draco about as far as she trusted her own Divination abilities.

Through the trees, she spotted the approaching figures of the Ministry officials, with her past self, Harry, and Ron being politely but firmly pushed away from Hagrid's hut.

Draco's gaze followed hers and his eyes widened comically. "There's two of you?" he hissed, glancing between Hermione and her past self.

"Shut it," Theo snapped, shooting Draco a quelling look.

"But—"

"Don't worry about it, Theo. For your information," she told Draco, "I have a Time Turner."

"Wha-How!" he spluttered. While Harry had been impressed when she told him how she was going to free Buckbeak, Draco looked indignant. "Those aren't just given away!"

"Professor Snape and Dumbledore helped me petition the Ministry for it this year so I could take all my classes." Hermione couldn't help but laugh quietly at the gob smacked look on Draco's face. "Don't worry about it. This is my last night with the Time-Turner, so I may as well break a few rules. Look, there they are." The Ministry officials had walked around the side of the hut to look at Buckbeak, and she swallowed as Dumbledore started to chivvy the three wizards inside for a spot of tea in his merry manner. Next to her, Draco gulped.

Hermione watched as her past self, Harry, and Ron turned away to head back toward the castle. Taking the opportunity, she gave Draco a gentle shove towards Buckbeak.

"Go on then. And mind your manners this time."

Draco shot her a nervous look but started making his way over to the hippogriff, adopting an awkward shuffling gait. Theo frowned after him, and shuffled over next to Hermione.

"Are you sure it's wise to send Malfoy near the beast that attacked him before?" he asked in a low voice.

"Probably not." Hermione shrugged. "Let's hope hippogriffs can't see through Polyjuice."

She watched as the disguised Draco approached Buckbeak, dipping into an exaggerated bow. The hippogriff regarded him warily for a moment before returning the gesture. Satisfied, Draco began carefully undoing the tether, glancing back at them occasionally.

Beside her, Theo tsked under his breath. "Can't believe he did it."

A small smile played on Hermione's lips as she watched Draco work. "So he does know how to be polite. Get out the bait. We need a way to lure it this way."

"Disgusting," Theo said, dipping his hand into the bucket of dead moles and rodents she'd been harvesting in the evenings all week for this moment.

Hermione wrinkled her nose at the pungent odor as Theo withdrew a handful of the rotting morsels. Unwilling to leave him alone to the dirty work, she grabbed her own handful. She glanced back towards Hagrid's hut to ensure they were still unobserved. Dumbledore was in the window—his back turned away, purple and silver starred hat bobbing on his head as he spoke to someone inside.

Draco was now untethering the final knot of the chain, his transfigured features set in concentration. As soon as the thick metal links fell free, the hippogriff tossed its magnificent feathered head, stretching its wings in an instinctive bid for freedom.

"Now!" Hermione hissed urgently.

Theo flung the bait in an arcing trail leading into the Forbidden Forest. With a loud squawk, Buckbeak immediately zeroed in on the scent and began following the gruesome trail at a trot.

"Come on!" Draco called, hurrying to catch up and herd the creature deeper into the treeline.

Hermione and Theo raced to keep ahead, wands at the ready as the forest's darkness swallowed them. Night had come. Behind them, they heard a sharp thwack and a cry. White faced, Draco urged Buckbeak faster. Hermione and Theo continued dropping bait along the ground, urging the hippogriff along. They ventured nearly a quarter mile into the forest before Buckbeak finally lost interest in the bait, slowing to a halt.

Panting, Draco shot Hermione an exasperated look. "What now, Granger? We can't just leave it wandering in here."

"We're not," she replied, catching her breath. "Theo, do you think you can ride him?"

"Where?"

She had an idea, but… "To the North Wing," she said. "I need to ask him but I think he'll take Buckbeak and hide him." Especially if Dumbledore requested it.

"A student?"

She shook her head. "Someone else here tonight."

"What, not your precious Potter?" Draco sneer brought her back to the present. It looked odd on another's face. "Why go through all this trouble?"

"Because Buckbeak doesn't deserve to die for making mincemeat out of a boy acting like an idiot," Hermione said firmly, her eyes flashing. "Executing him would be a gross injustice."

"I can fly the beast," Draco snapped toward Hermione before he spun around. He marched right up to Buckbeak. The hippogriff recoiled, wings flaring in a threatening display as if he hadn't just let Draco lead him into the forest moments before. Draco froze, his momentary bravado evaporating.

"Malfoy, don't—" Theo started, but it was too late.

With a piercing screech, Buckbeak lashed out, its curved beak snapping viciously at Draco.

"Impedimenta!" Hermione cried, casting a Slowing Charm that caused Buckbeak to stagger drunkenly mid-charge.

Draco yelped and fell backwards, just managing to avoid losing a limb as the hippogriff's talons raked across his right shoulder, shredding the sleeve of his robes.

Theo quickly snatched up Buckbeak's chain and held out a piece of meat to distract it. Hermione rushed to where Draco was sprawled, cradling his bleeding arm with a pained grimace.

Hermione dropped to her knees beside the injured Draco, quickly tying Draco's Slytherin tie around his shoulder to bind the deep gashes. She would need more bandages than that, so she sliced off the rest of the torn arm of his school robes with a quick spell. "You utter imbecile!"

"It let me bring it here, why would it do this?" Draco protested through gritted teeth, his Polyjuiced face pale and clammy.

"Maybe because you were treating it like an idiot beast instead of the highly intelligent creature it is," Hermione chided, wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly. She suppressed her disappointment with tight lips. Just when she'd been starting to trust him.

She shot a pointed look at Theo, who had been observing the scene with an impassive expression. "I should get him to the hospital wing."

"You should let him rot here," Theo said, and ignored Draco's splutter. Not that she didn't want to herself, but they couldn't and he knew it too. He shook his head regretfully. "I'll wait an hour before I bring Buckbeak to the North Tower."

"Thanks, Theo," she said. Beside him, Buckbeak hooked a talon over the bucket and tipped it over to root around for any bloody crumbs.

As they began the trek back towards the castle, Hermione couldn't resist one last frustrated remark.

"Honestly, Malfoy, you deserve a Troll in Care of Magical Creatures…"

Malfoy's head lolled worryingly on his neck, and he leaned more on her than she thought entirely necessary, to the point she found herself constantly stumbling under his weight on the uneven ground and thick tree roots.

"I could've flown the chicken," he muttered.

"You are so much more trouble than you're worth," she muttered, tripping again as Draco's balance wobbled. "You know we'll have to wait until the Polyjuice wears off before you go to Pomfrey, right? And I can't go with you either. I can't be seen in the hospital wing until later."

"You're so cruel to me when I've just been maimed," Draco whinged. "And my feet still hurt."

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

The warm summer breeze carried the scent of freshly spread soil as Hermione sat on the patio with her parents and Phil. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass of lemonade, condensation beading on the surface. Helena moved about the garden, tending to the new floral additions with a quiet grace.

"Can you believe they just tossed Black into Azkaban without a trial?" Phil shook his head, peering over the Daily Prophet. "You never said the wizarding world is full of this madness, Helena darling."

"I must have suppressed the memories," Helena murmured as she straightened her gloves. They were a pristine white since the dirt didn't dare touch her.

William leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses. "Locking someone up for over a decade without due process? Barbaric."

Hermione nodded. "At least now the truth's come to light. Pettigrew was the real traitor all along." Her brow furrowed as she recalled the harrowing events in the Shrieking Shack. At least Hermione's involvement hadn't come to light through the testimony. Sirius had promised not to bring up her role in the Shrieking Shack, and Professor Snape's testimony had skirted around the truth.

Professor Snape had received an Order of Merlin for his efforts to capture the villainous Pettigrew, so Hermione found herself a little proud for Disarming her Head of House.

"Small consolation for the years Black lost," Phil mused. "Twelve years! My god. Being cleared of all charges is the least they can do. Does he have a solicitor, you think?"

"Trying to drum up business?" William laughed and ducked when Phil tossed the cherry from his Old Fashioned.

"I think he's just happy to be out, and that the Wizengamot decided to allow him to formally adopt Harry. Harry finally has family," Hermione added, her lips curving into a faint smile. "He's so happy to have his godfather."

"The poor lad," William said.

"Those new Animagi regulations seem reasonable, all things considered," Phil continued, flipping a page. "I can't believe officials who know that a percentage of their population can turn into animals never set up spells against it at their prison. Helena, what world have we sent our daughter into?"

"A rather messy one, at times," Helena said. "Sirius Black was a categorical trickster, from what I understand. Giving him custody of a fourteen-year-old boy is terrifying."

The conversation lulled as Hermione sipped her lemonade, savoring the tart sweetness. A flutter of wings drew her gaze upward, and she beamed at the sight of the snowy owl soaring gracefully towards them.

"Speak of the devil," Phil chuckled as the majestic bird landed on the patio railing. "That's got to be from young Harry."

William narrowed his eyes at Hermione over the rim of his drink. "He writes you more than I get calls from my own mother."

"Your mother's been dead for ten years, darling."

"And good riddance."

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile as she untied the scroll from Hedwig's leg. The beautiful owl hooted softly and nuzzled against Hermione's fingers in greeting before taking flight once more.

Unrolling the parchment, Hermione's eyes scanned the familiar scrawl eagerly. "It's from Harry," she confirmed, her heart fluttering with excitement. "He's invited me to the Quidditch World Cup finals in a couple of weeks!"

Helena arched an eyebrow, pausing in her gardening. "The World Cup? That will be quite the event, I'm sure."

"Apparently they received four tickets from the Minister for the top box. And he…" She hesitated, aware of her mother's stare on the side of her face. "He's invited me to spend the rest of the summer with him at Grimmauld Place. To help clean it and make it livable again, since apparently the house elf can't manage the work."

The jovial mood around the patio became rather muted.

"Uh-oh," Phil said, lifting his drink to his mouth.

Hermione's heart raced as she met her mother's penetrating gaze. Over the newly planted flowers, Helena's expression remained inscrutable, her lips pressed into a thin line. The silence stretched and it was rather scarier than finding a mass murderer waiting in a haunted shack.

"Mum..." Hermione began, her voice wavering slightly. William and Phil exchanged a glance, their faces etched with concern. Helena's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

She took a steadying breath. "This is an incredible opportunity. The World Cup."

"You historically don't like quidditch," Helena said.

She searched her mother's face for any flicker of emotion, but Helena's mask remained firmly in place. Hermione squeezed her impatience and put on her most pleading expression.

"Not particularly, but… you know Harry's my friend," she said, feeling like she was only digging a hole in quicksand. "He's been through so much, and now he finally has a chance at a real home with Sirius. I want to be there for him."

Helena's gaze drifted towards the garden, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Hermione recognized that look—her mother was weighing the situation, considering every possible angle and outcome.

"Please, Mum," Hermione implored. "It would mean the world to me."

The silence stretched once more, the only sound the gentle rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. Finally, Helena turned back to face her daughter, her expression unreadable.

"We'll discuss it further. Since his owl left, I imagine he doesn't expect an immediate reply." She turned to William with a polite lift of her eyebrows. "I believe I will take that drink now, please, darling."

It wasn't a no, but it also wasn't a resounding yes. Hermione's shoulders sagged slightly, but she nodded, understanding she would have to be patient and make her case carefully.

As Helena pulled off her gloves and dropped into the seat beside Phil with a sigh, Hermione told herself that at least it wasn't an immediate no. When William returned with a large glass of merlot, he winked at Hermione, making her duck her head with a smile.

While the idea of Hermione spending the rest of the summer with a boy, alone, with only his trickster godfather as chaperone, might set Helena's protective instincts on edge, Hermione had proven herself trustworthy time and again. Helena had no tangible grounds to forbid this friendship, however much she disliked it. And Hermione would keep it that way.

***

Granger,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you are having an adequately entertaining summer break away from Hogwarts.

I write to cordially invite you to Malfoy Manor the weekend before term begins. My parents have invited my friends to enjoy the extensive grounds before we are once again confined to the castle. The rest of our classmates will be in attendance, including Millicent, Daphne, and Pansy, so you need not fret about fraternizing with strangers. My mother will act as chaperone.

I've instructed Helios to await your response. Please provide any dietary restrictions, if necessary.

I remain,

Draco Malfoy

"No response," she told the pretty eagle owl that had flown through her open bedroom window and landed on her desk. It was a spotted grey and white, and it glared at her with unnerving orange eyes when she denied it.

She glared back. "No response, I said."

The bratty bird, which took after it's master too much for Hermione's taste, screeched and launched off her desk, scattering Hermione's extra inkpot and quill. To top off it's exit, it lifted it's tail right above her windowsill.

"Scourgify," she muttered under her breath before she pulled the window shut. She'd found out that as long as she didn't use her wand, Hermione could cast small spells while at her Muggle home. It was either a blind spot in the Ministry's spells to detect underage magic or—and she increasingly began to suspect this—her mother's indigo wards that crawled above the estate like a shimmering dome prevented the Ministry from detecting magic. Regardless, she'd taken advantage of it with pleasure.

She dumped Malfoy's letter in the trash. If Helena was reluctant to let her go to Harry's, she certainly wouldn't allow Hermione to go to another boy's house. Of the two, there was no option for Hermione. She would save her battles for Grimmauld Place.

And, frankly, she was still irritated by Draco's stunt with Buckbeak at the end of term.

Hermione caught sight of herself in the antique mirror hanging on the wall of her frilly, pink bedroom. She grimaced slightly at the girlish decor, a remnant of her childhood that no longer quite suited her. As she studied her reflection, she noticed how her body had changed over the summer—her clothes seemed to cling a bit more snugly to her developing curves.

Experimentally, she raised her arms over her head, causing her shirt to ride up and expose a sliver of her midriff. A small thrill went through her at the realization that she would likely need some new tops before returning to Hogwarts. Her gaze drifted down to the swell of her chest, and she tentatively touched the wired cups of her bra through the fabric of her shirt, still amazed at the unfamiliar hardness compared to her old training bras.

When would a boy—

Hermione dropped her hands as if scalded and paced away from the mirror.

She really was growing up, but she didn't have to think things like that. A flush crept up Hermione's cheeks as she acknowledged to herself that, as her mother once said, her body was blossoming into womanhood. Which didn't demand any respect. Helena still treated Hermione like a child, denying her the freedom to make her own decisions.

Hadn't she proven herself mature and responsible enough to decide where she wanted to spend her time? The unfairness of it all made her want to stomp her foot like Pansy in a snit. She had to convince her mother to allow her to visit Harry and Sirius, she just had to.

"Bunny, big meeting with the directors tomorrow, which tie do you like the best?"

Phil stood in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space, holding up three ties like a sommelier presenting wine options. Hermione exhaled in relief that he hadn't caught her ogling herself moments earlier.

A solid reminder to keep that stupid door closed.

"The green, navy, or gold?" he said, not noticing her flustered expression.

"Green, obviously," she said. "It brings out your eyes."

Phil grinned, his teeth bright against his tanned skin. He batted his lashes in an exaggerated flutter. "You're right. The directors will never resist these babies."

Hermione smiled wistfully at Phil's teasing, his bright green eyes reminding her of Harry's vivid emerald gaze. She missed him terribly.

Noticing the shift in her mood, Phil's expression softened. "What's wrong, bunny?"

Hermione sighed heavily, gathering her courage. "I want to go visit Harry before term starts. But it's been a day since I asked. I know mum will refuse." Her voice took on a bitter edge. "She's being completely unreasonable about this."

Phil placed the ties over Hermione's dresser and led her to her bed, his hand on her back encouraging her to vent her frustrations. "It's not fair that I have to keep this stupid secret all the time. And that ridiculous promise to never kiss a boy? I'm fourteen years old!" She slumped at the bottom of her bed as Phil sank down beside her. "When is she going to let me live my own life?"

Tears of anger and hurt pricked at the corners of Hermione's eyes. "I just want to be normal for once. Is that too much to ask?"

Phil wrapped a comforting arm around Hermione. "Your mother has her reasons, however misguided they may seem. She only wants to keep you safe, love."

Hermione leaned into his embrace, her ire deflating slightly at his gentle reassurance. "I know she loves me. I love her. But I'm so tired of being treated like a criminal just for wanting normal things, like going to the Quidditch World Cup with my best friend." She looked up at Phil imploringly. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime event. Please, can't you talk to her?"

"I know, bunny," Phil murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Let me work on your mum. We'll get this sorted, I promise."

***

Draco saw a pale silver shape knife through the clouds and sat up slightly at the dining table. His stare never left the window. It had only been a few hours since he sent him off and he was just sitting for lunch with his parents. If Helios was returning this soon, that meant she must live somewhat close.

"May I be excused a moment?"

Draco's father Lucius barely acknowledged him, waving a dismissive hand without breaking his intense discussion with Narcissa. His mother's icy blue eyes flickered to Draco for a moment, her thin lips pursed but allowing him to abandon his half-eaten plate of poached quail eggs and slip silently from the informal dining room. Draco's dragonhide boots made no sound on the thick rugs stretched across the marble as he hurried toward the front sitting room, the closest from Helios' direction.

He reached the front sitting room and flung open one of the tall windows, letting in a gust of warm summer air.

Helios swooped gracefully through the open window and landed on Draco's outstretched arm. But instead of bearing a letter, the owl simply stared at him with large, reproachful eyes.

"What?" Draco snapped, his heart sinking. "Where's her reply?"

Helios hooted softly and ruffled his feathers, almost seeming ashamed. Draco scowled. Surely Granger had received his letter inviting her to the manor. Unless...

A terrible thought gripped him and he stared at Helios as if he could pull out the memory of his delivery from him. What if her Muggle parents were intercepting her post, keeping her isolated and imprisoned over the break? Everyone knew how barbarically Muggles treated magical children. Who knew what depraved acts they were capable of?

He clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. The idea of Granger being mistreated, kept apart from the wizarding world against her will, made his blood boil. She had the top marks in Hogwarts and she was a shoe-in for Head Girl and whatever position she wanted when she graduated. How dare those Muggles hold her back!

Helios simply ruffled his feathers, offering no explanation. Draco clenched his jaw and released him back outside, where he quickly launched off Draco's arm to fly toward the owlery in the back where he stayed with Magnus and Mist, his parents' owls.

Draco's fists clenched at his sides as he fought the urge to storm out and confront her Muggle family himself. Didn't they realize how fortunate they were to have a witch in their midst? Hermione deserved better than to be stifled and oppressed by their narrow-minded ways.

He couldn't, anyway. Without her address, he would have to follow Helios on his broom, undoubtedly breaking a dozen Ministry laws and infuriating his father.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Draco smoothed back his hair. He would give it a few more days. Perhaps she'd simply been busy when Helios arrived—though what could distract her from the simple 'yes' his letter merited, he couldn't fathom. If Hermione still hadn't responded by then, he would have no choice but to take matters into his own hands. One way or another, he would ensure she wasn't being held against her will, even if it meant defying her Muggle guardians himself.

For now, he would finish lunch and continue his lessons with Narcissa.

Draco returned to the dining room, his shoulders squared as he slid back into his seat across from his parents. Lucius barely acknowledged him, still engrossed in conversation with Narcissa about Ministry politics. His mother, however, leveled those piercing blue eyes at him.

"Did you receive responses from your friends regarding their attendance at the manor?" she asked delicately when there was a pause in her conversation with Lucius.

Draco kept his expression neutral. "Not everyone has replied yet, Mother."

She studied him a moment, her gaze lingering perhaps a bit too long on his impassive features. "I'm sure they will come around in time," she murmured. Draco released a tight breath, glad Narcissa had not brought up Hermione's name. The discussion to simply invite her had made the household… tense for the past two weeks, and he never appreciated when his mother and father were arguing. They were like two venomous serpents coiled together, with one wrong lash of the tail or flicked tongue ending in pain.

Lucius, to his horror, turned to the one topic he didn't want to speak about, his gaze like a blue sky seen through a block of ice. "Has the Mudblood girl responded? I do hope your invitation warned her to clean up before entering our home."

He kept silent until he could speak in a normal voice. "She hasn't responded yet, Father."

"Why you desire to take this step…" Lucius sighed.

Draco stiffened, keeping his eyes down as he replied evenly. "Professor Snape believes cultivating the connection could be advantageous for the family's reputation, Father. As a top student."

"Hmph." Lucius's sneer deepened. "I don't care if she's Morgana reborn, a Mudblood is still a Mudblood. You'll make sure she behaves herself and doesn't touch anything, won't you?"

Before Draco could respond, Narcissa smoothly interjected. "Now Lucius, Severus clearly sees potential in the girl, if she's earned his regard. And she is in Slytherin, after all. You recall how useful Ashley has been to us, though he moved to New York." Her tone remained light but carried an undercurrent of venom.

Lucius matched it. "We've never invited Ashley into our home."

Narcissa gave a smooth, flawless smile. "In any case, I'm sure Draco understands the considerations for having such a guest." She rose from the table with effortless grace. "Come, Draco. It's time for your lessons."

Falling obediently into step behind her, glad to be away from the ice-like gaze that burned into his back, Draco followed Narcissa from the dining room and down the corridor toward the music room. Inside, a glossy black grand piano stood imposing against one wall, surrounded by overstuffed chairs and lush draperies.

"Thank you, Mother."

She touched his shoulder, her soft face creasing in the hint of a smile. "Take your place at the piano," Narcissa instructed as she moved to the center of the room. "We'll start with the ballad of Ariadne and Lysander."

Draco did as instructed, running deft fingers over the ivory keys to begin the haunting, melancholic melody. Narcissa inhaled deeply, then her ethereal soprano voice rang out:

"Fair Ariadne, bewitched by Lysander's smile,

Surrendered her heart to the powerful wizard's wile.

Unequal their union, her love unrequited,

Her hopes and her dreams were destined to fade..."

The tragic tale unfolded of a pureblood witch who fell under the thrall of a supremely gifted wizard, only to be cast aside when she could not match his prowess. Draco's fingers danced across the keys as the mournful story reached its bitter end, Ariadne wasting away from a broken heart.

But it was a cautionary tale, one to steer young purebloods away from such uneven entanglements. Only the foolish chased after those more powerful but apathetic—unless there was equal regard, one person would always be hurt. For as Narcissa launched into the next song, regarding Lysander's powerful brother and his future partner Alexander, this one had a lighter, more triumphant cadence:

"Two hearts, two souls balanced in power,

Joined as one in magic's immortal flower.

From their bond sprang greatness unsurpassed,

A legacy eternal that eons did last..."

This ballad spoke of the ideal union, that of two wizards of equal power whose combined strength made them unstoppable. As Draco played the swelling crescendos, he couldn't help but envision himself as part of such a mighty partnership, as every young pureblood likely did, but he also tried to pay attention to the courtesies of courting, joining, and union which these ritual songs sought to teach. His eyes half closed as he mouthed the words quietly—one day he might sing these songs for his own children, or perhaps Hermione would.

Draco's fingers stumbled over a chord, the discordant notes shattering his reverie. Narcissa's voice faltered, her eyes snapping open to fix him with a pointed look. Clearing his throat, Draco refocused on the music, determined not to let his wandering thoughts disrupt the lesson again.

As the song concluded, his mother swept over to the piano bench. "You seem distracted today, Draco," she murmured, her tone holding no rebuke, only curiosity.

He considered brushing it off, but something in her gaze prompted him to confide in her. "Granger didn't respond to my invitation."

"Is she normally conscientious?"

"Very much so. I can't imagine why she wouldn't respond unless she was unable to."

One elegant eyebrow arched. "I see." Narcissa was silent a moment, clearly weighing her words. "You're concerned for her well-being?"

Draco's shoulders stiffened. "Of course not. I simply don't wish to be snubbed."

But his mother's perceptive eyes saw through the flimsy lie. Reaching out, she cupped his cheek, her touch achingly gentle. "You care for this girl."

It wasn't a question, and Draco found he couldn't deny the truth when spoken so plainly. Exhaling slowly, he gave a tight nod.

Rather than the disdain he expected, Narcissa's expression softened almost wistfully. "Oh, Draco..." She stroked his hair back from his forehead. "I had hoped to spare you this particular complication. But I suppose it's only natural, given your discerning character, for your affections to be captured by one who is your equal in mind if not in blood."

His cheeks burned, but Draco didn't look away. "She's the most powerful witch at Hogwarts, Mother. Her abilities, her magic, she can outperform even me at times." More often than not, he didn't say, but his mother wouldn't appreciate the point. "And I've told you, she can't be a Mudblood—everyone agrees, even Marcus! He wouldn't receive tutoring from any Mudblood."

Narcissa's head tilted, her eyes wrinkling as she continued to brush his hair back. "I don't seek to dismiss your feelings, my dragon. But you are also young and there is time before you must settle on one person, especially one which presents such complications. You know, as I do, that there will be an opportunity to meet Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students at Hogwarts this year. You should not limit yourself while there is opportunity." She dropped her hand and squeezed his shoulder. Her voice dropped to a murmur. "As for the girl, do not fret over her delayed response. After all, a Malfoy never gives up."

Draco felt a mixture of relief and trepidation at his mother's words. Relief that she did not outright reject the idea of Hermione, but trepidation at the implication that his interest may be fleeting. His brow furrowed as he considered Narcissa's suggestion of meeting other witches from the visiting schools. While the prospect piqued his curiosity, the thought of Hermione outshone any potential diversion. No Beauxbatons beauty was equal to her.

Her brilliance, her wit, the way she could trip him up so easily. Mortifying, yes, but there was also her beauty—no other witch could compare. Still, he nodded obediently, knowing his mother's intentions were pragmatic if not entirely welcome.

His mind drifted, as it had since Narcissa had agreed to the invitations, to a familiar daydream. To have her in his home, surrounded by the trappings of his world, felt like an inevitability he had been waiting for. What would she think of what he could offer?

He bowed his head so his mother didn't see his relief. "Thank you, Mother. I will make sure I remain attentive to the students from both schools. And I will not let minor matters worry me."

Once Granger was here, once she experienced the grandeur and sophistication of the world Draco could offer her... Perhaps then, she would begin to see him as more than just a classmate. An equal, even a partner, whose ambitions could be unified with her own. He straightened his shoulders.

A Malfoy did not give up.

Narcissa smiled, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "See that you do. Now..." She rose gracefully from the bench. "Shall we move on to the Lament of Circe? There is much to learn from it about the cooperation of wizards both Light and Dark."

Draco's fingers obediently returned to the keys, his mind relieved now that the issue of Hermione Granger had been settled. After all, he mused as the first haunting notes filled the air, his mother supported him.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Hermione browsed the racks of the clothing store, fingers trailing over the soft fabrics as she mentally assembled outfits. Helena had agreed they go shopping for a new casual wardrobe to fit her growing frame. They usually waited until the weekend before Hermione left for Hogwarts, so to go shopping so early in the summer made Hermione hopeful.

And it might mean her mother was thinking about letting Hermione stay with Harry the rest of the summer.

Helena had been noncommittal about allowing the visit. If Phil had said anything to her, they hadn't let on.

"I'll just grab us a treat," Helena said, patting Hermione's arm. At Hermione's absent nod, she left through the open doors of the shop towards the shopping centre's bakery kiosk.

Hermione soon finished and went to the register with her selections. She fished out her mother's credit card from her wallet and handed it over.

With her purchases bagged, Hermione stepped out of the store and into the bustling corridor of the shopping centre. The mingling aromas of pretzels and perfumes filled the air as she wove through the weekend crowds, her mind still preoccupied with finding a way to convince her mother.

"Well, hello there."

The sudden voice, laced with unabashed interest, snapped Hermione from her reverie. Three older boys, she guessed around sixteen or seventeen, had materialized in her path, eyes roving in an unmistakable appraisal. The one who had spoken, a lanky youth with a sharp jawline, offered a crooked smile that Hermione assumed was meant to be charming.

"Afternoon," she replied evenly, sidestepping in an attempt to continue on her way.

The boys fanned out, blocking her path with a series of co*cky grins and not-so-subtle once-overs of her figure. Hermione's grip tightened on her shopping bags, fingers crinkling the plastic as unease blossomed in her chest.

"Where're you off to in such a hurry, love?" the first boy pressed, taking a bold step closer. "Don't suppose a pretty thing like you would want to grab a bite? Maybe take in a film after?"

His friends snickered, their gazes assessing in a way that made Hermione's skin prickle with discomfort. "No, I'm not interested."

The first boy was quick to stand in her way as she tried to get around them. "Aw, don't be like that, love."

"Yeah, don't be so quick."

"We could make it worth your while. Three blokes to keep you entertained," the blocky third boy said with a leer. "We'd be happy to take turns, yeah?"

The crass implication brought a flush of anger to Hermione's cheeks, her free hand clenching into a fist at her side. Her wand was tucked into her bag, useless to her now. She knew a small amount of wandless magic, but unless she wanted to Scourgify their smirks off, her household spells wouldn't make them leave her alone.

The first boy reached out, his calloused fingers cupping her cheek. "What d'you say, love? Fancy a bit of fun with us?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as memories of that night flooded her mind. She could almost feel Malfoy's cold sneer, his body binding curse rendering her immobile and defenseless.

But she wasn't that helpless girl anymore.

Her magic crackled like static electricity, begging to be unleashed. Might be a good time to test out her Defense wandless spells, and she could teach these vile Muggles a lesson they'd never forget. Consequences be damned, she was a heartbeat away from—

"There you are, poppet. I've been waiting for you."

Hermione's heart stuttered as a large, imposing figure materialized behind the boys. A man with dark hair and blunt features stepped into the fray, his hard expression instantly silencing the boys' taunts.

"Everything alright here?" he rumbled, his menacing tone making the hairs on Hermione's neck prickle.

The first boy puffed out his chest. "Just having a friendly chat with the lady, mate. No need to get your knickers in a twist."

The man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Didn't sound too friendly from where I was standing." He turned his steely gaze on Hermione. "This lot bothering you, poppet?"

Hermione swallowed hard, her instincts screaming at her to get away from this stranger, even as she felt a flicker of recognition. "I... yes, they were."

"Oi, we weren't doing nothing!" the blocky boy protested. "Just asking her out for a bite, that's all."

The man took a menacing step forward, his broad shoulders squaring. "You want to run that by me again, son?"

The bravado visibly drained from the boys' faces as they took in the man's intimidating presence. The first boy held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Easy, mate. No need for trouble, yeah? We'll just be on our way."

"That's what I thought," the man growled. He jerked his head towards the corridor. "Beat it before I make you."

The boys didn't need to be told twice, scattering like startled pigeons and disappearing into the crowd. Hermione exhaled shakily, her knuckles white from gripping her shopping bags.

The man turned to face her fully, his expression softening ever so slightly. "You alright there, poppet? Didn't mean to frighten you."

Hermione studied him, realization dawning. "Macnair," she murmured, the name leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. "You're... you work for the Ministry."

His eyes glinted with something akin to amusem*nt. "Aye, that I do. Didn't expect you to recognize me out of my work attire." He stared down at her, heavy face unreadable. "Best we have a little chat, you and I."

"I don't see why I need to talk to you," she said. "What are you doing in Muggle London anyway?"

Hermione's grip tightened on her shopping bags as she eyed Macnair warily. His imposing presence made her deeply uneasy, especially after the unpleasant encounter with those Muggle boys. While grateful for his intervention, she couldn't ignore the nagging sense that he posed a potential threat of his own.

"Just doing a bit of shopping." Macnair's mouth curved into a thin, humorless smile. "The Muggle-born Slytherin. Granger, isn't it?" His dark eyes roamed over her in an assessing manner that made her shift uncomfortably. "You've grown up a fair bit since I last saw you."

She frowned, puzzled. "Not really. It's only been a month."

"Before then. When you were just a wee thing," Macnair said with a casual shrug of his broad shoulders. "Probably don't even remember."

Unease twisted in Hermione's gut as she studied the man more closely. There was something distinctly off about his proportions, his features almost inhuman in their bluntness. A vague recollection stirred, how she'd noticed his off-balance proportions once before.

"Look, I should get going," she said, forcing a polite smile as she prepared to sidestep around him. "My mother's waiting for me."

Macnair didn't budge, his towering frame effectively blocking her path. "Now, now, no need to rush off. I'd hate for those lads to come sniffing around again."

Hermione's fingers twitched towards her bag, itching for the reassuring weight of her wand. "I can take care of myself."

A low chuckle rumbled from Macnair's chest. "I don't doubt that for a second. You've got a fair bit of fire in you from what I hear."

"Hermione? What's going on here?"

Helena appeared, a paper bag of pastries clutched in one hand as she took in the scene before her. Her brow furrowed at the burly Ministry official and then fear struck her features. Without hesitation, she stepped between Macnair and her daughter, chin raised.

"You need to leave my daughter alone," Helena said, her voice low and dangerous.

Macnair's lips curled into an unsettling smile. "No need to get your wand in a knot. Just having a friendly chat with the young lady."

"She's a child," Helena spat. "Now back away before I make you regret this."

Macnair let out a gruff chuckle, seemingly unfazed by the witch's threat. "Is that so? Well, we wouldn't want any trouble now, would we?"

His eyes flickered over Helena in a way that made Hermione's stomach churn. There was an unmistakable hunger in his gaze, as if he were sizing up his next target. Hermione instinctively moved closer to her mother, shopping bags crinkling in her white-knuckled grip.

"Stay away from my daughter," Helena warned, her free hand slipping into the pocket of her cardigan.

Macnair opened his mouth to respond, but Helena didn't give him the chance. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she produced a silver compact from her pocket and grasped it tightly. Hermione recognized it, her mother carried it around everywhere, although she never used it.

"Touch it," Helena murmured, wrapping her arm around Hermione's waist.

Hermione did, and Macnair lunged but hit a ward that materialized at the same moment. Helena snapped, "Portus."

A sickening lurch seized her stomach as the world blurred around them in a whirlwind of color. Helena's arm squeezed her as the world shook and jolted them.

When reality snapped back into focus, Hermione found herself standing in the familiar surroundings of her mother's bedroom. The scent of lavender and fresh linens filled the air as she gasped for breath, heart still racing from the encounter.

"Are you alright?" Helena asked urgently, her hands cupping Hermione's face as she searched her daughter's eyes. "Did he hurt you?"

Hermione shook her head mutely, the weight of what had just transpired settling over her like a suffocating blanket. She had been mere seconds away from unleashing her magic on those vile Muggle boys, damn the consequences. And then Macnair... She shuddered.

"I'm fine," she managed, her voice sounding small and unconvincing even to her own ears. "Just... just shaken up, I suppose."

Helena pulled her into a fierce embrace, stroking Hermione's curls in a rare show of tenderness that Hermione instinctively relaxed into. "It's alright, my darling. You're safe now."

It took several moments before Hermione could swallow the salt in her throat. Sill to cry, wasn't it? Hermione had never really been in any danger. But why had Walden Macnair said he'd seen her when she was a baby?

Wiping at her eyes, she leaned back.

"Mum, who—"

"What were you thinking?" Helena snapped, all tenderness gone, fury etched into the lines of her face. "Talking to that... that monster?"

Hermione flinched at her mother's venom. "I didn't seek him out, I swear! He just appeared when those boys were harassing me and—"

"Boys?" Helena cut her off sharply. "What boys?"

Shame burned hot in Hermione's cheeks as she recounted the unsavory encounter with the older teens. By the time she finished, her mother's expression had morphed into one of cold fury.

"I knew sending you to that school was a mistake," she seethed, raking a hand through her hair.

Hermione recoiled as if struck. "That's not fair! I've done nothing wrong."

Helena exhaled a shuddering breath, suddenly looking very tired. "This is exactly why I didn't want you going to Hogwarts in the first place." Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. "You're just a child, Hermione. You have no idea the dangers you're toying with."

Hermione swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, her shopping bags slipping from her trembling hands. She didn't know what terrified her more—the prospect of staying with her overprotective mother forever, or not knowing why she only seemed to disappoint her all the time.

Seeing her expression, Helena's cold one crumpled and she slumped. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault, bunny. It's mine. The lover's touch isn't a path that can be ignored. I, of all people, know this better than anyone. I only hoped it wouldn't find you so soon."

Lover's touch. Her deal with Draco. She'd never said those words except to him, and he would hardly reach out to her mother. How?

"That phrase," Hermione whispered.

Helena's gaze lifted to hers. "You know it? Of course you do." With a sigh, she sat gracelessly onto the floor at the end of her bed. Hermione let her bags fall to the carpet and went to her knees in front of her mother. Helena didn't notice. "One day it shows up in a book, in idle conversation, and then everywhere you look until you give in."

She took Helena's hands. "Mum?"

"How much do you know about the path?"

"I'm sorry?" she said. Her mother waited, regret peering at her from solemn eyes. "The phrase came to me one day when I was… speaking," she said, warming at the memory of Draco staring at her hungrily, as if he'd agree to anything for a moment with her. The memory still brought a jolt to her, even now. She cleared her throat. "I didn't think it was anything important."

If she'd known, she would have slept in the Hogwarts library until she found the answer. But the regret was fleeting, because Helena was already opening her mouth and Hermione's focus narrowed in on her. Would she finally get answers?

"It is. It is the path neither of us can ignore." Helena gave a dry laugh that would've worried Hermione's fathers if they were home. Both were at work though, so it was only Hermione who saw Helena rub away her tears. "We are not normal, Hermione. Our magic, once it touches another's, it begins the path and then your magic needs to cycle. Once you kissed Harry, that's when your magic began to draw in your peers—both wizards and Muggles alike."

Helena had made a mistake believing that it was Harry she kissed, not Draco, but Hermione wasn't in a fit state to correct her. The news was too strange. Her mind went to the parallel world. Septimus Wallacen had made a point that not only one thing would change from the parallel worlds he slipped into, but sometimes several.

Hermione had believed being a halfblood had made her a Slytherin in this world, but what if she wasn't a halfblood but something else…

Watching her face, Helena sighed heavily, squeezing Hermione's hands. "I know this must all sound terribly confusing, darling. But you have to understand, our family... we're different. Special."

Hermione shook her head, frustration bubbling up inside her. "Then help me understand, Mum. You've been keeping secrets from me for years, and I'm so tired of being left in the dark."

Her mother's expression softened, regret flickering in her eyes. "You're right, I haven't been fair to you. But I was only trying to protect you, Hermione. The world we come from... it's not an easy one."

Leaning forward, Helena cupped Hermione's cheek, her thumb brushing over the light smattering of freckles. "Do you remember when you were little, and the policemen came?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "Right. The Muggle stalker."

"Right. I'm sorry that you had to go through that, but it is an example of how our magic can pull people to us." Helena's gaze turned distant, as if peering into some long-forgotten memory. "When a witch like us comes into her full power, her magic seeks out connections. Bonds to sustain and strengthen itself. When you kissed Harry, beyond something as simple and innocent as a peck on the cheek, it forged a link between your magic and the world. Your power recognized his as compatible, as someone you could... well, you could grow quite close to."

Heat crept up Hermione's neck at her mother's implication. "You mean like... like soulmates?"

"Perhaps," Helena allowed. "Although that's an oversimplification. The potential is there for your bond with Harry to deepen into something more. But it's not set in stone. Our magic doesn't require a soulmate connection, although many of our kind can develop one. What's important is it opened up the path to your full power, with all the risks that come to it. Which means other boys will now feel a pull for you they may have ignored before."

"So that's why those Muggle boys were drawn to me at the mall?" she asked, feeling a shiver of revulsion at the memory. "Because of my magic?"

Helena nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so. As your power awakens, you'll find yourself becoming... well, let's just say you'll garner a fair bit of unwanted attention from those who can sense it, even if they don't understand what they're sensing."

Hermione frowned, her stomach twisting uncomfortably. "But... but I don't want that kind of attention! Especially not from vile people like them."

"I know, my darling," Helena soothed, pulling Hermione into a warm embrace. "Believe me, I wish I could spare you from this. But our lineage... well, let's just say our allure can be just as powerful as the veela's. Which is why I demanded you keep your actions pure with wizarding boys. The path doesn't open for Muggles, only when your magic touches another's for the first time."

Hermione blushed but braved herself enough to pull back slightly, studying her mother's face intently. "So if we're not veela, then what are we?"

Helena sighed, tucking a stray curl behind Hermione's ear. "We're... I suppose the easiest way to put it is that we've inherited a power of a different breed of magical being. One with ancient roots and immense power."

Nestled against her mother's comforting scent of lavender, Hermione felt her turbulent emotions settle ever so slightly. She had so many more questions, so much she still didn't understand. But at least now she knew the truth—or at least part of it.

"What happens now?" she asked, her voice muffled against Helena's shoulder. "How do I control this... this magic?"

Helena stroked Hermione's curls, letting out a weary sigh. "That's the difficult part, I'm afraid. The only way to keep your magic from spiraling out of control is to... well, to indulge it from time to time."

Hermione pulled back, eyes wide with dismay. "What does that mean?"

A sad smile tugged at her mother's lips. "This is the path we walk, the lover's touch. Our magic demands connections, intimacy. It's the only way to keep it from consuming us."

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she leaned into her mother's touch. For so long, she had longed for Helena's understanding, her guidance. Now that she finally had it, she couldn't decide if she felt relieved or utterly terrified.

One thing was certain—her life would never be the same again.

"What about Macnair?" Against her, Helena stiffened, and Hermione went on. "Did my magic call him? I saw him at the end of the term—he came to Hogwarts on Ministry business—"

"I'm sure he did," Helena said.

Her tone, like ice frozen in the bottom of the Arctic Ocean, made Hermione pause and lean back. Macnair had seen her as a baby, she realized. And why would a friend of Lucius Malfoy be in a Muggle shopping centre? She searched her mother's face. "Do you know him?"

Her mother seemed to struggle with her words for a moment before finally meeting Hermione's inquisitive gaze. "Before I met your fathers, before I left the wizarding world, I considered Macnair a friend. It's unfortunate he found us."

"Why?"

"Because when he last helped me, it was under a promise not to disappear, which I promptly did," Helena said with a sigh. She offered Hermione a watery smile. "I think it's time to pack. Your friend is protected under a Fidelius charm, correct?"

"Yes, but how—did you read Harry's letters?" Indignation surged up within her at the implication that her mother had been reading her private correspondence with Harry.

Helena held up a placating hand. "I know, I know. I shouldn't have pried. But you must understand, I only want to protect you, Hermione."

"By invading my privacy?" Hermione retorted, hurt. "That's a bit hypocritical, don't you think? Keeping me in the dark for years about who—about what I am? If I'd known, I could've protected myself! I wanted to come to you at Easter, but you threatened to pull me out of Hogwarts! What was I supposed to do but lie when you threatened to ruin my life?"

Her mother winced. "You're right. I've made mistakes in how I've handled this. But everything I've done has been to keep you safe, bunny. If it's known what you are—the world becomes that much less safe for you. Everything became much more complicated when you insisted on schooling, and I was too weak to deny you a proper education."

Hermione exhaled a shuddering breath, reining in the urge to yell at her mother more. As much as her mother's actions stung, she knew Helena's intentions stemmed from a place of love and concern, misguided as they might be.

"So what now?" she asked, her voice smaller than she intended. "You want me to go stay with Harry for the rest of the summer?"

Helena nodded slowly. "I think it would be for the best, yes."

Hermione frowned, studying her mother's guarded expression. "Does this have anything to do with Macnair? Are you... are you in danger from him?"

To her surprise, Helena let out a soft chuckle, and the formidable woman her mother was came back to Hermione. "Oh, bunny. You don't need to worry about that man where I'm concerned. I can more than handle the likes of Walden Macnair."

Relief washed over Hermione, quickly replaced by confusion. "Then why send me away? Surely you can keep me safe here."

"Your fathers are in no danger from him, nor am I. But you..." She trailed off, considering her words carefully. "You need to be around people of the Light right now, Hermione. Sirius Black was one of the most fearsome Hit Wizards in the Aurors during the war. Macnair and his ilk will think twice before trying to approach you with him around. Besides, it will help your power."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she processed this information. "But I thought you said our magic draws people to us, even if they don't understand why. How will being with Sirius Black protect me from that?"

A flicker of pride danced across Helena's features. "You're wise beyond your years, my darling. Yes, our magic does have a... pull, for lack of a better word. But those with pure intentions, usually those who walk the path of Light, are somewhat less susceptible to its influence. They, at least, are less likely to trample on your freedoms to satisfy their desires."

She reached out, cupping Hermione's cheek with a tender touch. "Sirius Black may be a bit rough around the edges, but his heart is true. Likely, as a child of Light, so is Harry's. Surrounding yourself with people like them will help temper the more unsavory aspects of your awakening power."

Hermione couldn't deny the logic in her mother's words, even if a part of her still bristled at the thought of being sent away. She had so many more questions, so much she still didn't understand about this strange new world she found herself thrust into.

With a slow nod, she met Helena's gaze.

"Alright," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'll go stay with Harry and Sirius. But can't you explain properly first?" It felt strange to be reluctant to go to Harry's now, when she'd craved it that morning, but there was so much she wanted to know.

"I can do you one better," Helena said and stood, pulling Hermione to her feet along with her. She took Hermione's hand and led her to the wardrobe in the corner of her parents' bedroom, where she knelt and unlocked the bottom drawer with a whispered password. A pile of books and an engraved box with an R on the lid were inside.

Hermione watched with bated breath as her mother pulled out several leather-bound tomes from the drawer. Helena glanced over and Hermione stopped bouncing on her toes, sheepish. Helena smiled.

"These books contain our history," Helena said, running a reverent hand over the worn spines. "Stories and teachings passed down through generations, detailing the truth of our lineage." She handed them over and Hermione took them with awe. "I expect you to protect these. In fact, I'll key them to your magical signature while you pack. If you are careful, and do not yield too much to your magic's demands for intimacy, you can hide what you are for longer."

The leather-bound books grew heavy. "Why do I need to hide it?"

Helena sighed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "You can't, not really, not to those who know of witches like us. However, it is better not to advertise it." She fixed Hermione with a pointed look. "The less attention drawn to us, the safer we'll be. There are always people who would exploit our power for their own gain. You are strong, much stronger than your peers. Have you noticed that?"

Not particularly, although she had noticed that she caught onto new spells more quickly than those in her House. In second year, she'd trounced Blaise Zabini quite handily, and she'd easily bested Malfoy several times. A slight frown creased her brow as she realized her mother was right—she had always assumed her magical prowess stemmed from her studious nature and expansive knowledge of spells, but perhaps there was more to it than that.

"I suppose I have noticed spells seem to come more naturally to me than others," she admitted slowly. "But I just thought it was because I studied more."

Helena shook her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips. "While your dedication is admirable, the truth is that you're simply more powerful, bunny. Our lineage grants us immense magical strength from a very young age. Some will want to use you for that reason alone, nevermind you are becoming a beautiful young woman."

"So I'm... what, exactly?" she asked, clutching the ancient tomes to her chest. "If we're not veela, and not some other known magical creature..."

"Read those and you'll find out," Helena said, tapping the worn leather covers with a fingernail. "They hold the truth about our lineage, passed down mother to daughter over centuries. My own mother gave these to me when I started questioning the differences between myself and my peers. It is a rite of passage to remain pure of such thoughts for as long as possible before opening these books."

"Is that why you kept me in the dark? A rite of passage?" Hermione couldn't believe something so simple, so mundane, had caused such anxiety all her life.

"When you have a daughter of your own, you will not blame me," she whispered. Her regretful smile didn't reach her eyes as she handed the books to Hermione. "I only wish I could tell you everything myself, but some knowledge is better learned through our foremothers."